The difference between a conception or idea, and a belief
or truth, is obvious. The notion of existence, and the
knowledge or belief that I, myself, exist, are clearly distinguishable.
The idea of cause, and the conviction that every
event has a cause, are distinct mental states. The one is a
primitive and intuitive conception, the other a primitive and
intuitive truth. Every primary truth involves a primitive
and original conception.
Of the results or operations of the faculty under consideration,
we have considered, as yet, only that class which may
be designated as primary truths, in distinction from primitive
or intuitive conceptions. To this latter class let us now
direct our attention.
I. Space.
II. Time.
Sense informs us not only of magnitudes, extensions,
material objects, and existences, as around us in nature, but
of movements and changes continually taking place among
these various existences; as extension is essential to those
material forms, so succession is essential to these movements
and changes; they cannot take place, nor be conceived to
take place, without it; and as space is involved in, and
given along with, the very idea of extension, so time is involved
in, and given along with, the very idea of succession.
Time, then, is the condition of action, movement, change,[Pg 245]
event, as space is of extended and material existence. It is
that which is required in order that something should take
place or occur, just as space is that which is required in order
that something should exist as material and having
form. As space gives us the question where, time gives us
the question when. It is the place of events, as space is of
forms.
III. Identity.
There is no limit to the number of identical bodies which
it is possible to conceive on this theory of identity. The same
power that constructs one body of given chemical elements,[Pg 251]
and of given form and structure, may make two such, or
ten, and if the first two are identical, the ten are, and they
may exist at one and the same time, beside each other,
identical with each other, yet ten, every one of which is itself,
and yet every one is each of the others!
It is only of spiritual immaterial existence that identity, in
its strict and complete sense, is properly predicable, since it
is only this class of existences that retains, unimpaired, its
simple oneness, sameness, continuity of essence.
The identity is no longer complete, no longer absolute,
because there is no longer, as in the case of spiritual existence,
absolute sameness of essence. Of the complex being
under consideration, animal or vegetable, the life-principle is,
indeed, one and the same throughout all periods of its existence,
but the material organization retains not the same
absolute essence, only the same general structure, and form,
and adaptation of parts, while the parts and particles themselves
are continually changing. It is only in a modified and
partial sense, then, not in strict philosophical use of language,
that we can predicate identity of any material organic existence.
We mean by it, simply, continuity of life under the
same general structure and organization; for so far as it has[Pg 254]
unity at all, this is it. This enables us to distinguish such
an object from any and all other like objects of the same
kind or sort.
We mean by this term, I think, as ordinarily employed,
that on which some consequence depends, that but for which
some event or phenomenon would not occur. In order to
affirm that one thing is the cause of another, I must know,
not merely that they are connected, but that the existence
of the one depends on that of the other. This is more than
mere antecedence, however invariable. The approach of a
storm may be invariably indicated by the changes of the
barometer. These changes precede the storm, but are not
the cause of it.
Evidently not from sense. I observe, for example, the
melting of snow before the fire, or wax before the flame of
a taper. What is it that I see in this case? Merely the
phenomenon, nothing more. All that sense conveys, all that
the eye reports, is simply the melting of the one substance
in the presence and vicinity of the other. I see no cause, no[Pg 258]
form transmitted from the one to the other, no action of the
one on the other, but simply the vicinity of the two, and the
change taking place in one. I infer that the change takes
place in consequence of the vicinity. I believe it; and if
the experiment is often repeated with the same results, I
cannot doubt that it is so. The idea of causality is, indeed,
suggested by what I have seen, but is not given by sense.
I have not seen the cause; that lies hidden, occult, its nature
wholly unknown, and its very existence known, not by what
I have actually seen, but by that law of the mind which
leads me to believe that every event must have a cause, and
to look for that cause in whatever circumstance is known to
be invariably connected with the given change or event.
CHAPTER III.
THE CONCEPTION AND COGNIZANCE OF THE BEAUTIFUL
§ I.—Conception of the Beautiful.
The Science which treats of this.—The investigation of
this topic brings us upon the domain of a science as yet
comparatively new, and which, in fact, has scarcely yet assumed
its place among the philosophic sciences—Æsthetics,
the science of the beautiful.
Difficulty of defining.—What, then, is the beautiful?—A
question that meets us at the threshold, and that has received,
from different sources, answers almost as many and
diverse as the writers that have undertaken its discussion.
It is easy to specify instances of the beautiful without number,
and of endless variety; but that is not defining it. On
the contrary, it is only increasing the difficulty; for, where
so many things are beautiful, and so diverse from each
other, how are we to decide what is that one property which
they all have in common, viz., beauty? The difficulty is to
fix upon any one quality or attribute that shall pertain alike
to all the objects that seem to us beautiful. A figure of
speech, a statue, a star, an air from an opera, all strike us as[Pg 264]
beautiful, all awaken in us the emotion which beauty alone
can excite. But what have they in common? It were easy
to fix upon something in the case of the statue, or of the
star, which should account, perhaps, for the pleasure those
objects afford us; but the same thing might not apply to
the figure of speech, or to the musical air. It would seem
almost hopeless to attempt the solution of the problem in
this method. And yet there must be, it would seem, some
principle or attribute in which these various objects that we
call beautiful agree, which is the secret and substance of
their beauty, and the cause of that uniform effect which
they all produce upon us. Philosophers have accordingly
proposed various solutions of the problem, some fixing upon
one thing, some upon another; and it may be instructive to
glance at some of these definitions.
Some make it a Sensation.—Of those who have undertaken
to define what beauty is, there are some who make it
a mere feeling or sensation of the mind, and not an objective
reality of any sort. It is not this, that, or the other
quality of the external object, but simply a subjective emotion.
It lies within us, and not without. Thus, Sir George
Mackenzie describes it as "a certain degree of a certain
species of pleasurable effect impressed on the mind." So
also Grohman, Professor of Philosophy at Hamburg, in his
treatise on æsthetic as science, defines the beautiful to be
"the infinite consciousness of the reason as feeling." As
the true is the activity of reason at work as intellect or
knowledge, and as the good is its province when it appears
as will, so the beautiful is its activity in the domain of sensibility.
Brown, Upham, and others, among English and
American writers, frequently speak of the emotion of beauty,
as if beauty itself were an emotion.
Others an Association.—Closely agreeing with this class
of writers, and hardly to be distinguished from it, is that
which makes beauty consist in certain associations of idea
and feeling with the object contemplated. This is the[Pg 265]
favorite doctrine with the Scotch metaphysicians. Thus Lord
Jeffrey, who has written with great clearness and force on
this subject, regards beauty as dependent entirely on association,
"the reflection of our own inward sensations." It is
not, according to this view, a quality of the object external,
but only a feeling in our own minds. Its seat is within and
not without.
Theory that Beauty consists in Expression.—Of the
same general class, also, are those who, with Alison, Reid,
and Cousin, regard beauty as the sign or expression of
some quality fitted to awaken pleasing emotions in us.
Nothing is beautiful, say these writers, which is not thus expressive
of some mental or moral quality or attribute. It is
not an original and independent quality of any peculiar forms
or colors, says Alison, for then we should have a definite
rule for the creation of beauty. It lies ultimately in the
mind, not in matter, and matter becomes beautiful only as
it becomes, by analogy or association, suggestive of mental
qualities. The same is substantially the ancient Platonic
view. Kant, also, followed in the main by Schiller and
Fichte, takes the subjective view, and makes beauty a mere
play of the imagination.
All these Theories make it subjective.—Whether we regard
beauty, then, as a mere emotion, or as an association of
thought and feeling with the external object, or as the sign
and expression of mental qualities, in either case we make it
ultimately subjective, and deny its external objective reality.
Different Forms of the objective Theory.—Of those who
take the opposite view, some seek for the hidden principle
of beauty in novelty; others, as Galen and Marmontel, in
utility; others, as Shaftesbury, Hutcheson, Hogarth, in the
principle of unity in variety; others, in that of order and
proportion, as Aristotle, Augustine, Crousez.
All these writers, while they admit the existence of beauty
in the external object, make it to consist in some quality or
conformation of matter, as such.
[Pg 266]
The spiritual Theory.—There is still another theory of
the beautiful, which, while admitting its external objective
reality, seeks to divest it of that material nature in which
the writers last named present it, and searches for its essence
among principles ethereal and spiritual. According to
this view beauty is the spiritual life in its immediate sensible
manifestation; the hidden, invisible principle—spirit
in distinction from matter, animating, manifesting itself in,
looking out through, the material form. It is not matter as
such, it is not spirit as such, much less a mere mental quality
or mental feeling; it is the expression of the invisible and
spiritual under sensible material forms. This view was first
fully developed by Schelling and Hegel, and is adopted, in
the main, by Jouffroy in his Cours d'Esthetique, by Dr. August
Ruhlert, of the university of Breslau, in his able system
of æsthetics, and by many other philosophical writers of distinction
in Europe.
Questions for Consideration.—The following questions
grow out of these various and conflicting definitions, as
presenting the real points at issue, and, as such, requiring
investigation.
I. Is beauty something objective, or merely subjective and
emotional?
II. If the former, then what is it in the object that constitutes
its beauty?
I. Question stated.—Is beauty merely subjective, an
emotion of our own minds, or is it a quality of objects?
When we speak, e. g., of the beauty of a landscape, or of a
painting, do we mean merely a certain excitement of our
sensitive nature, a certain feeling awakened by the object,
or do we mean some quality or property belonging to that
object? If the latter, then are we correct in attributing
any such quality to the object?
Emotion admitted.—Unquestionably, certain pleasing
emotions are awakened in the mind in view of certain objects
which we term beautiful; unquestionably those objects are[Pg 267]
the cause or occasion of such emotions; they have, under
favorable circumstances, the power of producing them; unquestionably
they have this power by virtue, moreover, of
some quality or property pertaining to them. All this will
be admitted by those who deny the objective reality of
beauty. The question is not, whether there is in the object
any quality which is the occasion or cause of our emotion,
but whether the term beauty is properly the name of that
cause, or of the emotion it produces.
Beauty not an Emotion.—The question would seem a
very plain one if submitted to common sense. It would
seem strange that any one should deliberately and intelligently
take the position that beauty and sublimity are merely
emotions of our minds, and not qualities of objects: when
we hear men speaking in this way, we are half inclined
to suspect that we misunderstand them, or that they misunderstand
themselves. I look upon a gorgeous sunset, and
call it beautiful. What is it that is beautiful? That sky,
that cloud, that coloring, those tints that fade into each other
and change even as I behold them, those lines of fire that lie
in brilliant relief upon the darker background, as if some
radiant angel had thrown aside his robe of light as he flew,
or had left his smile upon the cloud as he passed through
the golden gates of Hesperus, these, these, are beautiful;
there lies the beauty, and surely not in me, the beholder.
An emotion is in my mind, but that emotion is not beauty;
it is simple admiration, i. e., wonder and delight. There is
no such emotion as beauty, common as is the ambiguous expression
"emotion of beauty." There are emotions of fear,
hope, joy, sorrow, and the like, and these emotions I experience;
I know what they mean; but I am not conscious
of having ever experienced an emotion of beauty, though I
have often been filled with wonder and delight at the sight
of the beautiful in nature or art. When I experience an
emotion of fear, of hope, of joy, or of sorrow, what is it that
is joyful or sorrowful, hopeful or fearful? My mind, of[Pg 268]
course, that is, I, myself. The object that occasions the
emotion on my part, is in no other sense fearful or joyful
than as it is the occasion of my being so. If, in like manner,
beauty is an emotion, and I experience that emotion, it is, of
course, my mind that is beautiful, and not the object contemplated.
It is I, myself, that am beautiful, not the sunset,
the painting, the landscape, or any thing of that sort,
whatever. These things are merely the occasion of my
being beautiful. Could any doctrine be more consoling
to those who are conscious of any serious deficiency on the
score of personal attractions! Can any thing be more absurd?
The common View correct.—I beg leave to take the common sense
view of this question, which I cannot but think is,
in the present instance, the most correct, and still to think
and speak of the beauty of objects, and not of our own minds.
Such is certainly the ordinary acceptation and use of the term,
nor can any reason be shown why, in strictest philosophy,
we should depart from it. There is no need of applying the
term to denote the emotion awakened in the mind, for that
emotion is not, in itself, either a new or a nameless one, but
simply that mingled feeling of wonder and delight which we
call admiration, and which passes, it may be, into love. To
make beauty itself an emotion, is to be guilty of a double
absurdity. It is to leave the quality of the object which
gives rise to the emotion altogether without a name, and
bestow that name where it is not needed, on that which has
already a name of its own.
Beauty still objective, though reflected from the Mind.—If
to this it be replied, that the beauty which we admire
and which seems to be a property of the external object, is,
nevertheless, of internal origin, being merely a transfer to
the object, and association with it, of certain thoughts and
feelings of our own minds, a reflection of our own consciousness
gilding and lighting up the objects around us, which
objects are then viewed by us as having a light and beauty[Pg 269]
of their own, I answer, that even on this supposition, the
external object, as thus illumined, has the power of awakening
the pleasing emotion within us, and that power is its
beauty, a property or quality of the object still, although
borrowed originally from the mind; just as the moon, though
it give but a reflected light, still shines, and with a beauty
of its own. So long as those thoughts and feelings lay hidden
in the mind, untransferred, unassociated with the external
object, they were not beauty. Not until the object is
invested with them, and they have become a property of
that object, do they assume, to the mental eye, the quality
of beauty. So, then, beauty is even still an objective reality,
something that lies without us, and not within us.
The Power of expressing an objective Quality, likewise.—In
like manner, if it be contended that beauty is only the
sign and expression of mental qualities, I reply, that power
of signifying or expressing is certainly a property of the object,
and that property is its beauty, and is certainly a thing
objective, and not a mere emotion.
All Beauty not Reflection, nor Expression.—I am far from
conceding, however, that all beauty is either the reflection
or expression of what passes within the mind. There are
objects which no play of the fancy, no transfer or association
of the mental states, can ever render beautiful; while, on
the other hand, there are others which require no such association,
but of themselves shine forth upon us with their own
clear and lustrous beauty. Suppose a child of lively sensibility,
and with that true love of the beautiful, wherever
discerned, which is one of the finest traits of the child's nature,
to look for the first time upon the broad expanse of the
ocean; it lies spread out before him a new and sudden revelation
of beauty; its extent of surface, unbroken by the
petty lines and boundaries that divide and mark off the lands
upon the shore; its wonderful deep blue, a color he has seen
hitherto only in the firmament above him, and not there as
here—that deep blue relieved by the white sails, that, like[Pg 270]
birds of snowy wing, flit across its peaceful bosom, or lie
motionless in the morning light on its calm expanse; its
peculiar convexity of surface, as it stretches far out to the
horizon, and lifts up its broad shoulders against the sky;—these
things he beholds for the first time, they are associated
with nothing in his past experience; he has never seen,
never dreamed of such a vision; it is not the reflection of
his own thoughts or fancies; but it is, nevertheless, to him
a scene of rare and wondrous beauty, the recollection and
first impression of which shall haunt him while he lives. If,
in after life, he came to philosophize upon the matter, it
would be difficult to convince him that what he thus admired
was but the play of his own imagination, the transfer
of his own mental state, the association of his own thought
and feeling with the object before him; in a word, that the
beauty which so charmed him lay not at all in the object
contemplated, but only in his own mind.
A further Question.—That the beauty which we perceive
is a quality of objects, and not merely a subjective
emotion, that there is in the object something which, call it
what we will, is the producing cause of the emotion in us,
and that this objective cause, whatever it be, is, in the proper
use of terms, to be recognized as beauty, this we have now
sufficiently discussed. Admitting, however, these positions,
the question may still arise, whether that which we call
beauty in objects has, after all, an absolute existence, independent
of the mind that is impressed by it? The beauty
that I admire in yonder landscape, or in the wild flower that
blooms at my feet, is, indeed, the beauty of the landscape
or the flower, and not of my mind; it pertains to, and dwells
in, the object, and not in me; but dwells it there independently
of me, the observer, and when I do not behold it? If
there were no intelligent, observing mind, to behold and feel
that beauty, would the object still be beautiful, even as now?
This admits of question. Is the beauty a fixed, absolute
quality, inherent in the object as such, and per se, or is it[Pg 271]
something springing out of the relation between the mind
of the observer and the object observed.
No Evidence of its Existence except its Effect.—That it
is relative, and not absolute, may be argued from the fact
that we have no evidence of any such quality or cause, save
as in operation, save as producing effects in us; and as we
could never have inferred the existence of the cause, had it
not been for the effect produced, so we have no reason to
suppose its existence when and where it does not manifest
itself in operation, that is to say, when and where it is not
observed. As the spark from the smitten steel is not strictly
to be regarded as itself a property of the steel, nor yet of
the flint, but as a relative phenomenon arising from the collision
of the two, so beauty, it may be said, dwells not absolutely
in the object per se, nor yet in the intelligent subject,
but is a phenomenon resulting from the relation of the
two.
Further Argument from diversity of Effects.—The
same may be argued from the diversity of the effects produced.
If beauty is a fixed, absolute quality of objects, it
may be said, then the effects ought to be uniformly the
same; whereas there is, in fact, no such uniformity, no standard
of beauty, none of taste, but what seems to one man exceedingly
fine, excites only the aversion and disgust of another,
and even the same person is at different times differently
affected by the same object. Hence it may be inferred
that the beauty is merely a relation between the mind and
the object contemplated, varying as the mind varies.
Reply to the first Argument.—To these arguments I
reply, in the first place, that it is not necessary that a cause
should be in actual operation, under our immediate eye, in
order that we should conclude its independent and constant
existence. If, whenever the occasion returns, the effects
are observed, we conclude that the cause exists per se, and
not merely in relation to us. Otherwise we could never believe
the absolute existence of any thing, but should, with[Pg 272]
Berkley and Hume, call in question the existence of matter
itself, save as phenomenal and relative to our senses. The
same argument that makes the beauty of a rose relative
merely to the observer, makes the rose itself merely a relative
existence. How do I know that it exists? I see it,
feel it, smell it; it lies upon my table; it affects my senses.
I turn away now. I leave the room. How do I know now
that the rose exists? It no longer affects my senses; the
cause no longer operates; the effect is no longer produced.
I have just as much reason to say it no longer exists, as to
say it is no longer beautiful.
Reply to the second Argument.—To the argument from
the diversity of effect, I reply, that admitting the fact to
be as stated, viz., that the same object is differently regarded
by different minds, the diversity may arise from either of
two sources. The want of uniformity may lie in the cause,
or it may lie in the minds affected by it. The exciting cause
may vary, and the effects produced by it will then be diverse;
or the minds on which it operates may differ, and in
that case, also, the effects will be diverse. We are not to
conclude, then, from diversity of effect that the cause is not
uniform. A beautiful object, it is true, affects different observers
differently, but the reason of the diversity may be
in them and not in the object.
What then is the fact? Are the minds of all observers
equally susceptible of impression from the beautiful? By
no means. They differ in education, habit of thought, culture,
taste, native sensibility, and many other things.
Hardly two minds can be found that are not diverse in
these respects. Ought we then to expect absolute uniformity
of effect?
Not to be conceded that there is no Agreement.—It is by
no means to be conceded, however, that there is no such
thing as a standard of beauty or of taste, no general agreement
among men as to what is or is not beautiful, no general
agreement as to the emotions produced. There is such[Pg 273]
agreement in both respects. Within certain limits it is uniform
and complete. Certain aspects of nature, and certain
works of art, are, in all ages, and by all men, regarded as
beautiful. The Apollo Belvidere, and the Venus of the
Capitol, are to us what they were to the ancients; the
perfection of the beautiful. The great work of Raphael,
scarcely finished at his death, the last touches still fresh from
his hand—that work which, as it hung above his bier,
drew tears from all eyes, and filled with admiration all
hearts—is still the wonder and admiration of men. And so
it will be in centuries to come. And so of the emotions
produced by the contemplation of the beautiful. Making
due allowance for habits of association, mental culture, and
differences of native sensibility, we shall find men affected
much in the same way by the beautiful in nature or art.
The men of the same class and condition as to these matters—the
peasant of one age or country, and the peasant of another,
the philosopher of one time, and of another, the
wealthy, uneducated citizen, and the fashionable fool, of one
period and nation, and of another—experience much the
same effects in view of one and the same object. The same
general laws, too, preside over and regulate the different
arts which have relation to the beautiful, in all ages of the
world.
Consequences of the Theory that Beauty is merely relative.—If
beauty be not absolute but relative only, it follows, 1.
That, if there were no observers of nature or art, neither
would be longer beautiful. 2. If, for any reason any thing
is for the time unseen, as, e. g., a pearl in the sea, a precious
stone in the mine, or a rich jewel in the casket, it has no
beauty so long as it is there and thus. 3. As minds vary in
susceptibility of impression, the same thing is beautiful to
one person and not to another; at one time and not at another;
nay, at one and the same moment it is both beautiful
and not beautiful, according as the minds of the observers
vary. I cannot say with truth, that the Mosaics of St. Peter's,[Pg 274]
or the great diamond of the East, are, at this moment, really
beautiful, because I do not know who, or whether any one,
may, at this moment, be looking at them.
Intimate Relation between the Mind and the Object.—While
I maintain, however, the existence of beauty as an absolute
and independent quality of objects, and not merely as relative
to the mind that perceives and enjoys it, I would,
by no means, overlook the very intimate relation which
subsists, in the present case, between the perceiving mind
and the object perceived. Beauty makes its appeal primarily
to the senses. It pleases and charms us, because we are endowed
with senses and a nature fitted to receive pleasure
from such objects. In the adaptation of our physical and
mental constitution to the order and constitution of material
things as they exist without, lies the secret of that power
which the beautiful exerts over us.
Might have been otherwise constituted.—We might have
been so constituted, doubtless, that the most beautiful objects
should have been disgusting, rather than pleasing: the
violet should have seemed an ugly thing, and the sweetest
strains of music harsh and discordant. There are disordered
senses, and disordered minds, to which, even now, those
things, which we call beautiful, may so appear. For that
adaptation of our sensitive nature to external objects, and
of these objects to our sensitive nature, by virtue of which,
the percipient mind recognizes and feels the beauty of the
object perceived, and takes delight in it, we are indebted
wholly to the wisdom and benevolence of the great Creator.
The Doctrine maintained.—Still, given, the present constitution
and mutual adaptation of mind and matter, and we
affirm the independent existence of the beautiful as an object
per se, and not merely as an affection of the percipient
mind. The perception and enjoyment of the beauty are
subjective, relative, dependent; the beauty itself not so.
The second Question.—If beauty be, then, as we find reason[Pg 275]
to believe, not wholly a subjective affair, but a quality
or property of external objects, the question now arises,
II. What is it in the object, that constitutes its beauty?
Theory of Novelty.—And first, is it the novelty of the
thing? Is the novel the beautiful? Doubtless, novelty pleases
us. It has this in common with the beautiful. Yet some
things that are novel, are by no means beautiful. A mill
for grinding corn is a great curiosity to one who has never
seen such a machine before, but it might not strike him as
particularly beautiful.
Every thing, when first beheld, is novel; but every thing
is not beautiful. Let us look more closely at the element of
novelty. That is novel which is new to us merely, which
appears to us for the first time. It may be new to the intellect,
a new idea, or to the sensibility, a new feeling, or to
the will, a new act. As a new idea it satisfies our curiosity,
as a new feeling it developes our nature, as a new volition
it enlarges the sphere of our activity. In these respects, and
for these reasons, novelty pleases, but in all this we discover
no resemblance to the beautiful.
Novelty heightens Beauty.—It is not to be denied that
novelty, in many cases, heightens the beauty of an object.
By familiarity, we become, in a measure, insensible to the
charms of that which, as first beheld, filled us with delight.
The sensibility receives no further excitement from that
to which it has become accustomed. To enjoy mountain
scenery most highly, one must not always dwell among the
mountains. To enjoy Niagara most highly, one must not
live in the sight of it all his days. But beauty, and the enjoyment
of the beautiful, are surely different things, and
while novelty is accessory to the full effect of the beautiful
on our minds, and even indispensable to it, it is not, itself, the
element of beauty, not the ground and substance of it.
Not always pleasing.—Jouffroy even denies that novelty
is always pleasing. Some things, he contends, displease us,
simply because they are new. We become accustomed to[Pg 276]
them, and our dislike ceases. Thus it is, to some extent,
with difference of color in the races.
Theory of the Useful.—Is, then, the useful the beautiful?
This theory next claims our attention. The foundation of
the emotions awakened in us by the beautiful in nature or
art, is the perception of utility. We perceive in the object
a fitness to conduce, in some way, to our welfare, to serve, in
some way, our purposes, and for this reason, we are pleased.
The utility is the beauty.
The most useful not the most beautiful.—That the
beauty of an object may, in our perception, be heightened
by the discovery of its fitness to produce some desirable
end, or rather, that this may add somewhat to the pleasure
we feel in view of the object, is quite possible; that this is
the main element and grand secret, either of that emotion
on our part, or of the beauty which gives rise to it, is not
possible. It is sufficient to say, that, if this were so, the
most useful things ought, of course, to be the most beautiful.
Is this the case? A stream of water conducted along a ship
canal is more useful than the same stream tumbling over the
rapids, or plunging over a perpendicular precipice. Is it
also more beautiful? A swine's snout, to use a homely but
forcible illustration of Burke, is admirably fitted to serve the
purpose for which it was intended; useful exceedingly for
rooting and grubbing, but not, on the whole, very beautiful.
Dissimilarity of the two.—Indeed, few things can be
more unlike, in their effect upon the mind, in the nature of
the emotions they excite, than the useful and the beautiful.
This has been well shown by Jouffroy in his analysis of the
beautiful. Kant has also clearly pointed out the same thing.
Both please us, but not in the same way, not for the same
reason. We love the one for its advantage to us, the other
for its own sake. The one is a purely selfish, the other a
purely disinterested love, a noble, elevated emotion. The
two are heaven-wide asunder. The glorious sunset is of no[Pg 277]
earthly use to us, otherwise than mere beauty and pleasure
are in themselves of use. The gorgeous spectacle becomes
at once degraded in our own estimation by the very question
of its possible utility. We love it not for the benefit it
confers, the use we can make of it, but for its own sake, its
own sweet beauty, because it is what it is. There it lies,
pencilled on the clouds, evanescent, momentarily changing.
There it is, afar off. You cannot reach it, cannot command
its stay, have no wish to appropriate it to yourself,
no desire to turn it to your own account, or reap
any benefit from it, other than the mere enjoyment; still
you admire it, still it is beautiful to you. Of what use to
the beholder is the ruddy glow and flash of sunrise on the
Alpine summits as seen from the Rhigi or Mount Blanc?
Of what use, in fact, is beauty in any case, other than as it
may be the means of refining the taste, and elevating the
mind? That it has this advantage we are free to admit; and
it is certainly one of the noblest uses to which any thing can
be made subservient; but surely this cannot be what is
meant when we are told that beauty consists in utility, for
this would be simply affirming that the cause consists in the
effect produced. Beauty refines and elevates the mind, is a
means of æsthetic and moral culture; as such it is of use, and
in that use lies the secret and the subtle essence of beauty
itself. In other words, a given cause produces a given effect,
and that effect constitutes the cause!
The utility of Beauty an incidental Circumstance.—The
truth is, that while the beautiful does elevate and ennoble the
mind, and thus furnish the means of the highest æsthetic
and moral culture, this advantage is wholly incidental to the
existence of beauty, not even a necessary or invariable
effect, much less the constituting element. This is not the
reason why we admire the beautiful. It does not enter into
our thoughts at the moment. As on the summit of Rhigi, I
watch the play of the first rosy light on the snowy peaks
that lift themselves in stately grandeur along the opposite[Pg 278]
horizon, I am not thinking, at that moment, of the effect
produced on my own mind, by the spectacle before me; I
am wholly absorbed in the magnificence of the scene itself.
It is beautiful, not because it is useful, not because it elevates
my mind, and cultivates my taste, and contributes, in various
ways, to my development, but it produces these effects because
it is beautiful. The very thought of the useful is almost
enough, in such cases, to extinguish the sentiment of
the beautiful.
Beauty cannot be appropriated.—That only is useful
which can be appropriated, and turned to account. But
the beautiful, in its very nature, cannot be appropriated or
possessed. You may appropriate the picture, the statue,
the mountain, the waterfall, but not their beauty. These
do not belong to you, and never can. They are the property
of every beholder. Hence, as Jouffroy has well observed,
the possession of a beautiful object never fully satisfies.
The beauty is ideal, and cannot be possessed. It is an ethereal
spirit that floats away as a silver cloud, ever near,
yet ever beyond your grasp. It is a bow, spanning the blue
arch, many-colored, wonderful; yonder, just yonder, is its
base, where the rosy light seems to hover over the wood,
and touch gently the earth; but you cannot, by any flight
or speed of travel, come up with it. It is here, there, everywhere,
except where you are. It is given you to behold,
not to possess it.
Theory of Unity in Variety.—Evidently we must seek
elsewhere than in utility the dwelling-place of beauty. The
secret of her tabernacle is not there. Let us see, then, if
unity in variety may not be, as some affirm, the principle of
the beautiful. The intellect demands a general unity, as,
e. g., in a piece of music, a painting, or a play, and is not
satisfied unless it can perceive such unity. The parts must
be not only connected but related, and that relation must be
obvious. At the same time the sensibility demands variety,
as e. g., of tone and time in the music, of color and shade[Pg 279]
in the painting, of expression in both. The same note of a
musical instrument continuously produced, or the same color
unvaried in the painting, would be intolerable. The due
combination of these two principles, unity and variety, say
these writers, constitutes what we call beauty in an object.
The waving line of Hogarth may be taken as an illustration
of this principle.
Objection to this View.—Without entering fully into the
discussion of this theory, it may be sufficient to say, that
while the principle now named does enter, in some degree
into our conception of the beautiful, it can hardly be admitted
as the ground and cause, or even as the chief element
of beauty. Not every thing is beautiful which presents
both unity and variety. Some things, on the other hand, are
beautiful which lack this combination. Some colors are
beautiful, taken by themselves, and the same is true of certain
forms, which, nevertheless, lack the element of variety.
In the construction of certain mathematical figures, which
please the eye by their symmetry and exactness, we may
detect, perhaps, the operation of this principle. On the
other hand, it will not account for the pleasure we feel when
the eye rests upon a particular color that is agreeable. A
bright red pebble, or a bit of stained glass, appears to a
child very beautiful. It is the color that is the object of his
admiration. We have simple unity but no variety there.
On the other hand, in a beautiful sunset we have the greatest
variety, but not unity, other than simply a numerical unity.
We cannot, on the whole, accept this theory as a complete
and satisfactory resolution of the problem of the beautiful,
although it is supported by the eminent authority of
Cousin, who, while he regards all beauty as ultimately pertaining
to the spiritual nature, still finds in the principle, now
under consideration, its chief characteristic so far as it assumes
external form.
Order and Proportion.—Shall we then, with Aristotle.
Augustine, Andrè, and others, ancient and modern, seek the[Pg 280]
hidden principle of beauty in the elements of order and proportion?
What are order and proportion? Order is the
arrangement of the several parts of a composite body.
Proportion is the relation of the several parts to each other
in space and time. Not every possible arrangement is order,
but only that which appears conducive to the end designed,
and not every possible arrangement of parts is proportion,
but only that which furthers the end to be accomplished.
To place the human eye in the back part of the head, the
limbs remaining as they now are, would be disorder, for
motion must in that case, as now, be forward, while the eye,
looking backward, could no longer survey the path we tread.
The limbs of the Arabian steed, designed for swiftness of
locomotion, bear a proportion to the other parts of the body,
somewhat different from that which the limbs of the swine,
designed chiefly for support, and for movements slower, and
over shorter distances, bear to his general frame. The proportion
of each, however, is perfect as it is. Exchange
each for each, and they are quite out of proportion.
Only another Form of the Useful.—Since order and proportion,
then, have always reference to the end proposed to
be accomplished, we have, in fact, in these elements, only
another form of the useful, which, as we have already seen,
is not the principle of beauty.
Not always Beautiful.—Accordingly, we find that order
and proportion do not, in themselves, and when unassociated
with other elements, invariably strike us as beautiful. The
leg of the swine is as fine a specimen of order and proportion
as that of the Arab courser, but is not so much admired
for its beauty. It must be admitted, however, that these
elements in combination, do with others, enter more or less
fully into the formation of the beautiful, are intimately associated
with its external forms. The absence or violation of
these principles would mar the beauty of the object.
The spiritual Theory.—The only theory of beauty remaining
to be noticed is the spiritual theory, which makes[Pg 281]
beauty consist, not in matter as such, nor in any mere arrangement
of matter in itself considered, but in the manifestation
or expression, under these sensible material forms,
of the higher, the hidden spiritual nature, or element, appealing
thus to our own spiritual nature, which is thereby
awakened to sympathy. In the sensible world about us we
find two elements diverse and distinct each from the other,
the idea and the form, spirit and matter, the invisible and
the visible. In objects that are beautiful we find these two
elements united in such a way, that the one expresses or
manifests the other, the form expresses the idea, the body
expresses the spirit, the visible manifests the invisible, and
our own spiritual nature recognizing its like, holds communion
and sympathy with it as thus expressed. That which
constitutes the beautiful, then, is this manifestation, under
sensible forms, and so to our senses, of the higher and spiritual
principle which is the life and soul of things.
Relation of the Beautiful to the True and the Good.—It
differs from the true in that the true is not, like the beautiful,
expressed under sensible forms, but is isolated, pure, abstract,
not addressed to the senses, but to reason. It differs from
the good, in that the good always proposes an end to be accomplished,
and involves the idea of obligation, while the
beautiful, on the contrary, proposes no end to be accomplished,
acknowledges no obligation or necessity, but is
purely free and spontaneous. Yet, though differing in these
aspects, the good, the true, and the beautiful, are at basis
essentially the same, even as old Plato taught, differing
rather in their mode of expression, and the relations which
they sustain to us, than in essence.
Relation of the Beautiful to the Sublime.—The relation
of the beautiful to the sublime, according to this theory, is
simply this: In the beautiful, the invisible and the visible,
the finite and the infinite, are harmoniously blended. In the
sublime, the spiritual element predominates, the harmony is
disturbed, the sensible is overborne by the infinite, and our[Pg 282]
spirits are agitated by the presence, in an unwonted degree,
of the higher element of our own being. Hence, while the
one pleases, the other awes and subdues us.
Application of this Theory.—Such, in brief outline, is
the theory. Let us see now whether it is applicable to the
different forms of beauty, and whether it furnishes a satisfactory
explanation and account of them.
Surveying the different forms of being, we find among
them different degrees of beauty. Does, then, every thing
which is beautiful express or manifest, through the medium,
and, as it were, under the veil, of the material form, the
presence of the invisible spiritual element? and the more
beautiful it is, does it so much the more plainly and directly
manifest this element?
The Theory applied to inorganic Forms.—And first, to
begin with the lowest, how is it with the inanimate, inorganic,
merely chemical forms of matter? Here we have
certain lines, certain figures, certain colors, that we call beautiful.
What do they express of the higher or spiritual element
of being? In themselves, and directly, they express
nothing, perhaps. Yet are they not, after all, suggestive,
symbolical of an idea and spirit dwelling, not in them, but
in him who made them, of the Creator's idea and spirit, inarticulate
expressions, mere natural signs, of a higher principle
than dwells in these poor forms? Do they not suggest and
express to us ideas of grace, elegance, delicacy, and the like?
Do we not find ourselves attracted by, and, in a sort, in sympathy
with these forms, as thus significant and expressive?
Is it not thus that lines, and figures, and mathematical forms,
the regular and sharply cut angles of the crystal, the light
that flashes on its polished surface, or lies hid in beautiful
color within it, the order, proportion, and movement, by
fixed laws, of the various forms of matter, appear beautiful
to us? For what are order, proportion, regularity, harmony,
and movement, by fixed laws, and what are elegance, and[Pg 283]
grace of outline and figure, but so many signs and expressions
of a higher intelligence?
Theory applied to vegetable Forms.—Passing onward
and upward in the scale of being, taking into view, now, the
organic forms of vegetable life, do we not find a more
definite articulate expression of the spiritual and invisible
under the material form? The flower that blooms in our
path, the sturdy tree that throws out its branches against
the sky, or droops pensively, as if weighed down by some
hidden sorrow, address us more directly, speak more intimately
to our spirits, than the mere crystal can do, however
elegant its form, or definite its outline. They express sentiments,
not ideas merely. They respond to the sensibilities,
they appeal to the inner life of the soul. They are strong
or weak, timid or bold, joyous or melancholy. It requires
no vigorous exercise of fancy to attribute to them the sensibilities
which they awaken in us. When in lively communion
and sympathy with nature, we can hardly resist the
conviction that the emotions which she calls into play in our
own bosoms are, somehow, her own emotions also; that
under these forms so expressive, so full of meaning to us,
there lurks an intelligence, a soul.
To the animal Kingdom.—In the animal kingdom, this
invisible spiritual principle, the energy that lies hidden
under all forms of animate and organized substance, becomes
yet more strongly and obviously developed. The approach
is nearer, and the appeal is more direct, to our own spiritual
nature. We perceive signs, not to be mistaken, of intelligence
and of feeling; passion betrays itself, love, hate, fear,
the very principles of our own spiritual being, the very image
of our own higher nature. Beauty and deformity are
now more strongly marked than in the lower degrees of the
scale of being.
To Man.—In man we reach the highest stage of animal
existence with which we are conversant, the highest degree
of life, intelligence, soul—the being in whom the spiritual[Pg 284]
shines forth most clearly through the material veil—and,
shall we not say also, the being most beautiful of all? The
highest style of beauty to be found in nature pertains to the
human form, as animated and lighted up by the intelligence
within. It is the expression of the soul that constitutes this
superior beauty. It is that which looks out at the eye
which sits in calm majesty on the brow, lurks in the lip,
smiles on the cheek, is set forth in the chiselled lines and
features of the countenance, in the general contour of
figure and form, and the particular shading and expression
of the several parts, in the movement, and gesture,
and tone; it is this looking out of the invisible spirit that
dwells within, through the portals of the visible, this
manifestation of the higher nature, that we admire and
love; this constitutes to us the beauty of our species.
Hence it is that certain features, not in themselves, perhaps,
particularly attractive, wanting, it may be, in certain
regularity of outline, or in certain delicacy and softness, are
still invested with a peculiar charm and radiance of beauty
from their peculiar expressiveness and animation. The light
of genius, or the superior glow of sympathy, and a noble
heart, play upon those plain, and, it may be, homely features,
and light them up with a brilliant and regal beauty. Those,
as every artist knows, are precisely the features most difficult
to portray. The expression changes with the instant.
The beauty flashes, and is gone, or gives place to a still
higher beauty, as the light that plays in fitful corruscations
along the northern sky, coming and going, but never still.
Man not the highest Type of Beauty.—Is then the human
form the highest expression of the principle of beauty? It
can hardly be; for in man, as in all things on the earth, is
mingled along with the beauty much that is deformed, with
the excellence much imperfection. We can conceive forms
superior to his, faces radiant with a beauty that sin has
never darkened, nor passion nor sorrow dimmed. We can
conceive forms of beauty more perfect, purer, brighter,[Pg 285]
loftier than any thing that human eye hath seen or human
ear heard. We conceive them, however, as existing only
under some sensible form, as manifest in some way to
sense, and the beauty with which we invest them is the
beauty of the spiritual expressing itself in the outward and
visible. It is the province of imagination to fashion these
conceptions, and of art to attempt their realization. This,
the poet, the painter, the sculptor, the architect, the orator,
each in his way, is ever striving to do, to present under
sensible forms, the ideal of a more perfect loveliness and excellence
than the actual world affords.
This ideal can never be adequately and fully represented.
The perfection of beauty dwells alone with God.
Consideration in favor of the Theory now explained.—It
is in favor of the theory now under consideration, that it
seems thus more nearly to meet and account for the various
phenomena of beauty, than any other of those which have
passed under our review, and that it accounts for them,
withal, on a principle so simple and obvious. The crystal,
the violet, the graceful spreading elm, the drooping willow,
the statue, the painting, the musical composition, the grand
cathedral, whatever in nature, whatever in art is beautiful,
all mean something, all express something, and in this lies
their beauty; and we are moved by them, because we, who
have a soul, and in whom the spiritual nature predominates,
can understand and sympathize with that which these forms
of nature and art, in their semi-articulate way, seem all
striving to express.
The Ideas thus expressed pertain not to Nature but to the
divine Mind.—It is not necessary that, with the ancient
Greeks, we should conceive of nature, as having herself an
intelligent soul of these forms as themselves conscious of
their own meaning and beauty. It is enough that we recognize
them as conveying a sentiment and meaning not
their own, but his who made them, and made them representative
and expressive of his own beautiful thought.[Pg 286]
Words are not the only modes of expression. The soul
speaks more earnestly and eloquently often in signs than in
words. And when God speaks to men, he does it not always
in the barren forms of human speech, but in the flower
that he places by my path, in the tree, the mountain, the
rolling ocean, the azure firmament. These are his words,
and they are beautiful, and, when he will, they are terrible.
Happy he who, in all these manifestations, recognizes the
voice of God.
§ II.—Cognizance of the Beautiful.
Beauty an Object of Cognition.—We have treated, in
the preceding section, of the idea of the beautiful, in itself
considered. We proceed to investigate the action of the
mind as cognizant of the beautiful in its actual manifestations,
whether in nature or art. Beauty, as we have found
reason to believe, is not a conception merely, existing only
in the mind, but a quality of certain objects. As such it
has objective value and existence, and the mind is cognizant
of it as such, perceives it, observes it, compares it and the
object to which it pertains with other like and unlike objects,
judges and decides respecting it. This quality of objects
makes its appeal, as do all objects of perception, first
to the senses, and through them to the mind. There is thus
awakened in the mind, or suggested to it, the original and
intuitive conception of the beautiful; there is also, and beside
this, the cognizance by the mind of the beautiful as an
actual and present reality manifest in the object before it.
As it perceives other objects of a like nature, it classes them
with the preceding, compares them severally, judges of their
respective merits, their respective degrees and kinds of
beauty. This discriminating power of the mind, as exercised
upon the various objects of beauty and sublimity,
whether in nature or art, we may designate by the general
name of taste.
[Pg 287]
Nature of this Power.—There has been much difference
of opinion as to the precise nature of this power, whether
it is a distinct faculty of the mind, or the simple exercise of
some faculty already known and described, whether it is of
the nature of intellect, or of emotion, or the combination of
both. Hence the various definitions of taste which have
been given by different writers, some regarding it as strictly
an intellectual faculty, others as an emotion, while the
greater number regard it as including the action both of
the intellect in perceiving, and of the sensibility in feeling,
whatever is beautiful and sublime.
What has been already said, sufficiently indicates with
which of these general views our own most nearly accords.
We use the term taste to denote the mind's power of cognizing
the beautiful, a power of knowing, of discriminating,
rather than of feeling, an exercise of judgment and the reflective
power, directed to one particular class of objects,
rather than any distinct faculty of the mind. Feeling is
doubtless awakened on the perception of the beautiful; it
may even precede the judgment by which we decide that
the object before us is truly beautiful; but the feeling is not
itself the perception, or the judgment; is not itself taste,
whatever may be its relation to taste.
Proposed Investigation.—As this is a matter of some
importance to a correct psychology, and also of much difference
of opinion, it seems necessary, for purposes of science,
to investigate somewhat carefully the nature of this form of
mental activity. It is not a matter to be settled by authority,
by arbitrary definition, or dogmatic assertion. We
must look at the views and opinions of others, and at the
reasons for those opinions.
Definitions.—As preliminary to such investigation, I
shall present some of the definitions of taste, given by the
more prominent writers, representing each of the leading
views already indicated.
Blair defines it "a power of receiving pleasure from the[Pg 288]
beauties of nature and art." Montesquieu, a French author
of distinction, defines it "something which attaches us to
certain objects by the power of an internal sense or feeling."
Gerard, author of an Essay on Taste, makes it consist in the
improvement of the internal senses, viz., sense of novelty,
sublimity, beauty, imitation, harmony, etc. Accordant with
this are the lines of Akenside:
"What, then, is taste but those internal powers,
Active and strong, and feelingly alive
To each fine impulse?"
Nature of these Definitions.—The definitions now given,
it will be perceived, make taste a matter of sensibility, of
mere feeling, a sensation or sense, a passive faculty of being
pleased with the beauties of nature and art.
Another Class of Definitions.—Differing from this,
others have carefully distinguished between the rational and
emotional elements, the power of discriminating and the
power of feeling, and have made taste to consist properly
in the former. Of this class is Brown. McDermot also
takes the same view. This author, in his critical dissertation
on the nature and principles of taste, defines it as the
power of discriminating those qualities of sensible and intellectual
being, which, from the invisible harmony that exists
between them and our nature, excite in us pleasant emotions.
The emotion, however, though it may be the parent of taste,
he would not regard as a constituent element of it.
Definitions combining both Elements.—The greater
number, however, of those who have written on this subject,
have combined in their definitions of taste both these
elements, the power of perceiving and the power of feeling.
So Burke: "That faculty, or those faculties of the mind
which are affected with, or which form a judgment of, the
works of imagination and the elegant arts." Alison: "That
faculty of the mind by which we perceive and enjoy whatever
is beautiful or sublime in the works of nature and art."[Pg 289]
Reid also makes it consist in "the power of discerning
and relishing" these objects. Voltaire makes the feeling
quite as essential as the perception. Benard, Professor of
Philosophy in the College Royal at Rouen, in the excellent
article on taste, in the Dictionnaire des Sciences Philosophiques,
defines taste as "that faculty of the mind which
makes us to discern and feel the beauties of nature, and
whatever is excellent in works of art." It is a compound
faculty, according to this author, inhabiting at once both
worlds, that of sense and that of reason. Beauty reveals itself
to us only under sensible forms, the faculty which contemplates
the beautiful, therefore, seizes it only in its sensible
manifestation. The pure idea, on the other hand, in its
abstract nature, addresses not the taste but the understanding;
it appears to us, not as the beautiful, but as the true.
Taste, then, has to do with sense. Still, says Benard, "the
essential element which constitutes it, pertains to the reason;
it is, in truth, only one of the forms of this sovereign power,
which takes different names according to the objects which
it deals with; reason, properly speaking, when it employs
itself in the sphere of speculative truth; conscience, when
it reveals to us truths moral or practical; taste, when it appreciates
the beauty and suitableness of objects in the real
world, or of works of art."
These three Classes comprehensive.—Other authorities
and definitions, almost without number, might be added,
but they fall essentially under the three classes now specified.
Which of these views, then, is the correct and true
one? is the question now before us. Is taste a matter of
feeling, or is it an intellectual discernment, or is it both?
Evidently we cannot depend on authority for the decision
of this question, since authorities differ. We must examine
for ourselves.
Etymology of the Term.—To some extent the word itself
may guide us. Borrowed, as are most if not all words
expressing mental states and acts, from the sphere of sense,[Pg 290]
there was doubtless some reason why this word in particular
was selected to denote the power of the mind now under
consideration. Some close analogy, doubtless, was supposed
to exist between the physical state denoted by this word in
its primary sense, and the mental faculty to which we refer,
so that, in seeking for a term by which to designate that intellectual
faculty, none would more readily present itself, as
appropriate and suggestive of the mental state intended,
than the one in question. This analogy, whatever it be,
while it cannot be taken as decisive of the question before
us, is still an element not to be overlooked by the psychologist.
What, then, is the analogy? How comes this word—taste—to
be used, rather than any other, to denote the
idea and power now under consideration?
Taste as a Sense.—In the domain of sense, certain objects
brought in contact with the appropriate physical
organ, affect us as sweet, sour, bitter, etc. This is purely
an affection of the sensibility, mere feeling. We say the
thing tastes so and so. The power of distinguishing such
qualities we call the power or sense of taste. Primarily
mere sensation, mere feeling, we transfer the word to denote
the power of judging by means of that sensation. There
is, in the first instance, an affection of the organ by the object
brought in contact with it, of which affection we are
cognizant; then follows an intellectual perception or judgment
that the object thus affecting us, possesses such and
such qualities, is sweet, sour, bitter, salt, etc.. The sensation
affords the ground of the judgment. The latter is
based upon the former. The sensation, the simple feeling,
affords the means of discriminating, judging, distinguishing,
and to this latter power or process the word taste, in the
physical sense, is more frequently appropriated. We say of
such or such a man, his taste is acute, or his taste is impaired,
or dull, etc., meaning his power of perceiving and
distinguishing the various properties of objects which affect
his sense of taste.
[Pg 291]
Analogy of this to the mental Process called Taste.—It
is easy to perceive, now, the analogy between the physical
power and process thus described, and the psychological
faculty under consideration, to which the name primarily
denoting the former has been transferred. Objects in nature
and art present themselves to the observation, and awaken
pleasure as beautiful, or excite disgust as the opposite. A
mere matter of sensibility, of feeling, this. Presently, however,
we begin to notice, not the mere feeling of pleasure
or aversion, but the character of the object that awakens it,
we discriminate, we attribute to the object such and such
qualities, take cognizance of it as possessing those qualities.
This discriminating power, this judgment of the mind that
the object possesses such properties, we call taste. As, in the
sphere of sense, the feeling awakened affords the means of
judging and distinguishing, as to the qualities of the object,
so here. The beautiful awakens sensation—a vivid feeling
of pleasure, delight, admiration; deformity awakens the reverse;
and this feeling enables us to judge of the object, as
regards the property in question, viz., beauty or deformity,
whether, and how far, as compared with other objects of the
mind, it possesses this quality. In either case—the physical
and the psychological—the process begins with sensation or
feeling, but passes on at once into the domain of intellect,
the sphere of understanding or judgment; and while, in
either case, the word taste may, without impropriety, be
used to denote the feeling or susceptibility of impression
which lies at the foundation of the intellectual process, it is
more strictly appropriate to the faculty of discriminating
the objects, and the qualities of objects, which awaken in us
the given emotions.
So far as the word itself can guide us, then, it would seem
to be in the direction now indicated.
Appeal to Consciousness.—Analogy, however, may mislead
us. We must not base a doctrine or decide a question
in psychology upon the meaning of a single term. Upon[Pg 292]
observation and consciousness of what actually passes in our
own minds, in view of the beautiful, we must, after all, rely.
Let us place ourselves, then, in the presence of the beautiful
in nature or art, and observe the various mental phenomena
that present themselves to our consciousness.
I stand before a statue of Thorwalsden or Canova. The
spell and inspiration of high art are upon me. What passes
now in my mind?
The first Element.—First of all, I am conscious of almost
instant emotion in view of the object, an emotion of pleasure
and delight. No sooner do my eyes rest upon the chiselled
form that stands in faultless and wondrous beauty before
me, than this emotion awakens. It springs into play, as a
fountain springs out of the earth by its own spontaneous
energy, or, as the light plays on the mountain tops, and
flushes their snowy summits, when the sun rises on the Alps.
It is by no volition of mine that this takes place.
A second Element.—Along with the emotion, there is
another thing of which, also, I am conscious. Scarcely have
my eyes taken in the form and proportions on which they
rest with delight, scarcely has the first thrill of emotion,
thus awakened, made itself known to the consciousness,
when I find myself exclaiming, "How beautiful!" The soul
says it; perhaps the lips utter it. If not an oral, it is, at
least, a mental affirmation. The mind perceives, at a glance,
the presence of beauty, recognizes its divinity, and pays
homage at its shrine; not now the blind homage of feeling,
merely, but the clear-sighted perception of the intellect, the
sure decision of the understanding affirming, with authority
'That which thou perceivest and admirest is beautiful.' This
is an act of judgment, based, however, on the previous
awakening of the sensibility. I know, because I feel.
A third Element.—In addition to these, there may, or
may not be, another phase of mental action. I may begin,
presently, to observe, with a more careful eye, the work
before me, and form a critical estimate of it, scan its outline,[Pg 293]
its several parts, its effect as a whole, ascertain its merits,
and its defects as a work of art, study its design, its idea,
and how well it expresses that idea, and fulfills that design.
I seek to know what it is in the piece that pleases me, and
why it pleases me. This may, or may not, take place.
Whether it shall occur, or not, will depend on the state of
the mind at the moment, the circumstances in which it is
placed, its previous training and culture, its habits of thought.
This, too, is an exercise of judgment, comparing, distinguishing,
deciding; a purely intellectual process. It is not so
much a new element, as a distinct phase of that last named.
It is the mind deciding and affirming now, not merely that
the object is beautiful, but in what and why it is so.
Uniformity of Results.—I change now the experiment. I
repeat it. I place myself before other works, before works
of other artists—works of the painter, the architect, the
musician, the poet, the orator. Whatever is beautiful, in art
or nature, I observe. I perceive, in all cases, the same results,
the occurrence of essentially the same mental phenomena.
I conclude that these effects are produced, not fortuitously,
but according to the constitution of my nature; that they
are not specific instances, but general laws of mental action;
in other words, that the mind possesses a susceptibility of
being impressed in this manner by such objects, and also a
faculty of judging and discriminating as above described.
To these two elements, essentially, then, do the mental
phenomena occasioned by the presence of the beautiful, reduce
themselves.
The Question.—Which, then, of these elements is it that
answers to the idea of taste, as used to denote a power of
the mind? Is it the susceptibility of emotion in view of the
beautiful, the power of feeling; or is it the faculty of judging
and discriminating; or is it both combined? Our
definitions, as we have seen, include both; the word, itself,
may denote either; both are comprised in our analysis of
the mental phenomena in view of the beautiful.
[Pg 294]
Not the first.—Is it the first? I think not. Taste is
not mere emotion, nor mere susceptibility of emotion. A
child or a savage may be deficient in taste, yet they may be
as deeply moved in view of the beautiful, in nature or art,
as the man of cultivated mind; nay, their emotion may exceed
his. They may regard, with great delight and admiration,
what he will view with entire indifference. So far from
indicating a high degree of taste, the very susceptibility of
emotion, in such cases, may be the sure indication of a
want of taste. They are pleased with that which a cultivated
and correct taste would condemn. The power of
being moved is simply sensibility, and sensibility is not taste,
however closely they may be related.
Taste the intellectual Element.—Is taste, then, the power
of mental discrimination which enables me to say that such
and such things are, or are not, beautiful, and which, in
some cases, perhaps, enables me to decide why, or wherein
they are so? Does it, in a word, denote the intellectual
rather than the emotional element of the process? I am
inclined to think this the more correct view. Susceptibility
of emotion is, doubtless, concerned in the matter. It has to
do with taste. It may be even the ground and foundation
of its exercise, nay, of its existence. But it is not, itself, taste,
and should not be included, therefore, in the definition.
Reason for distinguishing the two.—As we distinguish,
in philosophical investigation, between an emotion and the
intellectual perception that precedes and gives rise to it, or
between the perception and the sensation on which it is
founded, so I would distinguish taste, or the intellectual
perception of the beautiful, from the sensation or feeling
awakened in view of the object. The fact that both elements
exist, and enter into the series of mental phenomena in view
of the beautiful, is no reason why they should both be designated
by the same term, or included in the same definition,
but, rather, it is a reason why they should be carefully distinguished.
[Pg 295]
The precise nature of this faculty may be more distinctly
perceived, if we consider, more particularly, its relation to
the judgment, and also to the sensibility.
Taste, as related to Judgment.—According to the view
now taken, taste is only a modification, or rather a particular
direction of that general power of the mind which we call
judgment; it is judgment exercised about the beautiful.
It is the office of the judgment to form opinions and beliefs,
to inform us of relations, to decide that things are thus
and thus, that this is this, and that is that. As employed in
different departments of thought, it appears under different
forms, and is known under diverse names. As employed
about the actual and sensible, we call it understanding; in
the sphere of abstract truth it works under the cognomen
of reason; in the sphere of practical truth, the thing that is
good and right to be done by me, it is known as conscience;
in the sphere of the ideal and the beautiful it is taste. In
all these departments of mental activity it is exercised, employs
itself upon all these subjects, giving us opinion, belief,
knowledge, as to them all. The judgment as thus exercised
in relation to the beautiful, that is to say, the mind
observing, comparing, discriminating, deciding, forming the
opinion, or reaching it may be the positive knowledge that
this thing is, or is not, beautiful—for this is simply what we
mean by judgment in any particular instance—judgment, as
thus exercised, is known by the name of taste. More strictly
speaking, it is not so much the exercise of the judgment in
this particular way in given instances, as the foundation or
ground of that exercise, the discriminating faculty or power
of the mind by virtue of which it thus operates.
Judgment does not furnish the Ideas.—Does, then, the
judgment, it may be asked, give us originally the ideas of
the true, the beautiful, and the good? This we do not
affirm. Judgment is not the source of ideas, certainly not
of those now mentioned. It does not originate them.
Their origin and awakening in the human mind is we[Pg 296]
should say, on this wise. The beautiful, the true, the good,
exist as simple, absolute, eternal principles. They are in
the divine mind. They are in the divine works. In a
sense they are independent of Deity. He does not create
them. He cannot reverse them or change their nature. He
works according to them. They are not created by, but
only manifested in, what God does. We are created with
a nature so formed and endowed as to be capable of recognizing
these principles and being impressed by them. The
consequence is, that no sooner do we open the eye of reason
and intelligence upon that which lies around and passes before
us, in the world, than the idea of the true, the beautiful,
the morally good, is awakened in the mind. We instinctively
perceive and feel their presence in the objects
presented to our notice. They are the product of our rational
intelligence, brought into contact, through sense, with
the world in which we dwell. The idea of beauty or of the
right, thus once awakened in the mind, when afterward examples,
or, it may be, violations, of these principles occur,
the judgment is exercised in deciding that the cases presented
do or do not properly fall under the class thus designated;
and the judgment thus exercised in respect to the
beautiful, we call taste, in respect to the right, conscience.
Taste as now defined.—As now defined, taste is, as to its
principle, the discriminating power of the mind with respect
to the beautiful or sublime in nature or art; that certain
state, quality, or condition of the mental powers and the
mental culture, the result partly of native difference and endowment,
partly of education and habit, by virtue of which
we are able to judge more or less correctly as to the beauty
or deformity, the merit or demerit of whatever presents itself
in nature or art as an object of admiration, whether
and how far it is in reality beautiful, and of its fitness to
awaken in us the emotions that we experience in view
thereof. If we are able to observe, compare, discriminate,
form opinions and conclusions well and correctly, on these[Pg 297]
matters, our taste is good; otherwise bad. Whether it be
the one or the other, will depend not entirely on native endowment,
not altogether on the degree to which the judgment
is cultivated and developed in respect to other matters,
but quite as much on the culture and training of the
mind with respect to the specific objects of taste, viz., the
beauties of nature and art. Men of strong minds, good
understanding, and sound judgment in other matters, are
not necessarily men of good taste. Like every other faculty
of the mind, taste requires cultivation.
Taste and good Taste.—It is necessary to distinguish
between taste, and good taste. Many writers use the terms
indifferently, as when we say such a one is a man of taste,
meaning of good taste, or such a one has no taste whatever,
meaning that he is a man of bad taste. Strictly speaking,
the savage who rejoices in the disfigurement of his person
by tattooing, paint, and feathers, is a man of taste, as really
as the Broadway dandy, or the Parisian exquisite. He has
his faculty of judging in such matters, and exercises it—his
standard of judging, and comes up to it. He is a man of
taste, but not of correct taste. He has his own notions, but
they do not agree with ours. He violates all the rules and
principles by which well-informed minds are guided in such
matters. He shocks our notions of fitness and propriety,
excites in us emotions of disgust, or of the ludicrous, and, on
the whole, we vote him down as a man of no authority in
such matters.
As related to Sensibility.—Thus far we have spoken of
taste only as related to the judgment. It is necessary to consider
also its relation to the sensibility. Taste and sensibility
are very often confounded. They are, in reality, quite
distinct. Sensibility, so far as we are at present concerned
with it, is the mind's capability of emotion in view of the
beautiful or sublime. Taste is its capability of judging, in
view of the same. Viewed as acts, rather than as states or
powers of the mind, sensibility is the feeling awakened in[Pg 298]
view of a beautiful object; taste is the judgment or opinion
formed respecting it. In the case already supposed, I stand
before a fine statue or painting. It moves me, attracts me,
fills me with delight and admiration. In this, it is not
directly and immediately my taste, but my sensibility, that is
affected and brought into play. I begin to judge of the object
before me as a work of art, to form an opinion respecting
its merits and demerits; and, in so doing, my taste is
exercised.
The two not always proportional.—Not only are the
two principles distinct, but not always do they exist in equal
proportion and development in the same mind. Persons
of the liveliest sensibility are not always, perhaps not generally,
persons of the nicest taste. The child, the uneducated
peasant, the negro, are as highly delighted with beautiful
forms and beautiful colors as the philosopher, but could not
tell you so well why they were moved, or what it was, in
the object, that pleased them; neither would they discriminate
so well the truly beautiful from that which is not
worthy of admiration. If there may be sensibility without
taste, so, on the other hand, a high degree of taste is not
always accompanied with a corresponding degree of sensibility.
The practised connoisseur is not always the man who
enjoys the most at sight of a fine picture. The skillful musician
has much better taste in music than the child that
listens, with mingled wonder and delight, to his playing; but
we have only to glance at the countenance of each, to see at
once which feels the most.
Sensibility not inconsistent with Taste.—I should not,
however, infer from this, that a high degree of sensibility is
inconsistent with a high degree of taste. This was Mr.
Stewart's opinion. The feeling, he would say, will be likely
to interfere with the judgment, in such a case. Doubtless;
where the feeling is highly wrought upon and excited, it
may, for the time, interfere with the cool and deliberate exercise
of the judgment. Yet, nevertheless, if sensibility be[Pg 299]
wanting, there will not be likely to be much taste. If I feel
no pleasure at sight of a beautiful landscape or painting, I
shall not be likely to trouble myself much about its comparative
merits or defects. It is useless, in such a case, to inquire
what pleases me, or why I am pleased, when, in truth,
nothing pleases me. There is no motive for the exercise of
judgment in such a case, neither is there an opportunity for
its action. The very foundation for such an exercise is wanting.
A lively sensibility is the basis of a correct taste, the
ground on which it must rest, the spring and life of its action.
The two are related somewhat as genius and learning
which are not always found in equal degree, yet are by no
means inconsistent with each other. There may be a high
degree of mental strength and activity, without corresponding
acquisitions; yet there can hardly be learning without
some degree of mental power and activity. There may be
sensibility without much taste, but hardly much taste without
sensibility. Taste is, in a great measure, acquired, cultivated,
an art; sensibility, a native endowment. It may
be developed, strengthened, educated, but not acquired.
Genius produces, sensibility admires, taste judges or decides.
Their action is reciprocal. If taste corrects and restrains the
too ready or too extravagant sensibility, the latter, on the
other hand, furnishes the ground and data upon which, after
all, taste must rely in its decisions.
Cultivation of Taste.—We have investigated, with some
care, as was proposed, the nature of that power of the mind
which takes cognizance of the beautiful. On the cultivation
of this power, a few words must be said in this connection.
Taste is an intellectual faculty, a perceptive power, a matter
of judgment, and, as such, both admits and requires cultivation.
No forms of mental activity depend more on education
and exercise, for their full development, than that class
to which we give the general name of judgment, and no
form of judgment more than that which we call taste. The
mind uncultivated, untrained, unused to the nice perception[Pg 300]
of the beautiful, can no more judge correctly, in matters of
taste, than the mind unaccustomed to judge of the distance,
magnitude, or chemical properties of bodies, can form correct
decisions upon these subjects. It must be trained by
art, and strengthened by exercise. It must be made familiar
with the laws, and conversant with the forms of beauty. It
must be taught to observe and study the beautiful, in
nature and in art, to discriminate, to compare, to judge.
The works in literature and in art which have received the
approbation of time, and the honorable verdict of mankind,
as well as the objects in nature which have commanded the
admiration of the race, must become familiar, not by observation
only, but by careful study. Thus may taste be cultivated.
Historical Sketch.
View of Plato.—Among the ancients, Plato was, perhaps,
the first to distinguish the idea of the beautiful from
other kindred ideas, and to point out its affinity with the true
and the good, thus recognizing in it something immutable
and eternal. In making the good and the beautiful identical,
however, he mistakes the true character and end of art,
Previously to Plato, and even by him, art and the beautiful
were treated only in connection with ethics and politics'
æsthetics, as a distinct department of science, was not known
to the ancients.
Of Aristotle.—Aristotle has not treated of the beautiful
but only of dramatic art. Poetry, he thinks, originates in
the tendency to imitate, and the desire to know. Tragedy
is the imitation of the better. Painting should represent, in
like manner, not what is, but what ought to be. In this
sense, may be understood his profound remark, that poetry
is more true than history.
Plotinus and Augustine.—After Aristotle, Plotinus and
Augustine alone, among the ancients, have treated of the
beautiful. The work of Augustine is not extant. It is[Pg 301]
known that he made beauty consist in unity and fitness of
parts, as in music. The treatise of Plotinus is regarded as
at once beautiful and profound. Material beauty is, with
him, only the expression or reflection of spiritual beauty.
The soul alone, the mind, is beautiful, and in loving the
beautiful, the soul loves its own image as there expressed.
Hence, the soul must, itself, be beautiful, in order to comprehend
and feel beauty. The tendency of this theory is
to mysticism.
Longinus and Quintilian.—Longinus, and Quintilian,
treat of the sublime, only with reference to eloquence and
oratory; so, also, Horace, of art, as having to do with
poetry.
Bacon.—Among the moderns, Bacon recognizes the fine
arts as among the sciences, and poetry as one of the three
chief branches of human knowledge, but nowhere, that I am
aware, treats of the beautiful, distinctly, as such.
School of Leibnitz.—It was the school of Leibnitz and
Wolf in Germany that first made the beautiful a distinct
science. Baumgarten, disciple of Wolf, first conceived this
idea. Like Plato, however, he makes the beautiful too
nearly identical with the good and with morals.
School of Locke.—In England, the school of Locke have
much to say of beauty. Shaftesbury and Hutcheson, while
they do not clearly distinguish between the beautiful and
the good, adopt the theory of unity in variety, as already
explained. Hogarth falls into the same class, his idea of
beauty being represented by the waving line. Burke does
not distinguish sufficiently between the sublime and the terrible.
French Encyclopedists.—In France, the Encyclopedists
coincide, essentially, with the school of Locke, and treat of
the beautiful, chiefly in its moral aspect.
The later Germans.—In Germany, again, Winckelman,
an artist, and not a philosopher, seizing the spirit of the
Greek art, ascribes, as Plato had done, the idea of beauty to[Pg 302]
God, from whom it passes into sensible things, as his manifestations.
In opposition to this ideal and divine aspect, Lessing
takes a more practical view, regarding the beautiful from
the stand-point of the real. Herder and Goethe contribute,
also, much to the science of æsthetics. All these do little
more than prepare the way for Kant, who goes more profoundly
into the philosophy of the matter. He makes beauty
a subjective affair, a play of the imagination.
Schiller makes it the joint product of the reason and the
sensibility, but still a subjective matter, as Kant.
Schelling and Hegel.—Schelling develops the spiritual or
ideal theory of beauty. Hegel carries out this theory and
makes a complete science of it, classifies and analyzes the
arts. His work is regarded as the first complete discussion
of the philosophy of the fine arts. It is characterized by
strength, clearness, depth, power of analysis, richness of
imagination.
Theory of Jouffroy.—Jouffroy, in France, among the
later writers, has treated fully, and in an admirable manner,
of the philosophy of the beautiful. His theory is derived
from that of Hegel, with some modifications. It is essentially
the theory last presented in the discussion of the subject
in the preceding section, viz., the expression of the spiritual
or invisible element under sensible forms. No writer
is more worthy of study than Jouffroy. His work is clear,
strong, and of admirable power of analysis.
Cousin.—Among the eclectics, Cousin, in his treatise on
the true, the beautiful, and the good, has many just observations,
with much beauty and philosophic clearness of
expression.
McDermot.—In English, beside the works already referred
to, must be noticed the treatise of McDermot on Taste,
in which the nature and objects of taste are fully and well
discussed.
[Pg 303]
CHAPTER IV.
IDEA AND COGNIZANCE OF THE RIGHT.
§ I.—Idea of Right.
The Idea of Right a Conception of the Mind.—Among
the conceptions which constitute the furniture of the mind,
there is one, which, in many respects, is unlike all others,
while, at the same time, it is more important than all others;
that is, the notion or idea of right.
Universally prevalent.—When we direct our attention
to any given instance of the voluntary action of any intelligent
rational being, we find ourselves not unfrequently
pronouncing upon its character as a right or wrong act. Especially
is this the case when the act contemplated is of a
marked and unusual character. The question at once
arises, is it right? Or, it may be, without the consciousness
of even a question respecting it, our decision follows instantly
upon the mental apprehension of the act itself—this
thing is right, that thing is wrong. Our decision may be
correct or incorrect; our perception of the real nature of
the act may be clear or obscure; it may make a stronger or
weaker impression on the mind, according to our mental
habits, the tone of our mental nature, and the degree to
which we have cultivated the moral faculty. There may be
minds so degraded, and natures so perverted, that the moral
character of an act shall be quite mistaken, or quite overlooked
in many cases; or, when perceived, it shall make little
impression on them. Even in such minds, however, the idea
of right and wrong still finds a place, and the understanding
applies it, though not perhaps always correctly, to particular
instances of human conduct. There is no reason to believe[Pg 304]
that any mind possessing ordinary endowments, that degree
of reason and intelligence which nature usually bestows,
is destitute of this idea, or fails altogether to apply it
to its own acts, and those of others.
The Question and its different Answers.—But here an
important question presents itself: Whence come these ideas
and perceptions; their origin? How is it, why is it, that
we pronounce an act right or wrong, when once fairly apprehended?
How come we by these notions? The fact is
admitted; the explanations vary. By one class of writers
our ideas of this nature have been ascribed to education and
fashion; by another, to legal restriction, human or divine.
Others, again, viewing these ideas as the offspring of nature,
have assigned them either to the operation of a special
sense, given for this specific purpose, as the eye for vision;
or to the joint action of certain associated emotions; while
others regard them as originating in an exercise of judgment,
and others still, as natural intuitions of the mind, or
reason exercised on subjects of a moral nature.
Main Question.—The main question is, are these ideas
natural, or artificial and acquired? If the latter, are they
the result of education, or of legal restraint? If the former,
are they to be referred to the sensibilities, as the
result of a special sense or of association, or to the intellect,
as the result of the faculty of judgment or as intuitions of
reason?
1. Education.—Come they from Education and Imitation?—So
Locke, Paley, and others, have supposed.
Locke was led to take this view, by tracing, as he did, all
simple ideas, except those of our own mental operations, to
sensation, as their source. This allows, of course, no place
for the ideas of right and wrong, which, accordingly, he
concluded, cannot be natural ideas, but must be the result
of education.
Objection to this View.—Now it is to be conceded that
education and fashion are powerful instruments in the[Pg 305]
culture of the mind. Their influence is not to be overlooked
in estimating the causes that shape and direct the opinions
of men, and the tendencies of an age. But they do not account
for the origin of any thing. This has been ably and
clearly shown by Dugald Stewart, in answer to Locke; and
it is a sufficient answer. Education and imitation both presuppose
the existence of moral ideas and distinctions; the
very things to be accounted for. How came they who first
taught these distinctions, and they who first set the example
of making such distinctions, to be themselves in possession
of these ideas? Whence did they derive them? Who
taught them, and set them the example? This is a question
not answered by the theory now under consideration. It
gives us, therefore, and can give us, no account of the origin
of the ideas in question.
2. Legal Enactment.—Do we then derive these ideas
from legal restriction and enactment? So teach some
able writers. Laws are made, human and divine, requiring
us to do thus and thus, and forbidding such and
such things, and hence we get our ideas originally of right
and wrong.
Presupposes Right.—If this be so, then, previous to all
law, there could have been no such ideas, of course. But
does not law presuppose the idea of right and wrong? Is
it not built on that idea as its basis? How, then, can it
originate that on which itself depends, and which it presupposes?
The first law ever promulgated must have been
either a just or an unjust law, or else of no moral character.
If the latter, how could a law which was neither just nor
unjust, have suggested to the subjects of it any such ideas?
If the former, then these qualities, and the ideas of them,
must have existed prior to the law itself; and whoever
made the law and conferred on it its character, must have
had already, in his own mind, the idea of the right and its
opposite. It is evident that we cannot, in this way, account[Pg 306]
for the origin of the ideas in question. We are no nearer
the solution of the problem than before.
In opposition to the views now considered, we must regard
the ideas in question, as, directly or indirectly, the
work of nature, and the result of our constitution. The
question still remains, however, in which of the several
ways indicated, does this result take place?
3. Special Sense.—Shall we attribute these ideas to a
special sense? This is the view taken by Hutcheson and
his followers. Ascribing, with Locke, all our simple ideas to
sensation, but not content with Locke's theory of moral distinctions
as the result of education, he sought to account for
them by enlarging the sphere of sensation, and introducing
a new sense, whose specific office is to take cognizance of
such distinctions. The tendency of this theory is evident.
While it derives the idea of right and its opposite from our
natural constitution, and is, so far, preferable to either of the
preceding theories, still, in assigning them a place among
the sensibilities, it seems to make morality a mere sentiment,
a matter of feeling merely, an impression made on our sentient
nature—a mere subjective affair—as color and taste are
impressions made on our organs of sense, and not properly
qualities of bodies. As these affections of the sense do
not exist independently, but only relatively to us, so moral
distinctions, according to this view, are merely subjective
affections of our minds, and not independent realities.
Hume and the Sophists.—Hume accedes to this general
view, and carries it out to its legitimate results, making
morality a mere relation between our nature and certain
objects, and not an independent quality of actions. Virtue
and vice, like color and taste, the bright and the dull, the
sweet and the bitter, lie merely in our sensations.
These skeptical views had been advanced long previously
by the Sophists, who taught that man is the measure of all
things, that things are only what they seem to us.
Ambiguity of the term Sense.—It is true, as Stewart has[Pg 307]
observed, that these views do not necessarily result from
Hutcheson's theory, nor were they, probably, held by him;
but such is the natural tendency of his doctrine. The term
sense, as employed by him, is, in itself, ambiguous, and may
be used to denote a mental perception; but when we speak
of a sense, we are understood to refer to that part of our
constitution which, when affected from without, gives us
certain sensations. Thus the sense of hearing, the sense of
vision, the sense of taste, of smell, etc. It is in this way
that Hutcheson seems to have employed the term, and his
illustrations all point in this direction. He was unfortunate,
to say the least, in his use of terms, and in his illustrations;
unfortunate, also, in having such a disciple as Hume, to push
his theory to its legitimate results.
If, by a special sense, he meant only a direct perceptive
power of the mind, then, doubtless, Hutcheson is right in
recognizing such a faculty, and attributing to it the ideas
under consideration. But that is not the proper meaning of
the word sense, nor is that the signification attached to it by
his followers.
No Evidence of such a Faculty.—But if he means, by
sense, what the word itself would indicate, some adaptation
of the sensibilities to receive impressions from things without,
analogous to that by which we are affected through the
organs of sense, then, in the first place, it is not true that
we have any such special faculty. There is no evidence of
it; nay, facts contradict it. There is no such uniformity of
moral impression or sensation as ought to manifest itself on
this supposition. Men's eyes and ears are much alike, in
their activity, the world over. That which is white, or red,
to one, is not black to another, or green to a third; that
which is sweet to one, is not sour, or bitter, to another. At
least, if such variations occur, they are the result only of
some unnatural and unusual condition of the organs. But
it is otherwise with the operation of the so-called special
sense. While all men have probably, some idea of right[Pg 308]
and wrong, there is the greatest possible variety in its application
to particular instances of conduct. What one approves
as a virtue, another condemns as a crime.
No Need of it.—Nor, secondly, have we any need to call
in the aid of a special sense to give us ideas of this kind. It
is not true, as Locke and Hutcheson believed, that all our
ideas, except those of our own mental operations, or consciousness,
are derived ultimately from sensation. We have
ideas of the true and the beautiful, ideas of cause and effect,
of geometrical and arithmetical relations, and various other
ideas, which it would be difficult to trace to the senses as
their source; and which, equally with the ideas of right and
wrong, would require, in that case, a special sense for their
production.
4. Association.—Shall we, then, adopt the view of that
class of ethical writers who account for the origin of these
ideas by the principle of association? Such men as Hartley,
Mill, Mackintosh, and others of that stamp, are not lightly
to be set aside in the discussion of such a question. Their
view is, that the moral perceptions are the result of certain
combined antecedent emotions, such as gratitude, pity, resentment,
etc., which relate to the dispositions and actions
of voluntary agents, and which very easily and naturally
come to be transferred, from the agent himself, to the action
in itself considered, or to the disposition which prompted
it; forming, when thus transferred and associated, what we
call the moral feelings and perceptions. Just as avarice
arises from the original desire, not of money, but of the
things which money can procure—which desire comes, eventually,
to be transferred, from the objects themselves, to the
means and instrument of procuring them—and, as sympathy
arises from the transfer to others of the feelings which, in
like circumstances, agitate our own bosoms, so, in like manner,
by the principle of association, the feelings which
naturally arise in view of the conduct of others, are transferred
from the agent to the act, from the enemy or the[Pg 309]
benefactor, to the injury or the benefaction, which acts stand
afterward, by themselves, as objects of approval or condemnation.
Hence the disposition to approve all benevolent
acts, and to condemn the opposite; which disposition, thus
formed and transferred, is a part of conscience. So of other
elementary emotions.
Makes Conscience a mere Sentiment.—It will be perceived
that this theory, which is indebted chiefly to Mackintosh
for its completeness, and scientific form, makes conscience
wholly a matter of sentiment and feeling; standing
in this respect, on the same ground with the theory of a
special sense, and liable, in part, to the same objections.
Hence the name sentimental school, often employed to designate,
collectively, the adherents of each of these views.
While the theory, now proposed, might seem then to offer
a plausible account of the manner in which our moral sentiments
arise, it does not account for the origin of our ideas
and perceptions of moral rectitude. Now the moral faculty
is not a mere sentiment. There is an intellectual perception
of one thing as right, and another as wrong; and the question
now before us is, Whence comes that perception, and
the idea on which it is based? To resolve the whole matter
into certain transferred and associated emotions, is to give
up the inherent distinction of right and wrong as qualities
of actions, and make virtue and vice creations of the sensibility,
the play and product of the excited feelings. To
admit the perception and idea of the right, and ascribe their
origin to antecedent emotion, is, moreover, to reverse the
natural order and law of psychological operation, which bases
emotion on perception, and not perception on emotion. We
do not first admire, love, hate, and then perceive, but the
reverse.
Further Objections.—The view now under consideration,
while it seems to resolve the moral faculty into mere feeling,
thus making morality wholly a relative affair, makes conscience,
itself, an acquired, rather than a natural faculty, a[Pg 310]
secondary process, a transformation of emotions, rather than
itself an original principle. It does it, moreover, the further
injustice of deriving its origin from the purely selfish
principles of our nature. I receive a favor, or an injury;
hence I regard, with certain feelings of complacency, or the
opposite, the man who has thus treated me. These feelings
I come gradually to transfer to, and associate with, the act
in itself considered, and this with other acts of the same nature;
and so, at last, I come to have a moral faculty, and
pronounce one thing right, and another wrong.
At Variance with Facts.—This view is quite inadmissible;
at variance with facts, and the well-known laws of
the human mind. The moral faculty is one of the earliest to
develop itself. It appears in childhood, manifesting itself,
not as an acquired and secondary principle, the result of a
complicated process of associated and transferred emotion,
requiring time for its gradual formation and growth, but
rather as an original instinctive principle of nature.
Sympathy.—Adam Smith, in his "Theory of Moral
Sentiments," has proposed a view which falls properly under
the general theory of association, and may be regarded as a
modification of it. He attributes our moral perceptions to
the feeling of sympathy. To adopt the feelings of another
is to approve them. If those feelings are such as would
naturally be awakened in us by the same objects, we approve
them as morally proper. Sympathy with the gratitude
of one who has received a favor, leads us to regard the
benefaction as meritorious. Sympathy with the resentment
of an injured man, leads us to regard the injurer as worthy
of punishment, and so the sense of demerit originates; sympathy
with the feelings of others respecting our own conduct
gives rise to self-approval and sense of duty. Rules of
morality are merely a summary of these sentiments.
This View not sustained by Consciousness.—Whatever
credit may be due to this ingenious writer, for calling attention
to a principle which had not been sufficiently taken into[Pg 311]
account by preceding philosophers, we cannot but regard it
as an insufficient explanation of the present case. In the
first place, we are not conscious of the element of sympathy
in the decisions and perceptions of the moral faculty. We
look at a given action of right or wrong, and approve of it,
or condemn it on that ground, because it is right or wrong,
not because we sympathize with the feelings awakened by
the act in the minds of others. If the process now supposed
intervened between our knowledge of the act, and our judgment
of its morality, we should know it and recognize it as
a distinct element.
No imperative Character.—Furthermore, sympathy, like
other emotions, has no imperative character, and, even if it
might be supposed to suggest to the mind some idea of
moral distinctions, cannot of itself furnish a foundation for
those feelings of obligation which accompany and characterize
the decisions of the moral faculty.
The Standard of Right.—But more than this, the view
now taken makes the standard of right and wrong variable,
and dependent on the feelings of men. We must know
how others think and feel, how the thing affects them, before
we can know whether a given act is right or wrong, to
be performed or avoided. And then, furthermore, our feelings
must agree with theirs; there must be sympathy and
harmony of views and feelings, else the result will not follow.
If any thing prevents us from knowing what are the
feelings of others with respect to a given course of conduct,
or if for any reason we fail to sympathize with those feelings,
we can have no conscience in the matter. As those
feelings vary, so will our moral perceptions vary. We have
no fixed standard. There is no place left for right, as such,
and absolutely. If no sympathy, then no duty, no right, no
morality.
Result of the preceding Inquiries.—We have, as yet,
found no satisfactory explanation of the origin of our moral
ideas and perceptions. They seem not to be the result of[Pg 312]
education and imitation, nor yet of legal enactment. They
seem to be natural, rather than artificial and acquired. Yet
we cannot trace them to the action of the sensitive part of
our nature. They are not the product of a special sense,
nor yet of the combined and associated action of certain
natural emotions, much less of any one emotion, as sympathy.
And yet they are a part of our nature. Place man
where you will, surround him with what influences you will,
you still find in him, to some extent at least, indications of
a moral nature; a nature modified, indeed, by circumstances,
but never wholly obliterated. Evidently we must refer the
ideas in question, then, to the intellectual, since they do not
belong to the sensitive part of our nature.
5. Judgment.—Are they then the product and operation
of the faculty of judgment? But the judgment does not
originate ideas. It compares, distributes, estimates, decides
to what class and category a thing belongs, but creates
nothing. I have in mind the idea of a triangle, a circle,
etc. So soon as certain figures are presented to the eye, I
refer them at once, by an act of judgment, to the class to
which they belong. I affirm that to be a triangle, this, a
circle, etc.; the judgment does this. But judgment does
not furnish my mind with the primary idea of a circle, etc.
It deals with this idea already in the mind. So in our judgment
of the beauty and deformity of objects. The perception
that a landscape or painting is beautiful, is, in one sense,
an act of judgment; but it is an act which presupposes the
idea of the beautiful already in the mind that so judges.
So also of moral distinctions. Whence comes the idea of
right and wrong which lies at the foundation of every particular
judgment as to the moral character of actions? This
is the question before us, still unanswered; and to this there
remains but one reply.
6. These Ideas intuitive.—The ideas in question are intuitive;
suggestions or perceptions of reason. The view
now proposed may be thus stated: It is the office of reason[Pg 313]
to discern the right and the wrong, as well as the true and
the false, the beautiful and the reverse. Regarded subjectively,
as conceptions of the human mind, right and wrong,
as well as beauty and its opposite, truth and its opposite, are
simple ideas, incapable of analysis or definition; intuitions
of reason. Regarded as objective, right and wrong are
realities, qualities absolute, and inherent in the nature of
things, not fictitious, not the play of human fancy or human
feeling, not relative merely to the human mind, but independent,
essential, universal, absolute. As such, reason recognizes
their existence. Judgment decides that such and
such actions do possess the one or the other of these qualities;
are right or wrong actions. There follows the sense
of obligation to do or not to do, and the consciousness of
merit or demerit as we comply, or fail to comply, with the
same. In view of these perceptions emotions arise, but
only as based upon them. The emotions do not, as the
sentimental school affirm, originate the idea, the perception;
but the idea, the perception, gives rise to the emotion. We
are so constituted as to feel certain emotions in view of the
moral quality of actions, but the idea and perception of that
moral quality must precede, and it is the office of reason to
produce this.
First Truths.—There are certain simple ideas which
must be regarded as first truths, or first principles, of the
human understanding, essential to its operations, ideas universal,
absolute, necessary. Such are the ideas of personal
existence, and identity, of time and space, as conditions of
material existence; of number, cause, and mathematical relation.
Into this class fall the ideas of the true, the beautiful,
the right, and their opposites. The fundamental maxims
of reasoning and morals find here their place.
How awakened.—These are, in a sense, intuitive perceptions;
not strictly innate, yet connate; the foundation for
them being laid in our nature and constitution. So soon as
the mind reaches a certain stage of development they[Pg 314]
present themselves. Circumstances may promote or retard
their appearance. They depend on opportunity to furnish
the occasion of their springing up, yet they are, nevertheless,
the natural, spontaneous development of the human soul, as
really a part of our nature as are any of our instinctive impulses,
or our mental attributes. They are a part of that
native intelligence with which we are endowed by the author
of our being. These intuitions of ours, are not themselves
the foundation of right and wrong; they do not
make one thing right and another wrong; but they are
simply the reason why we so regard them. Such we
believe to be the true account of the origin of our moral
perceptions.
§ II.—Cognizance of the Right.
The Cognition distinguished from the Idea of Right.—Having,
in the preceding section, discussed the idea of the
right, in itself considered, as a conception of the mind, we
proceed now to consider the action of the mind as cognizant
of right. The theme is one of no little difficulty, but, at the
same time, of highest importance.
Existence of this Power.—After what has been already
said, it is hardly necessary to raise the preliminary inquiry,
as to the existence of a moral faculty in man. That we do
possess the power of making moral distinctions, that we do
discriminate between the right and the wrong in human
conduct, is an obvious fact in the history and psychology of
the race. Consciousness, observation, the form of language,
the literature of the world, the usages of society, all attest
and confirm this truth. We are conscious of the operation
of this principle in ourselves, whenever we contemplate our
own conduct, or that of others. We find ourselves, involuntarily,
and as by instinct, pronouncing this act to be right,
that, wrong. We recognize the obligation to do, or to have
done, otherwise. We approve, or condemn. We are[Pg 315]
sustained by the calm sense of that self-approval, or cast down
by the fearful strength and bitterness of that remorse. And
what we find in ourselves, we observe, also, in others. In
like circumstances, they recognize the same distinctions, and
exhibit the same emotions. At the story or the sight of
some flagrant injustice and wrong, the child and the savage
are not less indignant than the philosopher. Nor is this a
matter peculiar to one age or people. The languages and
the literature of the world indicate, that, at all times, and
among all nations, the distinction between right and wrong
has been recognized and felt. The το δικαον and το καλον
of the Greeks, the honestum and the pulchrum of the Latins,
are specimens of a class of words, to be found in all languages,
the proper use and significance of which is to express
the distinctions in question.
Since, then, we do unquestionably recognize moral distinctions,
it is clear that we have a moral faculty.
Questions which present themselves.—Without further
consideration of this point, we pass at once to the investigation
of the subject itself. Our inquiries relate principally
to the nature and authority of this faculty. On these points,
it is hardly necessary to say, great difference of opinion has
existed among philosophers and theologians, and grave
questions have arisen. What is this faculty as exercised; a
judgment, a process of reasoning, or an emotion? Does it
belong to the rational or sensitive part of our nature: to the
domain of intellect, or of feeling, or both? What is the
value and correctness of our moral perceptions, and especially
of that verdict of approbation or censure, which we pass
upon ourselves and others, according as the conduct conforms
to, or violates, recognized obligation? Such are some
of the questions which have arisen respecting the nature and
authority of conscience.
I. The Nature of Conscience.—What is it? A matter
of intellect, or of feeling; a judgment, or an emotion?
A careful analysis of the phenomena of conscience, with a[Pg 316]
view to determine the several elements, or mental processes,
that constitute its operation, may aid us in the solution of
this question.
Analysis of an Act of Conscience.
Cognition of Right.—Whenever the conduct of intelligent
and rational beings is made the subject of contemplation,
whether the act thus contemplated be our own or
another's, and whether it be an act already performed, or
only proposed, we are cognizant of certain ideas awakened
in the mind, and of certain impressions made upon it. First
of all, the act contemplated strikes us as right or wrong.
This involves a double element, an idea, and a perception or
judgment. The idea of right and its opposite are, in the
mind, simple ideas, and, therefore, indefinable. In the act
contemplated, we recognize the one or the other of these
simple elements, and pronounce it, accordingly, a right or
wrong act. This is simply a judgment, a perception, an exercise
of the understanding.
Of Obligation.—No sooner is this idea, this cognition,
of the rightness or wrongness of the given act, fairly entertained
by the mind, than another idea, another cognition,
presents itself, given along with the former, and inseparable
from it, viz., that of obligation to do, or not to do, the given
act: the ought, and the ought not—also simple ideas, and
indefinable. This applies equally to the future and to the
past, to ourselves and to others: I ought to do this thing.
I ought to have done it yesterday. He ought, or ought not
to do, or to have done it. This, like the former, is an intellectual
act, a perception or cognition of a truth, of a reality
for which we have the same voucher as for any other reality
or apprehended fact, viz., the reliability of our mental faculties
in general, and the correctness of their operation in the
specific instance. It is a conviction of the mind inseparable
from the perception of right. Given, a clear perception of
the one, and we cannot escape the other.
[Pg 317]
Of Merit and Demerit.—There follows a third element,
logically distinct, but chronologically inseparable, from the
preceding: the cognition of merit or demerit in connection
with the deed, of good or ill desert, and the consequent approval
or disapproval of the deed and the doer. No sooner
do we perceive an action to be right or wrong, and to involve,
therefore, an obligation on the part of the doer, than,
there arises, also, in the mind, the idea of merit or demerit,
in connection with the doing; we regard the agent
as deserving of praise or blame, and in our own minds do
approve or condemn him and his course, accordingly. This
approval of ourselves and others, according to the apprehended
desert of the act and the actor, constitutes a process
of trial, an inner tribunal, at whose bar are constantly arraigned
the deeds of men, and whose verdict it is no easy
matter to set aside. This mental approval may be regarded
by some as a matter of feeling, rather than an intellectual
act. We speak of feelings of approval and of condemnation.
To approve and condemn, however, are, properly, acts of
the judgment. The feelings consequent upon such approval
or disapproval are usually of such a nature, and of such
strength, as to attract the principal attention of the mind to
themselves, and, hence, we naturally come to think and
speak of the whole process as a matter of feeling. Strictly
viewed, it is an intellectual perception, an exercise of judgment,
giving sentence that the contemplated act is, or is not,
meritorious, and awarding praise or blame accordingly.
This completes the process. I can discover nothing in
the operation of my mind, in view of moral action, which
does not resolve itself into some one of these elements.
These Elements intellectual.—Viewed in themselves,
these are, strictly, intellectual operations; the recognition
of the right, the recognition of obligation, the perception of
good or ill desert, are all, properly, acts of the intellect.
Each of these cognitive acts, however, involves a corresponding
action of the sensibilities. The perception of the[Pg 318]
right awakens, in the pure and virtuous mind, feelings of
pleasure, admiration, love. The idea of obligation becomes,
in its turn, through the awakened sensibilities, an impulse
and motive to action. The recognition of good or ill desert
awakens feelings of esteem and complacency, or the reverse;
fills the soul with sweet peace, or stings it with sharp remorse.
All these things must be recognized and included
by the psychologist among the phenomena of conscience.
These emotions, however, are based on, and grow out of,
the intellectual acts already named, and are to be viewed as
an incidental and subordinate, though by no means unimportant,
part of the whole process. When we speak of conscience,
or the moral faculty, we speak of a power, a faculty
and not merely a feeling or susceptibility of being affected.
It is a cognitive power, having to do with realities, recognizing
real distinctions, and not merely a passive play of the
sensibilities. It is simply the mind's power of recognizing a
certain class of truths and relations. As such, we claim for
it a place among the strictly cognitive powers of the mind,
among the faculties that have to do with the perception of
truth and reality.
Importance of this Position.—This is a point of some
importance. If, with certain writers, we make the moral
faculty a matter of mere feeling, overlooking the intellectual
perceptions on which this feeling is based, we overlook and
leave out of the account, the chief elements of the process.
The moral faculty is no longer a cognitive power, no longer,
in truth, a faculty. The distinctions which it seems to recognize
are merely subjective; impressions, feelings, to
which there may, or may not, be a corresponding reality.
We have at least no evidence of any such reality. Such
a view subtracts the very foundation of morals. Our feelings
vary; but right and wrong do not vary with our feelings.
They are objective realities, and not subjective phenomena.
As such, the mind, by virtue of the natural powers
with which it is endowed by the Creator, recognizes them.[Pg 319]
The power by which it gives this, we call the moral faculty;
just as we call its power to take cognizance of another class
of truths and relations, viz., the beautiful, its æsthetic faculty.
In view of these truths and relations, as thus perceived, certain
feelings are, in either case, awakened, and these emotions
may, with propriety, be regarded as pertaining to, and
a part of, the phenomena of conscience, and of taste; the
full discussion of either of these faculties will include the
action of the sensibilities; but in neither case will a true
psychology resolve the faculty into the feeling. The mathematician
experiences a certain feeling of delight in perceiving
the relation of lines and angles, but the power of perceiving
that relation, the faculty by which the mind takes
cognizance of such truth, is not to be resolved into the feeling
that results from it.
Result of Analysis.—As the result of our analysis, we
obtain the following elements as involved in, and constituting,
an operation of the moral faculty:
(1.) The mental perception that a given act is right or wrong.
(2.) The perception of obligation with respect to the
same, as right or wrong.
(3.) The perception of merit or demerit, and the consequent
approbation or censure of the agent, as doing the
right or the wrong thus perceived.
(4.) Accompanying these intellectual perceptions, and
based upon them, certain corresponding emotions, varying
in intensity according to the clearness of the mental perceptions,
and the purity of the moral nature.
II. Authority of Conscience.—Thus far we have considered
the nature of conscience. The question arises now
as to its authority—the reliableness of its decisions.
If conscience correctly discerns the right and the wrong
and the consequent obligation, it will be likely to judge
correctly as to the deserts of the doer. If it mistake these
points, it may approve what is not worthy of approval, and
condemn what is good.
[Pg 320]
What Evidence of Correctness.—How are we to know,
then, whether conscience judges right? What voucher
have we for its correctness? How far is it to be trusted
in its perceptions and decisions? Perhaps we are so constituted,
it may be said, as invariably to judge that to be
right which is wrong, and the reverse, and so to approve
where we should condemn. True, we reply, this may be
so. It may be that I am so constituted, that two and two
shall seem to be four, when in reality they are five; and
that the three angles of a triangle shall seem to be equal to
two right angles, when in reality they are equal to three.
This may be so. Still it is a presumption in favor of the
correctness of all our natural perceptions, that they are the
operation of original principles of our constitution. It is
not probable, to say the least, that we are so constituted by
the great Author of our being, as to be habitually deceived.
It may be that the organs of vision and hearing are absolutely
false; that the things which we see, and hear, and feel,
through the medium of the senses, have no correspondence
to our supposed perceptions. But this is not a probable supposition.
He who denies the validity of the natural faculties,
has the burden of proof; and proof is of course impossible;
for the simple reason, that, in order to prove them
false, you must make use of these very faculties; and if
their testimony is not reliable in the one case, certainly it is
not in the other. We must then take their veracity for
granted; and we have the right to do so. And so of our
moral nature. It comes from the Author of our being, and
if it is uniformly and originally wrong, then he is wrong.
It is an error, which, in the nature of the case, can never be
detected or corrected. We cannot get beyond our constitution,
back of our natural endowments, to judge, à priori,
and from an external position, whether they are correct or
not. Right and wrong are not, indeed, the creations of the
divine will; but the faculties by which we perceive and[Pg 321]
approve the right, and condemn the wrong, are from him;
and we must presume upon their general correctness.
Not infallible.—It does not follow from this, however,
nor do we affirm, that conscience is infallible, that she never
errs. It does not follow that our moral perceptions and
judgments are invariably correct, because they spring from
our native constitution. This is not so. There is not one
of the faculties of the human mind that is not liable to err.
Not one of its activities is infallible. The reasoning power
sometimes errs; the judgment errs; the memory errs. The
moral faculty is on the same footing, in this respect, with
any and all other faculties.
Its Value not thus destroyed.—But of what use, it will
be said, is a moral faculty, on which, after all, we cannot
rely? Of what use, we reply, is any mental faculty, that
is not absolutely and universally correct? Of what use is a
memory or a judgment, that sometimes errs? We do not
wholly distrust these faculties, or cast them aside as worthless.
A time-keeper may be of great value, though not absolutely
perfect. Its authorship and original construction
may be a strong presumption in favor of its general correctness;
nevertheless its hands may have been accidentally set
to the wrong hour of the day.
Actual Occurrence of such Cases.—This is a spectacle
that not unfrequently presents itself in the moral world—a
man with his conscience pointing to the wrong hour; a
strictly conscientious man, fully and firmly persuaded that
he is right, yet by no means agreeing with the general convictions
of mankind; an hour or two before, or, it may be,
as much behind the age. Such men are the hardest of all
mortals to be set right, for the simple reason, that they are
conscientious. "Here is my watch; it points to such an
hour; and my watch is from the very best maker. I cannot
be mistaken." And yet he is mistaken, and egregiously so.
The truth is, conscience is no more infallible than any other
mental faculty. It is simply, as we have seen, a power of[Pg 322]
perceiving and judging, and its operations, like all other
perceptions and judgments, are liable to error.
Diversity of Moral Judgment.—And this which we have
just said, goes far to account for the great diversity that
has long been known to exist in the moral judgments and
opinions of men. It has often been urged, and with great
force, against the supposed existence of a moral faculty in
man, as a part of his original nature, that men think and act
so differently with respect to these matters. Nature, it is
said, ought to act uniformly; thus eyes and ears do not give
essentially conflicting testimony, at different times, and in
different countries, with respect to the same objects. Certain
colors are universally pleasing, and certain sounds disagreeable.
But not so, it is said, with respect to the moral
judgments of men. What one approves, another condemns.
If these distinctions are universal, absolute, essential; and if
the power of perceiving them is inherent in our nature, men
ought to agree in their perception of them. Yet you will
find nothing approved by one age and people, which is not
condemned by some other; nay, the very crimes of one age
and nation, are the religious acts of another. If the perception
of right and wrong is intuitive, how happens this
diversity?
This Diversity accounted for.—To which I reply, the
thing has been already accounted for. Our ideas of right
and wrong, it was stated, in discussing their origin, depend
on circumstances for their time and degree of development.
They are not irrespective of opportunity. Education, habits,
laws, customs, while they do not originate, still have much
to do with the development and modification of these ideas.
They may be by these influences aided or retarded in their
growth, or even quite misdirected, just as a tree may, by
unfavorable influences, be hindered and thwarted in its
growth, be made to turn and twist, and put forth abnormal
and monstrous developments. Yet nature works there,
nevertheless, and in spite of all such obstacles, and unfavorable[Pg 323]
circumstances, seeks to put forth, according to her laws,
her perfect and finished work. All that we contend is, that
nature, under favorable circumstances, develops in the human
mind, the idea of moral distinctions, while, at the same time,
men may differ much in their estimate of what is right, and
what is wrong, according to the circumstances and influences
right and wrong to particular cases, and decide as to the
morality of given actions, is an office of judgment, and the
judgment may err in this, as in any other of its operations.
It may be biassed by unfavorable influences, by wrong education,
wrong habits, and the like.
Analogy of other Faculties.—The same is true, substantially,
of all other natural faculties and their operations.
They depend on circumstances for the degree of their development,
and the mode of their action. Hence they are
liable to great diversity and frequent error. Perception
misleads us as to sensible objects, not seldom; even in their
mathematical reasonings, men do not always agree. There
is the greatest possible diversity among men, as to the retentiveness
of the memory, and as to the extent and power
of the reasoning faculties. The savage that thinks it no
wrong to scalp his enemy, or even to roast and eat him, is
utterly unable to count twenty upon his fingers; while the
philosopher, who recognizes the duty of loving his neighbor
as himself, calculates, with precision, the motions of the
heavenly bodies, and predicts their place in the heaven,
for ages to come. Shall we conclude, because of this
diversity, that these several faculties are not parts of our
nature?
General Uniformity.—We are by no means disposed to
admit, however, that the diversity in men's moral judgments
is so great, as might, at first, appear. There is, on the contrary,
a general uniformity. As to the great essential principles
of morals, men, after all, do judge much alike, in
different ages and different countries. In details, they differ,[Pg 324]
in general principles, they agree. In the application of the
rules of morality to particular actions, they differ widely,
according to circumstances; in the recognition of the right
and the wrong, as distinctive principles, and of obligation to
do the right as known, and avoid the wrong as known, in
this they agree. It must be remembered, moreover, that
men do not always act according to their own ideas of right.
From the general neglect of virtue, in any age or community,
and the prevalence of great and revolting crimes,
we cannot safely infer the absence, or even the perversion,
of the moral faculty.
Precisely in what the Diversity consists.—It is important
to bear in mind, throughout this discussion, the distinction
between the idea of right, in itself considered, and the
perception of a given act as right; the one a simple conception,
the other an act of judgment; the one an idea derived
from the very constitution of the mind, connate, if not innate,
the other an application of that idea, by the understanding,
to particular instances of conduct. The former,
the idea of moral distinctions, may be universal, necessary,
absolute, unerring; the latter, the application of the idea to
particular instances, and the decision that such and such
acts are, or are not, right, may be altogether an incorrect
and mistaken judgment. Now it is precisely at this point
that the diversity in the moral judgments of mankind makes
its appearance. In recognizing the distinction of right and
wrong, they agree; in the application of the same to particular
instances in deciding what is right and what is wrong—a
simple act of the judgment, an exercise of the understanding,
as we have seen—in this it is that they differ.
And the difference is no greater, and no more inexplicable,
with respect to this, than in any other class of judgments.
Conscience not always a safe Guide.—I have admitted
that conscience is not infallible. Is it, then, a safe guide?
Are we, in all cases to follow its decisions? Since liable to[Pg 325]
err, it cannot be, in itself, I reply, in all cases, a safe
guide. We cannot conclude, with certainty, that a given
course is right, simply because conscience approves it. This
does not, of necessity, follow. The decision that a given
act is right, or not, is simply a matter of judgment; and the
judgment may, or may not, be correct. That depends on
circumstances, on education partly, on the light we have, be
it more or less. Conscientious men are not always in the
right. We may do wrong conscientiously. Saul of Tarsus
was a conscientious persecutor, and verily thought he was
doing God service. No doubt, many of the most intolerant
and relentless bigots have been equally conscientious, and
equally mistaken. Such men are all the more dangerous,
because doing what they believe to be right.
It is, nevertheless, to be followed.—What, then, are we
to do? Shall we follow a guide thus liable to err? Yes,
I reply, follow conscience; but see that it be a right and
well-informed conscience, forming its judgments, not from
impulse, passion, prejudice, the bias of habit, or of unreflecting
custom, but from the clearest light of reason, and especially
of the divine word. We are responsible for the judgments
we form in morals, as much as for any class of our judgments;
responsible, in other words, for the sort of conscience
we have. Saul's mistake lay, not in acting according to
his conscientious convictions of duty, but in not having a
more enlightened conscience. He should have formed a
more careful judgment; have inquired more diligently after
the right way. To say, however, that a man ought not to
do what conscience approves, is to say that he ought not to
do what he sincerely believes to be right. This would be a
very strange rule in morals.
Conscience not exclusively intellectual.—I have discussed,
as I proposed, the nature and authority of conscience.
In this discussion I have treated of the moral
faculty as an intellectual, rather than an emotional power
I would not be understood, however, as implying that[Pg 326]
conscience has not also an emotional character. Every intellectual
act, and faculty of action, partakes more or less of this
character, is accompanied by feeling, and these feelings are
in some degree peculiar, it may be, to the particular faculty
or act of mind to which they relate. The exercise of imagination
involves some degree of feeling, either pleasurable
or painful, and that often in a high degree; so also the
æsthetic faculty. It is peculiarly so with the exercise of the
moral faculty. As already stated, in our analysis of an act
of conscience, it is impossible to view our past conduct as
right or wrong, and to approve or condemn ourselves accordingly,
without emotion; and these emotions will vary
in intensity, according to the clearness and force of our
intellectual conception of the merit or demerit of our conduct.
These feelings constitute an important part of the phenomena
of moral action, and consequently of psychology; as
they belong, however, to the department of sensibility,
rather than of intellect, their further discussion is not here
in place. They will be considered in connection with other
emotions in the subsequent division of the work.
[Pg 327]
[Pg 328]
[Pg 329]
INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES
SUPPLEMENTARY TOPICS.
CHAPTER I.
INSTINCT.—THE INTELLIGENCE OF THE BRUTE AS DISTINGUISHED
FROM THAT OF MAN
Closely connected with the philosophy of human intelligence
is the science of instinct, or the intelligence of the
brute—a subject of interest not merely in its relations to
psychology, but to some other sciences, as natural history,
and theology.
We work at a Disadvantage in such Inquiries.—With
regard to this matter, it must be confessed, at the outset,
that we work, in some respects, in the dark, in our inquiries
and speculations concerning it. It lies wholly removed
from the sphere of consciousness. We can only observe,
compare, and infer, and our conclusions thus derived must
be liable, after all, to error. The operations of our own
minds we know by the clearest and surest of all sources of
knowledge, viz., our own consciousness; the operation of
brute intelligence must ever be in great measure unknown
and a mystery to us. How far the two resemble each other,
and how far they differ, it is not easy to determine, not easy
to draw the dividing line, and say where brute intelligence
stops and human intelligence begins.
Method proposed.—Let us first define instinct, the term
usually applied to denote brute intelligence, and ascertain,
if possible, what are its peculiar characteristics; we may
then be able to determine wherein it differs from intelligence
in man.
[Pg 330]
Definition.—I understand, by instinct, a law of action,
governing and directing the movement of sentient beings—distinct,
on the one hand, from the mere blind forces of
matter, as attraction, etc., and from reason on the other; a
law working to a given end by impulse, yet blindly—the subject
not knowing why he thus works; a law innate, inherent
in the constitution of the animal, not acquired but transmitted,
the origin of which is to be found in the intelligent
author of the universe. These I take to be the principal
characteristics of that which we term instinct.
Instinct a Law.—It is a law of action. In obedience to
it the bee constructs her comb, and the ant her chambers,
and the bird her nest; and in obedience to it, the animal,
of whatever species, seeks that particular kind of food which
is intended and provided for it. These are merely instances
of the operation of that law. The uniformity and universality
which characterize the operations of this principle,
show it to be a law of action, and not a merely casual occurrence.
Works by Impulse.—It is a law working by impulse, not
mechanical or automatic, on the one hand, nor yet rational
on the other. The impelling or motive force, in the case
supposed, is not that of a weight acting upon machinery, or
any like mechanical principle, nor yet the reflex action of a
nerve when irritated, or the spasmodic action of a muscle.
It is not analogous to the influence of gravitation on the
purely passive forms of matter. Nor yet is it that higher
principle which we term reason in man. The bird constructs
her nest as she does, and the bee her cell, in obedience to
some blind yet powerful and unfailing impulse of her nature,
guiding and directing her movements, prompting to action,
and to this specific form of action, with a restless yearning,
unsatisfied until the end is accomplished. Yet the creature
does not herself understand the law by which she works.
The bee does not know that she constructs her comb at that
precise angle which will afford the greatest content in the[Pg 331]
least space, does not know why she constructs it at that
precise angle, could give no reason for her procedure, even
were she capable of understanding our question. It is not
with her a matter of reflection, nor of reason, at all, but
merely of blind, unthinking, yet unerring impulse.
As innate.—This law is innate, inherent in the constitution
of the animal, not acquired. It is not the result of
education. The bird does not learn to build her nest, nor
the bee her comb, nor the ant her subterranean chambers,
by observing how the parent works and builds. Removed
from all opportunities of observation or instruction, the untaught
animal still performs its mission, constructs its nest
or cell, and does it as perfectly in solitude as among its fellows,
as perfectly on the first attempt as ever after. Whatever
intelligence there is involved in these labors and constructions,
and certainly the very highest intelligence would
seem, in many instances, to be concerned in them, is an intelligence
transmitted, and not acquired, the origin of which
is to be sought, ultimately, not in the creature itself, but in
the Author of all intelligence, the Creator of the universe.
The intelligence is that not of the creature, but of the Creator.
Manifests itself irrespective of Circumstance.—It is to
be further observed, with respect to the principle under consideration,
that it often manifests its peculiar tendencies
prior to the development of the appropriate organs. The
young calf butts with its head before its horns are grown.
The instinctive impulse manifests itself, also, under circumstances
which render its action no longer needful. The
beaver caught and confined in a room, constructs its dam,
as aforetime, with whatsoever materials it can command,
although, in its present circumstances, such a structure is of
no possible use. These facts evidently indicate the presence
and action of an impulse working blindly, without reflection,
without reason, without intelligence, on the part of the animal.
Indications of Contrivance.—On the other hand, there[Pg 332]
are instances of brute action which seem to indicate contrivance
and adaptation to circumstances. The bee compelled
to construct her comb in an unusual and unsafe position,
steadies it by constructing a brace of wax-work between the
side that inclines and the nearest wall of the hive. The
spider, in like manner, whose web is in danger, runs a line,
from the part exposed to the severest strain or pressure, to
the nearest point of support, in such a manner as to secure
the slender fabric. A bird has been known, in like manner,
to support a bough, which proved too frail to sustain the
weight of the nest, and of her young, by connecting it, with
a thread, to a stronger branch above.
These Facts do not prove Reason.—Facts of this nature,
however interesting, and well authenticated, must be regarded
rather as exceptions to the ordinary rule, the nearest
approach which mere instinct has been known to make
toward the dividing line that separates the brute from the
human intelligence. They do not, in themselves, prove the
existence of reason, of a discriminating and reflecting intelligence,
on the part of the animal; for the same law of nature
that impels the creature to build its nest or its comb, under
ordinary circumstances, in the ordinary manner, may certainly
be supposed to be capable of inducing a change of
operation to meet a sudden exigency, and one liable at any
time to occur. It is certainly not more wonderful, nor so
wonderful, that the bee should be induced to brace her
comb, or the spider her web, when in danger, as that either
should be able to construct her edifice originally, at the precise
angle employed. It must be remembered, moreover,
that, in the great majority of cases, brute instinct shows no
such capacity of adaptation to circumstances.
The Question before us.—We are ready now to inquire
how far that which we call instinct in the brute, differs from
that which we call intelligence in man. Is it a difference in
kind, or only in degree? A glance at the history of the doctrine
may aid us here.
[Pg 333]
Early Views.—From Aristotle to Descartes, philosophers
took the latter view. They ascribed to the brute a degree
of reason, such as would be requisite in man, were he to do
the same things, and proceeding on this principle, they attributed
to animals an intelligence proportioned to the wants
of their nature and organization. This principle, it need
hardly be said, is an assumption. It is not certain that the
same action proceeds from the same principle in man, and in
the brute; that whatever indicates and involves intelligence
and reason, in the one case, as its source, involves the same
in the other. This is a virtual petitio principii. It assumes
the very point in question. It may be that what man does
by virtue of an intelligent, reflecting, rational soul, looking
before and after, the brute does by virtue of entirely a different
principle, a mere unintelligent impulse of his nature,
a blind sensation, prompting him to a given course. This is
the question to be settled, the thing to be proved or disproved.
And if the view already given of the character of
brute instinct, is correct, the position now stated as possible,
may be regarded as virtually established.
View of Descartes.—Descartes, perceiving the error of
previous philosophers, went to the opposite extreme, and
resolved the instinct and action of the brute into mere mechanism,
a principle little different from that by which the
weight moves the hands of the clock. The brute performs
the functions of his nature and organization, just as the
puppet moves hither and thither by springs hidden within,
of which itself knows nothing. The bird, the bee, the ant,
the spider, are so organized, such is the hidden mechanism
of their curious nature, that at the proper times, and under
the requisite conditions, they shall build, each its own proper
structure; and perform, each, its own proper work and
office. So doing, each moves automatically, mechanically.
Locke and his Disciples.—Differing, again, from this
view, which certainly ascribes too little, as the opposite
theory ascribes too much to the brute, Locke, Condillac, and[Pg 334]
their disciples in France and England, took the ground that
the actions of the brute which seem to indicate intelligence,
are to be ascribed to the power of habit, and to the law of
association. The faculties of the brute, as indeed of man,
resolve themselves ultimately into impressions from without.
Nothing is innate. The dog scents his prey, and the beaver
builds his dam, and the bird migrates to a warmer clime,
from the mere force of habit, unreflecting, unintelligent.
But how, it may occur to some one to ask, happens such a
habit to be formed in the first place? How happens the
poor insect, just emerging from the egg, to find in himself
all requisite appliances and instruments for capturing his
prey? How happens the bee always, throughout all its
generations, to hit upon the same contrivance for storing its
honey, and not only so, but to select out of a thousand different
forms, and different possible angles, always the same
one? And so of the ant, the spider, etc. And if this is a
matter of education, as it certainly is not, then how came the
first bee, the first ant, spider, or other insect, to hit upon so
admirable an expedient?
The Scotch Philosophers.—On the other hand, Reid,
Stewart, and the Scotch philosophers generally, departing
widely from the merely mechanical view, have ascribed to
instinct some actions which are properly automatic and involuntary,
as the shutting of the eyelid on the approach of
a foreign body, the action of the infant in obtaining its food
from the mother's breast, and certain other like movements
of the animal organization, which, according to recent discoveries
in physiology, are to be attributed, rather to the
simple reflex action of the nerves and muscles. This is not
properly instinct.
Question returns.—Among these several views, where
then, lies the truth? Unable to coincide with the merely
mechanical theory of Descartes, or with the view which resolves
all into mere habit and association, with Locke and
Condillac, shall we fall back upon the ancient, and for a long[Pg 335]
time universally prevalent, view which makes instinct only a
lower degree of that intelligence which, in man becomes
reason and reflection? This we are hardly prepared to do.
The well-known phenomena and laws of instinct, its essential
characteristics as developed in the preceding pages, seem
to point to a difference in kind and not merely in degree.
Reasons for this Opinion.—1. The Brute incapable of
high Cultivation.—To recapitulate briefly the points of
difference: If instinct in the brute were of the same nature
with intelligence in man, if it were, properly speaking, intelligence,
the same in kind, differing only in degree, then, it
ought, as in man, to be capable of cultivation to an indefinite
extent, capable of being elevated, by due process of training,
to a degree very much superior to that in which it first
presents itself. Now, with certain insignificant exceptions,
such is certainly not the case. No amount of training or
culture ever brings the animal essentially above the ordinary
range of brute capacity, or approximates him to the
level of the human species.
2. Brute does not improve by Practice.—On this theory
the brute ought, moreover, to improve by practice, which,
for the most part, certainly he does not. The spider lays
out its lines as accurately and constructs its web as well,
and the bee her comb, and the bird her nest, on the first attempt,
as after the twentieth or the fiftieth trial. There is
no progress, no improvement. Its skill, if such it may be
called, is a fixture. There is nothing of the nature of
science about it, for it is of the essential nature of all intelligent
action to improve.
3. Does not adapt itself to Circumstances.—If it were
of the nature of intelligence, it ought uniformly and invariably
to adapt itself to changing circumstances, and not to
keep on working blindly in the old way, when such procedure
is no longer of use. It is not intelligence, but mere
blind impulse, in the beaver, that leads him to build his dam
on a dry floor or the pavement of a court-yard.
[Pg 336]
4. Opposite View proves too much.—It is furthermore
to be noticed, that the theory under consideration, while it
ascribes to the brute only a lower degree of intelligence, in
reality places him, in some respects, far beyond man in point
of intellect. If the instinct of the brute be intelligence at
all, it is intelligence which leaves his prouder rival, man, in
many cases, quite in the shade. No science of man can vie
with the mathematical precision of the spider or the bee in
the practical construction of lines and planes that shall enclose
a given angle. The engineer must take lessons of the
ant in the art of running lines and parallels. To the same
humble insect belongs the invention of the arch and of the
dome in architecture. Many of the profoundest questions
and problems of science are in like manner virtually solved
by those creatures that possess, it is claimed, only a lower
degree of intelligence than man. The facts are inconsistent
with the theory. The theory either goes too far, or not far
enough. If instinct is intelligence at all, it is intelligence, in
some respects at least, superior to man's.
For reasons now stated, we must conclude that the intelligence
of the brute differs in kind, and not in degree
merely, from that of man.
Faculties wanting in the Brute.—If now the inquiry be
raised, what are the specific faculties which are wanting in
the brute, but possessed by man, in other words, where runs
the dividing line which marks off the domain of instinct
from that of intellect, we reply, beginning with the differences
which are most obvious, the brute is, in the first place,
not a moral and religious being. He has no moral nature,
no ideas of right and justice, none of accountability, and of
a higher power. He is, moreover, not an æsthetic being.
He has no taste for beauty, nor appreciation of it. The
horse, with all his apparent intelligence, looks out upon the
most enchanting landscape as unmoved by its beauty as the
carriage which he draws. He has no idea, no cognizance of
the beautiful. The faculty of original conception, which[Pg 337]
furnishes man with ideas of this nature, seems to be wanting
in the brute. He is, furthermore, not a scientific being. He
does not understand the principles by which he himself
works. He makes no progress or improvement, accordingly,
in the application of those principles, but works as well first
as last. He learns nothing by experience. Certain grand
rules and principles do indeed lie at the foundation of his
work, but they have no subjective existence in the brute
himself. Now the faculties which constitute man a scientific
being are those which, in the present treatise, we have
grouped together under the title of reflective. These seem
to be wanting in the brute. He never classifies, nor analyzes,
never forms abstract conceptions, never generalizes,
judges, nor reasons, never reflects on what is passing around
him; never, in the true sense of the word, thinks.
Further Deficiency.—Here many, perhaps most, who
have reflected upon the matter at all, would place the dividing
line between man and the brute, denying him the possession
of reason and reflection, the higher intellectual powers,
but allowing him the other faculties which man enjoys.
We must go further, however, and exclude imagination
from the list of brute faculties. Having no idea of the beautiful,
nor any power of forming abstract conceptions, the
ideals, according to which imagination shapes its creations,
are wholly wanting, and imagination itself, the faculty of the
ideal, must also be wanting.
The Power to perceive and remember.—But has the
brute the power of perception and memory, the only two
distinct remaining faculties of the human mind? If we
distinguish, as we must, the physical from the strictly intellectual
element, in perception by the senses, the capacity to
receive impressions of sense, from the capacity to understand
and know the object, as such, from which the impressions
proceed, while we must admit the former, we should
question the existence of the latter in the brute. To know
or understand the objects of sense, to distinguish them as[Pg 338]
such, from each other, and from self as the perceiving subject,
is an attribute of intelligence in its strict and proper
sense, an attribute of mind. If the brute possesses it, he
possesses as really a mind, though not of so high an order,
as man.
The dividing Line.—Now it is just here that we are
compelled to place the line of division between the brute and
man, between instinct and intellect. The brute has senses,
as man; in some respects, indeed, more perfect than his.
Objects external make impressions upon his senses; his eye,
his ear, his various organs of sense, respond to these impressions.
In a word, he has sensations, and those sensations
are accompanied, as all sensations in their nature are, and
must be, with consciousness, that is, they are felt. But this
does not necessarily involve what we understand by consciousness
in its higher sense, or self-consciousness. The
brute has, we believe, no knowledge of himself as such, no
self-consciousness, properly speaking; does not distinguish
between self as perceiving, and the object as perceived, has
no conception of self as a separate existence distinct from
the objects around him, has, strictly speaking, no ideas, no
thoughts, no intelligent comprehension of objects about him;
has sensations, but no perceptions in the true sense of the
word, since perception involves the distinction of subject and
object, or self-consciousness. These distinctions are lost to
the brute, blindly merged in the one simple consciousness of
physical sensation. He feels, but does not think, does not
understand. Sensation takes the place of understanding and
reason with him. It is his guide. To the impressions thus
received, his nature blindly responds, he knows not how or
why. He is so constituted by his wise and benevolent
Maker, that sensation being awakened, the impulses of his
nature at once spring into play, and prompt irresistibly to
action, and to such action as shall meet the wants of the
being. There is no need for intelligence to supervene, as
with man. The brute feels and acts. Man feels, thinks, and[Pg 339]
acts. The Creator has provided, for, the former, a substitute
which takes the place of intellect, and secures by blind, yet
unerring impulse, the simple ends which correspond to his
simpler necessities, and his humbler sphere.
Man's Superiority.—Herein lies man's mastership and
dominion over the brute. He has what the brute has not,
intellect, mind, the power of thought, the power to understand
and know. Just so far as he fails to grasp this high
prerogative, just so far as he is governed by sensation and
its corresponding impulses, rather than by intelligence and
reason, just in such degree he lays aside his superiority, and
sinks to the sphere of the brute. Thus, in infancy and early
life, there is little difference. Thus, many savage and uneducated
races never rise far above the brute capacity, are
mere creatures of sensation, impulse, instinct.
In one Respect inferior.—In one respect, indeed, man,
destitute of intelligence or failing to govern himself by its
precepts, sinks below the brute. He has not the substitute
for intelligence which the brute has, has not instinct to guide
him, and teach him the true and proper bounds of indulgence,
but giving way to passion and inclination, without restraint,
presents that most melancholy spectacle on which the sun,
in all his course, ever looks down, a man under the dominion
of his own appetites, incapable of self-government, lost to all
nobleness, all virtue, all self-respect.
Memory in the Brute.—It may still be asked, does not
the brute remember? It is the office of memory to replace
or represent what has been once felt or perceived. It simply
reproduces, in thought, what has once passed before the
mind. It originates nothing. Whatever, then, of intelligence
was involved in the original act of perception and
sensation, so much and no more is involved in the replacing
those sensations and perceptions. If in the original act
there was nothing but simple sensation, without intellectual
apprehension of the object, without self-consciousness or distinction
of subject from object, then, of course, nothing more[Pg 340]
than this will be subsequently reproduced. Mere images or
phantasms of sensible objects may reappear, as shadows flicker
and dance upon the wall, or as such images flit before us in
our dreams. The memory of the brute is, probably, of this
nature, rather a sort of dream than a distinct conception of
past events. What was not clearly apprehended at first,
will not be better understood now. Failing, in the first instance,
to distinguish self from the object external, as the
source of impressions, there can be no recognition of that
distinction when the object reappears, if it ever should, in
conception. The essential element of memory, which connects
the object or event of former perception with self as
the percipient, must, in such a case, be wanting.
The Brute associates rather than remembers.—What is
usually called memory in the brute, is not, however, so much
his capacity of conceiving of an absent object of sense, as his
recognition of the object when again actually present to his
senses. The dog manifests pleasure at the appearance of his
master, and the horse chooses the road that leads to his former
home. This is not so much memory as association of
ideas or rather of feelings. Certain feelings and sensations
are associated, confusedly blended, with certain objects.
The reappearance of the objects, of course, reawakens the
former feelings. Thus, the whip is associated with the sensation
experienced in connection with it. So, too, a horse
which has once been frightened by some object beside the
road, will manifest fear on subsequently approaching the
same place, although the same object may no longer be
there. The surrounding objects which still remain, and
which were associated with the more immediate object of
fear in the first instance, are sufficient to awaken, on their
reappearance, the former unpleasant sensations.
A being endowed with intelligence and reason would connect
the recurring object, in such a case, with his own former
experience as the perceiving subject, would recall the time
and the circumstances of the event and its connection with[Pg 341]
his personal history. This would be, properly, an act of
memory.
But there is no reason to suppose that such a process takes
place with the brute. We have no evidence of any thing
more, in his case, than the recurrence of the associated conception
or sensation, along with the recurrence of the object
which formerly produced it. Given, the object a, accompanied
with surrounding objects b, c, d, and there is produced
a given sensation, y. Given, again, at some subsequent time,
the same object a, or any one of the associate objects b, c, d,
and there is at once awakened a lively conception of the
same sensation y.
Summary of Results.—This is, I think, all we can, with
any certainty, attribute to the brute. He has sensations,
and so far as mere sense is concerned, perceptions of objects,
as connected with those sensations, but not perception in
the true sense as involving intellectual apprehension. These
sensations and confused perceptions recur, perhaps, as images
or conceptions, in the absence of the objects that gave rise to
them, and as thus reappearing, constitute what we may call
the memory of the brute; but not, as with us, a memory
which connects the object or event with his own former history,
and the idea of a personal self as the percipient. Let
the object, however, reappear, and the previous sensation
associated therewith, is reawakened.
This, I am aware, is not the view most commonly entertained
of brute intelligence. We naturally conceive of the
brute as possessing faculties similar to our own. The brute,
in turn, were he capable of forming such a conception, would,
probably, conceive of man, as endowed with capacities like
his own. In neither case is this the right conception.
[Pg 342]
CHAPTER II.
MIND AS AFFECTED BY CERTAIN STATES OF THE BRAIN
AND NERVOUS SYSTEM.
Statement.—There are certain mental phenomena connected
with the relation which the mind sustains to the
nervous organism, and depending intimately on the state of
that organism, which seem to require the notice of the psychologist,
though often overlooked by him; I refer to the
phenomena of sleep, dreams, somnambulism, and insanity.
So far as the activity of the mind is involved in these states
or phenomena, they become proper objects of psychological
inquiry. They present many problems difficult of solution,
yet not the less curious and interesting, as phases of mental
activity hitherto little understood.
View sometimes taken by Physiologists.—It becomes
the more important for the psychologist to investigate these
phenomena, inasmuch as views and theories little accordant
with the true philosophy of the mind have sometimes been
put forth by physiologists, in attempting to explain the
phenomena in question. They have viewed the cerebral
apparatus as competent of itself to produce the phenomena of
thought, as self-acting, in the absence of the higher principle
of intelligence which usually governs its operations, carrying
on by a sort of automatic action, the processes usually
ascribed to the mind or spiritual principle, while consciousness
and volition are entirely suspended. Consciousness,
in fact, is nothing but sensation, and thought a mere function
of the brain. This is downright materialism, a doctrine utterly
subversive of the very existence of that which we call
mind or soul in man. If the cerebral organization is competent
of itself during sleep to carry on those operations[Pg 343]
which in waking moments are ascribed to the spiritual element
of our being, if thought is a function of the brain, as
digestion is of the stomach, what need and what evidence
of any thing more than merely cerebral action at any time?
What, in fact, is the mind itself but cerebral activity, and
what is man, with all his higher powers, but a mere animated
organism?
It becomes important, then, to account for the phenomena
under consideration in some way more consistent with all
just and true notions of the nature and philosophy of
mind.
Distinction of normal and abnormal States.—Of these
phenomena, while all may be regarded as intimately connected
with and dependent on the state of the brain and
nervous system, some seem to proceed from a normal, others
from an abnormal and disordered state of the nervous and
particularly the cerebral organism. Of the former class, are
sleep and dreams; of the latter, somnambulism, the mesmeric
state, so called, and the various forms of disordered
mental action, or insanity.
§ I.—Sleep.
Meaning of the Term.—What is sleep? Will the name
itself afford any solution of this problem? Like most
names of familiar things, we find the word descriptive of
some particular circumstance or phase, some one prominent
characteristic of the thing in question, rather than a definition—much
less an explanation—of the thing itself.
The word sleep, from schlafen, as the Latin somnus
from supinus, refers to the supine condition and appearance
of the body when in this state; the relaxing of the muscles
the falling back or sinking down of the frame, if unsupported.
This is the first and most obvious effect to the eye
of an observer, of the condition of sleep as regards the
body. Further than this the word gives us no light.
[Pg 344]
1. Sleep involves primarily Loss of Consciousness.—What
then, further than this, is sleep? If we observe somewhat
closely, and with a view to scientific arrangement, the different
aspects or phenomena that present themselves as constituting
that state of body and mind which we call sleep, the
primary and most obvious fact, I apprehend, is loss of consciousness,
of the me. Not perhaps of all consciousness,
for we seem still to exist, but of self-consciousness, of the
me as related to time, and place, and external circumstance
We lose ourselves, as a common but most exact expression
describes it.
We are not at the Time aware of this Loss.—Of course,
sleep consisting primarily in loss of consciousness, we are
not conscious of the fact that we sleep, for this would be a
consciousness that we were unconscious. Illustrations of
this fact are of frequent occurrence. You are of an evening
getting weary over your book. You are vaguely conscious
of that weariness, amounting even to drowsiness; you find
it difficult to follow the course of thought, or even to keep
the line, but have no idea that you are at length actually
asleep for the moment, till the sudden fall of the book awakens
you. Nay, one who has been vigorously nodding for five
minutes will, on recovering himself, stoutly deny that he
has really been asleep at all; the truth is, he was not conscious
of it; we never are, directly.
This results from what?—This loss of consciousness results
from the inactivity of the bodily senses. It is these
that afford us the data for a knowledge of self in relation
to external things. In sleep these avenues of communication
with the external world are shut up, and we silently
drop off, and, as it were, float away from all conscious connection
with it. We no longer recognize our relations to
time and space, nor even to our own bodies, which, as
material, come under those relations; for it is by the senses
alone that we get these ideas. So far as consciousness of
these relations is concerned, we exist in sleep as in death,[Pg 345]
out of the laws and limits of time and space, and irrespective
of the body and of all material existence. Mental action,
however, doubtless goes on, and we are conscious of
thought and of the feeling of the moment, but of nothing
further. All self-consciousness is gone.
An Affection primarily of the nervous System.—Sleep,
then, would seem to be primarily an affection of the nervous
system; not of the reproductive—that goes on as usual, and
even with increased vigor; nor yet of the muscular—that
is still capable of action; but only of the nervous. That
gets weary; by continued use, its vital active force is exhausted,
it needs rest, becomes inactive, gradually drops off,
and so there results this loss of consciousness, of which I
have spoken. It is strictly, then, the nervous system, and
not the whole body that sleeps.
Different Senses fall Asleep successively.—The different
senses become inactive and fall asleep, not all at once, but
successively. First, sight goes. The eye-lids droop, and
close. Taste and smell probably next. Touch, and hearing,
are among the last to give way. Hence, noises so easily
disturb us, when falling asleep. Hence, too, we are most
easily awaked by some one repeating our name, or by some
one touching us. These senses are also the first to waken.
One sense may be asleep and another awake. You may
still hear what one is saying that sits near you, when already
the eye is asleep. So in death, one hears when no longer
able to see or to speak.
2. Loss of personal Control.—Accompanying this loss of
self-consciousness is the loss of personal control, i. e., the
control of the will over the bodily organization. This follows
from the inactivity of the senses and of the nervous
system, for it is only through that, and not by direct agency
of the will, that we, at any time, exert voluntary power over
the body. When that system becomes exhausted, and its
force is spent, so that it can no longer furnish the motive
power, nor execute the commands of the higher intelligence[Pg 346]
the will no longer maintains its empire over the physical
organization, its little realm of matter, its control is suspended,
its sceptre falls, and it realizes for the time the
story of the enchanted palace on which a magic spell had
fallen, suddenly arresting the busy tide of life, and sealing
up, on the instant, the senses of king, courtiers, and attendants,
in the unbroken sleep of ages.
Indications of approaching Sleep.—One of the first indications,
accordingly, of the approach of sleep, is the relaxing
of the muscles, the drooping of the eye-lid, the dropping
of the head and of the arm, the sinking down of the
body from an erect to a supine position. If in church, the
head seeks the friendly support of the pew in front, fortunate
if it can secure itself there from the still further demands
of gravitation.
Analogous Cases.—In respect to the point now under
consideration, the loss of control over the physical frame,
the phenomena of sleep closely resemble those of intoxication,
and of fainting; and for the same reason, in either
case, i. e., the inactivity of the nervous system, which is the
medium of voluntary power over the body. That inactivity
of the nervous system is produced in the one case by
natural, in the other by unnatural causes, but the direct
effect is the same as regards the loss of voluntary power.
The same effects are also produced in certain diseases, and
eventually by death.
3. Loss of Control over the Mind.—Analogous to this
is the loss of voluntary control over the mental operations,
which is in fact, so far as the mind is concerned, the essential
feature and characteristic of sleep. Mental action still
goes on, there is reason to suppose; in many cases we know
that it does; but the thoughts come and go at their own
pleasure, without regulation or control. It is not in our
power to arrest a certain thought, and fix our minds upon it
for the time, to the exclusion of others, as we can do in the
waking moments, and which constitutes, in fact, the chief[Pg 347]
control and power we have over our thoughts, nor can we
dismiss, and throw off, an unpleasant train of thought, a
disagreeable impression, however much we may desire to
be rid of it. We are at the mercy of our own thoughts
and casual associations, which, in the ungoverned, spontaneous
play of the mind's own inherent energy, and guided
only by its own native laws, produce the wildest and strangest
phantasmagoria, having to us all the semblance of
reality, while we are, in truth, mere passive spectators of
the scene.
Faculties of Mind not suspended in Sleep.—It has been
supposed by some that the faculties of the mind are, in part
or wholly, suspended in sleep, especially the higher faculties
more immediately dependent on the will. So long as mental
activity goes on, however,—and there is no evidence that it
ever entirely ceases in sleep—so long there is thought, and
so long must that thought and activity be exerted in some
particular direction, and on some particular object. We
cannot conceive of the mind as acting or thinking, and not
exercising any of its faculties, for what is a faculty of the
mind but its capacity of acting in this or that way or mode,
and on this or that class of subjects. It may be perception,
or conception, or memory, or imagination, or judgment, or
reasoning, or any other faculty that is for the moment
active; it must be some one of the known faculties of the
mind, unless, indeed, we suppose some new faculties to be
then developed, of whose existence we are at other times
unconscious.
Mental Action modified by certain Causes in Sleep.—The
faculties will, however, be materially modified in their
action during sleep, by the causes already named; chiefly
these two: 1st. the entire suspension of voluntary control
over the train of thought; 2d. the loss of personal consciousness
as regards especially the bodily organization, and its
present relations to time, and space, and all sensible objects.
In consequence of the former our thoughts will come and[Pg 348]
go all unregulated and disconnected; there will be no coherence;
the slightest analysis will suffice for the associating
principle; we shall be hurried on and borne away on the
rushing tide of thought, as a frail passive leaf swept on the
bosom of the rapids; we shall whirl hither and thither as
in the dance of the witches; we shall waken in confusion,
and seek to recover the reins of self-control, only to lose
them again and be swept on in the fearful dance.
Want of Congruity owing to what.—In consequence of
the latter cause—the loss of sensational consciousness and of
our relations to sensible objects—there will be an entire want
of fitness and congruity in our mental operations. The laws
of time, and space, and personal identity, will be altogether
disregarded, and we shall not be conscious of the incongruity,
nor wonder at the strangest and most contradictory
combinations. Here, there, everywhere, now this and now
that. The scene is in the valley of the Connecticut, and
anon on the Ural mountains, or the desert of Arabia, and
we do not notice the change as any thing at all remarkable.
Now we are walking up the aisle of the church, in
garments all too scanty for the proprieties of the occasion,
and now it is a wild bull that is racing after us, and the
transition from one to the other is instantaneous. Why
should it not be, for it is by the senses alone that we are
brought into conscious relation to the external world, and
so made cognizant of the laws of time and space, and those
senses being now locked in oblivion, what are time and space
to us?
The Causes now named a sufficient Explanation of the
Phenomena.—The causes already named will sufficiently
account for the strange and distorted action of the various
mental faculties as exercised in sleep. Memory, e. g., will give
us the past with variations ad libitum; things will appear to
us, and events will seem to transpire, and forms and faces
familiar will look out upon us, not as they really are, or ever
were. We talk with a former friend, without the thought[Pg 349]
once occurring to us that he has been dead these many
years. Impression there is, feeling, idea, fancy, association
of all these, but hardly memory, or even imagination, much
less judgment or reasoning. So it would seem at first. A
closer inspection, however, will show us that there is in
reality, in this spontaneous play of the mind, the exercise
of all these faculties, only so modified by causes now named
as to present strange and uncouth results.
Mental Faculties not immediately dependent on the Will.—If
any of the mental faculties can be shown to be entirely
dependent on the will for their activity and operation, so as
to have no power to act except by its order or permission,
then it would follow that when the will is no longer in possession
of the throne, when its sway is for the time suspended
as in sleep, the faculties thus dependent on it must
lie inactive. But with regard to most if not all mental operations,
we know the reverse to be true. They are capable of
spontaneous, as well as voluntary action. Nay, some of them,
it would seem, are not subject, in any case, directly to its control.
It is not at our option whether to remember or forget,
whether to perceive surrounding objects, whether such
or such a thought shall, by the laws of association, follow
next in the train of ideas and impressions. Some mental
operations are more closely connected with and admit of a
more direct interference on the part of the will than others,
but it cannot be shown, I think, that any faculty is so far
dependent on the will as not to be capable of action, irrespective
of its demands. Indeed, facts seem to show that
where once a train of mental action has been set in operation
by the will, that action goes on, for a time, even when
the will is withdrawn, or held in abeyance, as in sleep, or
profound reverie.
Whence this Suspension of Power of the Will.—The
question may occur, whence arises this suspension of the
power of the will over the mental operations in sleep? What
produces it? Does it, like the loss of voluntary power over[Pg 350]
the physical frame, result from the inactivity of the nervous
apparatus? The fact that it always accompanies this, and
is found in connection with it, that whatever produces the
latter seems to be the occasion, also, of the former, as in
the case of disease, delirium, mesmeric influence, stupefying
drugs, inebriation, etc., and that the degree of the one,
whether partial or complete, is in proportion to the degree
of the other—these facts seem to me to favor the idea now
suggested.
Summary of Results.—These, then, seem to be the principal
phenomena of sleep: loss of sensational consciousness,
loss of voluntary power over the body, loss of voluntary
power over the operations of the mind.
Exhaustion of the nervous System.—Sleep, then, appears
to be primarily an affection of the nervous system, the result
of its exhaustion. By the law of nature, it cannot continue
always active; repose must succeed to effort. Hence, the
more rapid the exhaustion of the nervous system, from any
cause, the more sleep is demanded. This we know to be the
fact. The more sensitive the system, as in childhood, or with
the gentler sex, as in men of great sensibility also, poets,
artists, and others, the more sleep. On the other hand, those
sluggish natures which allow nothing to excite or call into
action the nervous system, sleep from precisely the opposite
cause; not the exhaustion of nervous activity, but its absolute
non-existence. If both our systems, the animal and the
vegetative or nutritive, should sleep at once, says Rauch,
there would be nothing to awaken us. That would be
death. "In sleep, every man has a world of his own," says
Heraclitus; "when awake, all men have one in common."
Sleeping and waking, it has been beautifully said by another,
are the ebb and flood of mind and matter on the ocean of
our life.
[Pg 351]
§ II.—Dreams.
Resumè of previous Investigation.—It has been shown
in the preceding section, that sleep is primarily and chiefly
an affection of the nervous system, in which, through exhaustion,
the senses become inactive, and, as it were, dead,
while, at the same, the nutritive system and the functions
essential to life go on; that in consequence of this inactivity
of the sensorium, there results, 1. Loss of consciousness, so
far, at least, as regards all connection with, and relation to,
external things; 2. Loss of voluntary power over the physical
and muscular frame; 3. Loss of voluntary control over
the operations of the mind; the mind still remaining active,
however, and its operations going on, uncontrolled by the
will.
We are now prepared to take up, more particularly, that
specific form of mental activity in sleep, called dreaming; a
state which admits of easy explanation on principles already
laid down.
A Dream, what.—What, then, is a dream? I reply, it is
any mental action in sleep, of which, for any reason, we are
afterward conscious. This is not the case with all, perhaps,
with most mental action during sleep. Senses and the will
are inactive, then, for the most part, and whatever thoughts
and impressions may be wrought out in the laboratory of the
mind, whatever play of forces and wondrous alchemy may
there be going on, when the controlling principle that presides
over and directs its operations is withdrawn, are, for
the most part, never subsequently reported. Let the sensitivity
be partially aroused, however, let some disturbing
cause come in to prevent entire loss of sensibility, or let the
conceptions of the mind present themselves with more than
usual vividness and force of impression, and what we then
think may afterward be remembered. This is the philosophy
of dreams. What is thus remembered of our thoughts in
sleep, we call a dream, more especially applying the term to
such of our thoughts and conceptions in sleep, as have some[Pg 352]
degree of coherence and connection between themselves, so
as to constitute a sort of unity.
Sources of our Dreams.—Our dreams take shape and
character from a variety of circumstances. They are not
altogether accidental nor unaccountable; and even when we
cannot trace the connection, there is reason to suppose that
such connection exists between the dream, and the state of
the body, or of the mind, at the time, as, if known, would
account for the shape and complexion of the dream. The
principal sources, or, perhaps, it were more correct to say,
modifying influences of our dreams are, 1, Our present bodily
sensations, and especially the internal state of the physical
system, and, 2, Our previous waking thoughts, dispositions,
and prevalent states of mind.
Illustrations of the first.—As to the first of these modifying
causes, instances of its operation will probably occur
to every one from his own experience. You find yourself
on a hard bed, or, it may be, have thrown yourself into some
uncomfortable position, and you dream of broken bones or
of the rack. The band of your robe buttons tightly about
the neck, and you dream of hanging. You have taken a
late supper of food highly seasoned and indigestible, and in
your dreams a black bear very heavy and huge, quietly seats
himself on your chest, or, as a military officer once dreamed,
under similar circumstances, the prince of darkness sits cross-legged
over your stomach, with the Bunker Hill monument
in his lap. The instance related by Mr. Stewart, of the gentleman,
who, sleeping with bottles of hot water at his feet,
dreamed that he was walking along the burning crater of
Mount Ætna, is in point here. Here the bodily sensation
of heat upon the soles of the feet suggests the idea of a situation
in which such a sensation would be likely to occur, and
this idea blending with the sensation which is permanent and
real, assumes, also, the character of reality, and the dream
shapes itself accordingly. So when a window falls, or some
sudden noise is heard, if it do not positively awaken you so[Pg 353]
far as to make known the real cause, you hear the sound,
the sensorium partially aroused, mistakes it, perhaps, for the
sound of a gun, and instantly you are in the midst of a battle
at sea, or a fight with robbers. To such an extent are our
dreams modified by sensible impressions of this sort, that it
is possible, by skillful management, to shape and direct, to
some extent, at least, the dreams of another as you will.
An instance is related of an officer who was made, in this
way, in his sleep, to go through with all the minutia of a
duel, even to the firing of the pistol which was placed in his
hand, at the proper moment, the noise of which awoke him.
This was simply an acted dream.
Latent Disease.—Not unfrequently, some physical disorder,
incipient or latent, of which we may not be aware in
our waking moments, makes itself felt in the state of sleep,
when the system is more susceptible of internal impressions,
and thus modifies the dreams. In such cases, the dreams
may serve as a sort of index of the state of the physical system,
and somewhat, doubtless, of the apparently prophetic
character of certain dreams may be accounted for in this
way.
The second Source.—A second source, if not of our dreams
themselves, at least of the peculiar shape and character
which they assume, is to be found in our previous thoughts,
and prevalent mental occupations and dispositions. We fall
asleep, and mental action goes on much as before, in whatever
direction and channel it had already received an impulse.
Whatever has made the deepest impression on us through
the day, has longest or most intently occupied us, repeats
itself the moment we lose our consciousness of surrounding
objects. The mind goes on with the new and strange spectacle,
or with the unfinished problem, and unsolved intricate
study of the day or of the night hour; and not seldom is
the train of thought resumed and pursued to some purpose.
On waking in the morning, we find little difficulty in completing
a demonstration or solving a difficulty which had[Pg 354]
appeared insurmountable when we left it the previous night.
Now the truth is, we did not leave it the previous night. It
occupied us in our sleep. The brain was busy with it, it may
be, all the night. It is solved in the morning, not because the
mind is fresher then, but because it has been at work upon
it through the night. Sometimes we are conscious of this
on waking, and can dimly recall the severe continuous mental
toil which went on while we slept. Usually, I suppose,
we have no consciousness of it, and our only evidence of it
is the well-known law and habit of the mind, to run in its
worn and latest channels, together with the often observed
fact that the difficulty previously felt is, somehow, strangely
solved.
Further Illustration of the same Principle.—Condorcet is
not the only mathematician who has received, in sleep, suggestions
which led to the right solution of a problem that
he had been obliged to leave unfinished on retiring for the
night; nor is Franklin the only statesman who has, in dreams,
reached a satisfactory conclusion respecting some intricate
political movement. However this may be, there can be
no reasonable doubt that our previous mental occupation,
our prevalent state and disposition of mind, our habits of
thought and habits of feeling, determine and shape the complexion
of our dreams. They have a subjective connection,
are by no means so disconnected with us and our real history,
so much a matter of hap-hazard, as one may suppose.
It was not without reason that President Edwards took
notice of his dreams as affording an index of the state of his
heart, and his real native propensities. They are the vane
that shows which way the mind is set. Who will say that
the dreams of Lady Macbeth, those dreams of a guilty conscience,
are not among the most truthful of the portraitures
of the great master dramatist?
Native Talent then shows itself.—Not only our native
disposition and prevalent cast of thought betray themselves
in dreams, but, as a certain writer has remarked, our native[Pg 355]
talents show out in those moments of spontaneous mental
action. Talents which have had no opportunity to develop
themselves, owing to our education and professional pursuits,
take their chance and their time when we sleep, and we are
poets, artists, orators, whatever nature designed, whatever
the trammelled mind longs, but longs in vain, to be in our
waking moments.
Incoherency of Dreams.—The incoherency of our dreams
has been sufficiently accounted for in what I have previously
said. It is not, I think, owing chiefly, as Upham supposes,
to our loss of voluntary power and control over our thoughts
during sleep, though it is quite true that we have no such
control. The truth is, we are not at the time aware of any
such incoherency. It cannot, of course, be owing then to
our loss of voluntary power, since no increase of such power
would enable us to repair a defect which we are unconscious
of, but is owing entirely to another cause already mentioned,
viz., that in sleep we lose our relation to things around us,
lose our place, and our time, and hence, retain no standard
of judging as to what is, and what is not, consentaneous and
fit, self-consistent and coherent.
Apparent Reality.—Nothing is more remarkable in
dreams than their apparent reality. The scenes, actions,
and incidents, all stand out with peculiar distinctness, are
projected as images into the air before us, and have not at all
the semblance of any thing merely subjective. This has been,
by some, ascribed to the fact that there is nothing to distract
or call off the attention from the conceptions of the
mind in dreams; we are wholly in them, and hence they
appear as realities. I do not find, however, that in proportion
as my attention in waking moments is wholly absorbed
in any train of thought, those conceptions manifest any such
tendency to project themselves, so to speak, into objective
reality. They are still mere conceptions, only more vivid.
I am inclined, therefore, to attribute the seeming reality of
dreams to another source. We are accustomed to regard[Pg 356]
every thing as objective, which is out of the reach and control
of our will, which comes and goes irrespective of us and
our volition. Now, such we find to be the prime law of
cerebral action in sleep. Of course, then, we are deceived
into the belief that these conceptions over which we have no
control, are not conceptions, but perceptions, realities.
Estimate of Time.—Nothing has seemed to some writers
more mysterious than the entire disproportion between the
real and apparent time of a dream. I refer to the fact
that our dreams occupy frequently such very minute portions
of time, while they seem to us to stretch over such
long continued periods. An instance is related of an officer
confined in the prisons of the French Revolution, who was
awakened by the call of the sentry changing guard, fell
asleep again, witnessed, as he supposed, a very long and
very horrible procession of armed and bloody warriors, defiling
on horseback down a certain street of Paris, occupying
some hours in their passage, then awoke in terror in
season to hear distinctly the response of the sentry to the
challenge given before the dream began. The mind in
such cases, say some, operates more rapidly than at other
times. There is no evidence of that. Mr. Stewart has
suggested, I think, the right explanation. As our dreams
seem to us real, and we have no means of estimating time
otherwise than by the apparent succession of events, the
conceptions of the brain, that is, our dreams, seem to us to
take up just so much time in passing as the events themselves
would occupy were they real. This is perfectly a
natural result, and it fully accounts for the apparent anomaly
in question.
Prophetic Aspect.—Are dreams sometimes prophetic,
and how are such to be accounted for? Cicero narrates a
remarkable instance of what would seem to be a prophetic
dream. I refer to the account of the two Arcadians who
came to Megara and occupied different lodgings. The one[Pg 357]
imploring help, then murdered, and informing his comrade that
his body would be taken out of the city early in the morning,
by a certain gate, in a covered wagon. Agitated by the
dream, the other repairs at the designed time to the appointed
place, meets the wagon, discovers the body, arrests
the murderer, and delivers him to justice.
Other Instances of the like Nature.—Another instance,
perhaps equally striking, is narrated in the London Times.
A Mr. Williams, residing in Cornwall, dreamed thrice in the
same night that he saw the Chancellor of England killed,
in the vestibule of the House of Commons. The dream so
deeply impressed him that he narrated it to several of his
acquaintance. It was subsequently ascertained that on the
evening of that day the Chancellor, Mr. Perceval, was assassinated
according to the dream. Now, this was certainly
a remarkable coincidence. Was it any thing more?
Was it merely an accidental thing—a matter of chance—that
the dream should occur as it did, and should tally so
closely with the facts? But these are not singular instances.
Many such are on record.
Case related by Dr. Moore.—Dr. Moore, author of an
interesting work on the use of the body in relation to
the mind, narrates the following, as coming under his own
observation. A friend of his dreamed that he was amusing
himself, as he was in the habit of doing, by reading
the epitaphs in a country church-yard, when a newly made
grave attracted his attention. He was surprised to find on
the stone the name, and date of death, of an intimate
friend of his, with whom he had passed that very evening
in conversation. Nothing more was thought of the dream,
however, nor, perhaps, would it ever have recurred to
mind, had he not received intelligence, some months afterward,
of the death of this friend, which took place at the
very date he had, in his dream, seen recorded on the tombstone.
Case related by Dr. Abercrombie.—The case mentioned[Pg 358]
by Dr. Abercrombie is another of these remarkable coincidences.
Two sisters sleeping in the same room adjoining
that of a sick brother, the one awakens in affright, having
dreamed that the watch had stopped, and that on mentioning
it to her sister, the latter replied, "Worse than that has
happened, for ——'s breath has stopped also." On examination
the watch was found going and the brother in a sound
sleep. The next night the dream was repeated precisely as
before with the same result. The next morning as one of the
sisters had occasion to take the watch from the writing-desk
she was surprised to find it had stopped, and at the same
moment was startled by a scream from the other sister in the
chamber of the sick man, who had, at that moment, expired.
Additional Cases.—Another instance of a similar nature
is related, but I know not on how good authority. The
sister of Major Andrè, it is said, dreamed of her absent
brother, one night, as arrested and on trial before a court
martial. The appearance of the officers, their dress, etc.,
was distinctly impressed on her mind; the room, the relative
position of the prisoner and his judges, were noticed; the
general nature of the trial, and its result, the condemnation
of her brother. She woke deeply impressed. Her fears
were shortly afterward confirmed by the sad intelligence of
her brother's arrest, trial, and execution, and, what is remarkable,
the facts corresponded to her dream, both as respects
the time of occurrence, the place, the appearance of
the room, position, and dress of the judges, etc. Washington
and Knox were particularly designated, though she had
never seen them.
Another instance is related of a man who dreamed that
the vessel in which his brother was an officer, and, in part,
owner of the cargo, was wrecked on a certain island, and
the vessel lost, but the hands saved. He was so impressed
that he went directly and procured an extra insurance of
five thousand dollars on his brother's portion of the property.
By the next arrival news came that the vessel was wrecked,[Pg 359]
at the time and place of which the man had dreamed, and
the mariners saved.
Coincidences.—Now it is perfectly easy to call all these
things coincidences. They certainly are. But is it certain,
or it is probable, that they are mere coincidences? To call
them coincidences, and pass them off as if they were easily
and fully accounted for in that way, is but a shallow concealment
of our ignorance under a certain show of philosophy.
It is but a conjecture at the best; a conjecture,
moreover, which explains nothing, but leaves the mystery
just as great as before; a conjecture which is by no means
the most probable of all that might be made, but, on the contrary,
one of the most improbable of all, as it seems to me.
Mark, the cases I have now mentioned do not come under
any of the laws or conditions laid down as giving rise or modification
to our dreams. They are not suggested, so far as it
appears, by any present bodily sensation on the part of the
dreamer, nor was there any reason in the nature of the case
why any such event, much less conjunction of events, should
be apprehended by the dreamer in his waking moments. It
was not the simple carrying out of his waking thoughts.
Doubtless many dreams regarded as prophetic, may be
explained on these principles. They are the result of our
present sensations or impressions, or of the excited and anxious
state of mind and train of thought during the day. But
not so in the cases now cited.
Not necessary to suppose them Supernatural.—Shall we
believe, then, that dreams are sometimes prophetic? We
have no reason to doubt that they may be so. Are they, in
that case, supernatural events? No doubt the future may
be supernaturally communicated in dreams. No doubt it has
been, and that not in a few cases, as every believer in the
sacred Scriptures must admit. But this is not a necessary
supposition. A dream may be prophetic, yet not supernatural.
Some law, not fully known to us, may exist, by
virtue of which the nervous system, when in a highly excited[Pg 360]
state, becomes susceptible of impressions not ordinarily received,
and is put in communication, in some way to us
mysterious, with scenes, places, and events, far distant, so as
to become strangely cognizant of the coming future. Can
any one show that this is impossible? Is it more improbable
than that the cases recorded are mere chance coincidences?
Is it not quite as likely to be so, as that the event
should correspond, in so many cases and so striking a manner,
with the previous dream, and yet there be no cause,
whatever, for the correspondence? Is it not as reasonable,
even, as to suppose direct divine interposition to reveal the
future, the possibility of which interposition I by no means
deny, but the reason for which does not become apparent?
Is it not possible that there may be some natural law or
agent of the sort now intimated, some as yet unexplained,
but partially known, condition of the physical system, when
in a peculiarly sensitive state, of which the modus operandi
is not yet understood, but the existence of which is indicated
in cases like those now described? That this is the true
explanation, I by no means affirm; I make the suggestion
merely to indicate what, it seems to me, may be a possible
solution of the problem.
Possible Modes of accounting for the Facts.—Evidently
there are only these four possible solutions. 1. To deny the
facts themselves, i. e., that any such dreams occurred, or at
least, that they were verified in actual result. 2. To call
them accidental coincidences. 3. To admit a supernatural
agency. 4. To explain them in the way suggested. Our
choice lies, as it seems to me, between the second and the
last of these suppositions.
§ III.—Somnambulism.
Relation to the magnetic State.—Somnambulism or sleep-walking,
is called, by some writers, natural magnetic sleep.
They suppose it to differ from the state ordinarily called[Pg 361]
mesmeric, chiefly in this, that the former is a natural, and
the latter an artificial process.
Resemblance of this to other cognate Phenomena.—We
shall have occasion, as we proceed, to notice the very close
resemblance between dreaming, somnambulism, mesmerism,
and insanity, all, in fact, closely related to each other, characterized
each and all by one and the same great law, and
passing into each other by almost imperceptible gradations.
Method proposed.—It will be to the purpose, first to
describe the phenomena of somnambulism, then to inquire
whether they can be accounted for.
Description.—The principal phenomena of somnambulism
are the following: The subject, while in a state of sound
sleep, and perfectly unconscious of what he does, rises, walks
about, finds his way over dangerous, and, at other times, inaccessible
places, speaks and acts as if awake, performs in
the dark, and with the eyes closed, or even bandaged, operations
which require the closest attention and the best vision,
perceives, indeed, things not visible to the eye in its ordinary
waking state, perhaps even things absent and future, and
when awakened from this state, is perfectly unconscious of
what has happened, and astonished to find himself in some
strange and unnatural position.
An Instance narrated.—A case which fell under the observation
of the Archbishop of Bordeaux, when a student in
the seminary, is narrated in the French Encyclopedia. A
young minister, resident there, was a somnambulist, and to
satisfy himself as to the nature of this strange disease, the
Archbishop went every night into his room, after the young
man was asleep. He would arise, take paper, pen, and ink,
and proceed to the composition of sermons. Having written
a page in a clear legible hand, he would read it aloud from
top to bottom, with a clear voice and proper emphasis. If
a passage did not please him, he would erase it, and write
the correction, plainly, in its proper place, over the erased
line or word. All this was done without any assistance from[Pg 362]
the eye, which was evidently asleep; a piece of pasteboard
interposed between the eye and the paper produced no interruption
or inconvenience. When his paper was exchanged
for another of the same size, he was not aware of the change,
but when a paper of a different size was substituted, he at
once detected the difference. This shows that the sense of
tact or feeling was active, and served as a guiding sense.
Other Cases of a similar Nature.—Similar cases, almost
without number, are on record, in which much the same
phenomena are observed. In some instances it is remarked
that the subject, having written a sentence on a page, returns,
and carefully dots the i's, and crosses the t's. These phenomena
are not confined to the night. Persons have fallen
into the magnetic state, while in church, during divine service,
have gone home with their eyes closed, carefully avoiding
obstacles in their way, as persons or carriages passing;
and have been sent, in this state, of errands to places several
miles distant, going and returning in safety.
An amusing incident is on record of a gentleman who
found that his hen-roost was the scene of nightly and alarming
depredations, which threatened the entire devastation
of the premises, and what was strange, a large and faithful
watch-dog gave no alarm. Determined to ascertain the true
state of the case, he employed his servants to watch. During
the night the thief made his appearance, was caught,
after much resistance, and proved to be the gentleman himself,
in a state of sound sleep, the author of all the mischief.
A remarkable Instance.—Another case is also related,
which presents some features quite remarkable. In a certain
school for young ladies, I think in France, prizes had
been offered for the best paintings. Among the competitors
was a young and timid girl who was conscious of her inferiority
in the art, yet strongly desirous of success. For a
time she was quite dissatisfied with the progress of her work,
but by and by began to notice, as she resumed her pencil in
the morning, that something had been added to the work[Pg 363]
since she last touched it. This was noticed for some time,
and quite excited her curiosity. The additions were evidently
by a superior hand, far excelling her own in skill and
workmanship. Her companions denied, each, and severally,
all knowledge of the matter. She placed articles of furniture
against her door in such a way that any one entering would
be sure to awaken her. They were undisturbed, but still
the mysterious additions continued to be made. At last,
her companions concluded to watch without, and make sure
that no one entered her apartment during the night, but
still the work went on. At length it occurred to them to
watch her movements, and now the mystery was explained.
They saw her, evidently in sound sleep, rise, dress, take her
place at the table, and commence her work. It was her own
hand that, unconsciously to herself, had executed the work
in a style which, in her waking moments, she could not approach,
and which quite surpassed all competition. The
picture, notwithstanding her protestations that it was not
her painting, took the prize.
The Question.—How is it now, that in a state of sleep,
with the eye, probably, fast closed, and the room in darkness,
this girl can use the pencil in a manner so superior to any
thing that she can do in the day time, with her eyes open,
and in the full possession and employment of her senses and
her will?
Several Things to be accounted for.—Here are, in fact,
several things to be accounted for. How is it that the somnambulist
rises and moves about in a state of apparently
sound sleep? How is it that she performs actions requiring
often a high degree of intelligence, and yet without
apparent consciousness? How is it that she moves fearlessly
and safely, as is often the case, over places where
she could not stand for a moment, in her waking state,
without the greatest danger? How is it that she can see
without the eye, and perform actions in utter darkness, requiring
the nicest attention, and the best vision, and not[Pg 364]
only do them, but in such a manner as even to surpass what
can be done by the same person in any other state, under
the most favorable circumstances?
First, the Movement.—As to the first thing—the movement
and locomotion in sleep—it may be accounted for in two
ways. We may suppose it to be wholly automatic. This is
the view of some eminent physiologists. The conscious soul,
they say, has nothing to do with it, no knowledge of it.
The will has nothing more to do with it, than it has with
the contraction of a muscle, or irritation in an amputated
limb.
Objection to this View.—For reasons intimated already,
we cannot adopt the automatic theory. It seems to us subversive
of all true science of the mind. The body is self-moved
in obedience to the active energy of the nervous organism,
and this organism again, acts only as it is acted upon
by the mind that animates, pervades, and controls that organism.
In the waking state, this mental action, and the
consequent nervous and muscular activity, are under the
control of the will. In sleep, this control is, for the time,
suspended, and the thoughts come and go as it may chance,
subject to no law but that of the associative principle. The
mind, however, is still active, and the thoughts are busy in
their own spontaneous movement. To this movement, the
brain and nervous system respond. That the brain itself
thinks, that the nerves and muscles act, and the limbs move
automatically, without the energizing activity of the mind,
is a supposition purely gratuitous, inconsistent with all the
known facts and evident indications of the case, and at war
with all just notions of the relation of body and mind.
Another Theory.—Another, and much more reasonable
supposition is, that the will, which ordinarily in sleep loses
control both over the mind and the body, in the state of
somnambulism regains, in some way, and to some extent,
its power over the latter, so that the body rises and moves
about in accordance with the thought and feeling that[Pg 365]
happen, at the moment, to be predominant in the mind. There
is no control of the will over those thoughts and suggestions:
they are spontaneous, undirected, casual, subject only to the
ordinary laws of association; but for the time, whether
owing to the greater vividness and force of these suggestions
and impressions, or to the disturbed and partially aroused
state of the sensorial organism, the will, acting in accordance
with these suggestions of the mind, so far regains its power
over the bodily organism, that locomotion ensues. The
dream is then simply acted out. The body rises, the hand
resumes the pen, and the appropriate movements and actions
corresponding to the conceptions of the mind in its dream,
are duly performed.
The second Point of Inquiry.—This virtually answers
the second question, how the somnambulist can perform actions
requiring intelligence, yet without apparent consciousness.
There is, doubtless, consciousness at the time—there must
be; the thought and feeling of the moment are known to
us at the moment. Not to be conscious of thought and
feeling, is, not to think and feel. That the acts thus performed
are not subsequently remembered, is no evidence
that they were not objects of consciousness at the time of
their occurrence. This is absence of memory, and not of
consciousness.
Not remembered.—Why they are not subsequently remembered,
we may, or may not, be able to explain. Not
improbably, it may be owing to the partial inactivity of the
senses, and the consequent failure to perceive the actual relations
of the person to surrounding objects. But to whatever
it may be owing, it does not prove that the mind is, for
the time, unconscious of its own activity, for that is impossible.
Third Question.—As to the third question, how the
somnambulist can safely move where the waking person
cannot, as along the edge of precipices, and on the roofs[Pg 366]
of houses, the explanation is simple and easy. The eye is
closed. The sense of touch is the only guide. Now the
foot requires but a space of a few inches for its support, that,
given it knows nothing further, asks nothing beyond. It
is the eye that informs us at other times of the danger beyond,
and so creates, in fact, the present danger. You walk
safely on a two-inch plank one foot from the ground. The
same effort of the muscles will enable you to walk the same
plank one hundred feet from the ground, if you do not
know the difference. This the somnambulist, with closed
eye, and trusting to the sense of feeling alone, does not
recognize.
A Question still to be answered.—But the most difficult
question remains. How is it that the sleep-walker in utter
darkness, reads, writes, paints, runs, etc., better even than
others can do, or even than he himself can do at other times
and with open eyes. How can he do these things without
seeing? and how see in the dark and with the organs of
vision fast locked in sleep. The facts are manifest. Not so
ready the explanation. I can see how the body can move
and with comparative safety, and even how the cerebral
action may go on in sleep, without subsequent remembrance.
But to read, to write, to paint, to run swiftly when pursued
through a dark cellar, without coming in contact with surrounding
objects, are operations requiring the nicest power
of vision, and how there can be vision without the use of
the proper organ of vision, is not to me apparent. It does
not answer this question to say that the action is automatic.
That would account for one's seeing, but not without eyes.
The movement from place to place, according to the same
theory, is also automatic; that accounts for a person's walking
in sleep, but not for his walking without legs. Nor
does it solve the difficulty to say that in sleep the life of
the soul is merged in that of the body; doubtless, but
how can the body see without the eye, or the eye without
light?
[Pg 367]
Theory of a general Sense.—The only theory that seems
to offer even a plausible solution is that advanced by some
German psychologists, and by Rauch in this country, of a
general sense. The several special senses, they say, are all
resolvable into one general sense as their source, viz., that
of feeling. They refer us in illustration to the ear of the
crab, to the eye of the fly and the snail, to the scent of flies,
in which cases, respectively, we find no organ of hearing, or
vision, or smell, but simply an expansion of the general
nerve of sensation, or some filament from it, connecting with
a somewhat thinner and more delicate membrane than the
ordinary skin. This shows that our ordinary way of perceiving
things is not the only way; that special organs of
vision, etc., are not needed in order to all perception, much
less to sensation. It has been found by experiment that bats,
after their eyes have been entirely removed, will fly about as
before, and avoid all obstacles just as before. In these cases,
it is contended, perception is merely feeling heightened, the
exercise of the general sense into which the special senses
are severally merged. And this, it is said, may be the case
with the somnambulist.
Remarks on this Theory.—There is doubtless truth in
the general statement now advanced. I do not see, however,
that it accounts for all that requires explanation in the
case. It explains, perhaps, how, without the organ of vision,
a certain dim, confused perception of objects might be furnished
by the general sense, but not for a clearer vision and
a nicer operation than the waking eye can give. This, to
me, remains yet unexplained. Is there an inner consciousness,
a hidden soul-life not dependent on the bodily organization,
which at times comes forth into development and
manifests itself when the usual relations of body and soul
are disturbed and suspended? So some have supposed, and
so it may be for aught we know to the contrary, but this is
only to solve one mystery by supposing another yet
greater.
[Pg 368]
Must admit what.—Whatever theory we adopt, or even
if we adopt none, we must admit, I think, in view of the
facts in the case, that in certain disordered and highly excited
states of the nervous system, as, e. g., when weakened
by disease, so that ordinary causes affect it more powerfully
than usual, it can, and does sometimes, perceive what, under
ordinary circumstances, is not perceptible to the eye, or to
the ear; nay, even dispenses with the use of eye and ear,
and the several organs of special sense. This occurs, as
we have seen, in somnambulism, or natural magnetic sleep.
We meet with the same thing also in even stranger forms,
in the mesmeric state, and in some species of insanity.
The mental Process obvious.—So far as regards the
purely mental part of the phenomena, the operations of the
mind in somnambulism, there is nothing which is not easily
explained. In somnambulism, as indeed in all these states
so closely connected—sleep, dreams, the mesmeric process,
and even insanity—the will loses its controlling power over
the train of thought, and, consequently, the thought or feeling
that happens to be dominant gives rise to, and entirely
shapes, the actions that may in that state be performed.
This dominant thought or feeling, in the case of the somnambulist,
is, for the most part, probably, the result of previous
causes; a continuation of the former mental action,
which, when the influence of the will is suspended and the
senses closed, by a sort of inherent activity keeps on in the
same channel as before. Of such action, the soul is itself
probably conscious at the moment, but afterward no recollection
of it lingers in the mind.
§ IV.—Disordered Mental Action.
Relation to other mental Phenomena.—Closely allied to
somnambulism, dreaming, etc., are certain forms of disordered
mental condition commonly termed insanity; having
this one element in common with the former, the loss[Pg 369]
or suspension of all voluntary control over the train of
thought. This must be regarded as the characteristic feature
and essential ground-work of the various phenomena
in all these various states.
Classification.—The forms of disordered mental action
are various, and admit of some classification. Some are
transient, others permanent, arising from some settled disorder
of the intellect, or the sensibilities.
I. Transient Forms.—Of these, some are artificially produced,
as by exciting drugs, stimulants, intoxicating drinks,
etc., others by physical and natural causes, as disease, etc.
Delirium, artificial.—The most common of these forms
of disordered mental action is that transient and artificial
state produced by intoxicating drugs and drinks. This is
properly called delirium, and takes place whenever total or
even partial inebriation occurs, whether from alcoholic or
narcotic stimulants, as the opium of the Chinese, and the
Indian hemp or hachish of the Hindoos. The same effects,
substantially, are produced, also, by certain plants, as the
deadly night-shade and others, and also by aconite. In all
these cases the effect is wrought primarily, it would seem,
upon the blood, which is brought into a poisonous state, and
thus deranges the action of the nerves and the brain. The
hachish or Indian hemp, which, in the East, is used for purposes
of intoxication more generally, perhaps, than even
opium, or alcoholic drinks, may serve as an illustration of
the manner in which these various stimulants affect the
senses. At first the subject perceives an increased activity
of mind; thoughts come and go in swift succession and
pleasing variety; the imagination is active—memory, fancy,
reason, all awake. Gradually this mental activity increases
and frees itself from voluntary control; attention to any
special subject becomes difficult or even impossible; ideas,
strange and wonderful, come and go at random with no apparent
cause and by no known law of suggestion; these absorb
the attention until the mind is at last given up to them, and[Pg 370]
there is no further consciousness of the external things,
while, at the same time, the patient is susceptible, as in the
magnetic state, of influence and impression from without.
How closely, in many respects, this resembles the state of
the mind in somnambulism, mesmerism, and ordinary dreaming,
I need not point out. The mental excitement produced
by opium is perhaps greater, and the images that throng the
brain, and assume the semblance of reality, are more numerous
and real. The subsequent exhaustion and reaction in
either case are fearful. For illustration of this the reader is
referred to the Confessions of an Opium Eater, by the accomplished
De Quincey.
Delirium of Disease.—The ordinary delirium of disease
is essentially of the same nature with that now described,
differing rather in its origin, or producing cause, than in
its effects. It comes on often in much the same way; increased
mental activity shows itself; attention is fixed with
difficulty; strange images, and trains of thought at once
singular and uncontrolled by the will, come and go; the
mind at last is possessed by them and loses all control over
its own movements. Every thing now, which the mind
conceives, assumes the form of reality. It has no longer
conceptions but perceptions. Figures move along the walls
and occupy the room. They are as really seen, that is, the
sensation is the same, as in any case of healthy and actual
vision; only the effect is wrought from within outward,
from the sensorium to the optic nerve and retina, instead of
the reverse, as in actual vision. Voices are heard also, and
various sounds, in the same manner; the producing cause
acting from within outward, and not from without inward.
Differs from Dreaming.—This state differs from dreaming
in that the subject is not necessarily asleep, and that it
involves a greater and more serious disorder of the faculties,
as well as of longer continuance. The illusions are perhaps
also more decided, and more vividly conceived as external
and real entities. Like dreams, and unlike the conceptions[Pg 371]
of the magnetic state, these ideas and illusions may be subsequently
recalled, and in many cases are so; the mind,
however, finding it difficult still to believe that they were
fictions, and not actual occurrences.
In dreaming, the things which we seem to see and hear
are changes produced in the sensorium by cerebral or other
influences. In delirium, the sensorium itself is disordered
and produces false appearances, spectres, etc.
Mania.—That form of disordered mental action termed
mania, differs from that already described in that, along
with the derangement of the intellect, there is more or less
emotional disorder. The patient is strongly excited on any
thing that at all rouses the feelings. There may be much
or little intellectual derangement accompanying this excitement.
The two forms, in fact, pass into each by a succession
of almost indefinable links. The main element is the
same in each, i. e., loss of voluntary control over the
thoughts and feelings. Each is produced by physical
causes, and is of transient duration.
Power of Suggestion.—In all these forms of delirium
now described, whether artificial or natural, the mind is
open to suggestions from without, and these become often
controlling ideas. Hence it is of imperative necessity that
the attendant should be on his guard as to what he says or
does in the presence of the patient. An instance in point
is related by Dr. Carpenter, in which a certain eminent physician
lost a number of his patients in fever by their jumping
from the window, a fact accounted for at once, when we
come to hear that he was stupid enough to caution the attendants,
in the hearing of his patients, against the possibility
of such an event.
II. Permanent Forms.—I proceed next to notice those
more permanent forms of mental disorder, commonly termed
insanity, a term properly applied to designate those cases of
abnormal mental activity in which there seems to be either
some settled disorder of the intellect, as, e. g., when the[Pg 372]
brain has been weakened by successive attacks of mania,
epilepsy, etc., or else some permanent tendency to disordered
emotional excitement.
Disorder of the Intellect.—Where the intellectual faculties
are disordered, the chief elementary feature of the
case is the same as in those already noticed, viz., Loss of
voluntary control over the mental operations—the psychological
ground-work, as we have seen, of all the various forms
of abnormal mental action which have as yet come under
our notice.
Memory affected.—In the cases now under consideration,
the memory is the faculty that in most cases gives
the first signs of failure, particularly that form of memory
which is strictly voluntary, viz., recollection. In consequence
of this, past experience is placed out of reach, cannot
be made available, and therefore reasoning and judgment
are deficient. The thoughts lose their coherency and
connection, as they are thus cut loose from the fixtures of
the past, to which the laws of association no longer bind
them; they come and go with a strange automatic sort of
movement, over which the mind feels that it has little power.
Gradually this little fades away; the will no longer exercises
its former and rightful control over the mental activities; its
sway is broken, its authority gone; the mind loses control of
itself, and, like a vessel broken from her moorings, swings
sadly and hopelessly away into the swift stream of settled
insanity. The mind still retains its full measure of activity,
perhaps greatly increased; but it acts as in a dream. All its
conceptions are realities to it, and the actually real world, as
it mingles with the dream and shapes it, is but vaguely and
imperfectly apprehended through the confused media of the
mind's own conceptions. All this may be, and often is, realized,
where there is entire absence of all emotional excitement.
Not easily cured.—The condition now described is much
less open to medical treatment than the mental states[Pg 373]
previously mentioned. Indeed, where there is insanity resulting
from settled cerebral disorder, there is very little hope
of cure. Nature may in time recover herself; she may not.
This depends on age, constitution, predisposing causes, and
a variety of circumstances not altogether under human
control.
Disordered Action of the Sensibilities.—Another form
of insanity is that which consists in, or arises from, not
any primary disorder of the intellectual faculties, but a tendency
to disordered emotional excitement. Sometimes this
is general, extending to all the emotions. These cases require
careful treatment. The patient is like a child, and
must be governed mildly and wisely, is open to argument
and motives of self-control. In other cases, some one emotion
is particularly the seat and centre of the disturbance,
while the others are comparatively tranquil. In such cases
the exaggerated emotion may prompt to some specific action,
as suicide, or murder, etc. This is termed impulsive
insanity. The predominant idea or impulse tyrannizes over
the mind, and, by a sort of irresistible fatality, drives it on
to the commission of crime. The patient may be conscious
of this impulse, and revolt from it with horror; there may
be no pleasure or desire associated with the deed, but he is
unable to resist. He is like a boat in the rapids of Niagara.
So fearful the condition of man when reason is dethroned,
and the will no longer master.
[Pg 374]
[Pg 375]
[Pg 376]
[Pg 377]
MENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
DIVISION SECOND
THE SENSIBILITIES.
PRELIMINARY TOPICS.
CHAPTER I.
NATURE, DIFFICULTY, AND IMPORTANCE OF THIS
DEPARTMENT OF THE SCIENCE.
Previous Analysis.—In entering upon the investigation
of a new department of our science, it may be well
to recur, for a moment, to the analysis and classification
of the powers of the mind which has been already given
in the introduction to the present volume. The faculties
of the mind were divided in that analysis, it will be
remembered, into three grand departments, the Intellect,
the Sensibilities, and the Will; the first comprising the various
powers of thinking and knowing, the second of feeling,
the third of willing. The first of these main divisions has
been already discussed in the preceding pages. Upon the
second we now enter.
Difference of the two Departments.—This department of
mental activity differs from the former, as feeling differs
from thinking. The distinction is broad and obvious. No
one can mistake it who knows any thing of his own mental
operations. Every one knows the difference, though not
every one may be able to explain it, or tell precisely in what
it consists. But whether able to define our meaning or not,
we are perfectly conscious that to think and to feel are different
acts, and involve entirely different states of mind.[Pg 378]
The common language of life recognizes the distinction, alike
that of the educated and of the uneducated, the peasant
and the man of science. The literature of the world recognizes
it.
Relation of the two.—As regards the relation of the two
departments to each other, the intellect properly precedes
the sensibility. The latter implies the former, and depends
upon it. There can be no feeling—I speak, of course, of
mental feeling, and not of mere physical sensation—without
previous cognizance of some object, in view of which the
feeling is awakened. Affection always implies an object of
affection, desire, an object of desire; and the object is first
apprehended by the intellect before the emotion is awakened
in the mind. When we love, we love something, when we
desire, we desire something, when we fear, or hope, or hate,
there is always some object, more or less clearly defined, that
awakens these feelings, and in proportion to the clearness
and vividness of the intellectual conception or perception of
the object, will be the strength of the feeling.
Strength of Feelings as related to Strength of Intellect.—The
range and power of the sensibilities, then, in other
words, the mind's capacity of feeling, depends essentially
upon the range and vigor of the intellectual powers. Within
certain limits, the one varies as the other. The man of
strong and vigorous mind is capable of stronger emotion
than the man of dwarfed and puny intellect. Milton, Cromwell,
Napoleon, Webster, surpassed other men, not more in
clearness and strength of intellectual perception, than in
energy of feeling. In this, indeed, lay, in no small degree,
the secret of their superior power. In the most eloquent
passages of the great orators of ancient or modern times, it
is not so much the irresistible cogency and unrelenting grasp
of the terrible logic, that holds our attention, and casts its
spell over us, as it is the burning indignation that exposes
the sophistries, and tears to shreds the fallacies of an opponent,
and sweeps all argument and all opposition before it[Pg 379]
like a devouring fire. The orations of Demosthenes, of
Burke, of Webster, furnish numerous examples of this.
Influence of the Feelings on the Intellect.—On the other
hand, it is equally true that the state of the intellect in any
case depends not a little on the nature and strength of the
mind's capacities of feeling. A quick and lively sensibility
is more likely to be attended with quickness and strength of
intellectual conception; imagination, perception, fancy, and
even reasoning, are quickened, and set in active play, by its
electric touch.
A man with sluggish and torpid sensibilities, is almost of
necessity a man of dull and sluggish intellect. A man without
feeling, if we can conceive so strange a phenomenon,
would be a man, the measure of whose intellectual capacity
would be little above that of the brutes.
Importance of this Department of the mental Faculties.—Such
being the nature of the sensibilities, the importance of
this department of mental activity becomes obvious at a
glance. The springs of human action lie here. We find
here a clue to the study of human nature and of ourselves.
To understand the complicated and curious problem of human
life and action, to understand history, society, nations,
ourselves, we must understand well the nature and philosophy
of the sensibilities. Here we find the motives which set
the busy world in action, the causes which go to make men
what they are in the busy and ever changing scene of life's
great drama. It is the emotions and passions of men which
give, at once, the impulse, and the direction, to their energies,
constitute their character, shape their history and their destiny.
A knowledge of man and of the world is emphatically
a knowledge of the human heart.
Extract from Brown.—The importance of this part of
our nature is well set forth in the following passage from
Dr. Thomas Brown:
"We might, perhaps, have been so constituted, with respect
to our intellectual states of mind, as to have had all the[Pg 380]
varieties of these, our remembrances, judgments, and creations
of fancy, without our emotions. But without the emotions
which accompany them, of how little value would the
mere intellectual functions have been! It is to our vivid
feelings of this class we must look for those tender regards
which make our remembrances sacred, for that love of truth
and glory, and mankind, without which to animate and reward
us in our discovery and diffusion of knowledge, the
continued exercise of judgment would be a fatigue rather
than a satisfaction, and for all that delightful wonder which
we feel when we contemplate the admirable creations of
fancy, or the still more admirable beauties of the unfading
model, that model which is ever before us, and the imitation
of which, as has been truly said, is the only imitation that is
itself originality. By our other mental functions, we are
mere spectators of the machinery of the universe, living and
inanimate; by our emotions, we are admirers of nature, lovers
of man, adorers of God....
Less attractive Aspects.—"In this picture of our emotions,
however, I have presented them in their fairest aspects;
there are aspects which they assume, as terrible as these are
attractive; but even terrible as they are, they are not the
less interesting objects of our contemplation. They are the
enemies with which our mortal combat, in the warfare of
life, is to be carried on; and of these enemies that are to assail
us, it is good for us to know all the arms and all the
arts with which we are to be assailed; as it is good for us
to know all the misery which would await our defeat, as
well as all the happiness which would crown our success,
that our conflict may be the stronger, and our victory, therefore,
the more sure.
"In the list of our emotions of this formidable class, is to
be found every passion which can render life guilty and
miserable; a single hour of which, if that hour be an hour
of uncontrolled dominion, may destroy happiness forever,
and leave little more of virtue than is necessary for giving[Pg 381]
all its horror to remorse. There are feelings as blasting to
every desire of good that may still linger in the heart of the
frail victim who is not yet wholly corrupted, as those poisonous
gales of the desert, which not merely lift in whirlwinds
the sands that have often been tossed before, but wither even
the few fresh leaves, which on some spot of scanty verdure,
have still been flourishing amid the general sterility."
Difficulty of the Study.—With regard to the difficulty
attending the study of this part of our nature, a word seems
necessary in passing. It has been supposed to constitute a
peculiar difficulty in the way of the successful investigation
of this department of mental activity, that the sensibilities
are, in their very nature, of such an exciting character, as to
preclude the calm, dispassionate observation and reflection
so necessary to correct judgment. At the moment of exercising
any lively emotion, as hope, fear, anger, etc., the
mind is in too great perturbation to be in any condition
for accurate self-observation, and when the excitement has
subsided, the important moment has already passed. Mr.
Stewart has particularly noticed this difficulty in his Introduction
to the Active and Moral Powers, and quotes Hume
to the same effect.
Not peculiar to this Department of the Science.—The
difficulty in question, however, is one which, in reality, pertains
to all mental science, and not to this department of it
alone; and so Hume, in the passage cited by Mr. Stewart,
seems to intend. It is true that while we are under the influence
of any exciting emotion, we are in no mood, and in no
suitable state to observe, with critical eye, the workings of
our own minds; neither are we in any condition to do so
when engaged in the less exciting, but not less absorbing
intellectual occupation of reasoning, or imagining, or remembering.
The moment we begin to observe ourselves as thus
engaged, the mind is no longer employed as before, the experiment
which we wish to observe is interrupted, and instead
of reasoning, imagining, or remembering, we are only
observing ourselves. Our only resource, in either case, is to
turn back and gather up, as well as we can from memory,
the data of our mental activity and condition while thus and
thus employed. And this we can do with regard to the action
of the sensibilities, as well as of the intellect, provided
only the degree of emotion and excitement is not so great
as to interfere with the present consciousness, and so with
the subsequent recollection of what was passing in our own
minds.
Sources of Information.—Nor are we dependent entirely
on self-observation. Our sources of information are twofold,
the observation of our own minds, and of others. From the
latter source we may learn much of the nature of this department
of mental action. The sensibilities of others are
more open to our inspection, and less readily mistaken, than
their intellectual states. Nor do we meet, in this case, with
the same difficulty; for however excited and incapable of
self-inspection, at the moment, the subject of any strong
emotion or passion may be, the spectator, at least, is able to
observe the effect of that passion, and note its phenomena,
with calm and careful eye.[Pg 382]
CHAPTER II.
ANALYSIS AND CLASSIFICATION OF THE SENSIBILITIES.
Certain Distinctions may be noticed.—Including, under
the term sensibility, according to the definition already
given, whatever is of the nature of feeling, in distinction
from thought or cognition, and limiting the term also to
feelings strictly mental, in distinction from merely physical
sensation, it is obvious that there are certain leading distinctions
still to be observed in this class of our mental states,
certain great and strongly marked divisions or differences,[Pg 383]
by which we shall do well to be guided in our arrangement
and classification of them. Our feelings are many and various;
it is impossible to enumerate or classify them with
perfect precision; yet there are certain points of resemblance
and difference among them, certain groups or classes into
which they naturally divide themselves.
A general Distinction indicated.—One general distinction
lies at the outset, patent and obvious, running through all
forms and modes of sensibility, namely, the difference of
agreeable and disagreeable. Every feeling is, in its very
nature, and of necessity, one or the other, either pleasing or
painful. In some cases the distinction is much more strongly
marked than in others; sometimes it may be hardly perceptible,
and it may be difficult to determine, so slight is the
degree of either, whether the feeling under consideration
partakes of the character of pleasure or pain; sometimes
there is a blending of the two elements, and the same emotion
is at once pleasing and painful to the mind that experiences
it. But I cannot conceive of a feeling that is neither
agreeable or disagreeable, but positively indifferent. The
state of indifference is not an exercise of sensibility, but a
simple want of it, as the very name denotes by which we
most appropriately express this state of mind, i. e., apathy
(α παθος).
Simple Emotions.—Passing this general and obvious distinction,
we find among our sensibilities a large class which
we may denominate simple emotions. These comprise the
joys and sorrows of life in all their varieties of modification
and degree, according as the objects which awaken them
differ. Under this class fall those general states of the mind
which, without assuming a definite and obvious form, impart
a tinge and coloring of joyousness or sadness to all our activity.
Under this class, also, must be included the more
specific forms of feeling, such as the grief or sorrow we feel
at the loss of friends, sympathy with the happiness or sorrow
of others, the enjoyment arising from the contemplation or[Pg 384]
persuasion of our own superiority, and the chagrin of the
reverse, the enjoyment of the ludicrous, of the new and wonderful,
of the beautiful, to which must be added the satisfaction
resulting from the consciousness of right action, and
those vivid feelings of regret in view of the wrong, which,
in their higher degree, assume the name of remorse, and fall
like a chill and fearful shadow over the troubled path of
earthly life. These all are simple emotions, and all, moreover,
are but so many forms of joy and sorrow, varying as
the objects vary which give rise to them.
Further Difference of instinctive and rational Emotion.—It
will be observed, however, that of these several specific
forms of simple emotion, some are of a higher order than
the others. Such are those last named in the series, the
feelings awakened in view of the ludicrous, in view of the
new and wonderful, in view of the beautiful, and in view of
the right, or, in general, the æsthetic and moral emotions.
These, as seeming to possess a higher dignity, and to involve
a higher degree of intellectual development, we may
denominate the rational, in distinction from the other simple
emotions, which, to mark the difference, we may term instinctive.
Emotions of a complex Character.—Passing on in our
analysis, we come next to a class of emotions differing from
that already considered, in being of a complex character.
It is no longer a simple feeling of delight and satisfaction in
the object, or the reverse, but along with this is blended the
wish, more or less definite and intense, of good or ill, to the
object which awakens the emotion. The feeling assumes an
active form, becomes objective, and travels out from itself
and the bosom that cherishes it, to the object which calls it
forth. In this desire of good or ill to the object, the simple
element of joy or sorrow, the subjective feeling, is often
merged and lost sight of; yet it ever exists as an essential
element of the complex emotion.
[Pg 385]
Further Subdivision of this Class.—Of this class are
the feelings usually denominated affections, which may be
further subdivided into benevolent and malevolent, according
as they seek the good or the ill of their respective objects.
As the simple emotions are all but so many modes and
forms of the feeling of joy, and its opposite, sorrow, so
the affections are but so many different modifications of
the one comprehensive principle of love, and its opposite,
hate.
Various Objects of Affection.—The affections vary as the
objects vary on which they rest. Of the benevolent class, the
more prominent are, love of kindred, of friends, of benefactors,
of home and country. Of the malevolent affections,
so called, the more important are the feeling of resentment
in view of personal injury, of indignation at the wrongs of
others, the feeling of jealousy, and the like.
The Passions.—These various affections, both malevolent
and benevolent, when they rise above the ordinary degree,
and become impatient of restraint, imperious, no
longer under the control of reason and sober reflection, but
themselves assuming the command of the whole man, and
impelling him toward the desired end, regardless of other
and higher interests, become the passions of our nature,
with which no small part of the self-conflict and self-discipline
of this our mortal life is to be maintained.
The Desires.—There is still another class of emotions,
differing essentially in their nature from each of the two
leading divisions already mentioned, that is, our desires.
These are of two sorts. Those which are founded in the
physical nature and constitution of man—as the desire of
food, of muscular exertion, of repose, of whatever is
adapted to the animal nature and wants—are usually
denominated appetites: those, on the other hand, which take
their rise from the nature and wants of the mind, rather
than of the body, may be termed rational, in distinction
from animal desires or appetites. Of these the more[Pg 386]
important are the desire of happiness, of knowledge, of power,
of society, of the esteem of others.
As joy has its opposite, sorrow, and love its opposite, hate,
so also desire has its opposite, aversion; and the objects of
aversion are as numerous as the objects of desire. The desire
of wealth has its counterpart, the aversion to poverty
and want; the desire of life and happiness stands over
against the aversion to suffering and death. The two are
so to speak, the positive and negative poles of feeling.
Hope and Fear.—There is yet another and important
class of our emotions, having not a little to do with the happiness
or misery of life, casting its lights and shadows over
no small part of our little path from the cradle to the grave,
our hopes and our fears. These, however important in
themselves, are, nevertheless, but modifications of the principles
of desire and aversion, and are, therefore, to be referred
to the same general division of the sensibilities.
Hope is the desire of some expected good, fear the aversion
to some anticipated evil.
Summary of Classes.—To the three comprehensive
classes now named, Simple Emotions, Affections, and Desires
may be referred, if I mistake not, the various sensibilities
of our nature; or, if the analysis and classification be
not complete and exhaustive, it is at least sufficiently minute
for our present purpose.
Historical Sketch of the leading Divisions of the
Sensibilities adopted by different Writers.
Important to know the Principles of Division adopted
by others.—The discussion of the present topic would be
incomplete without a glance at the history of the same. It
is of service, having obtained some definite results and conclusions
of our own, to know also what have been the views
and conclusions of others upon the same matter. As with[Pg 387]
regard to the intellectual powers, so also with respect to the
sensibilities, different principles of division and classification
have been adopted by different writers. Our limits will
allow us to glance only at the more important of these.
General Principles of Classification.—Of those who
have written upon the sensibilities, some have placed them
in contrast to each other, as hope and fear, love and hate,
etc., making this the principle of division; others have classed
them as personal, social, etc.; others as relating to time,
the past, the present, and the future; others as instinctive
and rational; while most who have had occasion to treat of
this part of our mental constitution, have considered it with
reference solely or mainly to the science of ethics or morals,
and have adopted such a division and arrangement as best
suited that end, without special regard to the psychology of
the matter.
Of the Greek Schools.—Among the Greeks, the Academicians
included the various emotions under the four principal
ones, fear, desire, joy, and grief, classing despair and
aversion under grief, while hope, courage, and anger were
comprised under desire.
To denote the passivity of the mind, as acted upon, and
under the influence of emotion, the Greeks named the passions
in general, παθος, suffering, whence our terms pathos,
pathetic, etc., whence also the Latin passio and patior, from
which our word passion. The Stoics, in particular, designated
all emotions as παθη, diseases, regarding them as disorders
of the mind.
Hartley's Division.—Among the moderns, Hartley divides
the sensibilities into the two leading classes of grateful
and ungrateful ones; under the former, including love,
desire, hope, joy, and pleasing recollection; under the latter,
the opposites of these emotions, hatred, aversion, fear, grief
displeasing recollection.
Distinction of primitive and derivative.—Certain other
English writers, as Watts and Grove, derive all the emotions[Pg 388]
ultimately from the three principal ones, admiration, love,
and hatred, which they term the primitive passions, all others
being derivative.
Division of Cogan.—Cogan, whose treatise on the passions
is a work of much interest, divides the sensibilities into
passions, emotions, and affections; by the first of these
terms designating the first impression which the mind receives
from some impulsive cause; by the second, the more
permanent feeling which succeeds, and which betrays itself
by visible signs in the expressions of the countenance and
the motions of the body; while by affections, he denotes
the less intense and more durable influence exerted upon the
mind by the objects of its regard. The passions and affections
are, by this author, further divided into those which
spring from self-love and those which are derived from the
social principle.
Classification of Dr. Reid.—Dr. Reid divides the active
principles, as he terms them, into three classes, the mechanical,
the animal, and the rational, including, under the first,
our instincts and habits, under the second, our appetites,
under the third, our higher principles of action.
Of Stewart.—Dugald Stewart makes two classes, the
instinctive or implanted, and the rational or governing principles,
under the former including appetites, desires, and
affections, under the latter, self-love and the moral faculty.
The desires are distinguished from the appetites, in that they
do not, like the former, take their rise from the body, nor
do they operate, periodically, after certain intervals, and
cease after the attainment of their object. Under the title
of affections, are comprehended all those principles of our
nature that have for their object the communication of
good or of ill to others.
Of Brown.—Dr. Brown divides the sensibilities, to which
he gives the general name of emotions, with reference to
their relation to time, as immediate, retrospective, and prospective.
Under the former, he includes, as involving no[Pg 389]
moral feeling, cheerfulness and melancholy, wonder and its
opposite, feelings of beauty and the opposite, feelings of sublimity
and of the ludicrous; as involving moral feeling, the
emotions distinctive of vice and virtue, emotions of love and
hate, of sympathy, of pride and humility. Under retrospective
emotion he includes anger, gratitude, regret, satisfaction;
under prospective emotion, all our desires and fears.
Of Upham.—Prof. Upham divides the sensibilities into
the two leading departments, the natural and the moral,
the former comprehending the emotions and the desires,
the latter, the moral sentiments or conscience. Under the
class of desires, he includes our instincts, appetites, propensities,
and affections.
Of Hickok.—Dr. Hickok classes the sensibilities under
the departments of animal, rational, and spiritual susceptibility;
the former comprehending instincts, appetites,
natural affections, self-interested feelings, and disinterested
feelings; the second, æsthetic, scientific, ethic, and theistic
emotions; while the latter or spiritual susceptibility differs
from each of the others, in not being, like them, constitutional,
but arising rather from the personal disposition and character.
Remarks on the foregoing Divisions.—Our limits forbid,
nor does the object of the present work require, a critical
discussion of these several plans of arrangement.
It is but justice to say, however, that no one of these
several methods of arrangement is altogether satisfactory.
They are not strictly scientific. The method of Cogan, for
example, derives all our sensibilities ultimately from the two
principles of self-love, or desire for our own happiness, and
the social principle, or regard for the condition and character
of others; which again resolve themselves, according to this
author, into the two cardinal and primitive affections of love
and hate. This division strikes us at once as arbitrary, and,
therefore, questionable; and, also, as ethical rather than
psychological. There are many simple emotions which[Pg 390]
cannot properly be resolved into either of these two principles.
On the other hand, the psychological distinction between
the emotions and desires is overlooked in this arrangement.
The same remarks apply substantially to several of the other
methods noticed.
Objection to Stewart's Division.—The arrangement of
Mr. Stewart is liable to this objection, that the principle of
self-love, and also the moral faculty, which he classes by
themselves as rational principles, in distinction from the
other emotions as implanted or instinctive principles, are
as really implanted in our nature, as really constitutional
or instinctive, as any other. Appetite, moreover, is but one
form or class of desires; self-love is but another, i. e., the
desire of our own happiness.
To Upham's Division.—The division of Mr. Upham is
still more objectionable on the same ground. The natural
and the moral sentiments, into which two great classes he
divides the sensibilities, are distinct neither in fact nor in
name; the moral sentiments, so called, are as really and truly
natural, founded in our constitution, as are our desires and
affections; nor is the term natural properly opposed to the
term moral as designating distinct and opposite things. The
terms instinctive and rational, which Mr. Stewart employs,
though not free from objection, much more accurately express
the distinction in view, could such a distinction be
shown to exist.
Difference of ethical and psychological Inquiry.—In a
work, the main object of which is to unfold the principles
of ethical science, it may be desirable to single out from the
other emotions, and place by themselves, the principle of self-love,
together with the social principle and the moral sentiments,
as having more direct reference to the moral character
and conduct. In a strictly psychological treatise, however,
in which the aim is simply to unfold, and arrange in
their natural order, the phenomena of the human mind, such
a principle of classification is evidently inadmissible. The[Pg 391]
different operations and emotions of the mind must be
studied and arranged, not with reference to their logical or
ethical distinctions, but solely their psychological differences.
Viewed in this light, the moral sentiments, so far as they
are of the nature of feeling or sensibility at all, and not
rather of intellectual perception, are simple emotions, and
do not inherently differ from any other feelings of the same
class. The satisfaction we feel in view of right, and the pain
in view of wrong past conduct, differ from the pain and
pleasure we derive from other sources, only as the objects
differ which call forth the feelings. They are essentially of
the same class, the difference is specific rather than generic.
They are modifications of the one generic principle of joy
and sorrow, and differ from each other not so much as each
differs from a desire, or an affection of love or hate.
Objection to Brown's Arrangement.—The classification
of Dr. Brown, if not ethical, is, perhaps, equally far from
being psychological. The relation of the different emotions
to time is an accidental, and not an essential difference, and
it is, moreover, a distinction wholly inapplicable to far the
larger portion of the sensibilities, viz., those which he calls
immediate emotions, or "those which arise without involving
necessarily any notion of time." This is surely lucus a
non lucendo.
[Pg 392]
[Pg 393]
[Pg 394]
[Pg 395]
SENSIBILITIES.
PART FIRST.
SIMPLE EMOTIONS.
CHAPTER I.
INSTINCTIVE EMOTIONS.
Previous Analysis.—It will be recollected that in the
analysis which has been given of the sensibilities, they were
arranged under three generic classes, viz., Simple Emotions,
Affections, and Desires, all, however, having this in common,
that they are in themselves agreeable or disagreeable, as
states of mind, according as the object which awakens them
is viewed as either good or evil.
Nature of simple Emotions.—Of these, the simple emotions,
which are first to be considered, comprise, it will be
remembered, that large class of feelings which, in their
various modifications and degrees, constitute the joys and
sorrows of life. They may be comprised, with some latitude
of meaning, under the general terms joy and sorrow, as
modifications of that comprehensive principle or phase of
human experience. They are awakened in view of an object
regarded as good or as evil; an object, moreover, of present
possession and present enjoyment or suffering; in which
last respect they differ from desires, which have respect
always to some good, or apparent good, not in present possession,
but viewed as attainable.
Division of simple Emotions.—Of these simple emotions,
again, some may be called instinctive, as belonging to the
animal nature, and, to some extent, common to man with the
brutes, in distinction from others of a higher order, involving[Pg 396]
or presupposing the exercise of reason and the reflective
powers.
It is of the former class that we are to treat in the present
chapter.
§ I.—Of that General State of the Mind known as Cheerfulness;
and its opposite, Melancholy.
Nature of this Feeling.—There is a state of mind, of
which every one is at times conscious, in which, without any
immediately exciting cause, a general liveliness and joyousness
of spirit, seldom rising to the definiteness of a distinct
emotion, a subdued under-current of gladness, seems to fill
the soul, and flow on through all its channels. It is not so
much itself joy, as a disposition to be joyful; not so much
itself a visible sun in the heavens, as a mild, gently-diffused
light filling the sky, and bathing all objects in its serene
loveliness and beauty. It has been well termed "a sort of
perpetual gladness."
Prevalence at different Periods of Life.—There are those,
of fortunate temperament, with whom this seems to be the
prevailing disposition, to whom every thing wears a cheerful
and sunny aspect. Of others, the reverse is true. In early
life this habitual joyousness of spirit is more commonly prevalent;
in advanced years, more rarely met with. Whether
it be that age has chilled the blood, or that the sober experience
of life has saddened the heart, and corrected the
more romantic visions of earlier years, as life passes on we
are less habitually under the influence of this disposition.
It is no longer the prevailing frame of the mind. In the
beautiful language of another, "We are not happy, without
knowing why we are happy, and though we may still be susceptible
of joy, perhaps as intense, or even more intense,
than in our years of unreflecting merriment, our joy must
arise from a cause of corresponding importance; yet even
down to the close of extreme old age there still recur[Pg 397]
occasionally some gleams of this almost instinctive happiness, like
a vision of other years, or like those brilliant and unexpected
corruscations which sometimes flash along the midnight of
a wintry sky, and of which we are too ignorant of the circumstances
that produce them, to know when to predict
their return."
The opposite Feeling.—Corresponding to this general
state of mind now described, is one of quite the opposite
character—that habitual disposition to sadness which is
usually called melancholy. Like its opposite, cheerfulness, it
is rather a frame of mind than a positive emotion, and, like
its opposite, it exists, often, without any marked and definite
cause to which we can attribute it. It is that state in which
subsiding grief, or the pressure of any severe calamity now
passing away, leaves the mind, the grey and solemn twilight
that succeeds a partial or total eclipse. It is, with many
persons, the habitual state of mind, through long periods,
perhaps even the greater part, of life. Not unfrequently it
occurs that minds, of the rarest genius and most delicate
sensibility, are subject to that extreme and habitual depression
of spirits which casts a deep gloom over the brightest
objects, and renders life itself a burden. This state of
habitual gloom and despondency, itself usually a form of
disease, the result of some physical derangement, deepens
sometimes into a fixed and permanent disorder of the mind,
and constitutes one of the most pitiable and hopeless forms
of insanity. Such was the case with the melancholy, but
most amiable and gentle Cowper.
Element of poetic Sensibility.—In its milder forms,
the state of mind which I describe, constitutes, not unfrequently,
an element of what is termed poetic genius, a
melancholy arising from some sad experience of the troubles
and conflicts of life, and from sympathy with the suffering
and sorrowing world, the great sad heart of humanity—a
melancholy that, like the plaint of the Æolian harp, lends
sweetness and richness to the music of its strain. Such are[Pg 398]
many of the strains of Tennyson; such the deep under-current
of Milton's poetry; such, preëminently, the spirit and
tone of John Foster, one of the truest and noblest specimens
of poetic genius, although a writer of prose. A quick and
lively sensibility, itself an inseparable concomitant of true
genius, is not unfrequently accompanied with this gentler
form of melancholy. The truly great soul that communes
with itself, with nature, and with eternal truth, is no stranger
to this subdued yet pleasing sadness. It is this to which
Milton pays beautiful tribute in the Il Penseroso, and which
he thus invokes:
"But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy,
Hail, divinest Melancholy!
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of Cyprus lawn
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes."
Not inconsistent with Wit.—It should be remarked that
the disposition of which we speak is not inconsistent with
the occasional and even frequent prevalence of feelings of
directly the opposite nature. A prevailing tendency to sadness
is not unfrequently associated with an almost equally
prevailing tendency to emotions of the ludicrous. The same
liveliness of sensibility which prepares the soul to feel keenly
whatever in life is adapted to awaken sad and sober reflections,
also disposes it to notice quickly the little incongruities
of character, the foibles and follies of mankind, in which a
duller eye would detect nothing absurd or comical. It is,
moreover, the natural tendency of the mind to spring back,
like the bow unstrung, from one extreme of feeling to its[Pg 399]
opposite, and seek relief from its sadness in the lighter sallies
of wit. And so we have the melancholy Cowper singing
John Gilpin, and the author of the Night Thoughts, in conversation,
a jovial and witty man.
§ II.—Sorrow at Loss of Friends.
Differs from Melancholy.—Beside the general states of
mind already described, and which can hardly be called distinct
emotions, there are certain specific forms of joy and sorrow
which claim our attention. Prominent among these is
the grief we feel at any great and sudden bereavement or
calamity, as, for example, the loss of friends. This is a state
of mind closely allied, indeed, to the melancholy of which I
have spoken, but differs from it in that it springs from a
more obvious and immediate cause, and is at once more
definite and more intense. After a time, when the first bitterness
of anguish is past, and the mind recovers itself in a
measure from the violence of the shock it has received, and
which, for the time, like a sudden blow, seemed to stagger
all its energies, when other causes begin to operate, and
other scenes and cares demand its attention, its sorrow, at
first violent and irrepressible, gradually subsides into that
calmer but more permanent form which we have already
described as melancholy.
Effects of Grief upon the Mind in the first Shock of any
Calamity.—When the loss is very great, especially if it
comes suddenly to us—and what bereavement, however long
anticipated and feared, does not at last overtake us suddenly?—the
mind is at first, in a manner, stupefied and
amazed, unable to realize its loss, and looks helplessly about
it for relief. To this succeeds a state of mental anguish,
more or less intense, in proportion to the liveliness of the
sensibilities, and the strength of the previous attachment.
In many cases the sorrow is uncontrollable, and finds relief in
tears, or in those more violent expressions of anguish in[Pg 400]
which the burdened heart of man in all ages has been wont
to indicate its grief, as the rending of the garments, the
beating of the breast, the tearing of the hair, and other like
demonstrations of utter and hopeless sorrow. The mind in
such a state resigns itself passively to the violence of its emotion,
and is swept on by the rushing current that overflows
its banks. It is Rachel mourning for her children, and refusing
to be comforted. It is David going to the chamber
over the gate, and exclaiming, as he goes, "O Absalom, my
son! my son!"
Subsequent State of Mind.—When the first violence of
grief has subsided, and reflection succeeds to passion, the
mind begins to recall the circumstances of its loss, and sets
itself to comprehend the greatness and reality of the calamity
that has befallen it. It dwells with interest and satisfaction
on all the worth and virtues of the departed, magnifies
all that was good, excuses or overlooks all that was faulty,
recalls the words, the tones, the looks, and gathers up the
slightest memento of the former history, with the same
sacred regard and reverence with which it treasures in the
funeral urn the ashes of the dead. A sacredness and dignity
invest the character, and the life, when once the angel death
has set his seal upon them.
Silence of deep Grief.—The deepest sorrow is not always,
perhaps not usually, the most violent and demonstrative.
It is when the first sudden passion of grief is passed
and the soul retires within herself to meditate upon her loss,
calmly gathering her mantle about her to hide from the observation
of others those tears and that sorrow which are sacred,
it is then that the deepest sorrow, and the heaviest darkness
gather about the burdened spirit. The truest, deepest
grief is ever silent. It shrinks from human observation. It
finds no words for expression, wishes none. It is a veiled
and silent goddess, whose rites and altars are hidden from
the eye of day. It is the nature of joy to communicate itself.
It is the nature of sorrow, whatever may be the[Pg 401]
occasion whence it springs, to retire within itself. It seeks its
chamber that it may weep there.
Effect of Time in assuaging Sorrow.—The effect of time
in softening and allaying the violence of grief, is known to
every one. The manner in which this effect is produced is
worthy of attention. A recurrence to the laws of suggestion
may explain this. It will be recollected that among
the secondary or subjective laws which regulate the suggestion
of our thoughts, the interval of time which has elapsed
since the occurrence of any event holds an important place.
That which has taken place but recently is more likely to
recur again to mind than events of remoter date. On the
first occurrence of any calamity, or bereavement, every thing
tends to remind us of our loss, and this constant suggestion
of it has a powerful effect in keeping alive our sorrow. As
time passes on, however, the objects which once suggested
only that which we had lost, become associated with, and
so suggest other objects and occurrences; or, if they still
remind us of our loss, the remembrance is mingled with
that of other scenes and events which have since transpired,
and other feelings which have since agitated our hearts.
Thus time is constantly mingling other ingredients in the
cup of our grief. The law of the most recent still holds in
suggestion, and thus the very principle that formerly reminded
us continually of our loss, now shuts it out, by interposing
between it and us what has since transpired. The
thought of the past comes up less frequently, and when it
recurs, is mingled with so many other associated objects, and
experiences, that it no longer awakens emotions of unmitigated
grief. Gradually other objects interest us, other plans
and duties engage us, other emotions agitate the heart, as
successive waves beat on the same troubled shore, and
render fainter, at each return, the traces which former billows
had impressed upon its sands.
Thus time, the great consoler, assuages our sorrows, and
the unbroken darkness that once hung over the mind, and[Pg 402]
shrouded all its thoughts and purposes, gives place, at length,
to a chastened and subdued sadness, that suffuses the past
with a soft and mellow radiance. We are ever moving on,
swiftly, steadily, in the current of events, and objects whose
fearful magnitude, once, from their very nearness, engrossed
our whole attention as we passed into their deep shadow,
gradually diminish as they recede, until their dark outline is
barely discernible on the distant horizon.
§ III.—Sympathy with the Happiness and Sorrow of Others.
In what Manner awakened.—Closely allied to the emotions
of joy and sorrow awakened by our own personal experience
of good and of evil, is the sympathy we feel with the joys
and sorrows of others in similar circumstances. Joy is contagious.
So also is grief. We cannot behold the emotions
of others, without, in some degree, experiencing a corresponding
emotion. Nor is it necessary to be eye-witnesses
of that happiness, or sorrow. The simple description of any
scene of happiness or of misery affects the heart, and
touches the chords of sympathetic emotion. We picture
the scene to ourselves, we fancy ourselves the spectators, or,
it may be, the actors and the sufferers; we imagine what
would be our own emotions in such a case, and in proportion
to the liveliness of our power of conception, and also of our
power of feeling, will be our sympathy with the real scene
and the real sufferers.
Nature of this Principle.—The sympathy thus awakened,
whether with the joy or the sorrow of others, is a
simple emotion, distinct in its nature from both the affections
and the desires, and it is, moreover, instinctive, rather than
rational—a matter of impulse, a principle implanted in our
nature, and springing into exercise, as by instinct, whenever
the occasion presents itself, rather than the result of reason
and reflection. It is a susceptibility which we possess, to
some extent, at least, in common with the brutes, who are[Pg 403]
by no means insensible to the distresses or to the happiness
of their fellows. It is a susceptibility which manifests itself
in early life, before habits of reflection are formed, and under
circumstances which preclude the supposition that it may be
the result of education, or in any manner an acquired and
not an original and implanted principle. So far from being
the result of reflection, reason and reflection are often needed
to check the emotion, and keep it within due bounds. There
are times when sympathy, for example, with the distresses
of others, would stand in the way of efficient and necessary
action, and when it is needful to summon all the resources
of reason to our aid, in the stern and resolute performance
of a duty which brings us into conflict with this instinctive
principle of our nature. The judge is not at liberty to regard
the tears of the heart-broken wife or child, when he
rises to pronounce the stern sentence of violated law upon
the wretched criminal. The kind-hearted surgeon must for
the time be deaf to the outcries of his patient, and insensible
to his sufferings, or his ministrations are at an end.
Usual Limitation of the Term.—The term sympathy is
more frequently used to denote the emotion awakened by
the sufferings of others, than our participation in their joys.
There can be no doubt, however, of the tendency of our
nature to each of these results, and that it is, in fact, but one
and the same principle under a twofold aspect. Nor does
the word itself more properly belong to, and more truly express,
the one, than the other of these aspects. We as readily
rejoice with those who do rejoice, as we weep with those
who weep, and in either case our feeling is sympathy (συνπαθος).
This Limitation accounted for.—The reason why the
term is more frequently applied to denote participation in
the sorrows of others, is obvious on a little reflection. Such,
and so benevolent, are the arrangements of a kind Providence,
that happiness is the prevalent law of being, and sorrow
the exception to that general rule. It is diffused as[Pg 404]
the sunshine, and the gentle air over all things that breathe,
and even inanimate objects, by a sort of sympathetic gladness,
reflected from our own minds, seem to share in the
general joy. Calamity and sorrow, at least in their more
marked and definite forms, come, like storm and tempest in
nature, more seldom, and, when they do occur, are the
more remarkable and stand out more impressively from
the common experience of life, from their very rarity.
More Need of Sympathy with Sorrow.—There is doubtless,
also, more occasion for sympathy with the sorrows of
others, when those sorrows do occur, than with their joys,
and this may be another reason for the more frequent use
of the term in this connection. Sorrow needs sympathy, as
joy does not. It leans for support on some helping and
friendly arm. Joy is, in its nature, strong and self-sustaining,
sorrow the reverse. It is a wise and kind provision of the
Author of our nature, by which there is implanted in our
constitution an instinctive sympathy with sorrow and suffering
in all their forms, even when we ourselves are not directly
the objects on which the calamity falls.
Remark of Dr. Brown.—It is well remarked by Dr.
Brown that "we seem to sympathize less with the pleasures
of others than we truly do, because the real sympathy is
lost in that constant air of cheerfulness which it is the part
of good manners to assume. If the laws of politeness required
of us to assume, in society, an appearance of sadness,
as they now require from us an appearance of some slight
degree of gayety, or, at least, of a disposition to be gay, it
is probable that we should then remark any sympathy with
gladness, as we now remark particularly any sympathy with
sorrow; and we should certainly, then, use the general
name to express the former of these, as the more extraordinary,
in the same way as we now use it particularly to express
the feelings of commiseration. Joy," remarks the
same writer, "may be regarded as the common dress of
society, and real complacency is thus as little remarkable[Pg 405]
as a well-fashioned coat in a drawing-room. Let us conceive
a single ragged coat to appear in the brilliant circle, and
all eyes will be instantly fixed on it. Even beauty itself, till
the buzz of astonishment is over, will, for the moment,
scarcely attract a single gaze, or wit a single listener. Such,
with respect to the general dress of the social mind, is grief.
It is something for the very appearance of which we are not
prepared."
Not true that we sympathize only with Sorrow.—These
reasons sufficiently account for the almost exclusive attention
paid by moralists to this part of our sympathetic nature, as
well as for the almost exclusive use of the term itself to denote
participation in the sorrows, rather than in the joys of
others. It is not necessary to infer from this circumstance,
as some have done, that our sympathies are only with sorrow,
that we do not experience a corresponding emotion in
view of the happiness of others, a view as unfavorable to
our nature as it is remote from truth.
Distinction of Terms.—Sympathy, as usually employed,
to denote a fellowship with the sufferings of others, is synonymous
with the more specific term commiseration, and
this again is interchangeable with the terms pity and compassion.
So far as use establishes a difference between these
terms, it is perhaps this: we more frequently employ the
word compassion where there is an ability and a disposition
to relieve the suffering; we pity and we commiserate what
it is out of our power to remedy.
Strength of this Feeling.—The emotion of sympathy, especially
in that form more specially under consideration, is
probably one of the strongest and most marked in its effects
upon the mind, of any of the feelings of which we are susceptible.
When fully aroused, it amounts even to a passion,
When the object that awakens it is exposed to imminent
danger and there is need of instant and efficient exertion
to avert the danger, and bring that relief which, if it comes
at all, must come speedily, then there is no prudent[Pg 406]
calculation of consequences, no deliberation, no hesitation, no
fear, but, regardless of every danger, the sympathizer, forgetful
of himself, and thinking only of the object to be accomplished,
plunges into the sea or into the flames, faces the
wild beast, or the more savage human foe, seizes the assassin's
arm, or rushes desperately between the murderous
weapon and its victim. This boldness and energy of action
are, indeed, the result of sympathy, rather than the direct
exercise of the emotion itself, but they show how powerful
is the feeling from which they spring.
Irrespective of moral Qualities.—It is worthy of note,
moreover, that the emotion of which we speak, is, in great
measure, irrespective of the moral qualities of the sufferer.
He may be a criminal on the rack or the gallows, the most
hardened and abandoned of men, and the suffering to which
he is exposed may be the just punishment of his crimes,
still it is impossible for any one whose heart is not itself
hardened against all human suffering, to regard the miserable
victim with other than feelings of compassion. That
must be a hard heart that could witness the agony of even
its worst enemy, in such a case, without pity for the sufferer.
Design of this Principle.—If we inquire, now, for what
end this feeling was implanted in our nature, its final cause
is obvious. It is a benevolent arrangement, the design of
which is twofold:—first, to prevent undue suffering, by
keeping in check the excited passions that would otherwise
prompt to the infliction of immoderate and unjust punishment
when the object of our resentment is in our power;
secondly, to secure that relief to the sufferer which, in circumstances
of peril, might fail to be afforded were it not for
the pressure and impulse of so strong and sudden an emotion.
Adaptation to Circumstances.—A further and incidental
benefit insulting from the possession of a lively sensibility to
the joys and sorrows of others, has been noticed by Cogan,[Pg 407]
in his treatise on the passions, viz., that it disposes the mind
to accommodate itself readily to the tastes, manners, and
dispositions of those with whom we have occasion to associate.
A mind of quick and ready sympathy easily enters
into the feelings and understands the conduct of others under
given circumstances, and is able to adapt itself to the
same, easily, and by a sort of instinct. It places itself at
once in the same position, and governs itself accordingly.
Sympathy not to be traced to Self-love as its Origin.—The
question has arisen, whether sympathy, which, of all the
sensibilities, would seem to lie at the furthest remove from
all admixture of selfishness, is not, after all, to be traced ultimately
to the principle of self-love. Those philosophers
who regard this principle as the main-spring of all human
action, and the parent source of all the various emotions
that agitate the human heart, are at some pains to show that
even the feeling of pity may be traced to the same origin.
It was the theory of Hobbes, that the sentiment of pity at
the calamities of others springs from the imagination, or
fiction as he terms it, of a similar calamity befalling ourselves.
Adam Smith also maintains that it is only from
our own experience that we can form any idea of the sufferings
of others, and that the way in which we form such an
idea is by supposing ourselves in the same circumstances
with the sufferer, and then conceiving how we should be
affected. All this is very true. It is in this way, doubtless,
that we get the idea of what another is suffering. But the
idea of what he suffers is one thing, and our sympathy with
that suffering is another. One is a conception, and the other
is the feeling awakened by that conception. Moreover, it
does not follow, as Mr. Stewart has well shown in his criticism
upon this theory, that the sympathy in this case arises
from our conceiving or believing, for the moment, those sufferings
to be really our own. The feeling which arises on
the contemplation of our own real or fancied distress, is quite
another feeling in its character, from that of pity or[Pg 408]
compassion. The two emotions are readily distinguished. The
mere uneasiness which we feel at the sight of another's suffering,
and the desire which we naturally feel to be rid of
that uneasiness, are not the chief elements in compassion.
If they were, the sure and simple remedy would be to run
away from the distress which occasions the uneasiness, to
put it as quickly as possible out of sight and out of mind.
Such an emotion; prompting to such a course, might well be
termed selfish. But this is not the true nature of sympathy.
It is not a mere unpleasant sensation produced by observing
the sufferings of another, though such a sensation, doubtless,
is produced in a sensitive mind, and accompanies, or may
even be said to form a part of, the emotion which we term
sympathy; there is, over and above this feeling of uneasiness,
a fellowship of sorrow and of suffering, a bearing of that suffering
with him, as his, and not as our own, a pain for him,
and not for ourselves, the result and urgent prompting of
which is the impulse, the strong irrepressible desire to relieve,
not ourselves from uneasiness, but the sufferer from
that which occasions his distress.
What follows from this Theory.—If compassion for
others were the offspring of fear for ourselves, then, as Butler
has well said, the most fearful natures ought to be the
most compassionate, which is far from being the case. It
may be added, also, that if sympathy is, in any respect, a
selfish principle, then they who are most completely and
habitually governed by selfish considerations ought, for the
same reason, to be the most keenly alive to the sufferings of
others, which is little less than a contradiction in terms.
[Pg 409]
CHAPTER II.
RATIONAL EMOTIONS.
§ I.—Emotions of Joy or Sadness arising from the Contemplation
of our own Excellence or the Reverse.
Nature and Objects of this Emotion.—Among those
susceptibilities which, while implanted in our nature, and
springing into exercise by their own spontaneous energy,
imply in their operation the exercise of the reflective powers,
and in general, of the higher intellectual faculties, and which
on that account, we designate as rational, in distinction
from the instinctive emotions, a prominent place is due to
those vivid feelings of pleasure, and pain, with which we contemplate
any real or supposed excellence, or defect, in ourselves.
The direct object of the emotions now under consideration,
is self in some form or aspect. The immediate
cause of these emotions is some real or fancied excellence
which we possess, or, on the other hand, some real or imagined
deficiency. This excellence or deficiency may pertain
to our intellectual or to our moral qualities and attainments,
or even to our circumstances and condition in life, to any
thing, in short, which is ours, and which distinguishes us
from our fellows. The quality contemplated may be a real
possession and attainment, or it may exist only in our imagination
and conceit. And so, also, of the defect; that, too,
may be real, or imaginary. In either case, vivid feelings
are awakened in the mind. It is impossible to contemplate
ourselves either as possessing or as lacking any desirable
quality without emotion, pleasing or painful, and that in a
high degree.
In what Manner awakened.—These emotions are[Pg 410]
awakened in either of two ways: by the simple contemplation of
the supposed excellence, or defect, in themselves considered
as pertaining to us; or, more frequently, by the comparison
of ourselves with others in these respects. It is to the feelings
awakened, in the latter case, by the perceived superiority
or inferiority of ourselves to others, as the result of such
comparison, that the terms pride and humility are ordinarily
applied. These terms are relative, and imply, always, some
process of comparison. There may be, however, the painful
consciousness of defect, or the pleasing consciousness of
some high and noble attainment, when the relation which we
sustain to others, as regards these points, forms no part of
the object of contemplation. The comparison is not of ourselves
with others, but only of our present with our former
selves. We are satisfied and delighted at our own progress
and improvement, or humbled and cast down at our repeated
failure, and manifest deficiency.
Not the same with moral Emotion.—The emotions now
under consideration must not be confounded with the satisfaction
which arises in view of moral worthiness, and the
regret and disapprobation with which we view our past
conduct as morally wrong. The emotions of which we now
speak, are not of the nature of moral emotion, however
closely allied in some respects. It is not the verdict of an
approving or condemning conscience that awakens them.
They have no reference to the right as such. The object is
viewed, not in the light of obligation or duty, but merely as
a good, a thing agreeable and desirable. Thus viewed, its
possession gives us pleasure, its absence, pain.
Not blame-worthy in itself.—In the simple emotion thus
awakened, the satisfaction and pleasure with which we regard
our own intellectual and moral attainments, or even
our external circumstances, there is nothing blamable or
unworthy of the true man. It is simply the working of
nature. The susceptibility to such emotion is part of our constitution,
implanted and inherent. As Dr. Brown has well[Pg 411]
remarked, it is impossible to desire excellence, and not to
rejoice at its attainment; and if it is culpable to feel pleasure
at attainments which have made us nobler than we were
before, it must, of course, have been culpable to desire such
excellence.
In what Cases the Emotion becomes culpable.—It is
only when the emotion exists in an undue degree, or with regard
to unworthy objects, when the supposed excellence
upon which we congratulate ourselves really does not exist,
or, when existing, we are disposed to set ourselves up above
others on account of it, and perhaps to look down upon
others for the lack of it, or even to make them feel by our
manner and bearing what and how great the difference
is between them and us; it is only under such forms and
modifications, that the feeling becomes culpable and odious.
These it not unfrequently assumes. They are the states of
mind commonly denoted by the term pride, as the word is
used in common speech; and the censure usually and very
justly attached to the state of mind designated by that
term, must be understood as applicable to the disposition
and feelings now described, and not to the simple emotion
of pleasure in view of our own real or supposed attainments.
That which we condemn in the proud man is not that he
excels others, or is conscious of thus excelling, or takes
pleasure even in that consciousness, but that, comparing himself
with others, and feeling his superiority, he is disposed
to think more highly of himself than he ought, on account
of it, and more contemptuously of others than he ought,
and especially if he seeks to impress others with the sense
of that superiority.
Different Forms which this Disposition assumes.—This
he may do in several ways. He may be fond of displaying
his superiority, and of courting the applause and distinction
which it brings. Then he is the vain man. He may make
much of that which really is worth little, and plume himself
on what he does not really possess. Then he is the conceited[Pg 412]
man. He may look with contempt upon and treat with
arrogance his inferiors. Then he is the haughty man. Or
he may have too much pride to show in this way his own
pride; too much self-respect to put on airs, and court attention
by display; too much sense to rate himself very far
above his real worth; too much good breeding to treat
others with arrogance and hauteur. In that case he contents
himself with his own high opinion and estimate of
himself, and the enjoyment of his own conscious superiority
to those around him. He is simply the proud man then, not
the vain, the conceited, or the arrogant. The difference,
however, is not so much that he thinks less highly of himself,
and less contemptuously of others in comparison, but
that he does not so fully show what he thinks. The superiority
is felt, but it is not so plainly manifested.
The Disposition, as thus manifested, reprehensible.—Of
this disposition and state of mind in any of its manifestations
as now described, it is not too much to say that it is worthy
of the censure which it commonly receives. It is not merely
unamiable and odious, but morally reprehensible. Especially
is this the case where the superiority consists, not in mental
or moral endowments and attainments, but in adventitious
circumstances, such as beauty or strength of person, station
in society, wealth, or the accident of birth—circumstances
which imply no necessary worth in the possessor, no real
and inherent superiority to those on whom he looks down.
In such a case, pride is purely contemptible.
Incompatible with the highest Excellence.—The highest
excellence is ever incompatible with the disposition to think
highly of our present attainments and excellence, and to
place ourselves above others in comparison. Emotions of
pleasure may indeed arise in our minds, as we view the unmistakable
evidences of our own improvement. But the
noblest nature is that which looks neither at itself, to mark
its own acquirements, nor yet at others below itself, to mark
its own superiority, but whose earnest gaze is fixed only on[Pg 413]
that which is above and superior to itself—the beau ideal
ever floating before it of an excellence not yet attained—in
comparison with which all present attainments seem of
little moment. The truly great and noble mind is ever
humble, and conscious of its own deficiencies.
§ II.—Enjoyment of the Ludicrous.
Properly an Emotion.—Among the sources of rational
enjoyment which the constitution of our nature affords,
must be reckoned the feeling awakened by the perception
of the ludicrous. We class this among the emotions, inasmuch
as it is a matter of feeling, and of pleasurable feeling,
differing in its nature not more from the intellectual faculties,
on the one hand, than from the affections and desires,
on the other. It is a species of joy or gladness, a pleasurable
excitement of feeling, awakened by a particular class
of objects. Whatever else may be true of the feeling in
question, the character of agreeableness is inseparable from
it. It falls, therefore, properly into that class of feelings
which comprises the various modifications of joy and sorrow,
and which we have denominated simple emotions.
Why rational.—We term it rational, rather than instinctive,
inasmuch as it implies, if I mistake not, the exercise
of the higher intellectual faculties. It is the prerogative
of reason. The brute nature has no perception, and of
course no enjoyment, of the ludicrous. The idiot has none.
The uncultivated savage nature has it only in a slight degree.
In this respect the feeling under consideration is quite analogous
to the enjoyment of the beautiful and sublime, and
also to the feeling awakened in view of right or wrong action,
the approbation or disapprobation of our past conduct.
All these, though founded in our nature and constitution,
are rational rather than instinctive, as implying the exercise
of those faculties which more peculiarly distinguish man
from the lower orders of being.
[Pg 414]
In what Way to be defined.—To define precisely the
emotion of the ludicrous would be as difficult as to give an
exact definition of any other feeling. We must content
ourselves, as in all such cases, by determining the circumstances
or conditions which give occasion for the feeling.
Though we cannot define the emotion itself, we can carefully
observe and specify the various objects and occasions
that give rise to it.
The Question stated.—Views of Locke and Dryden.—Under
what circumstances, then, is the feeling of the ludicrous
awakened? What is that certain peculiarity, or quality,
of a certain class of objects, which constitutes what we
call the ludicrous, objectively considered? Various answers
have been given to this question, by writers not unaccustomed
to the careful observation of mental phenomena.
Mr. Locke's definition of wit is to this effect, that it consists
in "putting those ideas together with quickness and variety,
wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, whereby
to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the
fancy." This, it has been justly remarked, is too comprehensive,
since it includes the entire range of eloquence and
poetry. It comprends the sublime and the beautiful as well
as the witty. It applies to the most facetious passages of
Hudibras; it applies equally well to the most eloquent passages
of Burke or Webster, and to many of the finest passages
of Paradise Lost. Still more comprehensive is Dryden's
definition, who says of wit, that it is a propriety of
thoughts and words, or thoughts and words eloquently
adapted to the subject, a definition which, it has been jocosely
remarked, would include at once Blair's Sermons,
Campbell's Pleasures of Hope, Cæsar's Commentaries, the
Philippics of Cicero, and the funeral orations of Bossuet, as
peculiarly witty productions. It should in justice be remarked,
however, that neither Dryden nor Locke, in their
use of the term wit, seem to have had in mind what we now
understand by it, viz., facetiousness, or the mirth-provoking[Pg 415]
power, but rather to have employed the word in that more
general sense, in which it was formerly almost exclusively
used, to denote smartness and vigor of the intellectual
powers, good sense, sound judgment, quickness of the apprehension,
more particularly as these qualities are exhibited in
discourse or in writing.
Definition of Johnson.—Johnson comes nearer the mark
when he defines wit as "a kind of concordia discors, a combination
of dissimilar images, a discovery of occult resemblances
in things apparently unlike." Not much removed
from this, if not indeed derived from it, is the definition of
wit given by Campbell, in his Philosophy of Rhetoric—"that
which excites agreeable surprise in the mind, by the
strange assemblage of related images presented to it." To
this, also, applies the same objection as to the preceding definitions,
that it includes too much, the beautiful and sublime
not less than the ludicrous, eloquence as well as wit.
Of Hobbes.—Hobbes defines laughter, which, so far as
relates to the mind, is merely the expression of the feeling
of the ludicrous, to be "a sudden glory, arising from a sudden
conception of some eminency in ourselves, by comparison
with the infirmity of others, or our own former infirmity."
There can be little doubt, I think, that the object which excites
laughter, always present itself to the mind as in some
sense its inferior; and in so far, the definition involves an
essential element of the ludicrous. The person laughing is
always, for the time being, superior, in his own estimation
at least, to the person or thing laughed at. It is some awkwardness,
some blunder, some defect of body, mind, or
manner, some lack of sharpness and sense, or of courage, or
of dignity, some perceived incongruity between the true
character or position of the individual and his present circumstances,
that excites our laughter and constitutes the
ludicrous.
Objections to this Theory.—It is not true, however, that
the laughter, or the disposition to laugh, arises from the[Pg 416]
simple conception of our own superiority, or the inferiority
of the object contemplated, even in the cases supposed; for
if that were so, then wherever and whenever we discover such
superiority, the feeling of the ludicrous ought to be awakened,
and the greater the superiority, the stronger the tendency to
mirth; which is far from being the case. We are not disposed
to laugh at the misfortunes of others, however superior
our own condition may be to theirs in that very respect. My
estate may be better than my neighbor's, or my health superior
to his, but I am not disposed to laugh at him on that
account. On the theory of Hobbes, no persons ought to be
so full of merriment, even to overflowing, as the proud, self-conceited,
and supercilious, who are most deeply impressed
with the idea of their own vast superiority to people and
things in general. The fact is precisely the reverse. Such
persons seldom laugh, and when they do, the smile that
plays for a moment on the face is of that cold and disdainful
nature which is far removed from genuine and hearty merriment.
It has little in it, as it has been well said, "of the
full glorying and eminency of laughter," but is rather like
the smile of Cassius.
"He loves no plays,
As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mocked himself, and scorned his spirit,
That could be moved to smile at any thing."
We cannot then resolve the ludicrous into the simple perception
of some inferiority of the object or person thus regarded,
to ourselves, since there are many kinds of inferiority
which do not, in the least, awaken the sense of the ludicrous,
while, at the same time, those who are most impressed by
the consciousness of their superiority are not usually most
disposed to mirth.
Incongruity the essential Element.—If we are required
now to specify in what consists the essential character of the[Pg 417]
ludicrous, and of wit which may be regarded as the exciting
or producing cause of the same, we should detect it in the
grouping, or bringing together in a sudden and unexpected
manner, ideas or things that are in their nature incongruous.
The incongruity of the objects thus brought into juxtaposition,
and the surprise felt at the novel and unexpected relation
thus discovered, are, it seems to me, the true essential elements
in the idea of the ludicrous. If we examine closely
the different objects that give rise to this emotion, we shall
find, I think, always something incongruous, and consequently
unusual and unexpected, in the relations presented,
whether of ideas or of things. It may be the result of accident,
or of awkwardness, or of mental obtuseness, or of design;
it matters not in what mode or from what source the
thing proceeds; whenever these conditions are answered,
the sense of the ludicrous is awakened.
Relation of Surprise to the ludicrous.—Surprise is an
essential concomitant of the ludicrous. This is the state of
mind into which we are thrown by the occurrence of any
thing new, strange, out of the usual course, and, therefore,
unexpected. Whatever is incongruous, is likely to be unusual,
and of course unexpected, and hence strikes the mind
with more or less surprise. Not every thing that surprises
us, however, is witty. The sudden fall of a window near
which we are sitting, or the unexpected discharge of a musket
within a few paces of us, may cause us to start with surprise,
but would not strike us probably as particularly facetious.
We are surprised to hear of the death of a friend, or
of some fearful accident, attended with loss of life to many,
but there is no mirthfulness in such surprise. It is only that
form of surprise which is awakened by the perception of the
incongruous, and not the surprise we feel in general at any
thing new and strange, that is related to the ludicrous. It
is rather a concomitant, therefore, than strictly an element
of the emotion we are now considering.
Novelty as related to Wit.—How much novelty and[Pg 418]
suddenness add to the effect of wit, every one knows. A story
however witty, once heard, loses its freshness and zest, and,
often repeated, becomes not merely uninteresting, but irksome,
and at length intolerable. In the same manner, and
for the same reason, a witticism which we know to have
been premeditated produces little effect, as compared with
the same thing said in sudden repartee, and on the spur of
the moment. That a man should have studied out some
curious relations and combinations of things in his closet,
does not surprise us so much, as that he should happen to
conceive of these relations at the very moment when they
would meet the exigency of the occasion. The epithets
which we most commonly apply to any witty production or
facetious remark, indicate the same thing; we call it lively,
fresh, sparkling, full of vivacity and zest—terms borrowed,
perhaps, from the choicer wines, which will not bear exposure
but lose their flavor and life when once brought to the air.
Even the Incongruous not always ludicrous.—We come
to this result, then, in our own attempted analysis, that the
incongruity of the ideas or objects brought into relation with
each other constitutes the essential characteristic, the invariable
element of the ludicrous, the effect being always greatly
heightened by the surprise we feel at the novel and unexpected
combinations thus presented. It must be remarked,
however, that even the incongruous and unexpected fail to
awaken the sense of the ludicrous, when the object or event
contemplated is of such a nature as to give rise to other and
more serious emotions. When the occurrence, however
novel and surprising in itself, or even ludicrous, is of such a
nature as to endanger the life, or seriously injure the well-being
of ourselves or of others, in the one case fear, in the
other compassion, are at once awakened, and all sense of the
ludicrous is completely at an end. The graver passion is at
variance with the lighter, and banishes it from the mind.
Should we see a well dressed and portly man, of some pretension
and bearing, accidentally lose his footing and sprawl[Pg 419]
ingloriously in the gutter, our first impulse undoubtedly
would be to laugh. The incongruity of his present position
and appearance with his general neatness of person and dignity
of manner would appeal strongly to the sense of the
ridiculous. Should we learn, however, that in the fall he
had broken his leg, or otherwise seriously injured himself,
our mirthfulness at once gives place to pity.
Discovery of Truth not allied to the ludicrous.—It is for
a similar reason that the discovery of any new and important
truth in science, however strange and unexpected, never
awakens the feeling of the ludicrous. Its importance carries
it over into a higher sphere of thought and feeling. Kepler's
law of planetary motion must have been at first a strange
and wonderful announcement; the chemical identity of charcoal
and the diamond presents, in a new and strange relation,
objects apparently most unlike and incongruous; yet, in all
probability, neither the astronomer, nor the chemist, who
made and announced these discoveries, were regarded by the
men of the time as having done any thing peculiarly witty.
We look at the importance of the results in such cases, and
whatever of oddity or incongruity there may be in the ideas
or objects thus related, fails to impress the mind in the presence
of graver emotions.
Various Forms of the ludicrous.—The incongruity that
awakens the feeling of the ludicrous may present itself in
many diverse forms. It may relate to objects, or to ideas.
In either case, the grouping or bringing together of the incongruous
elements may be accidental, or it may be intentional.
If accidental, it passes for a blunder; if intentional,
it takes the name of wit.
Accidental and intentional grouping of Objects incongruous.—Of
the accidental grouping of objects that are incongruous,
we have an instance in the case already supposed, of
the well dressed and dignified gentleman unexpectedly prostrate
in the mud. If in place of the dignified gentleman we
have the dandy, or the Broadway exquisite, fresh from the[Pg 420]
toilet, the incongruity is so much the greater, and so much the
greater our mirth. Let the hero of the scene, for instance,
be such a one as Hotspur so contemptuously describes as
coming to parley with him after battle:—
"When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new-reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took't away again;"
—imagine such a character, with all his finery, floundering
in the mud, and the ludicrousness of the scene would be such
as to set at naught all attempts at gravity, even on the part
of those who seldom smile.
When the incongruous objects are purposely brought into
relation for the sake of exciting mirth, the wit may be at the
expense of others, in which case we have either the practical
joke, or simple buffoonery, imitating the peculiarities and incongruities
of others; or the joker may play off his wit at
his own expense, and act the clown or the fool for the amusement
of observers.
Accidental grouping of incongruous Ideas.—When the
incongruity is that not of objects, but of ideas brought into
new and unexpected relation, and when this is the result of
accident or awkwardness, rather than of design, we have
what is termed a blunder or a bull. In such a case there is
always involved some inconsistency between the thing
meant, and the thing said or done. There is an apparent
congruity, but a real incongruity of the related ideas.
An instance of this occurs in the anecdote related by
Sydney Smith, of a physician, who, being present where
the conversation turned upon an English nobleman of rank[Pg 421]
and fortune, but without children, remarked, with great
seriousness, that to be childless was a misfortune, but
he thought he had observed that it was hereditary in some
families. Of this nature is most of the wit which we call
Irish; the result of accident rather than design—a blunder,
a bull. It is said that during the late rebellion in Ireland,
the enraged populace, on a certain occasion, vented their
wrath against a famous banker, by solemnly resolving to
burn all his bank-notes which they could lay hands on; forgetting,
in their rage, that this was only to make themselves
so much the poorer, and him so much the richer. The instance
given by Mr. Mahan is also in point, of two Irishmen
walking together through the woods, the foremost of whom
seizing a branch, as he passed along, and holding it for a
while, suddenly let it fly back, whereby his companion behind
was suddenly reduced to a horizontal position, but on
recovering himself, congratulated his associate on having
held back the branch as long as he did, since it must otherwise
have killed him.
Intentional grouping of incongruous Ideas.—The intentional
grouping of incongruous ideas, for the purpose of
exciting the feeling of the ludicrous, is more properly denominated
wit. This, again, may assume diverse forms.
Where the ideas are entirely dissimilar, but have a name or
sound in common, which similarity of mere sound or name
is seized upon as the basis of comparison, the wit takes the
name of a pun. The more complete the incongruity of the
two ideas, thus brought into strange and unexpected relation,
under cover of a word, the more perfect the pun, and the
more ludicrous the effect. This kind of wit is deservedly
reckoned as inferior. "By unremitting exertions," says a
quaint writer, "it has been at last put under, and driven
into cloisters, from whence it must never again be suffered
to emerge into the light of the world." One invaluable
blessing, adds the same author, produced by the banishment
of punning is, an immediate reduction of the number of wits.
[Pg 422]
The Burlesque.—When the wit is employed in debasing
what is great and imposing, by applying thereto figures and
phrases that are mean and contemptible, it takes the name of
burlesque. The pages of Hudibras afford abundant illustrations
of this form of the ludicrous. The battle of Don Quixote
and the wind-mills is a burlesque on the ancient tournaments.
The Mock-Heroic.—The mock-heroic, by a contrary process,
provokes the sense of the ridiculous by investing what
is inconsiderable and mean with high-sounding epithets and
dignified description. The battle of the mice and frogs is an
instance of this.
The double Meaning.—Beside the varieties of intentional
incongruity of ideas already mentioned, there are certain less
important forms of witticism, which can perhaps hardly be
classed under any of the foregoing divisions. The whole
tribe of double entendres, or double meanings, where one
thing is said and another thing is meant, or at least where
the apparent and honest is not the only or the real meaning;
satire, which is only a modification of the same principle,
drawn out into somewhat more extended and dignified discourse,
and which, under the form of apparent praise, hides
the shafts of ridicule and invective; sarcasm, which conveys
the intended censure and invective in a somewhat more indirect
and oblique manner;—these are all but various modes
of what we have called intentional incongruity of ideas.
This Principle, in what Respects of dangerous Tendency.—Of
the value of this principle of our nature, I have as yet
said nothing. To estimate it at its true worth, is not altogether
an easy thing. On the one hand, there can be little
doubt that, carried to excess, it becomes a dangerous principle.
The tendency to view all things, even perhaps the
most sacred, in a ludicrous light, and to discover fanciful
and remote relations between objects and ideas the most
diverse and incongruous, must exert an unhappy influence
on the general tone and character of both the mind and the
heart. Where wit, or the disposition to the ludicrous,[Pg 423]
becomes the predominant quality of the mind, impressing the
other and nobler faculties into its lawless service, it must be
to the detriment of the mind's highest energies and capacities;
to the detriment especially of that sincerity and honesty
of purpose, and that earnest love of truth, which are the
foundation of all true greatness. I speak in this of the excess
and abuse of wit; I speak of the mere wit.
Of use to the Mind.—On the other hand, the tendency
to the ludicrous has its uses in the economy and constitution
of our nature, and they are by no means to be overlooked.
It gives a lightness and buoyancy, a freshness and life, to the
faculties that would otherwise be jaded in the weary march
and routine of life. It is to the mind what music is to the
soldier on the march. It enlivens and refreshes the spirits.
A hearty laugh doeth good like a medicine. A quick and
keen perception of the ludicrous, when not permitted to
usurp undue control, but made the servitor of the higher
powers and propensities, and keeping its true place, not in
the fore-front, but in the background of the varied and busy
scene, is to be regarded as one of the most fortunate mental
endowments.
Wit often associated with noble Qualities.—There is no
necessary connection, no connection of any sort, perhaps,
between wisdom and dullness, although a great part of
mankind have always persisted in the contrary opinion.
The laughter-loving and laughter-provoking man is by no
means a fool. He who goes through the world, such as it
is, and sees in all its caprices, and inconsistencies, and follies,
and absurdities, nothing to laugh at, much more justly deserves
the suspicion of a lack of sense. "Wit," it has been
justly remarked, "is seldom the only eminent quality which
resides in the mind of any man; it is commonly accompanied
by many other talents of every description, and ought to be
considered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior understanding.
Almost all the great poets, orators, and statesmen
of all times, have been witty."
Wit as an Instrument for correcting Folly.—There is
one important use of the faculty under consideration, to
which I have not as yet alluded. I refer to its power as an
instrument for keeping in check the follies and vices of
those who are governed by no higher principle than a regard
to the good opinion of society, and a fear of incurring the
ridicule of an observing and sharp-sighted world. To such,
and such there are in multitudes, "the world's dread laugh"
is more potent and formidable than any law of God or man.
There are, moreover, many lighter foibles and inconsistencies
of even good men, for which the true and most effective
weapon is ridicule.
Remarks of Sydney Smith.—I cannot better conclude
my remarks upon this part of our mental constitution, than
by citing some very just observations of Sydney Smith—himself
one of the keenest wits of the age.
[Pg 424]
"I have talked of the danger of wit; I do not mean by
that to enter into common-place declamation against faculties,
because they are dangerous; wit is dangerous, eloquence is
dangerous, a talent for observation is dangerous, every thing
is dangerous that has energy and vigor for its characteristics;
nothing is safe but mediocrity.... But when wit is
combined with sense and information; where it is softened
by benevolence, and restrained by strong principle; when it
is in the hands of a man who can use it and despise it, who
can be witty and something much better than witty, who
loves honor, justice, decency, good nature, morality, and
religion, ten thousand times better than wit; wit is then a
beautiful and delightful part of our nature."
§ III.—Enjoyment of the New and Wonderful.
Surprise and Ennui.—Of that form of surprise which
arises in view of the incongruous, and which accompanies
the feeling of the ludicrous, I have already had occasion to
speak, in treating of that emotion. Of the feeling of[Pg 425]
surprise in general, its nature, and occasions, and also of that
feeling to which it stands opposed, and which for want of a
better term we may call ennui, I am now to speak.
Definition and nature of Surprise.—Surprise may be defined
as the feeling awakened by the perception of whatever
is new and wonderful. It is, in itself considered, an agreeable
emotion, rather than otherwise. Variety and novelty
are usually pleasing; our nature demands them, and is gratified
at their occurrence. Monotony, the unbroken thread,
and ever-recurring routine of ordinary life and duty, weary,
and, after a time, disgust us. Upon this listlessness and
lethargy of the mind, a new and unexpected event, as the
arrival of a friend, or the reception of some unlooked-for
intelligence, breaks in with an agreeable surprise. Hence
the eagerness of men, in all ages and all nations, to hear or
see some new thing. It is only when the new event or intelligence
is of the nature of positive evil, when the news is
of some misfortune, real or imagined, when the experience
of present, or the fear of future suffering, is the direct and
natural result of the occurrence, that the surprise becomes a
painful emotion. And even in such cases, I am not quite
sure that there is not in the first excitement of the mind
upon the reception of bad news, as of the death of a friend,
or the calamity of a neighbor, something for the moment,
of the nature of pleasure mingling with the pain. We deeply
regret the occurrence, but are pleased to have heard the
news. The thing grieves us, but not the hearing of it. It
is not the surprise that pains us, but the thing at which we
are surprised. Surprise, like every other form of mental excitement,
is not, in itself, and within due bounds, disagreeable,
but the reverse.
How awakened.—This emotion is awakened, as already
stated, in view of any thing unforeseen and unexpected.
We naturally anticipate, to some extent, the course of the
future. We presume it will be substantially as the past.
We expect the recurrence of what has often and usually[Pg 426]
occurred, and whenever any thing breaks in on this established
order of events, we are surprised at the interruption in the
ordinary train of sequences. Hence the new and the strange
always excite surprise.
Differs from Wonder.—Surprise differs from wonder, in
that the latter involves an intellectual element, the effort of
the mind to satisfy itself of the cause and proper explanation
of the new and strange phenomenon. Surprise is purely a
matter of sensibility, of feeling, and not of intellect. The
mind is wholly passive under this emotion. It may lead to
action, as may any other emotion, but, like every other emotion,
it is, in itself, an influence exerted upon the mind, and
not by it, something passively received, and not actively put
forth.
From Astonishment.—It differs from astonishment in
that the latter expresses a higher degree of mental excitement,
as in view of some occurrence exceedingly remarkable
and strange, or of some object whose magnitude and importance
fills the mind.
Design of this Principle.—The end to be accomplished
by this provision of our nature is sufficiently obvious. Our
attention is thereby called to whatever is out of the ordinary
course, and which, from the circumstance that it is something
unusual, may be supposed to require attention, and we are
put on our guard against the approaching danger, or roused
to meet the present emergency. Surprise is the alarm-bell
that calls all our energies into action, or at least warns them
to be in present readiness for whatever service may be
needed. The same principle operates also as a stimulus to
exertion in the ordinary affairs of life. We seek new things,
we are weary with the old, and this simple law of our nature
is often one of the strongest incitements to effort.
The opposite Feeling.—The opposite of surprise is that
uneasy feeling, of which we are conscious, from the constant
recurrence of the same objects in unvaried sequence; as, for
instance, from the continued repetition of the same sound,[Pg 427]
or series of sounds, the uniform succession of the same or
similar objects in the landscape, and the like. Every one
knows how tedious becomes a perfectly straight and level
road, with the same objects occurring at regular intervals,
and with nothing to break the dead monotony of the scene.
The most rugged passes of the Alps would be a relief in exchange,
both to body and mind. The repetition of the same
song, or the same succession of musical sounds, however
pleasing in themselves, becomes in like manner, after a time,
intolerable. For want of a better term, for I am not sure
that we have in our own language any one word that exactly
expresses the feeling now under consideration, we
may borrow of the French the somewhat expressive term
ennui, by which to designate this form of the sensibility.
Use of Ennui.—There can be little doubt that this feeling
subserves a valuable purpose in the constitution and
economy of our nature. It is the needed motive and stimulus
to action, without which we should settle down often
into a sluggish indifference and contentment with things as
they are, instead of pressing forward to something worthier
and better.
§ IV.—Enjoyment of the Beautiful and Sublime.
The Enjoyment, as distinguished from the intellectual
Perception of the Beautiful.—Of the idea of the beautiful,
and of the action of the mind as cognizant of it, in so far as
regards the intellectual faculties, I have already treated in
another connection. But it is not the intellect alone that
comes under the influence of the beautiful. What the sense
perceives, what the taste and judgment recognize and approve,
the sensibility is quick to feel. Emotion is awakened.
No sooner is a beautiful object perceived in nature or art,
than we are conscious of lively sensations of pleasure. So
strong and so universal are these feelings, that many writers
have been led to speak of beauty itself, as if it were an[Pg 428]
emotion, a merely subjective matter, an affair of feeling merely.
The incorrectness of this view has been already shown, and
we need not enter upon the discussion anew.
The term Admiration.—The feeling awakened by the
perception of the beautiful, like some other feelings of which
we are conscious, has not a name that precisely designates
it; hence the expression—ambiguous, and, therefore, objectionable—emotions
of beauty, employed by certain writers
to denote the feeling in question. The word admiration,
though often used in a somewhat wider sense, perhaps more
nearly expresses the emotion to which I refer, than any
other word in our language. We are surprised at what is
new and strange. We admire what is beautiful and sublime.
The feeling is one of pure and unalloyed pleasure, mingled
with more or less of wonder or surprise, in case the object
contemplated is one which is new to us, or one of rare and
surpassing beauty. As the beautiful has its opposite—the
deformed or ugly—so the feeling which it awakens stands
contrasted with an opposite emotion, viz., disgust.
In connection with this form of sensibility, there are some
questions requiring consideration.
Whether the Emotion is immediate.—It is a question
somewhat debated, whether the emotions awakened by the
beautiful and sublime are immediate, or reflective; whether
they spring up at once on perception of the object, or only
as the result of reflection and reasoning. Those who maintain
that beauty consists in utility, or in order and proportion,
fitness, unity with variety, etc., must, of course, regard
the emotions awakened by it as not immediate, since, according
to their theory, time must be allowed for the understanding
to convince itself, in the first place, that the object
is useful, etc. The qualities constituting the beauty must
be first apprehended by the mind as existing in the object,
before there can be emotion, and to do this is the work of
reflection. If, however, beauty is but the expression of the
invisible under the visible and sensible forms, then all that[Pg 429]
is necessary to produce emotion is simply the perception of
the object thus expressive, since the moment it is perceived,
it is perceived as expressing something, and thus, appealing
to our own spiritual nature, awakens immediate emotion.
How to be decided.—The question must be decided by
the observation of facts, and the result will constitute an additional
argument in favor of one, or the other, of the general
views of the beautiful now named. What then are the
facts in the case, as given by consciousness, and observation?
Testimony of Consciousness.—So far as I can judge, no
sooner do we find ourselves in presence of a beautiful object
than we are conscious of emotions of pleasure. There is no
previous cross-questioning of the object to find out whether
it is adapted to this or that useful end, or whether the rules
of order, and proportion, are observed in its construction.
Before we have time to think of these things, the sensibility
has already responded to the appeal which beauty ever
makes to our sensitive nature, and the first distinct fact
of which we are conscious is an emotion of pleasure.
Effect of Repetition.—Consciousness assures us, more
over, that the pleasure is usually quite as vivid at the first
sight of a beautiful object as ever after, which would indicate
that it is not the result of reflection. In truth, repetition
is found, in most cases, to weaken the emotion, and familiarity
may even destroy it. Yet every repetition adds to our opportunity
for observation and reflection, and strengthens our
conviction of the utility, the order, the fitness, the proportion,
of that which we observe.
Critical Reflection subsequent to Emotion.—It seems
evident, moreover, that whatever reflections of this nature
we may choose to indulge, are uniformly subsequent to the
first emotion of pleasure and delight, to the first impression
made upon us by the beauty of the object—after-thoughts
readily to be distinguished from those first impressions—and
that they are usually the result of a special volition to
inform ourselves as to these matters; whereas the emotion[Pg 430]
is spontaneous and involuntary. Doubtless a pleasure arises
from the perception of the qualities referred to, but it is a
pleasure of another kind from that which arises in view of
the beautiful, as such. We must think, then, that the
emotions awakened by the beautiful are immediate, not
reflective.
Further Question.—Closely allied to the preceding is
the question, Which precedes the other, the emotion which
a beautiful object awakens, or the judgment of the mind
that the object is beautiful. Logically, doubtless, the two
things may be distinguished, but not, perhaps, in order of
time. No sooner is the object perceived, than it is both
perceived and felt to be beautiful. The emotion awakened
and the mental affirmation, "That is beautiful," are both
immediate on the perception of the object, synchronous
events, so far as concerns at least our ability to distinguish
between them in point of time.
Logically, Emotion precedes.—In point of logical relation,
the emotion, I think, must be allowed the precedence,
although so high an authority as Kant decides otherwise.
Had we no emotion in view of the beautiful, we should
not know that it was beautiful. As, universally, sensation is
the indispensable condition of perception, and logically, at
least, its antecedent, so here the feeling of the beautiful is
the condition and source of the perception of the beautiful.
The object strikes us as being so, moves us, affects us, produces
on us the impression, and hence we say, "That is
beautiful." Had we no susceptibility of emotion in view of
the beautiful, it may be seriously questioned whether we
should ever have the perception or impression that any given
object is beautiful.
The Beautiful as distinguished from the Sublime.—There
is still another point deserving attention. In discussing
the æsthetic emotions, we have spoken as yet only of
the feeling awakened by the beautiful. How do these emotions
differ—in degree merely—or in nature?
[Pg 431]
The Opinion that they differ only in Degree.—Some have
maintained that sublimity is only a higher degree of what
we call beauty. A little stream playing among the hills and
tumbling over the rocks is beautiful; a little further on, as
it grows larger, and swifter, and stronger, it becomes sublime.
If this be so, it is a very simple matter: the surveyor's
chain, or a ten foot pole, will, at any time, give us the
difference, and enable us to determine at once whether a
river or a mountain is merely pretty, or sublime.
Different Emotions excited by each.—If they differ in
kind, however, and not merely in quantity, it may not be
so easy to tell just what the difference is. We can best detect
it, perhaps, by observing carefully the difference of the
emotions excited in us by the two classes of objects. I contemplate
an object, which, in common with all the world, I
call beautiful. What emotion does that object awaken in
me? An emotion of pleasure and delight, for which I can
find, perhaps, no better name than admiration. I contemplate
now another object which men call sublime. What
now are my emotions? Admiration there may be, but not,
as before, a calm, placid delight; far otherwise. An admiration
mingled with awe, a sense of greatness and of power
in the object now oppresses me, and I stand as before some
superior being, or element, in whose presence I feel my comparative
feebleness and insignificance.
The Sublime conveys the Idea of superior Power.—Accordingly
we find that the objects which men call sublime
are invariably such as are fitted to awaken such emotions.
They are objects which convey the idea of superior force
and power—something grand in its dimensions or in its
strength—something vast and illimitable, beyond our comprehension
and control. The boundless expanse of the
ocean, the prairie, or the pathless desert, the huge mass of
some lofty mountain, the resistless cataract, the awful crash
of the thunder, as it rolls along the trembling firmament,
the roar of the sea in a storm when it lifteth up its waves on[Pg 432]
high, the movements of an army on the battle-field—these,
and such as these, are the objects we call sublime. The little
may be beautiful, it is never sublime. Nor is the merely
great always so, but only when it conveys the idea of superior
power. Montmorenci is beautiful, Niagara is sublime.
A Swiss valley, nestling among the hills, is beautiful; the
mountains that tower above it through the overhanging
clouds into the pure upper sky, and in the calm, serene
majesty of their strength stand looking down upon the slumbering
world at their feet, and all the insignificance of man
and his little affairs, are sublime.
The Sublime and the Beautiful associated.—Nor is the
sublime always unassociated with the beautiful. Niagara is
not more sublime than beautiful. The deep emerald hue of
the waters as they plunge, the bow on the mist, the foam
sparkling in the abyss below, are each among the most beautiful
objects in nature. The sublime and the beautiful are
often mingled thus, distinct elements, but conjoined in the
same object. The highest æsthetic effect is produced by
this combination. The beauty tempers the sublimity; the
sublimity elevates and ennobles the beauty. It is thus at
Niagara. It is thus when the sunrise flashes along the summits
of the snowy Alps.
The Beautiful tranquilizes, the Sublime agitates.—The
beautiful pleases us; so, in a sense, does the sublime. Both
produce agreeable emotions. Yet they differ. In the enjoyment
of the beautiful there is a calm, quiet pleasure;
the mind is at rest, undisturbed, can at its leisure and sweet
will admire the delicacy and elegance of that which fills it
with delight. But in the perception of the sublime it is
otherwise. The mind is agitated, is in sympathy with the
stir, and strife, and play of the fierce elements, or is oppressed
with the feeling of its own insignificance, as contrasted
with the stern majesty and strength of what it
contemplates. Hence the sublime takes a deeper hold on the
mind than the merely beautiful, awes it, elevates it, rouses[Pg 433]
its slumbering energies, quickens the slow course of thought,
and makes it live, in brief moments, whole hours and days
of ordinary life. The beautiful charms and soothes us; the
sublime subdues us and leads us captive. The one awakens
our sympathy and love, the other rouses in us all that is
noble, serious, and great in our nature.
Relation of the Sublime to Fear.—The relation of the
sublime to fear has been noticed by several writers. Memdelssohn,
Ancillon, Kant, Jouffroy, Blair, have spoken of it,
as well as Burke. The latter was not far from right in his
theory of fear as an element of the sublime. It were better
to say awe than fear, for the boldest and stoutest hearts are
fully susceptible of it; and it were better to speak of it as
an element of our emotion in view of the sublime, than as
an element of the sublime itself.
Cultivation of æsthetic Sensibility.—I cannot, in this
connection, entirety pass without notice a topic requiring
much more careful consideration than my present limits will
permit—the cultivation of the æsthetic sensibility—of a
love for the beautiful.
This Culture neglected.—The love of the beautiful is
merely one of the manifold forms of the sensibility, and, in
common with every other feeling and propensity of our
nature, it may be augmented, quickened, strengthened to a
very great degree by due culture and exercise. It is an endowment
of nature, but, like other native endowments, it
may be neglected and suffered to die out. This, unfortunately,
is too frequently the case with those especially who
are engaged in the active pursuits of life. The time and
the attention are demanded for other and more important
matters, and so the merely beautiful is passed by unheeded.
It admits of question, whether it is not a serious defect in
our systems of education, that so little attention is paid to
the culture of the taste, and of a true love for the beautiful.
The means of such a culture are ever at hand. The great
works and the most perfect models in art are not, indeed,
accessible to all. Not every one can cross the seas to study
the frescoes of Raphael and Michael Angelo. But around
us in nature, along our daily paths, are the works of a greater
Artist, and no intelligent and thoughtful mind need be unobservant
of their beauty. Nor is there danger, as some may
apprehend, that we shall carry this matter to excess. The
tendencies of our age and of our country are wholly the
reverse. The danger is rather that in the activity and energy
of our new life, the higher culture will be overlooked,
and the love of the beautiful die out.[Pg 434]
Value of this Principle.—The love of the beautiful is
the source of some of the purest and most exquisite pleasures
of life. It is the gift of God in the creation and endowment
of the human soul. Nature lays the foundation for it among
her earliest developments. The child is, by nature, a lover
of the beautiful. Nor is it in early life alone that this principle
has its natural and normal developments. On the contrary,
under favorable circumstances, it grows stronger and
more active as the mind matures, and the years pass on.
Happy he who, even in old age, keeps fresh in his heart this
pure and beautiful fountain of his youth; who, as days advance,
and shadows lengthen, and sense grows dull, can still
look, with all the admiration and delight of his childish years,
on whatever is truly beautiful in the works of God or man.
§ V.—Satisfaction in View of Right Conduct, and Remorse in
View of Wrong.
The Feeling, as distinguished from the Perception of
Right.—In the chapter on the Idea and Cognizance of the
Right, the notion of right, in itself considered, and also the
mind's action as cognizant of the right, so far at least as concerns
the intellectual faculties thus employed, were fully discussed.
It is not necessary now to enter again upon the
investigation of these topics. But, as in the cognizance of
the beautiful, so in the cognizance of the right, not only is[Pg 435]
the intellect exercised, but the sensibility also is aroused.
As consequent upon the perceptions of the intellect, emotion
is awakened; and that emotion is both definite and strong.
It is peculiar in its operation. No emotion that stirs the
human bosom is more uniform in its development, more
strongly marked in its character, or exerts a deeper and
more permanent influence on the happiness and destiny of
man, than the satisfaction with which he views the virtuous
conduct of a well-spent hour or a well-spent life, and the regret,
amounting sometimes to remorse, with which, on the contrary,
he looks back upon the misdeeds and follies of the past. Of all
the forms of joy and sorrow that cast their lights and shadows
over the checkered scene and pathway of human existence,
there are none which, aside from their ethical relations, are
of deeper interest to the psychologist, or more worthy his
careful study, than the emotions to which I now refer.
The moral Faculty not resolvable into moral Feeling.—So
deeply have certain writers been impressed with the importance
of this part of our nature, that they have not hesitated
to resolve the moral faculty itself into the emotions
now under consideration, and to make the recognition of
moral distinctions ultimately a mere matter of feeling. This,
whether regarded ethically, or psychologically, is certainly a
great mistake, fatal in either case to the true science whether
of morals or of mind. Right and wrong, as also the beautiful
and its opposite, are not mere conceptions of the human
mind. They have an actual objective existence and reality
and, as such, are cognized by the mind, which perceives a
given act to be right or wrong, and, as such, obligatory or the
opposite, and approves or condemns the deed, and the doer
accordingly. So far the intellect is concerned. But the
process does not stop here. Sensibility is awakened. The
verdict and calm decisions of the judgment are taken up by
the feelings, and made the basis and occasion of a new form
of mental activity. It is with this excitement of the sensibility
in view of conduct as right or wrong, that we are now[Pg 436]
concerned, and while we can by no means resolve all our
moral perceptions and judgments into this class of emotions,
we would still assign it an important place among the various
forms of mental activity.
Not limited to our own Conduct.—The emotion of which
we speak is not limited to the occasions of our own moral
conduct; it arises, also, in view of the moral actions of others.
A good deed, an act of generosity, magnanimity, courage,
by whomsoever performed, meets our approbation, and
awakens in our bosoms feelings of pleasure. If the act is
one of more than ordinary heroism and self-sacrifice, we
are filled with admiration. Instances of the opposite excite
our displeasure and disgust. No small part of the interest
with which we trace the records of history, or the pages of
romance, arises from that constant play of the feelings with
which we watch the course of events, and the development
of character, as corresponding to or at variance with the demands
of our moral nature.
A good Conscience an Object of universal Desire.—But
it is chiefly when we become ourselves the actors, and the
decisions of conscience respect our own good or evil deeds
that we learn the true nature and power of the moral emotions.
A good conscience, it has been said, is the only object
of universal desire, since even bad men wish, though in
vain, for the happiness which it confers. It would perhaps
be more correct to say that an accusing conscience is an
object of universal dread. But in either case, whether for
approval or condemnation, very great is its power over the
human mind.
Sustaining Power of a good Conscience.—We all know
something of it, not only by the observation of others, but
by the consciousness of our own inner life. In the testimony
of a good conscience, in its calm, deliberate approval
of our conduct, lies one of the sweetest and purest of the
pleasures of life; a source of enjoyment whose springs are
beyond the reach of accident or envy; a fountain in the[Pg 437]
desert making glad the wilderness and the solitary place.
It has, moreover, a sustaining power. The consciousness of
rectitude, the approval of the still small voice within, that
whispers in the moment of danger and weakness, "You are
right," imparts to the fainting soul a courage and a strength
that can come from no other source. Under its influence
the soul is elevated above the violence of pain, and the pressure
of outward calamity. The timid become bold, the
weak are made strong. Here lies the secret of much of the
heroism that adorns the annals of martyrdom and of the
church. Women and children, frail and feeble by nature,
ill fitted to withstand the force of public opinion, and
shrinking from the very thought of pain and suffering, have
calmly faced the angry reproaches of the multitude, and resolutely
met death in its most terrific forms, sustained by the
power of an approving conscience, whose decisions were, to
them, of more consequence than the applause or censure of
the world, and whose sustaining power bore them, as on a
prophet's chariot of fire, above the pains of torture and the
rage of infuriated men.
Power of Remorse.—Not less is the power of an accusing
conscience. Its disapprobation and censure, though
clothed with no external authority, are more to be dreaded
than the frowns of kings or the approach of armies. It is
a silent constant presence that cannot be escaped, and will
not be pacified. It embitters the happiness of life, cuts the
sinews of the soul's inherent strength. It is a fire in the
bones, burning when no man suspects but he only who is
doomed to its endurance; a girdle of thorns worn next
the heart, concealed, it may be, from the eye of man, but
giving the wearer no rest, day nor night. Its accusations
are not loud, but to the guilty soul they are terrible, penetrating
her inmost recesses, and making her to tremble as
the forest trembles at the roar of the enraged lion, as the
deep sea trembles in her silent depths, when her Creator
goeth by on the wings of the tempest, and the God of glory[Pg 438]
thundereth. The bold bad man hears that accusing voice,
and his strength departs from him. The heart that is inured
to all evil, and grown hard in sin, and fears not the face of
man, nor the law of God, hears it, and becomes as the heart
of a child.
How terrible is remorse! that worm that never dies, that
fire that never goes out. We cannot follow the human soul
beyond the confines of its present existence. But it is an
opinion entertained by some, and in itself not improbable,
that, in the future, conscience will act with greatly increased
power. When the causes that now conspire to prevent its
full development and perfect action, shall operate no longer;
when the tumult of the march and the battle are over;
when the cares, the pleasures, the temptations, the vain
pursuits, that now distract the mind with their confused uproar,
shall die away in the distance, and cease to be heard,
in the stillness of eternity, in the silence of a purely spiritual
existence, the still small voice of conscience may perhaps be
heard as never before. In the busy day-time we catch, at
intervals, the sound of the distant ocean, as a low and gentle
murmur. In the still night, when all is hushed, we hear it
beating, in heavy and constant surges, on the shore. And
thus it may be with the power of conscience in the future.
[Pg 439]
[Pg 440]
[Pg 441]
SENSIBILITIES.
PART SECOND.
THE AFFECTIONS.
CHAPTER I.
BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS.
Character of the Affections as a Class.—Of the three
generic classes into which the sensibilities were divided, viz.,
Simple Emotions, Affections, and Desires, the first alone has,
thus far, engaged our attention. We now approach the
second. It will be remembered that, in our analysis of the
sensibilities, the Affections were distinguished from the
Simple Emotions, as being of a complex character, involving,
along with the feeling of delight and satisfaction in the
object, or the reverse, the wish, more or less definite and
intense, of good or ill to the object that awakens the emotion.
The feeling thus assumes an active and transitive form,
going forth from itself, and even forgetting itself, in its care
for the object.
How divided.—The affections, it will also be remembered,
were further divided into the benevolent and malevolent, according
as they seek the good or the ill of the object on
which they fasten. As the simple emotions are but so many
forms of joy and sorrow, so, likewise, the affections are but
so many modifications of the principle of love and its opposite,
hate.
Effects upon the Character in their marked Development.—When
these give tone to the general character of an individual,
he becomes the philanthropist or misanthropist, the
man of kind and gentle disposition, or the hater of his race,
according as the one or the other principle predominates.
Roused to more than ordinary activity, breaking away
from the restraints of reason, and the dictates of sober judgment,
assuming the command of the soul, and urging it on
to a given end, regardless of other and higher interests,
these affections assume the name of passions, and the spectacle
is presented of a man driven blindly and madly to the
accomplishment of his wishes, as the ship, dismantled, drives
before the storm; or else, in stern conflict with himself and
the feelings that nature has implanted in his bosom, controlling
with steady hand his own restless and fiery spirit.
Relation to the simple Emotions.—The relation which
the affections, as a class, bear to the simple emotions, deserves
a moment's attention. The one class naturally follows
and grows out of the other. What we enjoy, we come
naturally to regard with feelings of affection, while that
which causes pain, naturally awakens feelings of dislike and
aversion. So love and hate succeed to joy and sorrow in
our hearts, as regards the objects contemplated. The simple
emotions precede and give rise to the affections.[Pg 442]
Enumeration.—The benevolent affections, to which we
confine our attention in the present chapter, assume different
forms, according to their respective objects.
The more prominent are, love of kindred, love of friends,
love of benefactors, love of home and country. Of these we
shall treat in their order.
§ I.—Love of Kindred.
Includes what.—Under this head we may include the
parental, the filial, and the fraternal affection, as modifications
of the same principle, varying according to the varying
relations of the parties concerned.
Does not grow out of the Relations of the Parties.—That
the affection grows out of the relations sustained by the[Pg 443]
parties to each other, I am not prepared to affirm, although
some have taken this view; I should be disposed rather to
regard it as an implanted and original principle of our nature;
still, that it is very much influenced and augmented by
those relations, and that it is manifestly adapted to them, no
one, I think, can deny.
But adapted to that Relation.—How intimate and how
peculiar the relation, for example, that subsists between
parent and child, and how deep and strong the affection
that binds the heart of the parent to the person and well-being
of his offspring. The one corresponds to the other;
the affection to the relation; and the duties which that
relation imposes, and all the kind offices, the care, and attention
which it demands, how cheerfully are they met and
fulfilled, as prompted by the strength and constancy of that
affection. Without that affection, the relation might still
exist, requiring the same kind offices, and the same assiduous
care, and reason might point out the propriety and necessity
of their performance, but how inadequate, as motives to action,
would be the dictates of reason, the sense of propriety,
or even the indispensable necessity of the case, as compared
with that strong and tender parental affection which makes
all those labors pleasant, and all those sacrifices light, which
are endured for the sake of the helpless ones confided to its
care. There was need of just this principle of our nature to
meet the demands and manifold duties arising from the relation
to which we refer; and in no part of the constitution
of the mind is the benevolence of the great Designer more
manifest. What but love could sustain the weary mother
during the long and anxious nights of watching by the
couch of her suffering child? What but love could prompt
to the many sacrifices and privations cheerfully endured for
its welfare? Herself famished with hunger, she divides the
last morsel among those who cry to her for bread. Herself
perishing with cold, she draws the mantle from her own
shoulders to protect the little one at her side from the fury[Pg 444]
of the blast. She freely perils her own life for the safety of
her child. These instances, while they show the strength of
that affection which can prompt to such privation and self-sacrifice,
show, also, the end which it was designed to subserve,
and its adaptation to that end.
This Affection universal.—The parental affection is universal,
not peculiar to any nation, or any age, or any condition
of society. Nor is it strong in one case, and weak in
another, but everywhere and always one of the strongest
and most active principles of our nature. Nor is it peculiar
to our race. It is an emotion shared by man in common
with the lower orders of intelligence. The brute-beast
manifests as strong an affection for her offspring, as man
under the like circumstances exhibits. The white bear of
the arctic glaciers, pursued by the hunter, throws herself
between him and her cub, and dies in its defence.
All these circumstances, the precise adaptation of the sensibility
in question to the peculiar exigencies it seemed designed
to meet, the strength and constancy of that affection,
the universality of its operation, and the fact that is common
to man with the brute, all go to show that the principle now
under consideration must be regarded as an instinctive and
original principle, implanted in our nature by the hand that
formed us.
Strengthened by Circumstances.—But though an original
principle, and, therefore, not derived from habit or circumstance,
there can be no doubt that the affection of which we
speak is greatly modified, and strengthened, by the circumstances
in which the parent and child are placed with respect
to each other, and also by the power of habit. Like most
of our active principles, it finds, in its own use and exercise,
the law of its growth. So true is this, that when the care
and guardianship of the child are transferred to other hands,
there springs up something of the parent's love, in the heart
to which has been confided this new trust. It seems to be
a law of our nature that we love those who are dependent[Pg 445]
on us, who confide in us, and for whom we are required to
exert ourselves. The more dependent and helpless the object
of our solicitude, and the greater the sacrifice we make,
or the toil we endure, in its behalf, the greater our regard
and affection for it. If in the little group that gathers
around the poor man's scanty board, or evening fireside,
there is one more tenderly loved than another, one on whom
his eye more frequently rests, or with more tender solicitude
than on the others, it is that one over whose sick-bed he has
most frequently bent with anxiety, and for whose benefit he
has so often denied himself the comforts of life. By every
sacrifice thus made, by every hour of toil and privation cheerfully
endured, by every watchful, anxious night, and every
day of unremitting care and devotion, is the parental affection
strengthened. And to the operation of the same law of our
nature is doubtless to be attributed the regard which is felt,
under similar circumstances, by those who are not parents,
for the objects of their care. But it may reasonably be
doubted whether, in such case, the affection, although of the
same nature, ever equals, in intensity and fervor, the depth
and strength of a parent's love.
Strongest in the Mother.—The parental affection, though
common to both sexes, finds its most perfect development
in the heart of the mother. Whether this is the natural result
of the principle already referred to, the care and effort
that devolve in greater degree upon the mother, and awaken
a love proportionably stronger, or whether it is an original
provision of nature to meet the necessity of the case, we can
but see in the fact referred to a beautiful adaptation of our
nature to the circumstances that surround us.
Stronger in the Parent than in the Child.—The love of
the parent for the child is stronger than that of the child for
the parent. There was need that it should be so. Yet is
there no affection, of all those that find a place in the human
heart, more beautiful and touching than filial love. Nor,
on the contrary, is there any one aspect of human nature,[Pg 446]
imperfect as it is, so sad and revolting as the spectacle sometimes
presented, of filial ingratitude, a spectacle sure to
awaken the indignation and abhorrence of every generous
heart. When the son, grown to manhood, forgets the aged
mother that bore him, and is ashamed to support her tottering
steps, or leaves to loneliness and want the father whose
whole life has been one of care and toil for him, he receives,
as he deserves, the contempt of even the thoughtless world,
and the scorn of every man whose opinion is worth regarding.
There have not been wanting noble instances of the
strength of the filial affection. If parents have voluntarily
incurred death to save their children, so, also, though perhaps
less frequently, have children met death to save a
parent.
Value of these Affections.—The parental and filial affections
lie at the foundation of the social virtues. They form
the heart to all that is most noble and elevating, and constitute
the foundation of all that is truly great and valuable in
character. Deprived of these influences, men may, indeed,
become useful and honorable members of society—such cases
have occurred—but rather as exceptions to the rule. It is
under the genial influences of home, and parental care and
love, that the better qualities of mind and heart are most favorably
and surely developed, and the character most successfully
formed for the conflicts and temptations of future life.
Not inconsistent with the manly Virtues.—Nor is the
gentleness implied in the domestic affections inconsistent
with those sterner qualities of character, which history admires
in her truly great and heroic lives. Poets have known
this, painters have seized upon it, critics have pointed it out
in the best ideal delineations, both of ancient and of modern
times. It softens the gloomy and otherwise forbidding character
of stern Achilles; it invests with superior beauty, and
almost sacredness, the aged Priam suing for the dead body
of Hector; it constitutes one of the brightest ornaments with
which Virgil knew how to adorn the character of the hero[Pg 447]
of the Æneid, while in the affection of Napoleon for his
son, and in the grief of Cromwell for the death of his daughter,
the domestic affection shines forth in contrast with the
strong and troubled scenes of eventful public life, as a gentle
star glitters on the brow of night.
§ II.—Love of Friends.
Much said in Praise of Friendship.—Among the benevolent
affections that find a place in the human heart, friendship
has ever been regarded as one of the purest and noblest.
Poets and moralists have vied with each other in its
praise. Even those philosophers who have derived all our
active principles from self-love have admitted this to a place
among the least selfish of our emotions. There can be no
doubt that it is a demand of our nature, a part of our original
constitution. The man who, among all his fellows,
finds no one in whom he delights, and whom he calls his
friend, must be wanting in some of the best traits and qualities
of our common humanity, while, on the other hand,
pure and elevated friendship is a mark of a generous and
noble mind.
On what Circumstances it depends.—If we inquire
whence arises this emotion in any given case, on what principles
or circumstances it is founded, we shall find that,
while other causes have much to do with it, it depends
chiefly on the more or less intimate acquaintance of the
parties. There must, indeed, be on our part some perception
of high and noble qualities belonging to him whom we call
our friend, and some appreciation, also, of those qualities.
We must admire his genius, or his courage, or his manly
strength and prowess, or his moral virtues, or, at least, his
position and success. All these things come in to modify
our estimate and opinion of the man, and may be said to
underlie our friendship for him. Still, it is not so much
from these circumstances, as from personal and intimate[Pg 448]
acquaintance, that friendship most directly springs. Admiration
and respect for the high qualities and noble character
of another, are not themselves friendship, however closely
related to it. They may be, and doubtless are, to some extent,
the foundation on which that affection rests, but they
are not its immediately producing cause. They may exist
where no opportunity for personal acquaintance is afforded,
while, on the other hand, a simple and long-continued acquaintance,
with one whom we, perhaps, should not, in our
own candid judgment, pronounce superior to other men,
either in genius, or fortune, or the nobler qualities of the
soul, may, nevertheless, ripen into strong and lasting friendship.
How Acquaintance leads to Friendship.—To what is this
owing? Not so much, I suspect, to the fact that acquaintance
reveals always something to admire, even in those
whom we had not previously regarded with special deference—although
this, I am willing to admit, may be the case—but
rather to that simple law of mental activity which we
call association. The friend whom we have long and intimately
known, the friend of other, and earlier, and, it may
be, happier years, is intimately connected with our own
history. His life and our own have run side by side, on
rather, like vines springing from separate roots, have intertwined
their branches until they present themselves as one
to the eye. It is this close connection of my friend with
whatever pertains to myself, of his history with my history,
and his life with my life, that contributes in great measure
to the regard and interest I feel for him. He has become,
as it were, a part of myself. The thought of him awakens
in my mind pleasing remembrances, and is associated with
agreeable conceptions of the walks, the studies, the sports,
the varied enjoyments and the varied sorrows that we have
shared together.
Regard for inanimate Objects.—The same principle extends
also to inanimate objects, as places and scenes with[Pg 449]
which we have become familiar, the meadows through
which we roamed in childhood, the books we read, the
rooms we inhabited, even the instruments of our daily toil.
These all become associated with ourselves, we form a sort
of friendship for them. The prisoner who has spent long
years of confinement in his solitary cell, forms a species of
attachment for the very walls that have shut him in, and
looks upon them for the last time, when at length the hour
of deliverance arrives, not without a measure of regret.
The sword that has been often used in battle is thenceforth,
to the old soldier, the visible representative of many a hard-fought
field, and many a perilous adventure. Uncouth and
rusty it may be, ill-formed, and unadorned, in its plain and
clumsy iron scabbard, but its owner would not exchange it
for one of solid gold. It is not strange that the principle
of association, which attaches us so closely even to inanimate
objects, should enter largely as an element into the
friendships we form with our own species.
Other Causes auxiliary.—I would by no means deny,
however, that other causes may, and usually do, contribute
to the same result. Mere acquaintance and companionship
do not, of necessity, nor invariably, amount to friendship.
There must be some degree of sympathy, and congeniality
of thought and feeling, some community of interests, pursuits,
desires, hopes, something in common between the two
minds, or no friendship will spring up between them. Acquaintance,
and participation in the same scenes and pursuits,
furnish, to some extent, this common ground. But even
where this previous companionship is wanting, there may
exist such congeniality and sympathy between two minds,
the tastes and feelings, the aims and aspirations of each may
be so fully in unison, that each shall feel itself drawn to the
other, with a regard which needs only time and opportunity
to ripen into strong and lasting friendship.
Dissimilarity not inconsistent with Friendship.—Nor is
it necessary, in order to true friendship, that there should be[Pg 450]
complete similarity or agreement. The greatest diversity
even may exist in many respects, whether as to qualities of
mind, or traits of character. Indeed, such diversity, to some
extent, must be regarded as favorable to friendship, rather
than otherwise. We admire, often, in others, the very
qualities which we perceive to be lacking in ourselves, and
choose for our friends those whose richer endowments in
these respects may compensate in a measure for our own
deficiencies. The strongest friendships are often formed in
this way by persons whose characters present striking points
of contrast. Such diversity, in respect to natural gifts and
traits of character, is not inconsistent with the closest sympathy
of views and feelings in regard to other matters, and
therefore not inconsistent with the warmest friendship.
Limitation of the Number of Friends.—It was, perhaps,
an idle question, discussed in the ancient schools of philosophy,
whether true friendship can subsist between more than
two persons. No reason can be shown why this affection
should be thus exclusive, nor do facts seem to justify such a
limitation. The addition of a new friend to the circle of my
acquaintance does not necessarily detract aught from the
affection I bear to my former friends, nor does it awaken
suspicion or jealousy on their part. In this respect, friendship
is unlike the love which exists between the sexes, and
which is exclusive in its nature.
It must be admitted, at the same time, that there are
limits to this extension, and that he who numbers a large
circle of friends is not likely to form a very strong attachment
for any one of them. Not unfrequently, indeed, a
friendship thus unlimited is the mark, as Mr. Stewart suggests,
of a cold and selfish character, prompted to seek the
acquaintance of others by a regard to his own advantage,
and a desire for society, rather than by any real attachment
to those whose companionship he solicits. True and genuine
friendship is usually more select in its choice, and is wholly
disinterested in its character. A cold and calculating policy[Pg 451]
forms no part of its nature. It springs from no selfish or
even prudential considerations. It burns with a pure and
steady flame in the heart that cherishes it, and burns on
even when the object of its regard is no longer on earth.
Our friendships are not all with the living. We cherish the
memory of those whom we no longer see, and welcome to
the heart those whom we no longer welcome to our home
and fireside.
Effect of adventitious Circumstances.—Reverses in life,
changes in fortune, the accidents of health and sickness, of
wealth and poverty, of station and influence, have little
power to weaken the ties of true friendship once formed.
They test, but do not impair its strength. True friendship
only makes us cling the closer to our friend in his adversity;
and when fortune frowns, and the sunshine of popular favor
passes away, and "there is none so poor to do him reverence,"
whom once all men courted and admired, we still love
him, who, in better days, showed himself worthy of our love
and who, we feel, is none the less worthy of it, now that we
must love him for what he is, and not for what he has. That
is not worthy the name of friendship, which will not endure
this test.
Changes in moral Character.—Much more seriously is
friendship endangered by any change of moral character and
principle, on the part of either of the friends. So long as the
change affects merely the person, the wealth, the social position,
the power, the good name even, we feel that these are
but the external circumstances, the accidents, the surroundings,
and not the man himself, and however these things
may vary, our friend remains the same. But when the
change is in the heart and character of the man himself,
when he whose sympathies and moral sentiments were once
in unison with our own, shows himself to be no longer what
he once was, or what we fondly thought him to be, there is
no longer that community of thought and feeling between
us that is essential to true and lasting friendship. Yet,[Pg 452]
even in such a case, we continue to cherish for the friend
of former years a regard and affection which subsequent
changes do not wholly efface. We think of him as he was,
and not as he is; as he was in those earlier and better days,
when the heart was fresh and unspoiled, and the feet had
not as yet turned aside from the paths of rectitude and
honor.
§ III.—Love of Benefactors.
As related to Friendship.—Closely allied to the affections
we feel for our friends is the emotion we cherish towards
our benefactors. Like the former, it is one of the forms of
that principle into which all kindly affection ultimately resolves
itself, namely, love, differing as the object differs on
which it rests, but one in nature under all these varieties of
form. The love which we feel for a benefactor, differs
from that which we feel for a friend, as the latter again
differs from that which we feel for a parent or a child.
It differs from friendship, in that the motive which prompted
the benefaction, on the part of the giver, may be simple
benevolence, and not personal regard; while, on our part,
the emotion awakened may be simple gratitude to the generous
donor, a gratitude which, though it may lead to friendship,
is not itself the result of personal attachment.
Nature of this Affection.—If we inquire more closely
into the nature of this affection, we find that it involves, as
do all the benevolent affections, a feeling of pleasure or delight,
together with a benevolent regard for the object on
which the affection rests. The pleasure, in this case, results
from the reception of a favor. It is not, however, merely a
pleasure in the favor received, as in itself valuable, or as
meeting our necessities; it is, over and beyond this, a pleasure
in the giver as a noble and generous person, and as standing
in friendly relations to us. Such conceptions are always
agreeable to the mind, and that in a high degree. The
benevolent regard which we cherish for such a person, the[Pg 453]
disposition and wish to do him good in turn, are the natural
result of this agreeable conception of him; and the two
together, the pleasure, and the benevolent regard, constitute
the complex emotion which we call gratitude.
Regards the Giver rather than the Gift.—If this be the
correct analysis of the affection now under consideration, it
is not so much the gift, as the giver, that awakens the emotion;
and this view is confirmed by the fact that when, from
any circumstances, we are led to suspect a selfish motive on
the part of the donor, that the gift was prompted, not so
much by regard to us, as by regard to his own personal ends,
for favors thus conferred we feel very little gratitude. The
gift may be the same in either case, but not the giver.
Modes of manifesting Gratitude.—Philosophers have
noticed the different manner in which persons of different
character, and mental constitution, are affected by the reception
of kindness from others, and the different modes in
which their gratitude expresses itself. Some are much more
sensibly affected than others by the same acts of kindness;
and even when gratitude may exist in equal degree, it is not
always equally manifested. We naturally look, however,
for some exhibition of it, in all cases, where favors have been
conferred; its due exhibition satisfies and pleases us; its absence
gives us pain, and we set it down as indicative of a
cold and selfish nature.
A disordered Sensibility indicated by the Absence of this
Principle.—One of the most painful forms of disordered
sensibility—the insanity, not of the intellect, but of the feelings—is
that which manifests itself in the entire indifference
and apathy with which the kindest attentions are received,
or even worse, the ill-concealed and hardly-suppressed hatred
which is felt even for the generous benefactor. A case
of this sort is mentioned by Dr. Bell, the accomplished superintendent
of the MacLean Asylum for the insane, as
coming under his notice, in which the patient, a lady, by no
means wanting in mental endowments, seemed utterly[Pg 454]
destitute and incapable of natural affection. Having, on one
occasion, received some mark of kindness from a devoted
friend, she exclaimed, "I suppose I ought to love that person,
and I should, if it were possible for me to love any one;
but it is not. I do not know what that feeling is." A more
sad and wretched existence can hardly be conceived than
that which is thus indicated—the deep night and winter of
the soul, a gloom unbroken by one ray of kindly feeling for
any living thing, one gleam of sunshine on the darkened
heart. Happily such cases are of rare occurrence. The
kindness of men awakens a grateful response, in every human
heart, whose right and normal action is not hindered by disorder,
or prevented by crime.
Disorder of the moral Nature.—Is it not an indication
of the imperfect and disordered condition of our moral nature,
that while the little kindnesses of our fellow men awaken
in our breasts lively emotions of gratitude, we receive, unmoved,
the thousand benefits which the great Author of our
being is daily and hourly conferring, with little gratitude to
the giver of every good and perfect gift?
§ IV.—Love of Home and Country.
Its proper Place.—Among the emotions which constitute
our sensitive nature, the love of home and of country,
or the patriotic emotion, holds a prominent rank. It falls
into that class of feelings which we term affections, inasmuch
as it involves not only an emotion of pleasure, but
a desire of good towards the object which awakens the
feeling.
Founded on the Separation of the Race.—The affection
now to be considered implies, as its condition, the separation
of the human race into families, tribes, and nations, and of
its dwelling-places into corresponding divisions of territory
and country, a division founded not more in human nature,
than in the physical conditions and distributions of the[Pg 455]
globe, broken as it is into different countries, by mountain,
river, and sea. No one can fail to perceive, in this arrangement,
a design and provision for the distribution of the race
into distinct states and nations. To this arrangement and
design the nature of man corresponds. To him, in all his
wanderings, there is no place like home, no land like his native
land. It may be barren and rugged, swept by the storms,
and overshadowed by the frozen hills, of narrow boundary,
and poor in resources, where life is but one continued
struggle for existence with an inhospitable climate, unpropitious
seasons, and an unwilling soil; but it is his own land,
it is his father-land, and sooner than he will see its soil invaded,
or its name dishonored, he will shed the last drop of
blood in its defence.
Other Causes auxiliary.—The strong tendency to rivalry
and war, between different tribes, tends, doubtless, to keep
alive the patriotic sentiment, by binding each more closely
to the soil, which it finds obliged to defend at the sacrifice
of treasure, and of life. The great diversity of language,
manners, and customs, which prevails among different nations,
must also tend very strongly to separate nations still
more widely from each other, and bind them more closely
to their own soil, and their own institutions.
Effect of Civilization.—Such are some of the causes
which give rise to the patriotic sentiment. Civilization
tends, in a measure, doubtless, to diminish the activity of
these causes. In proportion as society advances, as national
jealousies and rivalries diminish, as wars become less frequent,
as nations come to understand better each other's manners,
laws, and languages, and to learn that their interests, apparently
diverse, are really identical, this progress of civilization
and culture, removing, as it does, in great measure, the
barriers that have hitherto kept nations asunder, must tend,
it would seem, to weaken the influence of those causes
which contribute to keep alive the patriotic feeling. And
such we believe to be the fact. It is in the early period of[Pg 456]
a nation's existence, the period of its origin and growth, of
its weakness and danger, that the love of country most
strongly developes itself. It is then that sacrifices are most
cheerfully made, and danger and toil most readily met, and
life most freely given, for the state whose foundations can
no other way be laid. As the state, thus founded in treasure
and in blood, and vigilantly guarded in its infancy, gains maturity
and strength, becomes rich, and great, and powerful,
comes into honorable relation with the surrounding states
and nations, the love of country seems not to keep pace
with its growth in the hearts of the people, but rather to
diminish, as there is less frequent and less urgent occasion
for its exercise.
National Pride.—There is, however, a counteracting
tendency to be found in the national pride which is awakened
by the prosperity and power of a country, and especially
by its historic greatness. The citizen of England, or of
France, at the present day, has more to defend, and more
to love, than merely his own home and fireside, the soil that
he cultivates, and the institutions that guarantee his freedom
and his rights. The past is intrusted to him, as well as the
present. The land whose honor and integrity he is determined
to maintain, at all hazard and personal sacrifice, is not
the England, or the France, of to-day merely, but of the centuries.
He remembers the glories of the empire, the armies,
and the illustrious leaders that have carried his country's
flag with honor into all lands, the monarchs that, in succession,
from Clovis and Charlemagne, from Alfred and Harold
the dauntless, have sat in state upon the throne that claims
his present allegiance, the generations that have contributed
to make his country what it now is; and he feels that not
merely the present greatness and power of his country, but
all its former greatness and glory, are intrusted to his present
care and keeping.
Depends upon Association.—If we inquire more closely
into the philosophy of the matter, we shall find, I think,[Pg 457]
that the principle of association is largely concerned as the
immediately producing cause of the emotion now under consideration.
We connect with the idea of any country the
history and fortunes, the virtues and vices of its inhabitants,
of those who, at any time, recent or remote, have passed their
brief day, and acted their brief part, within its borders, and
whose unknown dust mingles with its soil. They have long
since passed away, but the same hills stand, the same rivers
flow along the same channels, the same ocean washes the
ancient shores, the same skies look down upon those fields
and waters, and with these aspects and objects of nature we
associate all that is great and heroic in the history of the
people that once dwelt among those hills, and along those
shores. Every lofty mountain, every majestic river, every
craggy cliff and frowning headland along the coast, stand
as representative objects, sacred to the memory of the past,
and the great deeds that have been there performed.
How much this must add to the force and power of the
patriotic emotion is obvious at a glance.
Same Principle concerned in the Love of Home.—In
like manner, by the same principle of association, we connect
our own personal history with the places where we dwell,
and the country we inhabit. They become, in a measure,
identified with ourselves. To love the home of our childhood,
and our native land, is but to love our former selves,
since it is here that our little history lies, and whatever we
have wrought of good or ill.
An original Principle.—With respect to the character
of this emotion, while it is doubtless awakened and strengthened
by the law of association, still I cannot but regard it
as an original provision and principle of our nature, springing
up instinctively in the bosom, showing itself essentially
the same under all conditions of society, and in all
ages and countries. It waits not for education to call it
forth, nor for reason and reflection to give it birth; while
at the same time, reason and reflection doubtless contribute
largely to its development and strength.
Strongest where it might be least expected.—It has been
frequently observed, by those who have made human nature
their study, that the patriotic feeling is not confined to the
inhabitants of the most favored climes and countries, but, on
the contrary, is often most strongly developed in nations
less populous, and in countries little favored by nature. The
inhabitants of wild, mountainous regions, of sterile shores,
of barren plains, manifest as strong a love of home and
country, as any people on the globe. It is thus with the
Swiss among their mountain fastnesses, and with the poor
Esquimaux of northern Greenland, where, beyond the arctic
circle, cold and darkness reign undisturbed the greater part
of the year. Even in those dreary realms, and in those
bosoms little refined, the voice of nature is heard, and the
love of home and of country is strong. Even beggars have
been known to die of nostalgia, or home-sickness.[Pg 458]
CHAPTER II.
MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS.
As distinguished from the Benevolent.—The affections
have already been distinguished from other forms of the
sensibility, by the circumstance that they involve, along
with the feeling of pleasure or pain, some feeling of kindness
or the opposite, toward the object; in the one case we term
them benevolent, in the other, malevolent affections. Of
the former, I have treated in the preceding chapter; of the
latter, I am now to speak.
Resentment the generic Name.—These affections may be
comprised under the general name resentment, as that which
underlies and constitutes the basis of them all. Envy, jealousy,[Pg 459]
revenge, etc., may be regarded as but so many modifications,
or perversions, of this general principle. As the
benevolent affections are all so many forms of love, going
forth toward diverse objects, and varying as the objects
vary, so the malevolent affections are so many forms of the
opposite principle, i. e., aversion, varying, likewise, with the
objects.
Founded in Nature.—As the benevolent, so likewise the
malevolent or irascible feelings are, as to their principle,
instinctive; they have their foundation in our nature. They
are, as such, universally exhibited under the appropriate
circumstances; they are early in their development, showing
themselves often prior to the exercise of the reflecting and
reasoning powers; they are, also, to some extent, common to
man with the brutes.
Capable, however, of rational Exercise and Control.—While
we pronounce them instinctive, however, we would
by no means imply that they are not capable of being deliberately
and intelligently exercised, or that they are not
in fact, frequently so exercised. What instinct originally
teaches, reason and reflection, when, at a later date, they
come into play, may sanction and confirm. On the other
hand, they may repress and forbid what instinct prompts.
In the former case, the emotion, affection, passion, is none
the less an instinctive principle in its nature and origin, although
it has now passed from the domain of mere instinct
to the higher sphere of reason and intelligence. What was
done in the first instance from sudden impulse, blindly, without
thought, is now done deliberately and intelligently.
This may be the case with all our instinctive principles of action,
as well as with those now particularly under consideration.
Instinct and reason, or intelligence, though distinguished
from, are not necessarily opposed to each other, in the sense
that one and the same mental act may not proceed, now
from one, now from the other, of these principles. The love
which I cherish for my friends, or my kindred, may be[Pg 460]
purely instinctive, it may be strictly rational, a matter of
reflection, the result of deliberate purpose.
Existence of such a Principle denied by some.—The existence
of such a principle as resentment, among the original
and constitutional elements of our nature, has been called in
question by some writers. It has been thought derogatory
to the divine character, that the Creator should implant the
principle of resentment in the human heart. He commands
us to love, and not to hate, and what he expressly forbids,
he cannot have made provision for in the very constitution
of the mind. Such a principle, it is also maintained, is altogether
unnecessary. This is the ground taken by Mr.
Winslow, in his work on moral philosophy.
The Question at Issue.—There is certainly much force in
the view thus presented. The question before us, however,
is not, what we might, à priori, have supposed the nature of
man to be, nor, what it ought to be, but simply, what is that
nature as a matter of fact? Whether such a principle as
resentment is necessary in a well-constituted mind, is not
now the question; nor yet whether the Creator could consistently
implant such a principle within us; nor, again,
what may be the moral character of such a principle; but
simply, Is there such a principle among the native elements
of human character? If it be found there, we may conclude,
either, that the Creator has placed it there for some wise purpose,
or else, that the nature with which man comes into the
world is no longer an adequate expression of the will of the
Creator concerning him, but has, in some way, lost its original
purity and integrity.
Existence of such a Principle.—Now that there are certain
irascible feelings which find a place, under certain circumstances,
in the human bosom, whenever the fitting occasion
calls them forth, can hardly be denied; nor yet that
they have their foundation in the nature of man. We have
the same evidence of this, that we have of the existence of
any other original and native principle. It manifests itself[Pg 461]
universally, uniformly, under all the varieties of social condition,
among all nations, in all ages of the world. It developes
itself at an early period of life, before education or
example can have come in to account for its existence.
Reason may subsequently control and restrain it, or it may
fail to do so; but the principle exists before it can be either
indulged or restrained. When the occasion which calls it
forth is some injury or evil inflicted upon ourselves, the feeling
takes the name of resentment; when others are the objects
of that injustice, the feeling awakened is more properly
termed indignation. We resent our own wrongs, we are
indignant at those of others. The principle is, in either case,
the same, and is as truly a part of our nature, as gratitude
for favors received, or sympathy with the sorrows of the
afflicted.
Term Malevolent, how employed.—The term malevolent,
as used to designate this class of affections, is, it must be confessed,
liable to serious objection. It has come into use as a
convenient term, in place of, and for the want of, something
better, to mark the distinction between the feelings now
under consideration, and those of the opposite character,
already considered; and as we call those benevolent, so we
call these malevolent, merely by way of contrast, and not as
implying any thing criminal in the character of the emotions
themselves. The term, however, is unfortunate, as seeming
to involve a meaning not intended. The moral character of
the affections thus designated, is an open question, to be decided
upon its own merits, and not to be considered as settled,
one way or the other, by the use of the term now under
consideration. This question we shall presently discuss.
For the present, we have to consider, more particularly, the
several forms in which the malevolent or irascible feeling
presents itself.
Nature of Resentment.—Resentment is the feeling awakened
in view of injury received. It is precisely the opposite
of gratitude, which is the feeling awakened by benefits[Pg 462]
conferred. As, in the latter case, there springs up at once in
the heart an affectionate regard for the generous donor, so,
in the former there is awakened, at once a feeling of resentment
against those who have done us the wrong. It is an
instinctive emotion. No sooner are we conscious of the injury
than we are conscious also of the feeling of resentment.
Design of this Principle.—The design of this principle
of our nature is evident. It arms us against those sudden
dangers and assaults, which no foresight can anticipate, nor
prudence prevent, and which, when they occur, require instant
action, and prompt redress. In such cases, reason and
reflection would come to our aid too late; were we left to
their counsels, however wise those counsels might be, we
should already have suffered the injury from which they
would seek to protect us. Something is needed that shall
prompt to speedier action; some watchman vigilant and
armed, ready on the first approach of danger to strike his
alarm-bell, and summon the garrison to action. This we
have in the principle of resentment. Were it not for this
principle, moreover, a cautious and timid policy might often
prevail over the sense of justice, and honor, and right, or a
selfish policy might keep us back from interfering, at our
own peril, for the protection of the injured, and the punishment
of the aggressor. Instinct sets us right in such matters,
before reason has time to act.
Necessary to the Punishment of Crime.—The malevolent
feeling, at least in the form now under consideration,
seems to be, in some degree, necessary for the punishment
of crime, and the protection of society. It may be doubted
whether, without it, we should act with sufficient energy,
and promptness, for the redress of wrong, when that wrong
is not inflicted upon ourselves. Nature has guarded against
this danger, by planting in the human bosom an innate sense
of justice, a hatred of wrong and injury wantonly inflicted,
and a quick resentment against the perpetrator, which leads
us to seek his detection and punishment, silences the pleadings[Pg 463]
of compassion in his behalf, and arms us to inflict the
merited blow. That is but a weak and short-sighted benevolence,
that is incapable of hatred of crime, and criminals;
and that, under the flimsy pretence of compassion for the
unfortunate, and humanity, would shield from justice, and
due punishment, those who strike at the highest interests of
society, and put in jeopardy all that is most dear and sacred
to man. There are cases, in which compassion becomes
malice aforethought, and stern resentment is the only true
benevolence. It is one of the sublimest and most glorious
attributes of deity, as portrayed in the Scriptures, that with
the highest benevolence he combines the stern, inflexible
hatred of wrong, so that, while it can with truth be said,
"God is love," it can with equal truth be affirmed, "our
God is a consuming fire."
Liable to abuse.—While, however, the principle now
considered has its uses, and must be regarded as a most important
provision of nature for the necessities of our race, it
must also be conceded that it is a principle liable to abuse,
and requiring to be kept in careful check. Especially in its
sudden and instinctive action, upon the reception of personal
harm or danger, are we liable to be carried to extremes, and
indulge a resentment out of proportion to the merits of the
case.
A Check on excessive Resentment.—Against this excessive
resentment of injuries, real or imaginary, nature has
provided a check needful and salutary, in the indignation
with which any such manifestation is sure to be regarded
by others, and the loss of that sympathy, otherwise on our
side, but now turned in favor of the object of our too great
resentment. The wise and prudent man will carefully avoid
such a result, and this prudence will act as a powerful curb
on his anger. To the man of virtuous and honorable sentiments
there is also another restraint, hardly less powerful,
upon the exercise of the malevolent feeling in any undue
degree, and that is, the feeling of self-degradation and[Pg 464]
humiliation which such a man must feel, in consequence of
his excessive resentment, when the heat of passion cools,
and the moments of calmer reflection ensue. Even as exercised
within due bounds, the malevolent affection is, from
its very nature, a painful one. Not only the first emotion
on the reception of injury or insult is one of a disagreeable
nature, but the wish or desire, which instantly follows and
accompanies it, of inflicting in return some ill upon the aggressor,
is also a feeling which disturbs and disquiets the
mind, and inflicts a species of suffering upon the mind that
cherishes it, that may not improperly be termed its own
punishment. And this again may be regarded, and doubtless
is, to some extent, a check upon the indulgence of the
malevolent affection.
Violent Exhibitions of this Feeling, where found.—It is
accordingly in natures uncultivated and rude, little accustomed
to self control, and the restraints of reason and religion,
that we naturally look for the violent and excessive outbursts
of passion. A regard for our own happiness, a due
sense of our own dignity and moral worth, and a decent
respect for the opinions of those about us, whose approbation
and sympathy we desire, contribute, if not to diminish
the strength, at least to repress the manifestation, in any
considerable degree, of the feeling of resentment, in those
who have arrived at years of discretion, and have profited
by the lessons of experience. The child is angry with the
stone against which he strikes his foot, and vents his resentment
for any injury upon the unconscious instrument, which
was the means of its infliction. The savage tears from his
flesh the arrow that has wounded him, and breaks it into
fragments. This is undoubtedly the instinct of nature, untaught
by reason and reflection. It is probably the first impulse
of every man, on the reception of any injury, and before
he has time to reflect on the folly of such a course, to express
in some manner his resentment against the immediate
instrument of his suffering.
[Pg 465]
Deliberate Form of Resentment.—When the first impulse
has passed, and time gives opportunity for reflection,
this instinctive resentment dies away, or gives place to a
deliberate and rational form of the same emotion. Thus
affected, the mind casts about it to ascertain the real extent
of its injury, and the best means of redress; it distinguishes
between the conscious agent, and the unconscious instrument
of its wrong, between the intentional injury and the unintentional,
and, it may be, accidental harm; it takes into view
the circumstances of the case, and the probable motives of
the doer, and graduates its resentment accordingly.
Illustration of deliberate Resentment.—The law of retaliation
which prevails among savage tribes, and which demands
blood for blood, life for life, and exacts the fearful
penalty with a justice inexorable and sure, though often
long delayed, and which never loses sight of its victim,
though years, and broad lands, and wide waters intervene,
affords an illustration of deliberate in distinction from instinctive
resentment. The law of honor, so called, as it exists
among civilized nations, also illustrates the same principle.
Pointed out by Butler and others.—The distinction
which we have indicated between the instinctive and deliberate
form of this emotion, was clearly pointed out by
Butler, though by no means original with him, as some
writers have supposed; it is quite too obvious and important
a distinction to have escaped the notice of earlier, and
even of ancient philosophers, nor is it at all peculiar to this
one affection, but common to all the sensibilities as I have
already said.
Modifications of the general Principle.—There are certain
modifications of the malevolent affection, which require
a passing notice in this connection. I refer to those emotions
commonly known as envy, jealousy, and revenge.
These are all but different forms of the same general principle,
varying as the different circumstances and objects vary
which call them forth.
[Pg 466]
Nature of Envy.—Envy is that form of resentment which
too often, and too easily, finds a place in the human bosom,
when another is more fortunate, more successful, more honored
and esteemed, than ourselves. Especially is this the
case, when the fortunate one is from our own circle of companionship,
and our own rank in life, and when the honors
and distinctions, or the wealth and power, that fall to his lot
are such as we might ourselves have aspired to reach. We
never, I suspect, envy those whose condition is, and originally
was, very far removed from our own. The peasant
envies not the lord of the realm, nor the beggar the king,
but rather his fellow-peasant, or fellow-beggar, whose hut is
warmer, and whose ragged garment not so ragged, as his
own. It is the passion of a weak and narrow mind, a mean
and degrading emotion, the opposite of every thing noble
and generous.
Nature of Jealousy.—Jealousy is that form of the malevolent
affection which has relation more particularly,
though not exclusively, to the attachment which exists
between the sexes, and which is awakened by the supposed
rivalry of another. It is one of the most painful of the malevolent
affections, and, when thoroughly roused, one of the
strongest and most powerful principles of our nature. It is
the peculiarity of this passion, that the object of its suspicion,
and resentment, is, at the same time, the object of the heart's
deepest love, and, it may be, adoration; the strength and bitterness
of the passion being in proportion to the fervor and
earnestness of that affection. In the character of Othello, we
have a fine delineation of the working and development of
this trait of human character, as in Cassius we have a portraiture
of the corresponding affection of envy.
Nature of Revenge.—Revenge is resentment in its most
deliberate form, planned and carried into execution, not for
the prevention of crime or injury, nor yet with reference
to the ends of justice, but for the simple gratification of
personal hatred. As such, and springing from such a motive,[Pg 467]
it is usually excessive in degree, and malicious in character.
It is a dark and deadly passion, not more dangerous to society
than degrading to the bosom that harbors it. It has
not one redeeming quality to recommend it. It is neither
the mark of a noble and generous, nor yet of a manly and
brave spirit. It is the offspring of fear, rather than of courage.
It usually seeks to accomplish, by secret and unlawful
means, what it is ashamed or afraid to do openly, and by
fair and honorable measures. It is a passion closely allied to
those which may be supposed to reign in the bosom of a
fiend.
Qualifying Remark.—I have spoken of envy, jealousy,
and revenge, as modifications or different forms of the general
principle of resentment, or the irascible propensity. There
is, however, one important respect in which they all differ
from the parent principle from which they spring. The latter,
resentment, while founded in our nature, may, in exercise,
be either instinctive or deliberate, as already shown;
the former imply, I suspect, always some degree of deliberation,
some element of choice. They are natural, in so far as
there is a tendency in our nature to the exercise of these
feelings under given circumstances, and, inasmuch as the
principle from which they spring is founded in our nature, as
one of its original elements; but they are not, like that principle,
sometimes instinctive in their operation, but always, on
the contrary, involve, as it seems to me, some process of
thought, reflection, deliberation, choice.
Moral Character of the malevolent Affections.—It has
been a question, much discussed, whether the class of feelings
under consideration, in the present chapter, has any
moral character, and if so, what? The question pertains,
perhaps, more properly, to moral than to mental science,
but we cannot pass it entirely without notice in this connection.
So far as regards those forms of the malevolent emotion
last considered, envy, jealousy, and revenge, there can
be little doubt. Their exercise involves, as already stated,[Pg 468]
something of reflection and choice. They are not instinctive,
but voluntary in their operation, capable, therefore, of control,
and if not subjected to the stern dominion of reason, if
not checked and subdued by the higher principles that
should ever govern our conduct, we are reprehensible.
Their indulgence in any form, and to any degree, must be
regarded as blameworthy. They are perversions of that
principle of resentment, which, for wise reasons, nature has
implanted in our bosoms. Their tendency is evil, and only
evil. They are malevolent in the full and proper sense of
that term.
Of simple Resentment.—As to the primary principle of
resentment in its simple and proper form, in so far as its
operation is deliberate and voluntary, rather than purely instinctive,
implying the exercise of reflection and reason, it
must possess, in common with all other mental acts of that
nature, some moral character. Within due limits, and on
just occasions, it is a virtue; when it passes those limits,
when it becomes excessive, or is uncalled for, by the circumstances
of the case, it becomes a vice.
Of Resentment as instinctive.—The question before us
properly relates to that form of resentment which is purely
instinctive, unaccompanied by the exercise of reason and the
reflective powers. Has such an emotion, strictly speaking,
any moral character? How far are we responsible for its
exercise? It seems to be a principle of manifest justice, and
accordant with the common sense of mankind, that a man
should be held responsible only for his rational and voluntary
acts, for such things as it lies in his power to do, or not
to do, according as he chooses. But that which is purely
instinctive, is certainly not of this character. It may be in
my power to repress the feeling of resentment that arises in
my bosom on the reception of manifest injustice and wrong;
I may refuse to harbor such a feeling; I may struggle to
rise above it; but the feeling itself is instinctive, and I can
no more prevent its first awakening and impulse, than I can[Pg 469]
prevent the involuntary contraction of the muscles upon
the incision of the surgeon's knife.
Views of others—Upham, Reid, Chalmers.—Such is
the view now generally entertained, we believe, by psychologists.
"Instinctive resentment," says Mr. Upham, "has
no moral character." "A moral character attaches only to
the voluntary form of resentment." The same may be said
of other affections, and of the sensibilities generally. In so
far as they are purely instinctive, they have no moral character.
Dr. Reid, in his Active Powers of the Human Mind, holds
this language, "Nothing in which the will is not concerned
can justly be accounted either virtuous or immoral." The
practice of all criminal courts, and all enlightened nations,
he adds, is founded upon this principle; insomuch, "that if
any judicature in any nation should find a man guilty, and
the object of punishment, for what they allow to be altogether
involuntary, all the world would condemn them as
men who knew nothing of the first and most fundamental
rules of justice."
Dr. Chalmers claims for the principle now under consideration
a place among the primary and universal moral judgments
of mankind. "It is in attending to these popular, or
rather universal decisions, that we learn the real principles
of moral science. And the first, certainly, of these popular,
or rather universal decisions is, that nothing is moral or
immoral that is not voluntary.
"That an action, then, be the rightful object either of
moral censure or approval, it must have had the consent of
the will to go along with it. It must be the fruit of a volition,
else it is utterly beyond the scope, either of praise for
its virtuousness, or of blame for its criminality. If an action
be involuntary, it is as unfit a subject for any moral reckoning,
as are the pulsations of the wrist."
(Sketches of Moral and Mental Philosophy, Chapter V.
On the Morality of the Emotions.)
[Pg 470]
[Pg 471]
[Pg 472]
[Pg 473]
SENSIBILITIES
PART THIRD.
DESIRES.
CHAPTER I.
NATURE AND CLASSIFICATION OF DESIRES.
General Character of Desire.—What we enjoy we love,
and what we enjoy and love, becomes, when no longer present,
or when, although yet present, its future absence is regarded
as probable, an object of desire. In the latter case
it is perhaps more properly the continuance of the loved object,
rather than the object itself, that is desired. Strictly
speaking, we desire only that which is not in possession, and
which is regarded as good and agreeable. More frequently
the objects of desire are those things which, in some measure,
we have actually enjoyed, and learned by experience
how to prize. In many cases, however, we learn in other
ways than by our own experience the value of an object;
we gather it from observation, from the testimony of others,
partly, perhaps, from imagination; and in such cases what
is known or supposed to be agreeable and a good thing,
though never, perhaps, actually enjoyed by ourselves, may
be an object of desire. Thus I may desire wealth, or power,
long before they come into my possession to be enjoyed.
The felicities which await the righteous in the future may
be distinct and definite objects of desire, while yet we are
pilgrims on the earth, and have not seen "the land that is
very far off." Even in the cases supposed, however, we
have enjoyed, to some extent, if not the very same, yet
similar objects; we have experienced something, though it[Pg 474]
may be on a small scale, of the advantages which wealth
and power confer, while in our enjoyment of earthly happiness
there is doubtless something on which the imagination
can build its more glorious anticipations of the future, and
it is this enjoyment and realization of a present or a past
good, that constitutes the foundation of our desires. If we
had never enjoyed aught, it may be doubted whether we
should ever desire aught.
Law of the Sensibility.—The great law of the sensibility,
then, may be thus stated, as regards the order and relation
of the several classes of emotion to each other: I enjoy, I
love, I desire; and the reverse, I suffer, I dislike, I cherish
aversion. That such is the order or law of mental operation
has been ably shown by Damiron in his Cours de Philosophie,
and also, before him, by Jouffroy.
Conditions of Desire.—Desire is a feeling simple and indefinable.
We can merely specify the conditions which it
observes, and the occasions on which it is awakened. These
conditions or occasions are the two already mentioned; the
previous enjoyment, in some degree, of an agreeable object,
and the present or contemplated absence of that object.
Where these conditions are fulfilled, desire springs up at
once in the mind, a desire proportioned to the degree of
that previous enjoyment, and the strength of the affection
thereby awakened in our minds for the object of our
regard.
Opposite of Desire, Aversion.—The opposite of desire is
aversion, the feeling that arises in view of an object not as
agreeable but as disagreeable, not as a good but as an ill.
This, too, like desire, is based upon some measure of experience;
we have suffered somewhat of real or imagined ill,
which, while it continues, is an object of dislike or hatred,
and regarded as something which, though now absent, may
possibly be realized in the future, becomes an object of
aversion. Aversion, as well as its opposite, desire, finds its
object in the future, while its basis lies in the past.
[Pg 475]
It will not be necessary to treat particularly of our aversions
as a distinct class of emotions, since they are, for
the most part, simply the counterparts of our desires, the
desire of life, or happiness, having its equivalent in the aversion
which we feel to suffering, and to death; so of other
desires.
Desire always preceded by Emotion.—With regard to
the nature of desires, it may further be remarked that while
they imply always an object, an agreeable object, and that
an absent one; while they imply, also, some previous enjoyment
of that now absent object, or, at least, some knowledge
of its existence and adaptation to our wants, as the foundation
on which they rest, they do not take their rise immediately
from the simple perception or intellectual contemplation
of that absent object, as presented again merely to
thought or imagination, but always some emotion or affection
is first awakened by such thought or perception, and
the desire succeeds to, and springs out of, that emotion. The
mere perception of the object which formerly pleased me,
does not, of itself, awaken in me immediately a desire for
the object, but first an emotion or affection, and from that
arises the desire.
Permanence of the Desires.—The greater permanence
which our desires seem to possess, as compared with other
simple emotions and affections, and which has been sometimes
regarded as a distinguishing characteristic of this class
of feelings, is owing, probably, not so much to the nature of
desire, in itself considered, as to the fact that the object desired
is always an absent object, and so long as it so remains,
the desire for it is likely to continue. Were our desires
always gratified as soon as they are definitely known, they
would be no more permanent than any other state of mind.
Desire a motive Power.—The desires, it is to be noticed,
moreover, are, in their nature, motive powers, springs of
action to the mind. They are, if not the only, at least the
chief source of mental activity. They prompt and excite[Pg 476]
the mind to action. The faculties, both physical and mental,
are, in a manner, subject to their control. The intellect itself
leads not to action; nor do the emotions; they agitate
the mind, but it is only as they awaken desire, and that
desire fixes upon a definite object, possible, but not in possession,
that mind and body are both aroused to go forth for
the attainment of the absent object of desire.
Classification of Desires.—Our desires may be classed
according to their objects. These are of two sorts or classes:
those which pertain to the physical nature and constitution,
and those which relate to the wants of the mind rather than
of the body. The desires, accordingly, may be classed as
twofold—the animal, and the rational; the former having
their source in the physical constitution of man, the latter in
the nature and wants of the mind, rather than of the body.
Of the former class are the desire of food, of sex, of exertion,
of repose, of whatever, in a word, is adapted to the animal
nature and wants. Of the latter class, the more prominent
are the desire of happiness, of knowledge, of power, of society,
of the esteem of others.
In connection with our desires are to be considered also
those emotions which are known under the name of hope
and fear, and which, as was stated in our previous analysis
of the sensibilities, are to be regarded rather as modifications
of desire, than as distinct principles or modes of mental
activity.
[Pg 477]
CHAPTER II.
DESIRES ARISING FROM THE PHYSICAL CONSTITUTION.
Nature of Appetite as compared with other Forms of
Desire.—These are usually called appetites, in distinction
from those desires which are founded in the nature of the
mind. They are, however, properly, a class of desires
though not always so ranked by philosophical writers. They
are feelings which arise always in view of some good, real,
or supposed, which has its adaptation to the wants of our
nature, but which is not in present possession. This absence
creates a longing for the object, which longing, so far as it
relates to the mind at all, and not merely to the muscular
sensation—as of hunger, etc.—is purely a desire. It differs
from the other desires, in the respect mentioned, that it takes
its rise from the constitution and wants of the body, rather
than of the mind. It is not, however, on this account, the
less a mental state, a psychological phenomenon.
Ambiguity of the Term.—The term appetite is ambiguous;
sometimes denoting the uneasy physical sensations, as
hunger, thirst, etc., which are conditions of the muscular
and nervous systems, and not states of the mind; sometimes
the mental condition which results from this, and which is
properly called desire. It is only with the latter that psychology
has to do; the former fall within the province of
physiology.
Enumeration of the more important, and the End accomplished
by each.—The desires, of the class to which we
now refer, are various, comprehending all those which immediately
relate to, and arise from, the various bodily wants.
The more important are the desire of food, and of sex, to
which may be added the desire of action, and of repose.[Pg 478]
The constitution of our physical system is such as to lay the
foundation of these desires. They pertain to our animal
nature, and, as such, have a most important part to perform
in the economy of life. They all relate, directly or indirectly,
to the continuance of life, whether that of the individual,
or of the species. Each of the appetites, or animal
desires, as we prefer to call them, has its own specific object
to accomplish, with reference to this general end. The desire
of food looks to the preservation of individual life and
vigor, by repairing the waste which the physical system is
continually undergoing. The desire of muscular exertion
and repose has the same general design. The desire of sex
has for its object the preservation of the species.
Importance of these Principles.—Not only has each of
these desires a specific end to accomplish, but it is an end
which, so far as we can see, would not otherwise be accomplished.
Reason might suggest the expediency of taking
food to sustain the system, or of resting at intervals from
exertion, in order to recruit our exhausted energies; but
were it not for the desires that nature has implanted in us
demanding positive gratification, and reminding us when we
transgress those laws which govern our physical being, how
often, in the pressure of business, should we neglect the due
care of the body, and deprive ourselves of needed food, or
needed rest, or needed muscular exertion. Were it not for
the demands of appetite, how imperfectly should we judge
either as to the proper proportion, or the proper quantity,
and quality, of that refreshment which the body needs, and
which food, and rest, and muscular exercise supply. And
the same may be said of the other animal desires. They
are necessary to the economy of life, by supplying a motive
which would not otherwise exist, and thus securing a result
not otherwise obtained. The principles to which we refer,
are not, therefore, to be regarded as of little importance
because relating to the wants of the body, and common to
man with the animal races, generally; or the contrary,[Pg 479]
they are of the highest importance and value; a due regard
to them is essential to the highest well-being, and the neglect
or abuse of them brings its own sure and speedy punishment.
To be ashamed of our animal nature, is to be ashamed of
ourselves, and of the constitution that God gave us; to
think lightly of it, is to despise the divine wisdom and benevolence.
It is no part of an intelligent and rational nature
to contemn the casket that contains all its treasure. Even
were that casket worthless in itself, it would be valuable for
the office it performs; much more when it is itself a piece
of rare workmanship, curiously and wonderfully wrought.
Not selfish.—The appetites are not to be regarded as
essentially selfish, in their nature. They relate, indeed, to
our own personal wants; so do all our desires, and, in some
measure, all our sensibilities. But when exercised within
due bounds, they are not inconsistent with the rights and
happiness of others, but the rather promotive of these results;
and, therefore, not in the proper sense of the term
are they selfish propensities. Their ultimate aim is not the
securing of a certain amount of enjoyment to the individual
by their gratification, but the securing of a certain end, not
otherwise reached, by means of that enjoyment. They are
to be set down as original and implanted principles of our
nature, rather than as selfish and acquired propensities.
Dangerous Tendency.—I would, by no means, however
overlook the fact that the animal desires are of dangerous
tendency when permitted to gain any considerable control
over the mind, and that they require to be kept within careful
bounds. They are liable to abuse. When suffered to
become predominant over other and higher principles of
action, when, from subjection and restraint, they rise to the
mastery, and govern the man, then sinks the man to the
level of the brute, and there is presented that saddest spectacle
of all that the sun beholds in his course about the earth,
a mind endowed with capacity of reason and intelligence,
but enslaved to its own base passions. There is no slavery[Pg 480]
so degrading as that, none so hopeless. The most earnest
efforts, the best and most sincere purposes and resolutions
are too often made in vain, and the mind, struggling, to little
purpose, with its own propensities, and its own vitiated nature,
is swept on by the fearful current of its ungoverned,
and now ungovernable, appetites, as the ship over which
neither sail nor helm have any further power, is swept along
in swift and ever lessening circles by the fatal maëlstrom.
Curious Law of our Nature.—It seems to be the law of
our nature, that while our active principles gain strength by
exercise, the degree of enjoyment or of suffering which they
are capable of affording, diminishes by repetition. This has
been clearly stated by Mr. Stewart. It follows from this,
that while by long and undue indulgence of any of the animal
desires, the gratification originally derived from such indulgence
is no longer capable of being enjoyed, the desire itself
may be greatly increased, and constantly increasing, in its
demands. It is hardly possible to conceive a condition more
wretched and miserable, than that of a mind compelled thus
to drain the bitter dregs of its cup of pleasure, long since
quaffed, and to repeat, in endless round, the follies that no
longer have power to satisfy, even for the brief moment, the
poor victim of their enchantment. The drunkard, the glutton,
the debauchee, afford illustrations of this principle.
Acquired Appetites.—Beside the natural appetites of
which I have hitherto spoken, and which are founded in the
constitution of the physical system, there are certain appetites
which must be regarded as artificial and acquired, such
as the desire, so widely and almost universally prevalent, in
countries both savage and civilized, for narcotic and stimulating
drugs of various kinds, and for intoxicating drinks.
[Pg 481]
CHAPTER III.
DESIRES ARISING FROM THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND.
§ I.—Desire of Happiness.
Propriety of the Designation Self-love.—Among that
class of desires that have their foundation in the mental
rather than in the physical constitution, one of the most important
is the desire of happiness, or, as it is frequently
called, self-love. The propriety of this designation has been
called in question. "The expression," says Mr. Stewart,
"is exceptionable, for it suggests an analogy (where there
is none, in fact) between that regard which every rational
being must necessarily have to his own happiness, and those
benevolent affections which attach us to our fellow-creatures.
There is surely nothing in the former of these principles
analogous to the affection of love; and, therefore, to call it
by the appellation of self-love, is to suggest a theory with
respect to its nature, and a theory which has no foundation
in truth."
This Position questionable.—I apprehend that in this
remark, Mr. Stewart may have gone too far. The regard
which we have for our own happiness certainly differs from
that which we entertain for the happiness of others, as the
objects differ on which, in either case, the regard is fixed.
That the emotion is not essentially of the same nature, however,
psychologically considered, is not so clear. Love or
affection, as it has been defined in the preceding chapters, is
the enjoyment of an object, mingled with a wish or desire of
good to the same. Love of friends is the pleasure felt in,
and the benevolent regard for, them. Love of self, in like[Pg 482]
manner, is the enjoyment of, and the desire of, good to self.
Whoever, then, enjoys himself, and wishes his own good,
exercises self-love; and the essential ingredient of this affection
is the desire for his own happiness. Not only, then, is
there an analogy between the two principles, the desire of
our own happiness, and the regard which we feel for others,
but something more than an analogy; they are essentially
of the same nature so far as regards the mental activity exercised
in either case, and the term love as properly designates
the one, as the other, of these states of mind. I may
love myself, as truly as I love my friend, nor is it the part of
a rational nature to be destitute of the principle of self-love.
Not to be confounded with Selfishness.—There is more
force in the objection, also urged by Mr. Stewart, against
the phrase self-love, used to denote the desire of happiness,
that it is, from its etymology, liable to be confounded, and in
fact, often is confounded, with the word selfishness, which
denotes a very different state of mind. The word selfishness
is always used in an unfavorable sense, to denote some
disregard of the happiness and rights of others; but no such
idea properly attaches to self-love, or the desire of happiness,
which, as Mr. Stewart justly remarks, is inseparable from
our nature as rational and sensitive beings.
Views of Theologians.—Misled, perhaps, by the resemblance
of the words, many theological writers, both ancient
and modern, have not only represented self-love as essentially
sinful, but even as the root and origin of evil, the principle
of original sin.
So Barrow expressly affirms, citing Zuingle as authority.
English moralists have sometimes taken the same view, and
the earlier American divines very generally held it.
Self-love not criminal.—It can hardly be that a principle,
which seems to belong to our nature as intelligent and
rational beings, should be essentially criminal in it nature.
The mistake, doubtless, arises from overlooking the distinction,
already indicated, between self-love and selfishness[Pg 483]
The love of self, carried to the extreme of disregarding the
happiness of others, and trespassing upon the rights of others,
in the way to self-gratification, is indeed a violation of the
principles of right, and is equally condemned by nature,
speaking in the common sense and reason of man, and by
divine revelation. But neither reason, nor the divine law,
forbid that regard to our own happiness which self-love, in
its true and proper sense, implies, and which exists, it may
safely be affirmed, in every human bosom in which the light
of intelligence and reason has not gone out in utter darkness.
The sacred Scriptures nowhere forbid this principle.
They enjoin upon us, indeed, the love of our neighbor; but
the very command to love him as myself, so far from forbidding
self-love, implies its existence as a matter of course,
and presents that as a standard by which to measure the
love I ought to bear to others.
Opinion of Aristotle.—Much more correct than the
opinions to which I have referred, is the view taken by
Aristotle in his Ethics, who speaks of the good man as necessarily
a lover of himself, and, in the true sense, preëminently
so. "Should a man assume a preëminence in exercising
justice, temperance, and other virtues, though such a
man has really more true self-love than the multitude, yet
nobody would impute his affection to him as a crime. Yet
he takes to himself the fairest and greatest of all goods, and
those the most acceptable to the ruling principle in his nature,
which is, properly, himself, in the same manner as the
sovereignty in every community is that which most properly
constitutes the state. He is said, also, to have, or not to
have, the command of himself, just as this principle bears
sway, or as it is subject to control; and those acts are considered
as most voluntary which proceed from this legislative
or sovereign power. Whoever cherishes and gratifies
this ruling part of his nature, is strictly and peculiarly a
lover of himself, but in quite a different sense from that in
which self-love is regarded as a matter of reproach." (Ethic.[Pg 484]
Nic., lib. ix., cap. viii.) This view appears to me eminently
just.
That man is not, in the true and proper sense, a self-lover
who seeks his present at the expense of his future and permanent
well-being, or who tramples upon the rights and
happiness of others, intent only upon his gratification. The
glutton, the drunkard, the debauchee, are not the truest
lovers of self. They stand fairly chargeable, not with too
much, but too little regard for their own happiness and well-being.
Not the only original Principle.—But while the desire
of happiness is a principle which has its foundation in the
constitution of the mind, and which is characteristic of reason
and intelligence, it is by no means to be regarded as the
only original principle of our nature. Certain moralists have
sought to resolve all other active principles into self-love,
making this the source and spring of all human conduct, so
that, directly or indirectly, whatever we do finds its origin
and motive in the love of self. According to this view, I
love my friends, my kindred, my country, only because of
the intimate connection between their well-being and my
own; I pity and relieve the unfortunate only to relieve myself
of the unpleasant feelings their condition awakens; I
sacrifice treasure, comfort, health, life itself, only for the
sake of some greater good that is to be thus and only thus
procured; even the sense of right, and the obligations of a
religious nature, which bind and control me, find their chief
strength, as principles of action, in that regard for my own
happiness which underlies all other considerations.
Such a View indefensible.—This is a view not more derogatory
to human nature than inconsistent with all true
psychology. That the principle under consideration is one
of the most powerful springs of human conduct, that it enters
more largely than we may ourselves, at the time, be
aware, into those motives and actions that wear the appearance
of entire disinterestedness, I am disposed to admit,[Pg 485]
nor would I deny that our sense of right, and of religious
obligation, finds a strong support in that intimate and inseparable
connection which exists between duty and happiness.
The Scriptures constantly appeal to our love of happiness as
a motive to right action. Their rewards and promises on
the one hand, and their warnings and threatenings on the
other, all rest on this assumed law of human nature, that
man everywhere and always desires his own well-being.
But that this is the only and ultimate ground of human action,
that all the benevolent affections, all honor, and virtue,
all sense of duty and right, all religious emotion and religious
principle resolves itself into this, neither reason, nor revelation,
nor the closest observation of the human mind, do
either teach or imply.
This Desire, in what Sense rational.—Stewart's View.—We
have spoken, thus far, of the desire of happiness as a
rational principle. Is it, in such a sense, peculiar to a rational
and intelligent nature? Does it so imply and involve the
exercise of reason, that it is not to be found except in connection
with, and as the result of, that principle? If so, it
can hardly be called an original and implanted, or, at least,
an instinctive principle. And such is the view taken by Mr.
Stewart, in his Philosophy of the Active and Moral Powers.
The desire of happiness implies, in his estimation, a deliberate
and intelligent survey of the various sources of enjoyment,
a looking before and after, to ascertain what will, and what
will not, contribute to ultimate and permanent well-being;
and this it is the part of reason to perform.
Not exclusively so.—That the desire of happiness, as exercised
by a rational nature, involves something of this process,
some general idea of what constitutes happiness, or
what is good on the whole and not merely for the present,
some perception of consequences, some comprehensive view
and comparison of the various principles of action and
courses of conduct, as means to this general end, may, indeed,
be admitted. And, so far as the exercise of self-love[Pg 486]
is of the nature now indicated, it is certainly a rational
rather than an instinctive act. But I see no reason why one
and the same emotion, or mental activity of any sort, may
not be, at one time, the result of reflection, at another, of impulse;
now deliberate and rational, and now, instinctive in its
character. We know this to be the case, for example, with
the affections, both benevolent and malevolent. A principle
of action may be none the less instinctive, and originally implanted
in man's nature, from the fact that, when he arrives
at years of discretion, his reason confirms and strengthens
what nature had already taught, or even adopts it as one of
its own cardinal principles. It is not necessary, in order to
all desire of good, that I should know, completely and comprehensively,
in what good consists, and I may still desire
my own happiness, according to the measure of my knowledge
and capacity, when I simply know that I am happy at
the present moment.
Desire of continued Existence.—Closely analogous to
the principle now under consideration, if not, indeed, properly
a form or modification of it, is the desire of continued
existence. No desire that finds a place in the human bosom,
perhaps, is stronger or more universal than this. Life is
valued above all other possessions; riches, honors, place,
power, ease, are counted as of little worth in comparison.
There are, indeed, occasions when life is willingly sacrificed,
rather than to incur dishonor and reproach, or for the defence
of the innocent and helpless who depend on us for
protection, or for some great and good cause that demands
of the good and true man such service as may cost life.
Even in such cases, the importance of the interests which
demand and receive such a sacrifice, show the value we attach
to that which is laid upon the altar.
Increases with Age.—The desire of continued existence
seems to increase, as age advances, and life wears away.
We always value that the more of which we have but little.
It is a striking proof of the divine benevolence, that, in a[Pg 487]
world so full of care, and toil, and sorrow, as the present is,
and must be, to the multitude of its inhabitants, there are
few so miserable as not to regard continued existence as a
boon to be purchased at any price.
§ II.—Desire of Knowledge.
An original Principle.—Among the various principles
that enter into the composition of our nature, and are the
motive powers of the human mind, awakening and calling
forth its energies, and impelling it to action, the desire of
knowledge holds an important place. From its early manifestation,
before reason and reflection have as yet, to any extent,
come into play, and from its general, if not universal
existence, we infer that it is one of those principles originally
implanted in our nature by the great Author of our
being.
Not Curiosity.—The desire of knowledge, though often
spoken of as synonymous with curiosity, is not altogether
identical with it. Curiosity has reference rather to the
novelty and strangeness of that which comes before the
mind. It is the feeling awakened by these qualities, rather
than the general desire to know what is yet unknown. It
is of more limited application, and while it implies a desire
to understand the object in view of which it is awakened,
implies also some degree of wonder, at the unusual and unexpected
character of the object as thus presented. While,
then, curiosity is certainly a most powerful auxiliary to the
desire of learning, and stimulates the mind to exertions it
might not otherwise put forth, it is hardly to be viewed as
identical with the principle under consideration.
Manifested in early Life.—The desire of knowledge is
never, perhaps, more strongly developed than in early life,
and never partakes more fully of the character of curiosity
than then. To the child, all things are new and strange.
He looks about him upon a world as unknown to him as he[Pg 488]
is to it, and every different object that meets his eye is a
new study, and a new mystery to him. The desire to acquaint
himself with the new and unknown world around
him, keeps him constantly employed, constantly learning.
In later Years.—As he grows up, and the sphere of his
intellectual vision enlarges, every step of his progress only
opens new and wider fields to be explored, beyond the limits
of his previous investigations. If there is less of childish
curiosity, there is more of earnest, manly, irrepressible desire
and determination to know. His studies assume this or
that direction, according to native taste and temperament,
early associations, or the force of circumstances; he becomes
a student of science, or a student of letters, or of art, or of the
practical professions and pursuits of life; but turn in what
direction and to what pursuits he will, the desire to know
still lives within him, as a sacred lamp ever burning before
the shrine of truth.
Explains the Love of Narrative.—Every one has remarked
the eagerness with which children listen to stories,
histories, and fables. This is owing not more to the love of
the ideal, which is usually very strongly developed in early
life, than to the desire of knowing what presents itself to
the mind as something new and unknown, yet with the
semblance of reality. Nor does this love of narrative forsake
us as we grow older. We have still our romances, our
histories, our poems, epic and tragic, to divert us amid the
graver cares of life; and the old man is, perhaps, as impatient
as the child, to go on with the story, and comprehend the plot,
when once his interest and curiosity are awakened.
A benevolent Provision.—We cannot but regard it as a
benevolent provision of the Creator, so to constitute the
human mind, that not only knowledge itself, but the very
process of its acquisition, should be a pleasure. And when
we consider how great is the importance to man of this desire
of knowledge, and how great is the progress of even the humblest
mind, from the dawn of its intelligence, on to the period[Pg 489]
of its full maturity and strength; how, under the influence
of this desire, the mind of a Newton, a Kepler, a Bacon, a
Descartes, a Leibnitz, moves on, from the slow and feeble
acquisitions of the nursery, to the great and sublime discoveries
that are to shed a light and glory, not only on the
name of the discoverer, but on the path of all who come
after him, we can hardly attach too high an importance to
this part of our mental constitution.
A rational, though an instinctive Principle.—The desire
of knowledge, like many of the active principles which
have already fallen under our notice, is capable of rational
exercise and control, while, at the same time, an implanted and
instinctive principle. It operates, at first, rather as a blind
impulse, impelling the mind to a given end; when reason
assumes her sway of the mind and its restless energies, what
was before a mere impulse and instinct of nature, now becomes
a deliberate and rational purpose.
Moral Character.—As to moral character, it may, or
may not, pertain to the exercise of the principle under consideration.
The desire of knowledge is not of necessity a
virtuous affection of the mind. Characteristic as it is of a
noble and superior nature, more elevated and excellent, as
it certainly is, than the merely animal desires and impulses,
it is not inseparably connected with moral excellence.
As rationally exercised it is laudable and virtuous, provided
we seek knowledge with proper motives, and for right
ends; otherwise, the reverse. Inasmuch, however, as we
are under obligation to act in this, as in all other matters,
from pure motives, and for right ends, the mere absence of
such a motive, the desire and pursuit of knowledge in another
manner, and from other motives, becomes blameworthy.
[Pg 490]
§ III.—Desire of Power.
A native Principle.—The desire of power must be regarded
as an original principle of our nature. Like the
desire of happiness, and of knowledge, it is both early in its
development, and powerful in its influence over the mind. It
is also universally manifest.
In what Manner awakened.—Of the idea of power or
cause, and of the manner in which the mind comes, in the
first instance, to form that idea, I have already spoken, under
the head of original conception. We see changes taking
place in the external world. We observe these changes
immediately and invariably preceded by certain antecedents.
The idea of cause is thus suggested to the mind, and cause
implies power of one thing over another to produce given
effects. We find, also, our own volitions attended with corresponding
effects upon objects external, and thus learn, still
further, that we ourselves possess power over other objects.
The idea thus awakened in the mind, there springs up, also,
in connection with the idea, an activity of the sensibilities.
The power which we find ourselves to have over objects
about us affords us pleasure; what we enjoy we love, and
what we love we desire; and so there is awakened in the
mind a strong and growing desire for the possession of
power.
Pleasure of exerting Power.—The pleasure which we
derive from producing, in any instance, a manifest effect,
and from the consciousness that we have in ourselves the
power to produce like effects whenever we will, is one of
the highest sources of enjoyment of which nature has made
as capable. It is, to a great extent, the spring and secret
of the constant activity of which the world is full. It shows
itself in the sports of childhood, and in the graver pursuits
of maturer years. The infant, when it finds that it can move
and control its own little limbs, the boy learning the art of
such athletic sports as he perceives his fellows practise, the[Pg 491]
man when he finds that he can control the action of his fellow-man,
and bend the will of others to his own, are each,
and perhaps equally, delighted at the acquisition of this new
power; and the pleasure is generally in proportion to the
novelty of the acquisition, and the apparent greatness of the
effect produced.
Strength and Influence of this Principle.—The love of
power is one of the strongest of the ruling principles of the
human mind. It has its seat in the deepest foundations of
our nature. I can do something; I can do what others do;
I can do more than they; such is the natural order and
progression of our endeavors, and such also the measure and
increase of our delight. What, but the love of power, leads
to those competitions of strength with strength, which mark
the athletic games and contests of all nations, civilized and
savage? What, but the love of power, impels the hunter over
the pathless mountains, and deserts, in quest of those savage
denizens and lords of nature, whose strength is so far superior
to his own? What, but the love of power, leads the
warrior forth, at the head of conquering armies, to devastate
and subdue new realms?
Seen also in other Pursuits.—And in the peaceful pursuits
of life, how largely does the same impulse mingle with the
other, and perhaps more apparent, motives of human action?
The man of science, as he watches the nightly courses of the
stars, or resolves the stubborn compounds of nature into
their simple and subtle elements, as he discovers new laws,
and unlocks the secrets that have long baffled human inquiry,
derives no small part of his gratification from the consciousness
of that power which he thus exercises over the
realm of matter subjected to his will. And when, in like
manner, the orator, on whose words depend the lives of
men, and the fate of nations, stands forth to accuse or defend,
to arouse the slumbering passions, and inflame the patriotism,
the courage, the resentment of his audience, or to soothe
their anger, allay their prejudice, awaken their pity or their[Pg 492]
fears, how does the consciousness of his power over the
swaying, agitated multitude before him, mingle with the
emotions that swell his bosom, and augment the fierce delight
of victory?
Auxiliary to desire of knowledge.—The desire of power
is accessory to, and in some cases, perhaps, the foundation of
certain other principles of action. It is especially auxiliary
to the desire of knowledge, inasmuch as every new acquisition
of truth is an accession of power to the mind, and is,
therefore, on that account, as well as for its own sake, desirable.
As a general thing, the more we know, the more
and the better we can do. Every mental acquisition becomes,
in some sense, an instrument to aid us in further and larger
acquisitions. We are enabled to call to our aid the very
forces and elements of nature which our discoveries have, in
a manner, subjected to our sway, and to conform our own
conduct to those established laws which science reveals.
The mind is thus stimulated, in all its investigations, and toilsome
search for truth, by the assurance that every increase
of knowledge is, in some sense, an increase, also, of power.
Hence the aphorism so current, and generally attributed to
Bacon, which affirms that knowledge is power.
Auxiliary also to love of Liberty.—The love of liberty,
according to some writers, proceeds also, in part, at least,
from the desire of power, the desire of being able to do
whatever we like. Whatever deprives us of liberty trenches
upon our power. In like manner, writers upon morals have
noticed the fact that the pleasure of virtue is in a measure
due to the same source. When evil habits predominate
and acquire the mastery, we lose the power of self-control,
the mind is subjected to the baser passions, and this loss of
power is attended with the painful consciousness of degradation.
On the other hand, to the mind that is bent on
maintaining its integrity, though it be by stern and determined
conflict with the evil influences that surround it, and
its own natural propensities to a course of sinful indulgence,[Pg 493]
every fresh struggle with those adverse influences becomes
a pledge of final success, and the hour of victory, when it
comes at last, as come it will, is an hour of triumph and of
joy.
§ IV.—Certain Modifications of the Desire of Power;—as, the
Desire of Superiority, and of Possession.
General Statement.—There are certain desires to which
the human mind is subject, and which seem to have a foundation
in nature, which, though frequently regarded as distinct
principles of action, are more properly, perhaps, to be
viewed as but modifications of the principle last considered.
I refer to the desire of superiority, and the desire of possession;
or, as they are more succinctly termed, ambition and
avarice.
The Desire to excel, universal.—The desire to excel is almost
universal among men. It shows itself in every condition
of society, and under all varieties of character and pursuit.
It animates the sports of childhood, and gives a zest
to the sober duties and realities of life. It penetrates the
camp, the court, the halls of legislation, and of justice; it
enters alike into the peaceful rivalries of the school, the college,
the learned professions, and into those more fearful
contests for superiority which engage nations in hostile encounter
on the field of strife and carnage. What have we,
under all these manifestations, but the desire of superiority,
and what is that but the desire of power in one of its most
common forms?
Not peculiar to Man.—This is a principle not peculiar
to human nature, but common to man with the brute. The
lower animals have also their rivalries, their jealousies, their
contests for superiority in swiftness, and in strength, and he
is the acknowledged leader who proves himself superior in
these respects to his fellows.
Not the same with Envy.—The desire to excel, or the
principle of emulation, is not to be confounded with envy[Pg 494]
with which it is too frequently, but not necessarily, associated.
Envy is pained at the success of a rival; a just and
honorable emulation, without seeking to detract from the
well-merited honors of another, strives only to equal and
surpass them. This distinction is an important one, and has
been very clearly pointed out by Mr. Stewart, and also by
Bp. Butler, and, still earlier, by Aristotle. "Emulation,"
says Butler, "is merely the desire of superiority over others,
with whom we compare ourselves. To desire the attainment
of this superiority by the particular means of others
being brought down below our own level, is the distinct notion
of envy." To the same effect, Aristotle, as quoted by
Stewart: "Emulation is a good thing, and belongs to good
men; envy is bad, and belongs to bad men. What a man
is emulous of he strives to attain, that he may really possess
the desired object; the envious are satisfied if nobody
has it."
Not malevolent of Necessity.—Dr. Reid has classed
emulation with the malevolent affections, as involving a
sentiment of ill-will toward the rival; but, as Mr. Stewart
very justly remarks, this sentiment is not a necessary concomitant
of the desire of superiority, though often found in
connection with it; nor ought emulation to be classed with
the affections, but with the desires, for it is the desire which
is the active principle, and the affection is only a concomitant
circumstance.
View maintained by Mr. Upham.—Mr. Upham denies
emulation a place among the original and implanted principles
of our nature, on this ground. All our active principles,
he maintains, from instinct upward, are subordinate to
the authority and decisions of conscience, as a faculty paramount
to every other. But the desire of superiority he
supposes to be utterly inconsistent with the law of subordination.
Whenever man perceives a superior, he perceives
one with whom, by this law of his nature, if such it be, he
is brought into direct conflict and collision, and as he is[Pg 495]
surrounded by those who, in some respect, are his superiors, he
is really placed in a state of perpetual warfare and misery;
nor can he regard even the Supreme Being with other feelings
than those of unhallowed rivalry. A principle that
would lead to such results, he concludes, cannot be founded
in the constitution of our nature. He accordingly resolves
the desire of superiority into the principle of imitativeness.
The Correctness of this View called in Question.—It is
difficult to perceive the force of this reasoning. The desire
of superiority, it is sufficient to say, whatever be its origin,
leads to no such results. As actually manifest in human
character and conduct, it does not show itself to be inconsistent
with due subordination to authority, nor does it involve
man in necessary and perpetual conflict with his fellows,
nor does it present the Supreme Being as an object of
unhallowed rivalry. We have only to do with facts, with
the phenomena actually presented by human nature; and
we do not find the facts to correspond with the view now
given. Nor can we perceive any reason, in the nature of the
case, why the desire in question should lead, or be supposed
to lead, to such results. The desire of superiority does not
necessarily imply the desire to be superior to every body,
and every thing, in the universe. It may have its natural
and proper limits; and such we find to be the fact.
Actual Limitations of this Principle.—We desire to
excel not, usually, those who are far above us in rank and
fortune, but our fellows and companions; our rivals are
mostly those who move in the same sphere with ourselves.
The artist vies with his brother artist, the student with his
fellow student, and even where envy and ill-will mingle, as
they too often do, with the desire, still, the object of that
envy is not every one, indiscriminately, who may happen to
be superior to ourselves, but only our particular rival in the
race before us. The child at school does not envy Sir Isaac
Newton, or the illustrious Humboldt, but the urchin that is
next above himself in the class. The desire of superiority, like[Pg 496]
every other desire of the human mind, looks only at what is
possible to be accomplished, at what is probable, even; it
aims not at the clouds, but at things within our reach, things
to be had for the asking and the striving. But whatever
view we take of the matter, the desire of superiority certainly
exists as an active principle in the human mind; nor
do we see any reason why it should not be admitted as an
original principle founded in the constitution of our nature,
or, at least, as one of the forms and modifications of such a
principle, viz., the love of power.
This Principle requires Restraint.—I would by no means
deny, however, that the desire now under consideration is
one which is liable to abuse, and which requires the careful
and constant restraints of reason and of religious principle.
The danger is, that envy and ill-will, toward those whom we
regard as rivals and competitors with us, for those honors
and rewards which lie in our path, shall be permitted to
mingle with the desire to excel. Indeed, so frequently are
the two conjoined, that to the reflecting and sensitive mind,
superiority itself almost ceases to be desirable, since it is but
too likely to be purchased at the price of the good-will, and
kind feeling, of those less fortunate, or less gifted, than ourselves.
Another Form of the same Desire.—The desire of possession
may be regarded, also, as a modification of the desire
of power. That influence over others which power implies,
and which is, to some extent, commanded by superiority of
personal strength or prowess, by genius, by skill, by the
various arts and address of life, or by the accident of birth
and hereditary station, is still more directly and generally
attainable, by another, and perhaps a shorter route—the
possession of wealth. This, as the world goes, is the key
that unlocks, the sceptre that controls, all things. Personal
prowess, genius, address, station, the throne itself, are, in no
inconsiderable degree, dependent upon its strength, and at
its command. He who has this can well afford to dispense[Pg 497]
with most other goods and gifts of fortune; so far, at least,
as concerns the possession of power. He may be neither
great, nor learned, nor of noble birth; neither elegant in person,
nor accomplished in manners, distinguished neither for
science, nor virtue; he may command no armies, he may sit
upon no throne; yet with all his deficiencies, and even his
vices, if so he have wealth, he has power. Unnumbered
hands are ready to task their skill at his bidding, unnumbered
arms, to move and toil and strive in his service, unnumbered
feet hasten to and fro upon his errands. He
commands the skill and labor of multitudes whom he has
never seen, and who know him not. In distant quarters of
the globe, the natives of other zones and climes hasten upon
his errands; swift ships traverse the seas for him; the furs
of the extreme North, the rich woods and spices of the tropics,
the silks of India, the pearls and gems of the East—whatever
is costly, and curious, and rare, whatever can contribute to
the luxury and the pride of man—these are his, and for him.
No wonder that he who desires power, should desire that
which is one of the chief avenues and means to the attainment
of power, and that what is valued, at first, rather as an
instrument than as an end, should presently come to be regarded
and valued for its own sake.
A twofold Aspect—Covetousness, Avarice.—There are,
if I mistake not, two forms which the desire of possession
assumes. The one is the simple desire of acquiring, that
there may be the more to spend; the other of accumulating,
adding to the heaps already obtained—which may be done
by keeping fast what is already gotten, as well as by getting
more. The one is the desire of getting, which is not inconsistent
with the desire of spending, but, in fact, grows out
of that in the first instance; the other is the desire of increasing,
and the corresponding dread of diminishing, what
is gotten, which, when it prevails to any considerable degree,
effectually prevents all enjoyment of the accumulated
treasure, and becomes one of the most remarkable and most[Pg 498]
odious passions of our perverted nature. The term covetousness
answers somewhat nearly to the one, avarice to the
other, of these forms of desire. It must be added, also, that
it seems to be the natural tendency of the primitive and
milder form of this principle, to pass into the other and more
repulsive manifestation. He who begins with desiring
wealth as a means of gratifying his various wants, too frequently
ends with desiring it for its own sake, and becomes
that poorest and most miserable of all men, the miser.
The inordinate love of Money not owing wholly to Association.—Whence
arises that inordinate value which the
miser attaches to money, which, in reality, is but the mere
representative of enjoyment, the mere means to an end?
Why is he so loth to part with the smallest portion of the
representative medium, in order to secure the reality, the
end for which alone the means is valuable? Is it that, by
the laws of association, the varied enjoyments which gold
has so often procured, and which have a fixed value in our
minds, are transferred with all their value to the gold which
procured them? Doubtless this is, in some measure, the
case, and it may, therefore, in part, account for the phenomenon
in question. The gold piece which I take from my
drawer for the purchase of some needful commodity, has, it
may be, an increased value in my estimation, from the recollection
of the advantages previously derived from the possession
of just such a sum. But why should such associations
operate more powerfully upon the miser, than upon any other
person? Why are we not all misers, if such associations are
the true cause and explanation of avarice? Nay, why is not
the spendthrift the most avaricious of all men, since he has
more frequently exchanged the representative medium for
the enjoyment which it would procure, and has, therefore,
greater store of such associations connected with his gold?
The true Explanation.—Dr. Brown, who has admirably
treated this part of our mental constitution, has suggested,
I think, the true explanation of this phenomenon.
[Pg 499]
So long as the gold itself is in the miser's grasp, it is, and
is felt to be, a permanent possession; when it is expended,
it is usually for something of a transient nature, which perishes
with the using. It seems to him afterward as so much
utter loss, and is regretted as such. Every such regretted
expenditure increases the reluctance to part with another
portion of the treasure. There is, moreover, another circumstance
which heightens this feeling of reluctance. The
enjoyment purchased is one and simple. The gold with
which it was purchased is the representative, not of that
particular form of enjoyment alone, but of a thousand others
as well, any one of which might have been procured with the
same money. All these possible advantages are now no
longer possible. Very great seems the loss. Add to this the
circumstance that the miser, in most cases, probably, has
accumulated, or set his heart upon accumulating, a certain
round sum, say so many thousands or hundreds of thousands.
The spending a single dollar breaks that sum, and, therewith,
the charm is broken, and he who was a millionaire
before that unlucky expenditure, is a millionaire no longer.
It is mainly in these feelings of regret, which attend the
necessary expenses of the man who has once learned to set
a high value upon wealth, that avarice finds, if not its source,
at least its chief strength and aliment.
Odiousness of this Vice.—There is, perhaps, no passion
or vice to which poor human nature is subject, that is, in
some respects, more odious and repulsive than this. There
is about it no redeeming feature. It is pure and unmingled
selfishness, without even the poor apology that most other
vices can offer, of contributing to the present enjoyment
and sensual gratification of the criminal. The miser is denied
even this. He covets, not that he may enjoy, but that
he may refrain from enjoying.
Strongest in old Age.—"In the contemplation of many
of the passions that rage in the heart with greatest fierceness,"
says Dr. Brown, "there is some comfort in the[Pg 500]
thought that, violent as they may be for a time, they are
not to rage through the whole course of life, at least if life
be prolonged to old age; that the agitation which at every
period will have some intermissions, will grow gradually less
as the body grows more weak, and that the mind will at
last derive from this very feebleness a repose which it could
not enjoy when the vigor of the bodily frame seemed to
give to the passion a corresponding vigor. It is not in
avarice, however, that this soothing influence of age is to be
found. It grows with our growth and with our strength,
but it strengthens also with our very weakness. There are
no intermissions in the anxieties which it keeps awake; and
every year, instead of lessening its hold, seems to fix it more
deeply within the soul itself, as the bodily covering around
it slowly moulders away.... The heart which is
weary of every thing else is not weary of coveting more
gold; the memory which has forgotten every thing else,
continues still, as Cato says in Cicero's dialogue, to remember
where its gold is stored; the eye is not dim to gold
that is dim to every thing beside; the hand which it seems
an effort to stretch out and fix upon any thing, appears to
gather new strength from the very touch of the gold which
it grasps, and has still vigor enough to lift once more, and
count once more, though a little more slowly, what it has
been its chief and happiest occupation thus to lift and count
for a period of years far longer than the ordinary life of
man. When the relations or other expectant heirs gather
around his couch, not to comfort, nor even to seem to comfort,
but to await, in decent mimicry of solemn attendance,
that moment which they rejoice to view approaching; the
dying eye can still send a jealous glance to the coffer near
which it trembles to see, though it scarcely sees, so many
human forms assembled; and that feeling of jealous agony,
which follows and outlasts the obscure vision of floating
forms that are scarcely remembered, is at once the last misery
and the last consciousness of life."
[Pg 501]
§ V.—Desire of Society
A natural Principle.—There can be little doubt that
the desire of society is one of the original principles of our
nature. It shows itself at a very early period of life, and
under all the diverse conditions of existence. Its universal
manifestation, and that under circumstances which preclude
the idea of education or imitation in the matter, proves it
an implanted principle, having its seat in the constitution of
the mind.
Manifested by Animals of every Species.—The child rejoices
in the company of its fellows. The lower animals
manifest the same regard for each other's society, and are
unhappy when separated from their kind. Much of the attachment
of the dog to his master may, not improbably, be
owing to the same source. The beast of labor is cheered
and animated by his master's presence, and the patient ox
as he toils along the furrow, or the highway, moves more willingly
when he hears the well-known step and voice of his
owner trudging by his side. Every one knows how much
the horse is inspirited by the chance companionship, upon
the way, of a fellow-laborer of his own species. Horses that
have been accustomed to each other's society on the road, or
in the stall, frequently manifest the greatest uneasiness and
dejection when separated; and it has been observed by
those acquainted with the habits of animals, that cattle do
not thrive as well, even in good pasture, when solitary, as
when feeding in herds.
Social Organizations of Animals.—Accordingly we
find most animals, when left to the instinct of nature, associating
in herds, and tribes, larger or smaller, according to
the habits of the animal. They form their little communities,
have their leaders, and, to some extent, their laws, acknowledged
and obeyed by all, their established customs
and modes of procedure—in which associations, thus regulated,
it is impossible not to recognize the essential feature[Pg 502]
and principle of what man, in his political associations of the
same nature, calls the state. What else are the little communities
of the bee, and the ant, and the beaver, but so
many busy cities, and states, of the insect and animal tribes?
The social State not adopted because of its Advantages
merely.—It may be said that man derives advantages from
the social state, and adopts it for that reason. Unquestionably
he does derive immense advantages from it; but is that
the reason he desires it? Is the desire of society consequent
upon the advantages, experienced or foreseen, which accrue
from it, or are the advantages consequent upon the desire
and the adoption of the state in question? Is it matter of
expediency and calculation, of policy and necessity, or of
native instinct and implanted constitutional desire? What
is it with the lower animals? Has not nature provided in
their very constitution for their prospective wants, and, by
implanting in them the desire for each other's society, laid
the foundation for their congregating in tribes and communities?
Is it not reasonable to suppose that the same may
be true of man? The analogy of nature, the early manifestation
of the principle prior to education and experience,
the universality and uniformity of its operation, and the fact
that it shows itself often in all its strength under circumstances
in which very little benefit would seem to result
from the social condition, as with the savage races of the
extreme North, and with many rude and uncultivated tribes
of the forest and the desert—all these circumstances go to
show that the desire of society is founded in the nature of
man, and is not a mere matter of calculation and policy.
Man's Nature deficient without this Principle.—And
this is a sufficient answer to the theory of those who, with
Hobbes, regard the social condition of man as the result of
his perception of what is for his own interest, the dictate of
prudence and necessity. The very fact that it is for his interest
would lead us to expect that some provision should
be made for it in his nature; and this is precisely what we[Pg 503]
find to be the case. Were it otherwise, we should feel that,
in one important respect, the nature of man was deficient,
inferior even to that of the brute. But the truth is, the
whole history of the race is one complete and compact contradiction
of the theory of Hobbes, and shows with the
clearness of demonstration, that the natural condition of
man is not that of seclusion, and isolation from his fellows,
but of society and companionship.
Strength of this Principle.—So strongly is this principle
rooted in the very depths of our nature, that when man is
for a length of time shut out from the society of his fellow
men, he seeks the acquaintance and companionship of
brutes, and even of insects, and those animals for whom, in
his usual condition, he has a marked repugnance, as a relief
from utter loneliness and absolute solitude. Mr. Stewart
relates the instance of a French nobleman, shut up for several
years a close prisoner in the Castle of Pignerol, during
the reign of Louis XIV., who amused himself, in his solitude,
by watching the movements of a spider, to which he at
length became so much attached, that when the jailor, discovering
his amusement, killed the spider, he was afflicted
with the deepest grief. Silvio Pellico, in his imprisonment,
amused himself in like manner. Baron Trench sought to
alleviate the wretchedness of his long imprisonment, by cultivating
the acquaintance or friendship of a mouse, which
in turn manifested a strong attachment to him, played about
his person, and took its food from his hand. The fact having
been discovered by the officers, the mouse was removed
to the guard-room, but managed to find its way back to the
prison door, and, at the hour of visitation, when the door
was opened, ran into the dungeon, and manifested the
greatest delight at finding its master. Being subsequently
removed and placed in a cage, it pined, refused all sustenance,
and in a few days died. "The loss of this little companion
made me for some time quite melancholy," adds the
narrator.
[Pg 504]
Case of Silvio Pellico.—How strongly is the desire for
society manifested in these words of Silvio Pellico, when
forbidden to converse with his fellow-prisoner. "I shall
do no such thing. I shall speak as long as I have breath,
and invite my neighbor to talk to me. If he refuse, I
will talk to my window-bars. I will talk to the hills before
me. I will talk to the birds as they fly about. I will
talk."
Facts of this nature clearly indicate that the love of society
is originally implanted in the human mind.
Illustrated from the History of Prison Discipline.—The
same thing is further evident from the effects of entire
seclusion from all society, as shown in the history of prison
discipline. For the facts which follow, as well as for some
of the preceding, I am indebted to Mr. Upham.
The legislature of New York some years since, by way of
experiment, directed a number of the most hardened criminals
in the State prison at Auburn, to be confined in solitary
cells, without labor, and without intermission of their solitude.
The result is thus stated by Messrs. Beaumont and
Tocqueville, who were subsequently appointed commissioners
by the French government to examine and report on the
American system of prison discipline. "This, trial from
which so happy a result had been anticipated, was fatal to
the greater part of the convicts; in order to reform them,
they had been subjected to complete isolation; but this absolute
solitude, if nothing interrupts it, is beyond the strength
of man; it destroys the criminal, without intermission, and
without pity; it does not reform, it kills. The unfortunates
on whom this experiment was made, fell into a state of depression
so manifest that their keepers were struck with it;
their lives seemed in danger if they remained longer in this
situation; five of them had already succumbed during a
single year; their moral state was no less alarming; one of
them had become insane; another, in a fit of despair, had
embraced the opportunity, when the keeper brought him[Pg 505]
something, to precipitate himself from his cell, running the
almost certain chance of a mortal fall. Upon those, and
similar effects, the system was finally judged." The same
results substantially have followed similar experiments in
other prisons. It is stated by Lieber, that in the penitentiary
of New Jersey, ten persons are mentioned as having
been killed by solitary confinement. Facts like these show
how deeply-rooted in our nature is the desire of society, and
how essential to our happiness is the companionship of our
fellow-beings.
§ VI.—Desire of Esteem.
An important and original Principle.—Of the active
principles of our nature, few exert a more important influence
over human conduct, few certainly deserve a more
careful consideration, than the regard which we feel for the
approbation of others. The early period at which this manifests
itself, as well as the strength which it displays, indicate,
with sufficient clearness, that it is an original principle,
founded in the constitution of the mind.
Cannot be regarded as an acquired Habit.—When we
see children of tender age manifesting a sensitive regard for
the good opinion of their associates, shrinking with evident
pain from the censure of those around them, and delighted
with the approbation which they may receive; when, in maturer
years, we find them—children no longer—ready to
sacrifice pleasure and advantage in every form, and to almost
any amount, and even to lay down life itself to maintain an
honorable place in the esteem of men, and to preserve a
name and reputation unsullied—and these things we do see
continually—we cannot believe that what shows itself so
early, and so uniformly, and operates with such strength, is
only some acquired principle, the result of association, or
the mere calculation of advantage, and a prudential regard
to self-interest. In many cases we know it cannot be so.[Pg 506]
It is not the dictate of prudence, or the calculation of advantage,
that influences the little child; nor is it the force
of such considerations that induces the man of mature years
to give up ease, fortune, and life itself, for the sake of honor
and a name. Even where the approbation or censure of those
who may pass an opinion, favorable, or unfavorable, upon
our conduct, can be of no benefit or injury to us, that approbation
is still desired, that censure is still feared. We
prefer the good opinion of even a weak man, or a bad man,
to his disesteem; and even if the odium which, in that case,
we may chance to incur in the discharge of duty, is felt to
be unjust and undeserved, and our consciousness of right
intention and right endeavor sustains us under all the pressure
of opinion from without, it is impossible, nevertheless,
not to be pained with even that unjust and undeserved reproach.
We feel that, in losing the confidence and esteem
of others, we incur a heavy loss.
Want and wretchedness may drive a man to desperate
and reckless courses; yet few, probably, can be found, so
wretched and desperate, who, in all their misery, would not
prefer the good opinion and the good offices of their fellow-man.
Accounted for neither by the selfish nor the associative
Principle.—It can hardly be, then, a selfish and prudential
principle—this strong desire of esteem; nor yet can it be the
result of association, as some have inferred; since it shows
itself under circumstances where a selfish regard for one's
own interests could not be supposed to operate, and with a
power which no laws of association can explain.
Hume's Theory.—Hardly better is it accounted for on
the principle which Hume suggests, that the good opinion
of others confirms our good opinion of ourselves, and hence
is felt to be desirable. Doubtless there is need enough, in
many cases, perhaps in most, of some such confirmation.
Nor would I deny that this may be one element of the
pleasure which we derive from the esteem of others. Dr.[Pg 507]
Brown, in his analysis of the principle under consideration,
has very justly included this among the components of the
pleasure thus derived. But it by no means accounts for the
origin, nor explains the nature, of this desire. It is rather
an incidental circumstance than the producing cause.
This Principle as it relates to the Future.—Perhaps in
no one of its aspects is the desire of esteem more remarkable,
than when it relates to the future—the desire to leave
a good name behind us, when we are no longer concerned
with the affairs of time. It would seem as if the good or
ill opinion of men would be of no moment whatever to us,
when once we have taken our final departure from the stage
of life. We pass to a higher tribunal, and the verdict of
approving or reproving millions, the applause of nations,
the condemnation of a world in arms against us, will hardly
break the silence or disturb the deep repose of the tomb.
These approving and condemning voices will die away in
the distance, or be heard but as the faint echo of the wave
that lashes some far-off shore.
Yet, though the honors that may then await our names
will be of as little moment to us, personally, as the perishing
garlands that the hand of affection may place upon our
tombs, we still desire to leave a name unsullied at least, if
not distinguished, even as we desire to live in the memory
and affections of those who survive us.
How to be explained.—To what, then, can be owing this
desire of the good opinion and esteem of those who are to
come after us, and whose opinion, be it good or ill, can in
no way affect our happiness? Philosophers have been sadly
at a loss to account for it, especially those who trace the desire
of esteem to a selfish origin. Some, with Wollaston
and Smith, have referred it to the illusions of the imagination,
by which we seem, to ourselves, to be present, and to
witness the honors, and listen to the praises, which the future
is to bestow. Such an illusion may possibly arise in some
hour of reverie, some day-dream of the mind; but it is[Pg 508]
impossible to suppose that any one of sound mind should be
permanently influenced by such an illusion, or fail to perceive,
when reason resumes her sway, that it is an illusion,
and that only.
Admits of Explanation in another Way.—If, however
we regard the desire of the good opinion of others as an
original principle of our nature, and not as springing from
selfish considerations, it is easy to see how the same principle
may extend to the future. If, irrespective of personal
advantage, we desire the esteem of our fellow-men while
we live, so, also, without regard to such advantage, we may
desire their good opinion when we are no longer among
them.
True, it is only a name that is transmitted and honored,
as Wollaston says, and not the man himself. He does not
live because his name does, nor is he known because his
name is known. As in those lines of Cowley, quoted by
Stewart:
"'Tis true the two immortal syllables remain,
But, O! ye learned men, explain
What essence, substance, what hypostasis
In five poor letters is?
In these alone does the great Cæsar live—
'Tis all the conquered world could give."
Yet reason as we may, it is no trait of a noble and ingenuous
mind to be regardless of the opinions of the future.
The common sentiment of men, even the wisest and the
best, finds itself, after all, much more influenced by such considerations
than by any reasoning to the contrary.
Not unworthy of a noble Mind.—Nor is it altogether
unworthy of the ambition of a noble and generous mind to
leave a good name as a legacy to the future; in the language
of Mr. Stewart, "to be able to entail on the casual
combination of letters which compose our name, the respect
of distant ages, and the blessings of generations yet unborn.
Nor is it an unworthy object of the most rational benevolence[Pg 509]
to render these letters a sort of magical spell for kindling
the emulation of the wise and good whenever they
shall reach the human ear."
Desire of Esteem not a safe Rule of Conduct.—I would
by no means be understood, however, to present the desire
of esteem as, on the whole, a safe and suitable rule of conduct,
or to justify that inordinate ambition which too frequently
seeks distinction regardless of the means by which
it is acquired, or of any useful end to be accomplished. The
mere love of fame is by no means the highest principle
of action by which man is guided—by no means the noblest
or the safest. It is ever liable to abuse. Its tendencies
are questionable. The man who has no higher principle
than a regard to the opinions of others is not likely to accomplish
any thing great or noble. He will lack that prime
element of greatness, consistency of character and purpose.
His conduct and his principles will vary to suit the changing
aspect of the times. He will, almost of necessity, also lack
firmness and strength of character. It is necessary, sometimes,
for the wise and good man to resist the force and
pressure of public opinion. He must do that, or abandon
his principles, and prove false at once to duty, and to himself.
To do this costs much. It requires, and, at the same
time, imparts, true strength. Such strength comes in no
other way. That mind is essentially weak that depends for its
point of support on the applause of man. In the noble language
of Cicero, "To me, indeed, those actions seem all the
more praiseworthy which we perform without regard to
public favor, and without observation of man.. The true
theatre for virtue is conscience; there is none greater."
The praise of man confers no solid happiness, unless it is felt
to be deserved; and if it be so, that very consciousness is
sufficient.
Disregard of public Opinion equally unsafe.—It must
be confessed, however, that if a regard to the opinions of
others is not to be adopted as a wise and safe rule of conduct,
an entire disregard of public opinion is, on the other
hand, a mark neither of a well ordered mind, nor of a virtuous
character. "Contempta fama," says Tacitus, "contemnantur
virtutes."
Accordingly we find that those who, from any cause, have
lost their character and standing in society, and forfeited
the good opinion of their fellow-men, are apt to become desperate
and reckless, and ready for any crime.[Pg 510]
CHAPTER IV.
HOPE AND FEAR.
Nature of these Emotions.—In the analysis of the sensibilities,
which was given in a preceding chapter, hope and fear
were classed as modifications of desire and aversion, having
reference to the probability that the object which is desired or
feared may be realized. Desire always relates to something in
the future, and something that is agreeable, or viewed as such,
and also something possible, or that is so regarded. Add to
this future agreeable something the idea or element of probability,
let it be not only something possible to be attained,
but not unlikely to be, and what was before but mere desire,
more or less earnest, now becomes hope, more or less definite
or strong, according as the object is more or less desirable,
and more or less likely to be realized. And the same is true
of fear; an emotion awakened in view of any object regarded
as disagreeable, in the future, and as more or less
likely to be met.
As desire and aversion do not necessarily relate to different
objects, but are simply counterparts of each other, the
desire of any good implying always an aversion to its loss,
so, also, hope and fear may both be awakened by the same
object, according as the gaining or losing of the object[Pg 511]
becomes the more probable. What we hope to gain we fear
to lose. What we fear to meet, we hope to escape.
The Strength of the Feeling dependent, in part, on the
Importance of the Object.—The degree of the emotion, however,
in either case, the readiness with which it is awakened,
and the force and liveliness with which it affects the mind,
are not altogether in proportion to the probability merely
that the thing will, or will not, be as we hope or fear, but
somewhat in proportion, also, to the importance of the object
itself. That which is quite essential to our happiness is
more ardently desired, than what is of much less consequence,
though, perhaps, much more likely to be attained; and because
it is more important and desirable, even a slight prospect
of its attainment, or a slight reason to apprehend its
loss, more readily awakens our hopes, and our fears, and
more deeply impresses and agitates the mind, than even a
much stronger probability would do in cases of less importance.
What we very much desire, we are inclined to hope
for, what we are strongly averse to, we are readily disposed
to fear. Nothing is more desirable to the victim of disease
than recovery, and hence his hope and almost confident expectation
that he shall recover, when, perhaps, to every eye
but his own, the case is hopeless. Nothing could be more
dreadful to the miser than the loss of his treasure, and nothing,
accordingly, does he so much fear. Poverty would be
to him the greatest of possible calamities, and of this, accordingly,
he lives in constant apprehension. Yet nothing
is really more unlikely to occur. It is the tendency of the
mind, in such cases, to magnify both the danger of the evil,
on the one hand, and the prospect of good on the other.
Illustration from the case of a Traveller.—"There can
be no question," says Dr. Brown, "that he who travels in
the same carriage, with the same external appearances of
every kind, by which a robber could be tempted or terrified,
will be in equal danger of attack, whether he carry with him
little of which he can be plundered, or such a booty as[Pg 512]
would impoverish him if it were lost. But there can be no
question, also, that though the probabilities of danger be the
same, the fear of attack would, in these two cases, be very
different; that, in the one case, he would laugh at the ridiculous
terror of any one who journeyed with him, and expressed
much alarm at the approach of evening;—and that, in the
other case, his own eye would watch, suspiciously, every
horseman who approached, and would feel a sort of relief
when he observed him pass carelessly and quietly along, at
a considerable distance behind."
Uneasiness attending the sudden Acquisition of Wealth.—This
tendency of the imagination to exaggerate the real,
and conjure up a thousand unreal dangers, when any thing
of peculiar value is in possession, which it is certainly possible,
and it may be slightly probable, that we may lose, may,
perhaps, account for the uneasiness, amounting often to extreme
anxiety, that frequently accompanies the sudden acquisition
of wealth. The poor cobbler, at his last, is a merry
man, whistling at his work, from morning till night. Bequeath
him a fortune, and he quits at once his last and his
music; he is no longer the light-hearted man that he was;
his step is cautious, his look anxious and suspicious; he
grows care-worn and old. He that was never so happy in
his life as when a poor man, now dreads nothing so much as
poverty. While he was poor, there was nothing to fear, but
every thing to hope, from the future; now that he is rich,
there is nothing further to hope, but much to fear, since if
the future brings any change in his condition, as it is not
unlikely to do, it will, in all probability, be a change, not
from wealth to still greater wealth, but from present affluence
to his former penury.
The Pleasure of Hope surpasses the Pleasure of Reality.—It
will, doubtless, be found generally true, that the pleasure
of hope surpasses the pleasure derived from the realization
of the object wished and hoped for. The imagination
invests with ideal excellence the good that is still future, and
when the hour of possession and enjoyment comes, the[Pg 513]
reality does not fully answer the expectation. Or, as in the
case, already supposed, of the acquisition of wealth, there
come along with the desired and expected treasure, a thousand
cares and anxieties that were not anticipated, and that
go far to diminish the enjoyment of the acquisition. From
these, and other causes, it happens, I believe, not unfrequently,
that those enjoy the most, who have really the
least, whether of wealth, or of any other good which the
mind naturally desires as a means of happiness; nor can we
fail to see in this a beautiful provision of divine benevolence
for the happiness of the great human family.
Influence on the Mind.—The influence of hope, upon the
human mind, is universally felt, and recognized, as one of the
most powerful and permanent of those varied influences, and
laws of being, that make us what we are. It is limited to no
period of life, no clime and country, no age of the world, no
condition of society, or of individual fortune. It cheers us,
alike, in the childhood of our being, in the maturity of our
riper years, and in the second childhood of advancing age.
There is no good which it cannot promise, no evil for which
it cannot suggest a remedy and a way of escape, no sorrow
which it cannot assuage. It is strength to the weary, courage
to the desponding, life to the dying, joy to the desolate.
It lingers with gentle step about the couch of the suffering,
when human skill can do no more; and, upon the tombs of
those whose departure we mourn, it hangs the unfading garland
of a blessed immortality.
"Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore
Earth's loveliest bounds, and ocean's widest shore."
The same poet who sang so well the pleasures of hope,
has depicted the influence of this emotion, on the mind which
some great calamity has bereft of reason.
"Hark, the wild maniac sings to chide the gale
That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail;
[Pg 514]
Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight sky
And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry,
Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burn
To hail the bark that never can return;
And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep,
That constant love can linger on the deep."
It is, indeed, a touching incident, illustrative not more of
the strength of this principle of our nature, than of the
benevolence which framed our mental and moral constitution,
that when, under the heavy pressure of earthly ills,
reason deserts her empire, and leaves the throne of the human
mind vacant, Hope still lingers to cheer even the
poor maniac, and calmly takes her seat upon that vacant
throne, even as the radiant angels sat upon the stone by the
door of the empty sepulchre.
[Pg 515]
[Pg 516]
[Pg 517]
MENTAL PHILOSOPHY
DIVISION THIRD
THE WILL
PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS.
Leading Divisions.—In our analysis and distribution of
the powers of the mind, they were divided into three generic
classes, viz., Intellect, Sensibility, and Will. Of these,
the two former have been discussed in the preceding pages;
it now remains to enter upon the examination of the third.
Importance and Difficulty of this Department.—This is,
in many respects, at once the most important and the most
difficult of the three. Its difficulty becomes apparent when
we consider what questions arise respecting this power of
the mind, and what diverse and conflicting views have been
entertained, not among philosophers only, but among all
classes of men, and in all ages of the world, concerning
these matters. Its importance is evident from the relation
which this faculty sustains to the other powers of the mind,
and from its direct and intimate connection with some of
the most practical and personal duties of life. Whatever
control we have over ourselves, whether as regards the
bodily or the mental powers, whatever use and disposition
it is in our power to make of the intellectual faculties with
which we are endowed, and of the sensibilities which accompany
or give rise to those intellectual activities, and of the
physical organization which obeys the behests of the sovereign
mind, whatever separates and distinguishes us from the
mere inanimate and mechanical forces of nature on the one
hand, or the blind impulses of irrational brute instinct on
the other; for all this, be it more or less, we are indebted[Pg 518]
to that faculty which we call the Will. And hence it happens
that in this, as in many other cases, the most abstract
questions of philosophy become the most practical and important
questions of life. In every system of mental philosophy
the Will holds a cardinal place. The system can no
more be complete without it, than a steamship without the
engines that are to propel her. As is the view taken of the
Will, such is essentially the system.
Relation to Theology.—Nor is it to be overlooked that
the doctrine of the Will is a cardinal doctrine of theology,
as well as of psychology. Inasmuch as it has a direct and
practical bearing upon the formation of character, and upon
the moral and religious duties of life, it comes properly
within the sphere of that science which treats of these
duties, and of man's relation to his Maker. Hence every
system of theology has to do with the Will; and according
to the view taken of this faculty, such essentially is the system.
If in psychology, still more in theology, is this the
stand-point of the science.
Not, therefore, to be treated as a theological Doctrine.—Not,
however, on this account, is the matter to be treated
as theological and not strictly psychological. It is a matter
which pertains properly and purely to psychology. It is
for that science which treats of the laws and powers of the
human mind to unfold and explain the activity of this most
important of all the mental faculties. To this science theology
must come for her data, so far as she has occasion to
refer to the phenomena of the Will. The same may be said
of ethical, as well as of theological science. In so far as
they are concerned with the moral powers, and with the
human will, they must both depend on psychology. With
in her proper sphere they stand, not as teachers, but as
learners.
The more Care requisite on this Account.—For this
reason all the more care is necessary, in the study and explanation
of the present theme. An error in this part of[Pg 519]
the investigation is likely to extend beyond the bounds of
the science itself, into other and kindred sciences. The
most serious consequences may flow from it, in other and
wider fields of thought.
Sources of Information.—The sources of our information
are essentially the same in this as in the preceding divisions
of the science. They are twofold; the consciousness of
what passes in our own minds, and the observation of
others. Our single business is to ascertain facts, actual
phenomena; not to inquire what might be, or what ought
to be, according to preconceived notions and theories, but
what is. This is to be learned, not by reasoning and logical
argument, but by simple observation of phenomena. Having
once ascertained these, we may infer, and conclude, and
reason from them, as far as we please, and our conclusions
will be correct, provided the data are correct from which
we set forth, and provided we reason correctly from these
principles.
Method to be pursued.—In treating of this department
of mental activity, it will be our first business, then, to point
out the well established and evident facts pertaining to the
matter in hand, viewed simply as psychological phenomena,
as modes in which the human mind manifests itself in action,
according to the laws of its constitution. These being
ascertained, we shall be prepared to consider some of the
more difficult and doubtful matters respecting the will, on
which the world has long been divided, and which can never
be intelligently discussed, much less settled, without a clear
understanding, in the first place, of the psychological facts in
the case, about which there need be, and should be, no dispute.
[Pg 520]
CHAPTER I.
NATURE OF THE WILL.
What the Will is.—I understand, by the will, that power
which the mind has of determining or deciding what it will
do, and of putting forth volitions accordingly. The will is
the power of doing this; willing, is the exercise of the power;
volition, is the deed, the thing done. The will is but another
name for the executive power of the mind. Whatever
we do intelligently and intentionally, whether it implies
an exercise of the intellect, or of the feelings, or of both,
that is an act of the will. All our voluntary, in distinction
from our involuntary movements of the body, and movements
of mind, are the immediate results of the activity of
the Will.
Condition of a Being destitute of Will.—We can, perhaps,
conceive of a being endowed with intellect and sensibility,
but without the faculty of will. Such a being,
however superior he might be to the brutes in point of intelligence,
would, so far as regards the capacities of action, be
even their inferior, since his actions must be, as theirs, the
result of mere sensational impulse, without even that unerring
instinct to guide him, which the brute possesses, and
which supplies the place of reason and intelligent will. To
this wretched condition man virtually approximates when,
by any means, the will becomes so far enfeebled, or brought
under the dominion of appetite and passion, as to lose the
actual control of the mental and physical powers.
Will not distinct from the Mind.—It must be borne in
mind, of course, as we proceed, that the will is nothing but
the mind itself willing, or having power to will, and not
something distinct from the mind, or even a part of the[Pg 521]
mind, as the handle and the blade are distinct parts of the
knife. The power to think, the power to feel, the power to
will, are distinct powers, but the mind is one and indivisible,
exercising now one, now another, of these powers.
§ I.—Elements involved in an Act of Will.
Proposed Analysis.—In order to the better understanding
of the nature of this faculty, let us first analyze its operations,
with a view to ascertain the several distinct stages or
elements of the mental process which takes place. We will
then take up these several elements, one by one, for special
investigation.
Observation of an Act of Will.—What, then, are the
essential phenomena of an act of the will? Let us arrest
ourselves in the process of putting forth an act of this kind,
and observe precisely what it is that we do, and what are
the essential data in the case. I am sitting at my table. I
reach forth my hand to take a book. Here is an act of my
will. My arm went not forth self-moved and spontaneously,
it was sent, was bidden to go; the soul seated within, animating
this physical organism, and making it subservient to
her will, moved that arm. Here, then, is clearly an act of
will. Let us subject it to the test of observation.
The first Element.—First of all, then, there was evidently,
in this case, something to be done—an end to be accomplished—a
book to be reached. The action, both of
body and of mind, was directed to that end, and but for
that the volition would not have been put forth. It is to be
observed, moreover, that the end to be accomplished, in
this case, was a possible one—the book was, or was supposed
to be, within my reach. Otherwise I should not have attempted
to reach it.
A second Element.—I observe, furthermore, in the case
under consideration, a motive, impelling or inducing to that
end; a reason why I willed the act. It was curiosity,[Pg 522]
perhaps, to see what the book was, or it may have been some
other principle of my nature, which induced me to put forth
the volition.
A further Step in the Process.—But the motive does
not, itself, produce the act. It is merely the reason why I
produce it. It has to do not directly with the action, but
with me. Its immediate effect terminates on me, and it is
only indirectly that it affects the final act. The next step in
the process, then, is to be sought, not in the final act, but in
my mind as influenced by motive; and that step is my
choice. Previous to my putting forth the volition to move
my arm, there was a choice or decision to do so. In view
of the end to be accomplished, and influenced by the motive,
I made up my mind—to use a common but not inapt
expression—to perform the act. The question arose, for
the instant, Shall I do it? The very occurrence of a thing
to be done, a possible thing, and of a motive for doing it,
raises, of itself, the question, Shall it be done? The question
may be at once decided in the affirmative, in the absence
of reasons to the contrary, or, in the absence of reflection,
so quickly decided, that, afterward, we shall hardly be
conscious that it was ever before the mind. Or it may be
otherwise. Reasons to the contrary suggest themselves—counter
influences and motives—in view of which we
hesitate, deliberate, decide; and that decision, in view of all
the circumstances, is our preference, or choice. In most cases
the process is so rapid as to escape attention; but subsequent
reflection can hardly fail to detect such a process, more or
less distinctly marked.
The final Stage of the Act.—We have reached now the
point at which it is decided, in our own minds, what course to
pursue. In the case supposed, I have decided to take up the
book. The volition is not yet put forth. Nothing now
remains, however, but to put forth the volition, and at once
the muscular organism, if unimpeded and in health, obeys the
will. The thing is done, and the experiment concluded.
[Pg 523]
Summary of Results.—I repeat now the experiment ten
or a hundred times, but always with like results. I find
always, where there is an act of the will, some end to be obtained,
some motive, a choice, an executive volition. I conclude
that these are the essential phenomena of all voluntary
action.
Of these, the two former, viz., the end to be accomplished,
and the motive, may be regarded as more properly conditions
of volition, than constituent elements of it. Still, so
intimately is the volition connected with one, at least, of
these conditions, viz., the motive, that it claims special consideration.
The ends to be accomplished by volition are as
numerous as the infinite variety of human purposes and actions,
and, of course, admit of no complete enumeration or
classification. We confine our further attention, then, to
these elements—the motive, the choice, the executive volition—and
proceed to their more careful investigation as
phenomena of the will.
§ II.—Investigation of these Elements.
The first of these Elements, Motive, always implied in Action.—I.
The Motive—that which incites the mind to
action—the reason why it acts, and acts as it does. We
never act without some such incitement, some reason for
acting; at least this is true of all our intelligent and voluntary
actions, of which, alone, we now speak. It may be
nothing more than mere present impulse, mere animal appetite
or passion, even that is a motive, a reason why we act.
We cannot conceive of any being having the power of voluntary
action, and exerting that power without any reason
whatever why he did it. The reason may, or may not,
be clearly apprehended by his own mind—that is another
question; but whether distinctly and clearly recognized as
such, or not, by our own minds, a reason there always is for
what we do.
[Pg 524]
In what Sense this Term employed.—Strictly speaking,
the motive is not any and every influence which may bear
upon the mind as an inducement to action, but only the
prevailing inducement, that which actually moves or induces
us to perform the proposed act. In this sense, there may be
many different inducements, but only one motive. Such,
however, is not the ordinary use of the term. That is
usually called a motive which is of a nature to influence the
mind, and induce volition, whether it is, in the given case,
effective, or not. To avoid confusion, I adopt the general use.
Nature of Motives.—As to the nature of the motives
from which we act, they are manifestly of two kinds, and
widely distinct. There is desire, and there is the sense of
moral obligation or duty;—the agreeable, and the right;
each of these constitutes a powerful motive to action. We
find ourselves, under the influence of these motives, acting,
now from desire, now from sense of duty, now in view of
what is in itself agreeable, and now in view of what is right;
and the various motives which influence us and result in
action, may be resolved into one or the other of these powerful
elements.
These Elements distinguished.—These are quite distinct
elements, never to be confounded with, nor resolved into
each other. Desire is the feeling which arises in view of
some good not in present possession, something agreeable,
and to be obtained; it looks forward to that; its root and
spring is that grand principle of our nature, the love of happiness.
Its appeal is to that. Its strength lies in that
Duty, as we have already shown—that sense of obligation
which is implied in the very idea of right—is quite another
principle than that, not founded in that; springs not from
self-love, or the desire of happiness; is, on the contrary, a
simple, primitive, fundamental idea of the human mind, based
in the inherent, essential, eternal nature of things. Given
the right, the perception of right, and there is given, also
along with it, the sense of obligation.
[Pg 525]
Their Action not always in Unison.—These two motives
may act in different directions; they frequently do so. Desire
impels me one way, duty another. Conflict then arises.
Which shall prevail, desire or duty, depends on circumstances,
on my character already formed, my habits of thought
and feeling, my degree of self-control, my conscientiousness,
the strength of my native propensities, the clearness with
which, at the time, I apprehend the different courses of
conduct proposed, their character and their consequences.
Desire may prevail, and then I go counter to my sense of
obligation. Remorse follows. I am wretched. I suffer
penalty. Duty prevails, and I do that which I believe to be
right, regardless of consequences. I suffer in property,
health, life, external good, but am sustained by that approving
voice within, which more than compensates for all such
losses.
That there are these two springs or motives of human action,
and that they are distinct from each other, is what I
affirm, and what no one, I think, who reflects on what consciousness
reveals, will be disposed to deny.
Motives of Duty not resolvable into Motives of Interest.—Should
any still contend that this very approval of conscience,
this peace and happiness which result from doing
right, are, themselves, the motive to action, in the case supposed,
and so, self-love, a desire of happiness, is, after all, the
only motive, I reply, this is an assumption utterly without
proof. Consciousness contradicts it. The history of the
human race contradicts it. There is such a thing as doing
right for its own sake, irrespective of good to ourselves.
Every man is conscious of such distinction, and of its force
as a motive of conduct. Every virtuous man is conscious of
acting, at times, at least, from such a motive.
Coincidence of Desire and Duty.—It is only when desire
and duty coincide, that the highest happiness can be
reached, when we no longer desire and long for, because we
no longer view as agreeable, that which is not strictly right.[Pg 526]
This is a state never fully realized in this life. It implies
perfection of character, and a perfect world.
Desires, as Motives of Action, further distinguished.—Desire,
and the feeling of obligation, I have spoken of as motives
of conduct. The former, again, is not always of one
sort. Desire is, indeed, in itself, a simple element, springing
from one source, but not always directed to the same object.
We desire now one thing, now another. There are two
classes, at least, of desires quite easy to be distinguished, the
physical and the psychical, the one relating to the wants of the
body, the other to the craving of the higher nature; the
mere animal instincts, propensities, passions, looking to animal
gratification; and the higher rational self-love, which
seeks the true and permanent well-being, under the guidance
of reason. Each of these furnishes a powerful motive, or
class of motives, to human action. They are each, however,
but different forms of desire.
The second Element, Choice, always involved in Volition.—II.
Choice.—This is an essential element in volition, and
next in order. As, setting aside such acts as are purely spontaneous
and mechanical, we never, intelligently and purposely,
do any thing without a volition to do it, so we never
put forth volition without exercising choice. The act performed
is not a voluntary act, unless it is something which I
choose to do. True, my choice may be influenced by extraneous
causes—may even be constrained—circumstances
may virtually compel me to choose as I do, by shutting me
up to this one course, as being either the only right, or the
only desirable course. And these circumstances, that thus
influence my decisions, may be essentially beyond my control,
as they not unfrequently are. Yet, all things considered,
it is my choice to do thus and not otherwise, and so long as
I do choose, and am free to act accordingly, the act is voluntary.
The Position illustrated.—This may be illustrated by the
case of the soldier who, in the bombardment of his native[Pg 527]
city, is ordered to point his piece in the direction of his own
dwelling. To disobey, is death. To obey, is to put in
jeopardy those who are dear to him. He hesitates, but
finally chooses to obey orders. He aims his piece as directed,
sadly against his inclination; yet, on the whole, it is his
choice to do it. He prefers that to the certainty of dishonorable
death, a death which would in no way benefit or
protect those whom he wishes to save. A man, of his own
accord, lies down upon the surgeon's operating table, and
stretches out his arm to the knife. It is his choice—a hard
choice, indeed, but, nevertheless, decidedly his choice. He
prefers that to still greater suffering, or even death. In
these cases—and they are only instances and illustrations of
what, in a less marked and decided way, is continually occurring—we
see the utmost strain and pressure of circumstances
upon a man's choice, making it morally certain that
he will decide as he does, shutting him up to that decision,
in fact, yet his choice remaining unimpaired, and his act a
free act; free, because he does as he, on the whole, and
under the circumstances, chooses to do. He does the thing
voluntarily.
Another Case supposed.—Suppose, now, the man were
forcibly seized, and borne by sheer strength to the table,
and placed upon it, and held there while the operation was
performed. In that case, he no longer acts, is only acted upon,
no longer chooses and wills to go there, nay, chooses and
wills directly the contrary. The difference in the two cases,
is the difference between a voluntary act, chosen reluctantly,
indeed, and under the pressure of an exigency, but still
chosen, and the passive suffering of an action which, so far
from being voluntary, was, in no sense, an act of his own.
Choice always influenced by Circumstances.—Now, as
regards the actual operation of things, our choices are, in
fact, always influenced by circumstances, and these circumstances
are various and innumerable; a thousand seen and
unseen influences are at work upon us, to affect our decisions[Pg 528]
Were it possible to estimate aright all these influences, to
calculate, with precision, their exact weight and effect, then
our choice, under any given circumstances, might be predicted
with unerring certainty. This can never be exactly
known to man. Sagacity may approximate to it, and may,
so far, be able to read the future, and predict the probable
conduct of men in given circumstances. To the omniscient,
these things are fully known, and to his eye, therefore, the
whole future of our lives, our free choices and voluntary acts,
lie open before they are yet known to ourselves.
Conclusion stated.—From what has been said, it appears
that it is not inconsistent with the nature of choice, to be
influenced, nay, decided by circumstances, even when
circumstances are beyond our control.
Diversity of Objects essential to Choice.—What is implied
in an act of choice? Several things. In order to choice,
there must, of course, be diversity of objects from which to
choose. If there were but one possible course to be pursued,
it were absurd to speak of choice. Hence, even in
the cases just now supposed, there was a diversity of objects
from which to choose—death, or obedience to orders, suffering
from the surgery, or greater suffering and danger without
it, and between these the man made his choice.
Liberty of Selection also essential.—As a further condition
of choice, there is implied liberty of selection from
among the different objects proposed. It were of no use
that there should be different courses of conduct—different
ends, or different means of attaining an end—proposed to
our understanding, if it were not in our power to select
which we pleased, if we were not free to go which way we
will. Choice always implies that different actions and volitions
are possible, and are, as such, submitted to our decision
and preference. There can be no volition without
choice, and no choice without liberty to choose. Whatever
interferes, then, with that liberty, and diminishes or takes it
away, interferes, also, with my choice, and diminishes or[Pg 529]
destroys that. The very essence of a voluntary act consists
in its being an act of choice, or a free-will act. No tyranny
can take this away, except such as destroys, also, all voluntary
and responsible action. You may command me to
burn incense on a heathen altar. The very command leaves
it optional with me whether to obey. If I do not, the penalty
is death. Very well—I may choose the penalty, rather
than the crime, and no power on earth can compel me to
choose otherwise. I die, but I die a free man. True, you
may bind me, and by mechanical force urge me to the altar,
and by superior strength of other arms, may cause my hand
to put incense there, but it is not my act then; it is the act
of those who use me as a mere passive instrument; it is no
more my act, than it would be the act of so much iron, or
wood, or other instrument.
Deliberation implied.—Choice, moreover, implies deliberation,
the balancing and weighing of inducements, the
comparison and estimate of the several goods proposed, the
several ends and objects, the various means to those ends;
the exercise of reason and; judgment in this process. I see
before me different courses, different ends proposed to my
understanding, am conscious of diverse inducements and
reasons, some urging me in one direction, some in another.
Native propensities impel me toward this line of conduct.
Rational self-love puts in a claim for quite another procedure.
Benevolence, and a sense of duty, it may be, conspire to
urge me in still another direction. I am at liberty to choose
I must choose. I can go this way or that, must go in one or
the other. I hesitate, deliberate, am at a loss.
Now there is no choice which does not virtually involve
some process of this kind. It may be very rapid; so rapid
as to escape detection, in many cases, so that we are hardly
conscious of the process. In other cases, we are painfully
conscious of the whole scene; we hesitate long, are in doubt
and suspense between conflicting motives and interests.
Desire and duty wage a fierce contest within us. Shall we[Pg 530]
choose the agreeable? Shall we choose the right? And
then, again, which is really the agreeable, and which is truly
the right?
Final Decision.—As the result of this deliberation, we
finally decide, one way, or the other. This decision is our
preference, our choice. Our minds, as we say, are made up
what to do, what course to pursue. When the time comes,
we shall act. Something may prevent our having our way;
opportunity may not offer, or we may see fit, subsequently
to reconsider and revoke our decision. Otherwise, our
choice is carried out in action.
Choice implies, then, these things: diversity of objects,
liberty of selection, deliberation, decision, or preference.
The final Element.—III. Executive Volition.—In
our investigation of the several elements or momenta of an
act of the Will, we have as yet considered but two, viz.,
motive and choice—the first, more properly a condition of
voluntary action, than itself a constituent part of it, yet
still, a condition so indispensably connected with volition, as
to require investigation in connection with the latter. It
only remains now to notice the last stage of the process, the
final element, which added, the process is complete—that
is, the executive act of the mind, volition properly so called.
When the objects to be attained have been presented, when
the motives or inducements to action have been considered,
when, in view of all, the choice or preference has been
made, it still remains to put forth the volition, or the act
will not be performed. This may never happen. Opportunity
may never offer. But suppose it does. We will.
This done, the bodily mechanism springs into play, obedient
to the call and command of the soul.
Even now, the action does not of necessity correspond to
the volition. Even now, we may be disappointed. Other
wills may be in action in opposition to ours. Other arms
may move in obedience to those other wills. Or we may
find the thing too much for us to do, impracticable, beyond
our strength and means, or disease may palsy the frame, so
that it shall not obey the mandate of the spirit. Nevertheless
the volition is complete. That depends not on the
success of the exertion. We have willed, and with that
our mental action ceases. What remains is physical, not
psychological. If we succeed, if the volition finds itself
answered in execution, then, also, the act once performed is
thenceforth out of our power. It is done, and stands a permanent
historic event, beyond our control, beyond our decision
or revocation. Our power over it ceases in the moment
of volition. Our connection with it may never cease. It
moves on in its inevitable career of consequences, and, like a
swift river, bears us along with it. We have no more to do
with it, but it has to do with us; it may be to our sorrow,
it may be, forever.
Such are, in brief, the main psychological facts, relating
to the will, as they offer themselves to our consciousness
and careful inspection.[Pg 531]
CHAPTER II.
RELATION OF THE WILL TO OTHER POWERS OF THE MIND
Activity of the Intellect in Volition.—It is a matter of
some importance to ascertain the relation which the will
sustains to the other mental powers. There can be no
doubt that the activity of the will is preceded, in all cases
by that of the intellect. I must first perceive some object
presented to my understanding, before I can will its attainment.
In the case already supposed, the book lying on my
table is an object within the cognizance of sense, and to perceive
it is an act of intellect. Until perceived, the will puts
not forth any volition respecting it. Nor does the mere
perception occasion volition. In connection with the[Pg 532]
perception of the book, ideas present themselves to the mind,
curiosity is awakened, the mind is set upon a train of
thought, which results in the desire and the volition to take
the book. In all this the intellect is active. In a word,
whatever comes in as a motive to influence the mind in
favor of, or against a given course, must in the first instance
address itself to the understanding, and be comprehended
by that power, before it can influence the mental decisions.
A motive which I do not comprehend is no motive; a
reason which I do not perceive, or understand, is, to me, no
reason.
Activity of the Sensibilities also involved.—But does
volition immediately follow the action of the intellect in the
case supposed? Do we first understand, and then will; or
does something else intervene between the intellectual perception
and the volition? Were there no feeling awakened
by the intellectual perception, would there be any volition
with regard to the object perceived? I think, I feel, I will;
is not that the order of the mental processes? "We can
easily imagine," says Mackintosh, "a percipient and thinking
being without a capacity of receiving pleasure or pain.
Such a being might perceive what we do; if we could conceive
him to reason, he might reason justly; and if he were
to judge at all, there seems no reason why he should not
judge truly. But what could induce such a being to will
or to act? It seems evident that his existence could only
be a state of passive contemplation. Reason, as reason, can
never be a motive to action. It is only when we superadd
to such a being sensibility, or the capacity of emotion, or
sentiment of desire and aversion, that we introduce him into
the world of action."
Opinion of Locke.—To the same effect, Locke: "Good
and evil, present and absent, it is true, work upon the mind,
but that which immediately determines the will from time
to time, to every voluntary action, is the uneasiness of desire,
fixed on some absent good, either negative, as indolence[Pg 533]
to one in pain, or positive, as enjoyment of pleasure. That
it is this uneasiness that determines the will to the successive
voluntary actions, whereof the greatest part of our lives
is made up, and by which we are conducted through different
courses to different ends, I shall endeavor to show both
from experience and the reason of the thing." Elsewhere
again: "For good, though appearing and allowed ever so
great, yet till it has raised desires in our minds, and thereby
made us uneasy in its want, it reaches not our wills; we
are not within the sphere of its activity."
Testimony of Consciousness.—The general opinion of
philosophical writers is now in accordance with the views
thus expressed. The intellect they regard as acting upon
the will not directly, but through the medium of the sensibilities,
the various emotions and desires which are awakened
by the perceptions of the intellect. That this is the
correct view, admits of little doubt. The question is best
settled by an appeal to consciousness. In the case supposed,
the perception of the book upon the table does not, of itself,
directly influence my will. It is not until some feeling is
aroused, my curiosity excited, or desire, in some form,
awakened, that my will acts. The object must not only be
perceived, but perceived as agreeable, and the wish to possess
it be entertained, before the volition is put forth.
Whether this Rule applies in all Cases.—That this is so
as regards a large class of our volitions, will hardly be denied.
When the motive to action is of the nature of desire,
it is the sensibility, and not the intellect, that is directly, concerned
in shaping the action of the will. I first perceive the
object to be agreeable; I next desire its possession, as such;
then I will its attainment. The intellectual activity gives
rise to emotion, and the latter leads to volition.
It may be supposed, however, that when the motive which
influences the will is not of the nature of desire, but rather
of a sense of obligation or duty, then the case is otherwise,
the intellectual perception of the right, and of the obligation[Pg 534]
to do the right, being sufficient of themselves to lead the
mind to action. But as the intellectual perception of the
agreeable is followed by emotion or desire in view of the
same, so the intellectual perception of the right is followed,
in like manner, by a certain class of feelings or emotions,
usually called moral sensibilities; and it is the feeling, in
either case, and not the knowing, the sensibility, and not the
intellect, that is directly in contact with the will. I know
that I ought, and I feel that I ought, are states of mind
closely connected, indeed, but not identical; and it is the
latter which leads directly to volition.
Desire and Volition not always distinguished.—Another
point requiring investigation, is the precise relation between
volition and desire. Are they the same thing, and if not,
wherein do they differ? It has been the custom of certain
writers not to distinguish between desire and volition, as
states of mind, or to regard them as differing, if at all, only
in degree. Thus Condillac, and writers of the French
school, as also Brown, Mill, and others, in Great Britain,
have treated of volition as only a stronger degree of desire,
which, again, is only a form of emotion. Even McCosh, in
his treatise on moral government, while insisting on the distinction
between emotions and desires, regards wishes, desires,
and volitions, as belonging essentially to the same
class of mental states. "Appealing to consciousness," says
that able and elegant writer, "we assert that there is a class
of mental states embracing wishes, desires, volitions, which
cannot be analyzed into anything else. These mental states
or affections are very numerous, and occupy a place in the
human mind second to no other. They differ from each
other in degree, and possibly even in some minor qualities
but they all agree in other and more important respects
and so are capable of being arranged under one head."
And in a subsequent paragraph he remarks to the same
effect, "Later mental inquirers are generally disposed to admit
that the volition the positive determination to take a[Pg 535]
particular step, the resolution, for instance, to give a sum of
money to take our friend to a warmer climate for the restoration
of his health, is more than a mere emotion. But if we
are thus to constitute a separate attribute to which to refer
volition, it is worthy of being inquired whether we should
not arrange, under the same head, wishes, desires, and the
cognate states, as being more closely allied in their nature to
volitions than to the common emotions."
The Difference generic.—It is on this latter point that
we are compelled to join issue with the writer just quoted.
A wish, a desire, are forms of feeling; a volition is not.
The difference is generic, and not one of degree merely. A
desire differs from any other form of feeling, not so much,
not so radically, as it differs from a volition. A wish or desire
may lead to volition, or it may not. We often wish or desire
what we do not will. The object of our desires may
not be within the sphere of our volitions, may not be possible
of attainment, may not depend, in any sense, upon our
wills. Or it may be something which reason and the law
of right forbid, yet, nevertheless, an object of natural desire.
And so, on the other hand, we may, from a sense of duty,
or from the dictates of reason and prudence, will what is contrary
to our natural inclinations, and our volitions, so far
from representing our desires, in that case, may be directly
contrary to them.
Opinion of Reid.—Accordant with the view now expressed,
are the following remarks of Dr Reid: "With regard
to our actions, we may desire what we do not will, and
will what we do not desire, nay, what we have a great aversion
to. A man a-thirst has a strong desire to drink, but,
for some particular reason, he determines not to gratify his
desire. A judge, from a regard to justice and the duty of
his office, dooms a criminal to die, while, from humanity and
particular affection, he desires that he should live. A man,
for health, may take a nauseous draught for which he has
no desire, but a great aversion. Desire, therefore, even[Pg 536]
when its object is some action of our own, is only an excitement
to the will, but is not volition. The determination of
the mind may be not to do what we desire to do."
Opinion of Locke.—To the same effect is the following
from Locke: "This caution, of being careful not to be misled
by expressions that do not enough keep up the difference
between the will and several acts of the mind that are quite
distinct from it, I think the more necessary, because I find
the will often confounded with several of the affections, especially
desire, and one put for the other, and that by men
who would not willingly be thought not to have had very
distinct notions of things, and not to have writ very clearly
about them. This, I imagine, has been no small occasion of
obscurity and mistake in this matter; and therefore is, as
much as may be, to be avoided. For, he that shall turn his
thoughts inward upon what passes in his mind when he
wills, shall see that the will or power of volition is conversant
about nothing, but that particular determination of the
mind, whereby, barely by a thought, the mind endeavors to
give rise, continuation, or stop to any action which it takes
to be in its power. This well considered, plainly shows that
the will is perfectly distinguished from desire, which, in the
very same action may have quite a contrary tendency from
that which our will sets us upon. A man whom I cannot
deny, may oblige me to use persuasions to another, which,
at the same time I am speaking, I may wish may not prevail
on him. In this case, it is plain, the will and desire run
counter. I will the action that tends one way, while my
desire tends another, and that right contrary. Whence it
is evident," he adds, "that desiring and willing are two
distinct acts of the mind; and, consequently, that the will,
which is but the power of volition, is much more distinct
from desire."
Testimony of Consciousness.—The testimony of consciousness
seems to be clearly in accordance with the views
now expressed. We readily distinguish between our[Pg 537]
desires and our volitions. We are conscious of willing, often,
what is contrary to our desires; the course which honor and
duty approve, and which we resolutely carry out, is in disregard
of many fond and cherished desires which still agitate
the bosom. And even when our desires and volitions coincide,
it requires but little reflection to discover the difference
between them. It is a difference recognized in the common
language of life, and in the writings and conversation of men
who are by no means theorists or metaphysicians.
Further Illustrations of the Distinction.—Mr. Upham,
who has very clearly and ably maintained the distinction
now in question, refers us, in illustration, to the case of
Abraham offering his son upon the altar of sacrifice, sternly,
resolutely willing, in obedience to the divine command,
what must have been repugnant to every feeling of the
father's heart; to the memorable instance of Brutus ordering
and witnessing the execution of his own sons, as conspirators
against the State, the struggle between the strong
will and the strong paternal feeling evidently visible in his
countenance, as he stood at the dreadful scene; and the case
of Virginius, plunging the knife into the bosom of a beloved
daughter, whose dishonor could in no other way be averted.
In all these, and many other similar cases, private interests
and personal affections are freely and nobly sacrificed, in
favor of high public interests, and moral ends; yet, to do
this, the will must act in opposition to the current of natural
feeling and desire.
[Pg 538]
CHAPTER III.
FREEDOM OF THE WILL.
Problems respecting the Will.—Our attention has thus
far been directed to the psychological facts respecting the
will, in itself considered, and also in its relations to the other
mental powers. It becomes necessary now, in order to the
more complete understanding of the matter, to look at some
of the disputed points, the grand problems, respecting the
human will, which have for ages excited and divided the reflecting
world. The way is prepared for these more difficult
questions, when once the simple facts, to which our attention
has already been directed, are well understood. These
questions are numerous, but, if I mistake not, they all resolve
themselves virtually into the one general problem of the
freedom of the will, or, at least, so link themselves with that
as to admit of discussion in the same connection.
Freedom, what.—In approaching this much-disputed
question, it is necessary to ascertain, in the first place, what
is meant by freedom, and what by freedom of the will, else
we may discuss the matter to no purpose. Various definitions
of freedom have been given. It is a word in very common
use, and, in its general application, not liable to be
misunderstood. Every one who understands the ordinary
language of life, knows well enough what freedom is. It
denotes the opposite of restraint; the power to do what one
likes, pleases, is inclined to do. My person is free, when it
can come and go, do this or that, as suits my inclination.
Any faculty of the mind, or organ of the body, is free, when
its own specific and proper action is not hindered. Freedom
of motion, is power to move when and where we please
Freedom of speech, is power to say what we like. Freedom
of action, is power to do what we like.
Freedom of the Will, what.—What, then, is freedom of
the will? What can it be but the power of exercising, without
restraint or hindrance, its own specific and proper function,
viz., the putting forth volitions, just such volitions as
we please. This as we have seen, is the proper office of the
will, its specific and appropriate action. If nothing prevents
or restrains me from forming and putting forth such volitions
as I please, then my will is free; and not otherwise.[Pg 539]
Freedom of the will, then, is not power to do what one
wills, in the sense of executing volitions when formed
that is simple freedom of the limbs, and muscular apparatus,
not of will—a freedom which may be destroyed by a stroke
of paralysis, or an iron chain;—it is not a freedom of walking,
if one wills to walk, or of singing, or flying, or moving
the right arm, if one is so disposed. That is freedom, but
not freedom of the will. My will is free, not when I can do
what I will to do, but when I can will to do just what I
please. Whatever freedom the will has, must lie within its
own proper sphere of action, and not without it; must relate
to that, and not to something else. This distinction, so
very obvious, has, nevertheless, been sometimes strangely
overlooked.
Is, then, the human will free, in the sense now defined?
Let us first notice some presumptions in favor of its freedom
then the more direct argument.
§ I.—Presumptions in Favor of Freedom.
The general Conviction of Freedom a Presumption in its
Favor.—1. It is a presumption in favor of freedom that
there is among men, a very general, not to say universal
conviction of freedom. It is a prevalent idea, an established
conviction and belief of the mind. We are conscious of this
belief ourselves, we observe it in others. When we perform[Pg 540]
any act, or choose any course of conduct, we are impressed
with the belief that we could have done or chosen differently,
had we been so disposed. We never doubt or call in question
this ability, in regard to the practical matters of life.
The languages and the literature of the world bear witness
to the universality of this belief. Now this general conviction
and firm belief of freedom constitute, to say the least, a
presumption, and a strong one, in favor of the doctrine. If
men are free to do as they like, then they are free to will as
they like, for the willing precedes the doing; and if they
are not thus free, how happens this so general conviction of
a freedom which they do not possess?
The Appeal to Consciousness.—The argument is sometimes
stated, by the advocates of freedom, in a form which
is liable to objection. The appeal is made directly to consciousness.
We are conscious, it is said, of freedom, conscious
of a power, when we do any thing, to do otherwise, to take
some other course instead. Strictly speaking, we are conscious
only of our present state of mind. I may know the
past; but it is not a matter of consciousness; I may also
know, perhaps, what might have been, in place of the actual
past, but of this I am not conscious. When I experience a
sensation, or put forth a volition, I am conscious of that sensation
or volition; but I am not conscious of what never
occurred, that is, of some other feeling or volition instead of
an actual one. I may have a firm conviction, amounting
even to knowledge, that at the moment of experiencing that
feeling, or exercising that volition, it was possible for me to
have exercised a different one; but it is a conviction, a belief,
at most a knowledge, and not, properly, consciousness.
I am conscious of the conviction that I am free, and that I
can do otherwise than as I do; and this, in itself, is a presumption,
that I have such a power; but I am not conscious
of the power itself. It may be said, that if there were any
restraint upon my will, to prevent my putting forth such
volitions as I please, or to prevent my acting otherwise than[Pg 541]
I do, I should be conscious of such restraint; and this may
be very true; and from the absence of any such consciousness
of restraint, I may justly infer that I am free; but this,
again, is an inference, and not a consciousness. One thing,
however, I am conscious of, that my actual volitions are
such, and only such, as I please to put forth; and this leads
to the conviction that it is in my power to put forth any volition
that I may please.
Our moral Nature a Presumption in Favor of Freedom.—2.
It is a further presumption in favor of the entire freedom
of the will, that man's moral nature seems to imply it.
We approve or condemn the conduct of others. It is with
the understanding that they acted freely, and could have
done otherwise. We should never think of praising a man
for doing what he could not help doing, or of blaming him
for what it was utterly out of his power to avoid. So, also,
we approve and condemn our own actions, and always with
the understanding that these actions and volitions were free.
There may be regret for that which was unavoidable, but
never a sense of guilt, never remorse. The existence of these
feelings always implies freedom of the will, the power to
have done otherwise. Let any man select that period of his
history, that act of his whole life, for which he blames himself
most, and of which the recollection casts the deepest gloom
and sadness over all his subsequent years, and let him ask
himself why it is that he so blames himself for that course,
and he will find, in every case, that it is because he knows
that he might have done differently. Take away this conviction,
and you take away the foundation of all his remorse,
and of self-condemnation. The same thing is implied, also,
in the feeling of obligation. It is impossible to feel under
moral obligation to do what it is utterly and absolutely out
of our power to do.
This View maintained by Mr. Upham.—"There are
some truths," says Mr. Upham, "which are so deeply based
in the human constitution, that all men of all classes receive[Pg 542]
them, and act upon them. They are planted deeply and
immutably in the soul, and no reasoning, however plausible,
can shake them. And, if we are not mistaken, the doctrine
of the freedom of the will, as a condition of even the possibility
of a moral nature, is one of these first truths. It seems
to be regarded, by all persons, without any exception, as a
dictate of common sense, and as a first principle of our nature,
that men are morally accountable, and are the subjects
of a moral responsibility in any respect, whatever, only so
far as they possess freedom, both of the outward action, and
of the will. They hold to this position, as an elementary
truth, and would no sooner think of letting it go than of
abandoning the conviction of their personal existence and
identity. They do not profess to go into particulars, but
they assert it in the mass, that man is a moral being only so
far as he is free. And such a unanimous and decided
testimony, bearing, as it absolutely does, the seal and superscription
of nature herself, is entitled to serious consideration."
Also by Dr. Reid.—Dr. Reid, also, takes essentially the
same view. He regards it as a first principle, to be ranked
in the same class with the conviction of our personal existence
and identity, and the existence of a material world,
"that we have some degree of power over our actions, and
the determinations of our will." It is implied, he maintains,
in every act of volition, in all deliberation, and in every
resolution or purpose formed in consequence of deliberation.
"It is not more evident," he says, "that mankind have a
conviction of the existence of a material world, than that
they have the conviction of some degree of power in themselves,
and in others, every one over his own actions, and
the determinations of his will—a conviction so early, so
general, and so interwoven with the whole of human conduct,
that it must be the natural effect of our constitution,
and intended by the Author of our being to guide our actions."
[Pg 543]
Consequences of the Opposite.—3. The consequences of
the opposite view afford a presumption in favor of freedom.
If the will is not free, if all our liberty is merely a liberty
to do what we will to do, or to execute the volitions which
we form, but we have no power over the volitions themselves,
then we have no power whatever to will or to act
differently from what we do. This is fatalism. All that
the fatalist maintains is, that we are governed by circumstances
out of our own control, so that, situated as we are, it
is impossible for us to act otherwise than as we do. From
this follows, as a natural and inevitable consequence, the
absence of all accountability and obligation. The foundation
of these, as we have already seen, is freedom. Take
this away, and you strike a fatal blow at man's moral nature.
It is no longer possible for me to feel under obligation to do
what I have absolutely no power to do, or to believe myself
accountable for doing what I could not possibly avoid.
Morality, duty, accountability, become mere chimeras, idle
fancies of the brain, devices of the priest and the despot, to
frighten men into obedience and subjection.
This View sustained by Facts.—These are not random
statements. It is a significant fact, that those who have undertaken
to deny accountability, and moral obligation, have,
almost without exception, I believe, been advocates of
the doctrine of necessity. Indeed, it seems impossible to
maintain such views upon any other ground; while, on the
other hand, the denial of the freedom of the will leads almost
of necessity to such conclusions. "Remorse," says Mr.
Belsham, "is the exquisitely painful feeling which arises
from the belief that, in circumstances precisely the same, we
might have chosen and acted differently. This fallacious
feeling is superseded by the doctrine of necessity."
Equally plain, and to the same effect, are the following
passages from the correspondence of Diderot, as quoted by
Mr. Stewart: "Examine it narrowly, and you will see that
the word liberty is a word devoid of meaning; that there[Pg 544]
are not, and that there cannot be, free beings; that we are
only what accords with the general order, with our organization,
our education, and the chain of events. These dispose
of us invincibly. We can no more conceive of a being
acting without a motive, than we can of one of the arms of
a balance acting without a weight. The motive is always
exterior and foreign, fastened upon us by some cause distinct
from ourselves.... We have been so often
praised and blamed, and have so often praised and blamed
others, that we contract an inveterate prejudice of believing
that we and they will and act freely. But if there is no liberty,
there is no action that merits either praise or blame; neither
vice nor virtue; nothing that ought either to be rewarded
or punished.... The doer of good is lucky, not
virtuous.... Reproach others for nothing, and
repent of nothing; this is the first step to wisdom."
These Opinions not to be charged upon all Necessitarians.—It
is not to be supposed, of course, that all who deny the
freedom of the will, adopt the views above expressed.
Whether such denial, however, consistently followed out to
its just and legitimate conclusions, does not lead to such
results, is another question.
§ II.—The Direct Argument.
Another Mode of Argument.—Thus far we have considered
only the presumptions in favor of the freedom of
the will. We find them numerous and strong. The question
is, however, to be decided not by presumptions for or
against, but by direct argument based upon a careful inquiry
into the psychological facts of the case. To this let us now
proceed, bearing in mind, as we advance, what are the essential
phenomena of the will, as already ascertained, and
what is meant by freedom of the will as already defined.
The Will free unless its appropriate Action is hindered.—It
is evident that, if we are right in our ideas of what[Pg 545]
freedom is, the will is strictly and properly free, provided
nothing interferes with, and prevents, our putting forth such
volitions as we please and choose to put forth. The specific
and appropriate action of the will, as we have seen, is simply
to put forth volitions. Whatever freedom it has, then, must
lie within that sphere, and not without it, must relate to that,
and not to something else; whatever restraint or want of
freedom it has, must also be found within these limits. My
will is free, when I can will to do just what I please.
Strength of Inclination, no Impediment.—If this be so,
then it is clear, 1. That mere strength of inclination can by
no means impair the freedom of the will. Be the inclination
never so strong, it matters not. Nay, so far from interfering
with freedom, it is an essential element of it. Freedom presupposes
and implies inclination. One is surely none the
less free because very strongly inclined to do as he likes,
provided he can do what he wishes or prefers. This is as
true of the action of the will as of any other action.
The Source of Inclination, of no Consequence to the present
Inquiry.—2. It is evident, furthermore, that freedom
has nothing to do with the source of my inclinations, any
more than with their strength. It makes no difference what
causes my preference, or whether any thing causes it. I
have a preference, an inclination, a disposition to do a given
thing, and put forth a given volition—am disposed to do
it, and can do it—then I am free, my will is free. It
is of no consequence how I came by that inclination or
disposition. The simple question is, Am I at liberty to follow
it?
The Interference must be from without, and must affect
the Choice.—It is evident, moreover, according to what
has now been said, that if there be really any restraint upon
the will, or lack of freedom in its movements, it must proceed
from something extraneous, outside the will itself,
something which comes in from without, and that in such a
way as to interfere, in some way with my choice; for it is[Pg 546]
there that the element of freedom lies. But whatever interferes
with my choice, interferes with my willing at all; the
act is no longer a voluntary act. Choice is essential to
volition, the very element of it. In order to an act of will
as we have seen, there must be liberty to choose, deliberation,
actual preference. Volition presupposes them, and is
based on them. Whatever prevents them, prevents volition.
Whatever places me in such a state of mind that I
have no preference at all, no choice, as to any given thing,
places me in such a state that I have also no volition as
to that thing. The question of freedom is forestalled in
such a case, becomes absurd. Where there is no volition,
there is of course no freedom of volition, nor yet any want
of freedom. Freedom of will is power to will as I like,
but now I have no liking, no preference.
The Supposition varied.—But suppose now that I am
not prevented from choosing, but only from carrying out my
choice in actual volition; from willing, according to my
choice. Then, also, the act is no longer properly a volition,
an act of will, for one essential element of every such act,
viz., choice, is wanting. I have a choice, indeed, but it is
not here, not represented in this so-called volition, lies in
another direction, is, in fact, altogether opposed to this, my so-called
volition. There can be no such volition. The human
mind is a stranger to any such phenomenon, and if it did occur,
it would not be volition, not an act of the will, not a
voluntary act. Whatever, then, comes in, either to prevent
my choosing, or to prevent my exercising volition according
to my choice, does, in fact, prevent my willing at all. If
there be an act of the will, it is, in its very nature, a free
act, and cannot be otherwise. Allow me to choose, and to
put forth volition according to my choice, and you leave me
free. Prevent this, and you prevent my willing at all.
The Limitation, as usually regarded, not really one.—Those
who contend that the will is not free, place the limitation
back of the choice. Choice is governed by inclination,[Pg 547]
they say, and inclination depends on circumstances,
on education, habits, fashion, etc., things, in great measure,
beyond our control; and while these circumstances remain
the same, a man cannot choose otherwise than he does.
To this I reply, that, as we have already seen, the will is
strictly and properly free, provided nothing interferes with,
and prevents, our putting forth such volitions as we choose
to put forth. Is there, then, any thing in these circumstances
which are supposed to control our choice, and to be
so fatal to our freedom, is there in them any thing which
really interferes with, or prevents our willing as we choose?
Does the fact that I am inclined, and strongly so, to a given
choice, prevent me from putting forth that choice in the
shape of executive volition? So far from this, that inclination
is the very circumstance that leads to my doing it. All
that could possibly be contended, is that the supposed inclination
to a given choice is likely to prevent my having
some other and different choice. But that has nothing to
do with the question of the freedom of my will, which depends,
as we have seen, not on the power to choose otherwise
than one is inclined, or than one likes, but as he likes.
What force, I ask again, is there in any circumstance, or
combination of circumstances, which go to mould and shape
my inclinations and my disposition, and have no further
power over me, what force in them, or what tendency, to
prevent my willing as I choose, as I like, as I am inclined?
Nay, if my will acts at all, it must, as I have shown, act in
this way, and therefore act freely.
Freedom of Inclination not Freedom of Will.—But suppose
I have no power to like, or to be inclined, differently
from what I do like, and am now inclined? I reply, it matters
not as to the present question. The supposition now
made, takes away or limits, not the freedom of the will, it
does not touch that; but the freedom of the affections. Can
I like what I do not like—and can I put forth such volitions
as I please or choose—are two distinct questions, and again[Pg 548]
I repeat that the freedom of our will depends, not on our
having this or that particular choice, but on our being able
to carry out whatever choice we do make into our volitions;
not on our being able to will otherwise than we choose, nor
yet on our ability to choose otherwise than we do, but simply
on our being able to will as we choose, whatever that choice
may be.
Are the Sensibilities Free.—Have I, in reality, however,
any freedom of the affections, any power under given circumstances,
to be affected otherwise than I am, to feel otherwise
than I do? I reply, the affections are not elements of
the will, are not under its immediate control; are not strictly
voluntary. It depends on a great variety of circumstances,
what, in any given case, your affections or inclinations may
be. You have no power of will directly over them. You
can modify and shape them, only by shaping your own voluntary
action so far as that bears upon their formation. By
shaping your CHARACTER which IS under your control, you
may, in a manner, at least, determine the nature and degree
of the emotions which will arise, under given circumstances,
in your bosom.
The two Questions entirely distinct.—But, however that
may be, it has nothing to do, I repeat, with the question
now under discussion. The freedom of the affections, and
the freedom of the will, are by no means the same thing.
We have already seen that there may be a fixed and positive
connection between my inclinations and my choice, and so
my will, and yet my will be perfectly free. This is the main
thing to be settled; and there seems to be no need of further
argument to establish this point; and if this be so, it
decides the question as to the freedom of the will.
Bearing of this View upon the divine Government.—The
view now taken, leaves it open and quite in the power
of Providence, so to shape circumstances, guide events, and
so to array, and bring to bear on the mind of man, motives
and inducements to any given course, as virtually to control
and determine his conduct, by controlling and determining
his inclinations, and so his choice; while, at the same time,
the man is left perfectly free to put forth such volitions as
he pleases, and to do as he likes. There can be no higher
liberty than this. To this point I shall again revert, when
the question comes up respecting the divine agency in connection
with human freedom.[Pg 549]
CHAPTER IV.
CERTAIN QUESTIONS CONNECTED WITH THE PRECEDING.
§ I.—Contrary Choice.
The Question stated.—In the preceding chapters our attention
has been directed to the psychological facts respecting
the will, and also to the general question respecting the
freedom of the will. Closely connected with this main
question, and involved in its discussion, are certain inquiries
of a like nature, which cannot wholly be passed by, and for
the consideration of which the way is now prepared. One
of these respects the power of contrary choice. Have we
any such power? Is the freedom, which, as we have seen,
belongs to the very nature of the will, such a freedom as
allows of our choosing, under given circumstances, any otherwise
than we do? When I put forth a volition, all other
things being as they are, can I, at that moment, in place of
that volition, put forth a different one in its stead?
Not identical with the preceding.—This question is not
identical with that respecting the freedom of the will, for it
has been already shown that there may be true freedom
without any such power as that now in question. My will
is free, provided I can put forth such volitions as I please,
irrespective of the power to substitute other volitions and
choices in place of the actual ones.
[Pg 550]
Such Power not likely to be exercised.—The question,
however, is one of some importance, whether we have any
such power or not. And whether we have it or not, one
thing is certain—we are not likely to exercise it. If among
the fixed and given things, which are to remain as they are,
we include whatever inclines or induces the mind to choose
and act as it does, then, power or no power to the contrary,
the choice will be as it is, and would be so, if we were to try
the experiment a thousand times; for choice depends on
these preceding circumstances and inducements—the inclination
of the mind—and if this is given, and made certain,
the choice to which it will lead becomes certain also.
A choice opposed to the existing inclination, to the sum
total of the existing inducements to action, is not a choice
at all; it is a contradiction in terms. The power of contrary
choice, then, is one which, from the nature of the case, will
never be put in requisition, unless something lying back of
the choice, viz., inclination, be changed also.
But does such Power exist.—The question is not, however,
whether such a power is likely to be employed, but
whether it exists; not whether the choice will be thus and
thus, but whether it can be otherwise. When, from various
courses of procedure, all practicable, and at my option, I
select or choose one which, on the whole, I will pursue, have
I no power, under those very circumstances, and at that very
moment, to choose some other course instead of that? Can
my choice be otherwise than it is?
In what Sense there is such Power.—Abstractly, I suppose,
it can. Power and inclination are two different things.
The power to act is one thing, and the disposition to exert
that power is another thing. Logically, one does not involve
the other. The power may exist without the disposition,
or the disposition without the power. There is power,
logically, abstractly considered, to choose, even when inclination
is wanting; you have only to supply the requisite inclination,
and the power is at once exerted, the choice is[Pg 551]
made, the act is performed. But the change of inclination
does not create any new power; it simply puts in requisition
a power already existing.
§ II.—Power to Do what we are not Disposed to Do.
The Question under another Form.—Closely analogous
to the question last discussed, virtually, indeed, the same
question under another form, is the inquiry, whether we can,
at any moment, will or do what we are not, at that moment,
inclined to do. Have I any such power or freedom as this,
that I CAN do what I am not DISPOSED or do not wish to
do? My disposition being to pursue a given course, is it
really in my power to pursue a different one?
In order to determine this question, let us see what constitutes,
or in what consists, the power of doing, in any case,
what we are disposed to do; and then we may be able to
judge whether that power still exists, in case the disposition
is wanting.
In what Power consists.—It is admitted that I can do
what I wish or am disposed to do. Now, in what consists
that power? That depends on what sort of act it is that I
am to put forth. Suppose it be a physical act. My power
to do what I wish, in that case, consists in my having certain
physical organs capable of doing the given thing, and under
the command of my will. Suppose it be an intellectual act.
My power, in that case, of doing what I like, depends on my
having such mental faculties as are requisite for the performance
of the given act, and these under control. So long,
then, as I have the faculties, physical or mental, that are requisite
to the performance of a given act, and those faculties
are under the control of my will, so that I can exert them
if I please, and when I please, so long my power of doing
what I like is unimpaired, and complete, as, e. g., the power
of walking, or adding a column of accounts.
[Pg 552]
But suppose the Disposition wanting.—Suppose, now,
the disposition to be wanting; does the power also disappear,
or does it remain? I have the same faculties as before,
and they are as fully under the control of the will as
ever, and that constitutes all the power I ever had. I have
the power, then, of doing what I have no inclination to do.
Whatever I can do if I like, that also I can do, even if I do
not like. In itself considered, the power to do a thing may
be quite complete, and independent of the inclination or disposition
to do or not to do.
Will it be put in Requisition?—But will this power be
ever exercised? Certainly not, so long as the disinclination
continues. In order to the doing of any thing, there must
not only be power to do it, but disposition. If the latter be
wanting, the former, though it may exist, will never be put
forth.
Our Actions not consequently inevitable.—Have I, then,
no power, that is really available, to do what I do not happen
to be, at this moment, inclined to do? Am I shut up to the
actual inclinations and choices of any given hour or moment?
Am I under the stern rule of inevitable necessity
and fate to do as I do, to choose as I choose, to be inclined
as I am inclined? By no means. My inclinations are not
fixed quantities. They may change. They depend, in part,
on the intellectual conceptions: these may vary; in part
on the state of the heart: divine grace may change the
heart.
Actual Choices not necessary ones.—The actual choice
of any given moment is by no means a necessary one. Another
might have been in its stead. A different inclination
is certainly possible and conceivable, and a different inclination
would have led to a different choice. If, instead of
looking at the advantage or agreeableness of a proposed
course, and being influenced by that consideration, I had
looked at the right, the obligation in the case, my choice
would have been a different one, for I should have been[Pg 553]
influenced by a different motive. Two different objects were
presented to my mind, a and b. As it is, I choose a, but
might have chosen b, and should, had I been so inclined.
Why did I choose a? Because, as the matter then presented
itself to my mind, I was so inclined. But I might have
taken a different view of the whole thing, and then my inclination
and my choice would have been different. It was
in my power to have thought, to have felt, to have acted
differently. What is more, I not only might, but, perhaps,
ought to have felt and acted differently. I am responsible
for having such an inclination as leads to a wrong choice
responsible for my opinions and views which influence my
feelings; responsible for my disposition, in so far as it is the
result of causes within my own control.
Different Uses of the Term Power.—It ought to be
clearly defined in all such discussions what we mean by the
principal terms employed. In the present instance what we
mean by the words power, ability, can, etc., ought to be
distinctly stated. Now, there are two senses in which these
words are used, and the question before us turns, in part, on
this difference.
1. We may use the word power, e. g., to denote all that
is requisite or essential to the actual doing of a thing, whatever
is so connected with the doing, that, if it be wanting,
the thing will not be done.
Or, 2. In a more limited sense, to denote merely all that
is requisite to the doing the thing, provided we please or
choose to do it, all that is requisite in order to our doing
what we like or wish.
The latter distinguishes between the ability and the willingness
to do; the former includes them both in the idea of
power. In order to the actual doing there must be both.
But does the word power properly include both? In ordinary
language, certainly, we distinguish the two. I can do a
thing, and I wish to do it, are distinct propositions, and
neither includes the other. It is only by a license of speech[Pg 554]
that we sometimes say I cannot, when we mean simply, I
have no wish or disposition. If we make the distinction in
question between power and disposition, then we can do
what we have no wish to do. If we do not make it, but include
in the term power the disposition to exert the power,
then we cannot do what we have no disposition to do.
§ III.—Influence of Motives
I. Is the Will always as the greatest apparent
Good?
The Answer depends on the Meaning of the Question.—If
by this be meant simply whether the mind always wills
as it is, on the whole, and under all the circumstances, disposed
or inclined to will, I have already answered the question.
If more than that be meant, if we mean to ask
whether we always, in volition, act with reference to the
one consideration of advantage or utility, the good that is
to accrue, in some way, to ourselves or others from the
given procedure—and this is what the question seems to imply—I
deny that this is so. I have already shown, in presenting
the psychological facts respecting the will, that our
motives of action are from two grand and diverse sources:
desire and duty—self-love, or, at most such love as involves
mere natural emotion, and sense of obligation; that
we do not always act in view merely of the agreeable, but
also in view of the right, and that these two are not identical.
Now the greatest apparent good is not always the
right; nor even the apparent right. We are conscious of
the difference, and of acting, now from the one, now from
the other, of these motives. But to say that the will is always
according to the greatest apparent good, is to resolve
all volition into the pursuit of the agreeable, and all motives
of action into self-love. It is to merge the feeling of obligation
in the feeling of desire, and lose sight of it as in itself
a distinct motive of action.
[Pg 555]
Defect in the Socratic Philosophy.—This was the capital
defect in the ethical system of Socrates, who held that men
always pursue what they think to be good, and, therefore,
always do what they think is right, since the good and the
right are identical; sometimes, indeed, mistaking an apparent
good for a real one, but always doing as well as they know
how; from which it is but a short step to the conclusion that
sin is only so much ignorance, and virtue so much knowledge—a
conclusion to which the modern advocates of the
doctrines under discussion would by no means assent, but
from which that shrewd thinker and most consistent logician
saw no escape.
II. Is the Will determined by the strongest Motive?
The Term "strongest" as thus employed.—Much depends
on what we mean by "strongest" in this connection, and what
by the word "determined?" If we mean, by the strongest
motive, the one which in a given case prevails, that in view
of which the mind decides and acts, then the question amounts
merely to this. Does the prevalent motive actually prevail?
To say that it does, is much the same as to say, that a
straight stick is a straight stick. And what else can you
mean by strongest motive? What standard have you for
measuring motives and gauging their strength, except simply
to judge of them by the effects they produce? Or, who
ever supposed that, of two motives, it was not the stronger
but the weaker one that in a given case prevailed?
The Word "determined."—The question may be made,
however, to turn upon the word determined. Is the will
determined by that motive which prevails? Is it determined
at all by any motive or by any thing? If by this word it
be meant or implied that the motive, and not the mind itself
is the producing cause of the mind's own action, then I deny
that the will is, in any such sense, determined, whether by
the strongest motive, or any other. The will is simply the
mind or the soul willing; its acts are determined by itself,[Pg 556]
and itself only. If you mean simply that the motive influences
the will, prevails with it, becomes the reason why the
will decides as it does, this I have already shown to be true,
and in this sense, undoubtedly, the motive determines the
volition, just as the fall of an apple from a tree is, in the first
instance, produced or caused by the law of gravitation; but
the particular direction which it takes in falling, depends on,
and is determined by, adventitious circumstances as, e. g., the
obstacles it meets in its descent. Those obstacles, in one
sense, determine the motion; they are the reason and explanation
of the fact that it falls just as it does, and not
otherwise; but they are not the producing cause of the
motion itself.
III. Are Motives the Cause, and Volitions the
Effect?
Incorrect Use of the Term Cause.—It is common, with a
certain class of writers, to speak of motive as the cause of
action or volition. This is, if at all correct and allowable,
certainly not a fortunate use of terms. The agent is properly
the cause of any act, and in volition the soul itself is
the agent. It is the mind itself, which is, strictly, the efficient
cause of its own acts. The motive is the reason why I
act, and not the producer or cause of my act. In common
speech, this distinction is not always observed. We say, I
do such a thing because of this or that, meaning for such
and such reasons. In philosophical discussion it is necessary
to be more exact.
Liable to be misunderstood.—The use of the word, as
now referred to, is particularly to be avoided as liable to mislead
the incautious reader or hearer. It suggests the idea
of physical necessity, of irresistibility. Given, the law of
gravitation, e. g., and a body unsupported must fall—no
choice, no volition; whereas, the action of the mind in volition
is, by its essential nature, voluntary, directly opposed to
the idea of compulsion. Those who use the word in this[Pg 557]
manner are generally careful to disclaim, it is true, any such
sense; but such are our associations with the word cause, as
ordinarily employed, that it is difficult to avoid sliding, unawares,
into the old and familiar idea of some sort of absolute
physical necessity. It were better to say, therefore, that
motives are the reasons why we act thus and thus. To go
further than this, to call the motive the cause of the volition,
is neither a correct nor a fortunate use of terms, since the
idea is thereby conveyed, guard against it as you will, that,
in some way, the influence was irresistible, the event unavoidable.
The Phrase "moral Necessity."—The same objections
lie with still greater force against the phrase moral necessity
as applied to this subject. Those who use it are careful, for
the most part, to define their meaning, to explain that they
do not mean necessity at all, but only the certainty of actions.
The word itself, however, is constantly contradicting all such
explanations, constantly suggesting another and much stronger
meaning. That is necessary, properly speaking, which depends
not on my will or pleasure, which cannot be avoided,
but must be, and must be as it is. Now, to say of an act of
the will, that it is necessary, in this sense, is little short of a
contradiction in terms. The two ideas are utterly incongruous
and incompatible.
A volition may be certain to take place; it may be the
motive that makes it certain, but if this is all we mean, it is
better to say just this, and no more. If this is all we mean,
then we do not mean that volitions are necessary in any
proper sense of that term. There is no need to use the
word necessity, and then explain that we do not mean necessity,
but only certainty. It is precisely on this unfortunate
use of terms that the strongest objections are founded,
against the true doctrine of the connection of motive with
volition. Even Mill, one of the ablest modern necessitarians,
objects to the use of this term, and urges its abandonment.
[Pg 558]
The true Connection.—What, then, is the connection between
Motive and Volition?—I have all along admitted,
that there is such a connection between volitions and motives,
that the former never occur without the latter, that
they stand related as antecedent and consequent, and that
motives, while not the producing cause of volitions, are still
the reason why the volitions are as they are, and not otherwise.
They furnish the occasion of their existence, and the
explanation of their character. So much as this, the psychology
of the subject warrants—more than this it does not
allow. More than this we seem to assert, however, when
we insist on saying that motive is the cause, and volition the
effect. We seem, however we may disclaim such intention,
to make the mind a mere mechanical instrument, putting
forth volitions only as it is impelled by motives, these, and
not the mind, being the real producing cause, and the volitions
following irresistibly, just as the knife or chisel is but
the passive instrument in the hand of the architect, and not
at all the producing cause of the effects which follow.
Difference of the two Cases.—Now there is a vast difference
between these two cases. The impulse, communicated
to the saw, produces the effect irresistibly; not so the motive.
The saw is a passive instrument; not so the mind.
There is, in either case, a fixed connection between the antecedent
and the consequent, but the nature of the connection
is widely different, and it is a difference of the greatest
moment. It is precisely the difference indicated by the two
words cause and reason—as applied to account for a given
occurrence—the one applicable to material and mechanical
powers and processes, the other to intelligent, rational, voluntary
agents. There is a cause why the apple falls. It is
gravitation. There is a reason why mind acts and wills as
it does. It is motive.
But IS the Mind the producing Cause of its own Volitions?—This,
the advocates of moral necessity deny. "If we
should thus cause a volition," says Dr. Edwards, "we should[Pg 559]
doubtless cause it by a causal act. It is impossible that we
cause any thing without a causal act. And as it is supposed
that we cause it freely, the causal act must be a free act, i. e.,
an act of the will, or volition. And as the supposition is,
that all our volitions are caused by ourselves, the causal act
must be caused by another, and so on infinitely, which is
both impossible and inconceivable." That is, if the mind
causes its own volitions, it can do it only by first acting to
cause them, and that causative act is, itself, a volition, and
requires another causative act to produce it, and so on ad
infinitum.
The Dictum Necessitatis proves too much.—This celebrated
argument has been called, not inappositely, the
dictum necessitatis. It rests upon the assumption, that no
cause can act, but by first acting to produce that act. Now
this virtually shuts out all cause from the universe, or else
involves us in the infinite series. Apply this reasoning to
any cause whatever, and see if it be not so. Suppose, e. g.,
that motive, and not the mind itself, is the producing cause
of volition. Then, according to the dictum, motive cannot
act, but by first acting in order to act, and for that previous
causative act, there must have been an ulterior cause, and
so on forever, in an endless succession of previous causative
acts.
The Dictum as applicable to Mind.—But it may be said
this dictum applies only to mind, or voluntary action. How,
then, is it known, that mind cannot act without first acting
in order to act? Would not this virtually shut out and extinguish
all mental action? The mind thinks; must it first
think, in order to think? It reasons, judges, conceives, imagines;
must it first reason, judge, etc., in order to reason,
and judge, and conceive, and imagine? If not, then why
may it not will without first willing to will?
The Dictum as applicable to Deity.—If mind is not the
cause of its own volitions, then how is it with the volitions
of the infinite and eternal mind? Are they caused or
uncaused? If caused, then by what? If by himself, then
there is again the infinitely recurring series according to the
dictum. If by something else, still we do not escape the
series, for each causative act must have its prior cause. Are
the volitions of Deity, then, uncaused? Then certainly
there is no such thing as cause in the universe. Motives,
then, are no longer to be called causes. Deity is not, in
fact, the cause of any thing, since not the cause of those
volitions by which alone all things are produced. If he is
not the cause of these, then not the cause of their consequences
and effects. In either case, you shut out all cause
from the universe, whether the dictum be applied to mind
or to motion, to man or to God; or else you are, in either
case, involved in the vortex of this terrible infinitive series.
To give up the dictum, is to admit that mind may be the
producing cause of its own volitions.[Pg 560]
CHAPTER V.
THE DOCTRINE OF THE WILL VIEWED IN CONNECTION WITH
CERTAIN TRUTHS OF RELIGION.
The Relation of Psychology to Theology.—The very close
connection between the philosophy of the will, and the science
of theology, has already been remarked. We have discussed
the questions which have come before us thus far, on purely
psychological grounds, without reference to their theological
bearing. It would be manifest injustice to the matter in
hand, however, were we to overlook entirely the relation of
our philosophy to those higher truths which pertain to the
domain of theological science.
The whole question respecting the freedom of the human
will, especially, assumes a new importance, when viewed in
connection with the truths of natural and revealed religion.[Pg 561]
It ceases to be a speculative, and becomes an eminently practical
question when thus viewed.
There are two points which require special attention, as
regards that connection; the one, God's power over man,
the other, man's power over himself.
§ I.—The Power which God Exerts over the Human Mind
and Will.
Dependence of Man.—It seems to be the teaching of
reason, no less than of religion, that man stands to the
Creator in the relation of absolute dependence. The one is
the subject, the other the sovereign. The control of Deity
extends, not merely to the elements and forces of nature,
which are by no means the chief and most important part of
his works, but over all intelligent, rational beings. This is
implied, not only in the fact that he is the Creator of
all, but in the fact of moral government, and of a superintending
providence. Manifestly, there could be no such
thing as moral government, and no control over the affairs
of the world, if the conduct of men, the minds and
hearts of intelligent beings, were not subject to that control.
This is not only the inference which reason draws from the
acknowledged supremacy of the Creator, it is not only thus
a tenet of natural religion, but it is also one of the plainest
doctrines of revealed truth. In the most explicit and direct
terms, the Scriptures ascribe to God the supreme control
of human conduct, of the human mind and heart. This
power over the thoughts and purposes of intelligent beings
is the very highest power.
This Control unlimited.—This control, moreover, in
order to be complete and effective, must reach beyond
the present and passing moment, must take in the future,
must sweep through the whole range of coming duration,
and comprehend whatever is to be. Nothing must take
place without his foreknowledge and permission. The[Pg 562]
minutest events, the falling of a sparrow, the number of the
forest leaves, and of the hairs of our head, must be no exception
to this general law.
Implies a Plan, and that Plan embraces human Conduct.—If
we suppose the supreme Being to be, not only a
Creator and Ruler, but a wise and intelligent one, then we
must suppose him to have some plan of operations. The
very idea of providence, indeed, implies this. And this plan
must be supposed to extend to, and include, future events,
all events, minute events; for the little and the great are
linked together, the future and the present are linked together,
and the plan and government that has to do with
one, must have to do with all, and with human conduct
among the rest. This, again, is not more clearly the doctrine
of reason than of revelation.
The Difficulty stated.—Whatever freedom man has, then,
it must be such a freedom as is consistent with God's complete
control and government of him. Neither his present
nor his future conduct, neither his thoughts, his feelings, nor
his purposes, must be beyond the reach of the divine purpose
and control. But how are these things to be reconciled—man's
entire freedom, God's entire control and government
of him?
Different Positions assumed.—Both are facts, and, therefore,
true. Either, by itself, can be well enough conceived
and comprehended, but, taken together, they appear inconsistent.
Many do not hesitate to pronounce them so.
Some, who accept them both as true, regard them as still inexplicable
and incomprehensible. Others receive one and
reject the other, or, at least, assume such a position as
amounts to a virtual rejection of one of these truths. Thus
the fatalist secures the supreme government of God, only at
the expense of human freedom, and thus weakens, if not
destroys, the foundation of human accountability. Others
again, in their horror of fatalism, preserve the freedom and
accountability of man, at the expense of the divine government[Pg 563]
and purposes, thus virtually placing man beyond the
power and control of Deity.
Application of the preceding Psychology to this Question.—How,
then, are these two great facts to be reconciled?
If we mistake not, a true psychology, a correct
view of the nature of the will, prepares the way for this.
What have we found to be the process of the mind in volition?
The several steps of the process are found to be
these: In the first place, some object to be accomplished is
presented, as such, to the understanding. This object, thus
presented, appealing to the desires or to the sense of duty
influences or inclines the mind. This, again, leads to choice,
choice to volition, volition to action.
Freedom lies where.—Now in this whole process, where
does the element of freedom lie? Not in the final executive
act—the doing as we will to do—for that is merely a
bodily function, a physical and not a mental power; nor yet
in the control of the motives which influence or incline us;
for these are, for the most part, out of our power. Evidently
freedom, so far as it pertains to the human will, lies
in the power of forming and putting forth such volitions as
we please, in other words, of choosing as we like, and willing
as we choose, so that whatever our inclinations may be,
we shall be at liberty to choose and to will accordingly.
This is the highest practical freedom of which it is possible
to conceive, and it is all the freedom which pertains to the
human will.
How this may consist with the divine Control.—Let us
see, now, if this be not a liberty perfectly compatible with
the divine government and control over us. These volitions
and choices of ours are by no means arbitrary or casual;
there is a reason for them; a reason why we choose as we
do. We choose thus and thus, because we are, on the whole,
so disposed or inclined; and this inclination or disposition
depends on a great variety of circumstances, on the nature
and strength of the motive presented, our physical and[Pg 564]
mental constitution and habits, our power of self-control,
the strength of our desires, as compared with our sense of
duty, the presence or absence of the exciting object; in fine,
on a great variety of predisposing causes and circumstances,
all of which are to be taken into the account, when the question
is, why do we choose thus, and not otherwise? Now,
these circumstances which go to determine our inclinations,
and so our choices and volitions, are, in a great measure, beyond
our direct control. Our physical and mental constitution,
our external condition, our state of mind, and circumstances
at any given moment, whatever in the shape of
motive or inducement may be present with moving power
to the mind, inclining us this way or that, all this lies much
more under divine control than under our own.
The Point of Connection.—Here, then, to speak reverently,
lies the avenue of approach, through which Deity
may come in and take possession of the human mind, and
influence and shape its action, without infringing, in the
least, on its perfect freedom. He has only to present such
motives as shall seem to the mind weighty and sufficient,
has only to touch the main-spring of human inclination, lying
back of actual choice, has only to secure within us a
disposition or liking to any given course, and our choice follows
with certainty, and our volition, and our action; and
that action and volition are free in the highest sense, because
our choice was free. We acted just as we pleased, just as
we were inclined.
The Influence of Man over his fellow Men an Illustration
of the same Principle.—Now this is just what we, in a
limited way, and to a small extent, are constantly doing
with respect to our fellow men. We present motives, inducements,
to a given course, we work upon their inclinations,
we appeal to their sensibilities, their natural desires,
their sense of duty, and in proportion as we gain access to
their hearts, we are successful in shaping and controlling
their conduct. The great and difficult art of governing[Pg 565]
men lies in this. We have only to suppose a like power,
but complete and perfect, to be exercised by the supreme
disposer and controller of events, so shaping and ordering
circumstances as to determine the inclinations of men, gaining
access, not in an uncertain and indirect manner, but by
immediate approach to the human heart, all whose springs
lie under his control, so that he can touch and command
them as he will; we have only to conceive this, and we
have, as it seems to me, a full and sufficient explanation of
the fact that man acts freely, and just as he is inclined, while
yet he is perfectly under the divine control.
Power which the Scriptures ascribe to God.—And this,
if I mistake not, is precisely the sort of control and power
over man which the Scriptures always ascribe to God, viz.,
power over the inclinations, affections, dispositions, from
which proceed all our voluntary actions. In his hand are
the hearts of men, and he can turn them as the rivers of
water are turned.
The Theory does not suppose a divine Influence to Evil.—It
is not necessary to suppose that God ever influences
men to evil; the supposition is inconsistent with the divine
character, with all we know and conceive of Deity. Nor is
any such influence over man necessary in order to the accomplishment
of evil, but, on the contrary, much is needed
to restrain and prevent him from sin. Sufficient already are
the motives and influences that incline him to go astray;
feeble and inefficient, the inducements to a better life. Could
we suppose, however, any influence of this sort to be exerted
over man, inclining him to evil, we can still see how such
influence might be perfectly consistent with his entire freedom.
It is not the integrity of human freedom, but the integrity
of the divine character, that forbids such a supposition.
Does not interfere with Responsibility.—Does such a
power over human conduct, as that now attributed to the
supreme Being, interfere with human responsibility? Not[Pg 566]
in the least. Responsibility rests with him who acts freely
and as he pleases, doing that which is right or wrong, of his
own accord, knowing what he does, and because he has a
mind to do it. And it is thus man acts, under whatever
decree of divine influence we may suppose him placed.
§ II.—Man's Power over Himself.
Unjust to require what it is impossible to perform.—Have
I power, in all cases, to do what the divine will requires;
power to do right? It would seem to be the verdict
of reason, and the common sense of mankind, that to
require of any man what is literally and absolutely beyond
his power, is unjust, and that such a requirement, if it were
made, would impose no obligation, since obedience would
be impossible. We cannot suppose God to be guilty of such
manifest injustice. His commands are right. They carry
with them the judgment and reason of men. Conscience
approves them. Obligation attends them. They must, therefore,
be such commands as it is possible for us to obey. It
would be manifest injustice and wrong to require of me
what it is actually and absolutely out of my power to do.
Supposed Disinclination.—But suppose I have really no
inclination, no disposition, to do right. My affections and
desires are all wrong, inclining me to evil, and my sense of
duty or moral obligation is not strong enough to prevail
against these natural desires and evil inclinations; suppose
this, which, alas! is too often true, and what then becomes
of my power to do right? Does it any longer exist? Have
I any power to change those affections and inclinations; or,
they remaining as they are, have I any power to go contrary
to them? A question this, at once profoundly philosophical,
and intensely practical.
Position of the Fatalist.—The fatalist has no hesitation
in replying no, to these questions. Man has no power to
change the current of his own inclinations, nor yet to go[Pg 567]
against that current. He is wholly under the influence of
motives; they turn him this way and that. He has power
to do as he wills, but no power over the volitions themselves.
He has power to do only what he has a mind to do. He
has no mind, no inclination to do right, therefore, no power
to do so.
This Position at Variance with a true Psychology.—A
correct psychology, as we have already seen, gives a different
answer. It is not true, as a matter of fact in the philosophy
of the human mind, that man has no power to do what
he has no disposition to do; nor is it true that his inclinations
and affections are wholly out of his power and control.
In both respects, fatalism is at war, not more with the common
sense of mankind, than with a sound and true philosophy.
Confounds Power with Inclination.—To say that man
has no power to do what he is not inclined to do, is to confound
power with inclination. They are distinct things.
The one may exist without the other. I have power to do
what I have no disposition to do; on the other hand, I may
have the disposition to do what is not in my power. I have
power to set fire to my own house, or to my neighbor's, or
to cut off my right hand; power, but no disposition. Present
a motive sufficiently weighty to change my mind, and
incline me to the act, and you create, in that way, a new
disposition, but no new power. This point has been fully
discussed in the previous chapter, and I need not here
repeat the argument. It was shown that in order to the
actual doing of a thing, two things are requisite, namely,
the power to do, and the inclination to exert that power;
and that neither involves the other. Where the power
alone exists, the thing can be done, but will not be; where
both exist, it both can and will be done. It is not true,
then, in any proper use of terms, that want of inclination is
want of power.
Our Inclinations not wholly beyond our Control.—Equally
incorrect is the position that our inclinations and[Pg 568]
affections are wholly out of our own control. Within certain
limits it is in our power to change them. Inclination is
not a fixed quantity. It may change. It ought to change.
In many respects it is constantly changing. We take different
views of things, and so our feelings and inclinations
change. Circumstances change, the course of events changes;
and our disposition is modified accordingly. So that while
the affections and inclinations are certainly not under the
direct and immediate control of the will, it is still, in a great
measure, in our power to modify and control them. While
they remain as they are, it is quite certain that we shall do
as we do; but it is not necessary that they should, nor certain
that they will, remain as they are.
The true Answer.—To the question, then, can the man
whose inclinations are to evil, whose heart is wrong, do
right? a true psychology answers yes. He can do what he
is not inclined to do; nor is that evil inclination itself a fixed
quantity; he can be, he may be, otherwise inclined.
Something else needed beside Power.—- It must be admitted,
however, that so long as the heart is wrong, so long as
the evil disposition continues, so long the man will continue
to do evil, notwithstanding all his power to the contrary.
Left to himself, there is very little probability of his effecting
any material change in himself for the better. In order to do
this, there is needed an influence from without, and from
above; an influence that shall incline him to obedience, that
shall make him willing to obey.
The Gospel meets this Necessity.—This is precisely the
want of his nature which divine grace meets. It creates
within him a clean heart, and renews within him a right
spirit. This is the sublime mystery of regeneration. The
soul that is thus born of God is made willing to do right.
The inclinations are no longer to evil, but to good, and the
man still doing that which he pleases, is pleased to do the
will of God. The change is in the disposition; it is a change
of the affections, of the heart; thus the Scriptures always
represent it. This was all that was wanted to secure obedience,
and this divine grace supplies.
It is not our province to discuss theological questions, as
such. It has been our aim, simply, to show the relation of a
true psychology to the system of truth revealed in the Scriptures.
The perfect coincidence of the two is an argument in
favor of each.[Pg 569]
CHAPTER VI.
POWER OF WILL.
Differences in this respect.—There are great differences
among men, as regards the strength and energy of this, as
compared with the other departments of mental activity.
The difference is, perhaps, as great in this respect, as in regard
to the other mental faculties. Not all are gifted with
equal power of imagination, not all with equal strength of
memory, or of the reasoning faculty; not all with equal
strength of the executive power of the mind. Some persons
exhibit a weakness of will, a want of decision and firmness,
an irresolution of character and purpose. They waver and
hesitate in cases of doubt and emergency, requiring decision
and energy. They are governed by no fixed purpose. The
course which they adopt to-day, they abandon to-morrow
for the opposite. They are controlled by circumstances.
Opposition turns them from their course, difficulties discourage
them. They are easily persuaded, easily led; ill
fitted to be themselves leaders of men.
Others, again, are firm and inflexible as a rock. They
choose their course, and pursue it, regardless of difficulties
and consequences. Difficulties only arouse them to new
effort. Opposition only strengthens their decision and purpose.
They are hard to be persuaded, when once their[Pg 570]
minds are made up, and harder still to be driven. They
take their stand, nothing daunted by opposing numbers,
and, with Fitz-James, when suddenly confronted and surrounded
by the hosts of Roderic Dhu, exclaim,
"Come one, come all, this rock shall fly
From its firm base, as soon as I."
Instances of Firmness.—Napoleon, fiery and impetuous
as he was, possessed this energy and strength of will.
Obstacles, difficulties, insurmountable to other men, established
usages, institutions, armies, thrones, all were swept
away before the irresistible energy of that mighty will, and
that determined purpose, as the wave, driven before the
storm, clears itself a path among the pebbles and shells that
lie strewn upon the shore. In the character of his brother
Joseph, King of Spain, we have an example of the opposite.
Mild, cultivated, refined, amiable, of elegant tastes, a man
of letters, loving retirement and leisure, he was lacking in
that energy and decision of character which fit men for
command in camps and courts. We have in the firm and
terrible energy of Cromwell, as contrasted with the mildness
and inefficiency of his son and successor Richard, the
same difference illustrated. The Puritan leaders of the
English Revolution were men of stern and determined
energy of character. Among the Romans, Cæsar presents
a notable example of that strength of will which fits men
for great enterprises; while the great Roman orator, with
all his acquisitions of varied learning, and all his philosophy,
and all his eloquence, was deficient in firmness of purpose.
Often exhibited in military Leaders.—In general it may
be remarked that great military commanders have usually
been distinguished for this trait of character. It was by
virtue of their energy, and decision, and firmness of purpose,
that they accomplished what they did, succeeding
where other men would have failed. Thus it was with Hannibal,
with Frederic the Great, with Wellington, with our[Pg 571]
own Washington. They were, by nature, endowed with
those qualities which fitted them for their important and
difficult stations; while, at the same time, the work to which
they were called, and the circumstances in which they were
placed, tended greatly to develop and strengthen those peculiar
traits and qualities, and this among the rest.
The same Trait exhibited in other Stations of Life.—Strength
of will shows itself, however, in other relations and
stations of life, as well as in the military commander. The
leader of a great political party, as, for example, of the Administration,
or of the Opposition, in the English Parliament,
has abundant occasion for firmness and strength of purpose.
It was not less strength of will, than of moral principle, in
Socrates, that led him resolutely to withstand the popular
clamor, and the opinions of his associate judges, and refuse
to sentence the unsuccessful military commanders, on the
day when the decision lay in his hands; the same trait
showed itself in that retreat after the battle of Delius, so
graphically described by Plato, when he walked alone and
slowly from the field, where all was confusion and flight,
with such coolness and such an air of calm self-reliance, that
no enemy ventured to approach him; it was shown not less
in his determined refusal to escape from prison, and the unjust
sentence of death, notwithstanding all the entreaties
and remonstrances of friends.
Strength of Will in the Orator.—The truly great orator,
rising to repel the assaults of his antagonist, or to allay the
prejudices and take command of the passions and opinions
of a popular assembly, calm and collected, and conscious of
his strength, master of his own emotions, and of all his
powers, presents an illustration of the same principle. It
was seen in Webster, when he rose in the Senate to reply to
Hayne. The very aspect of the man conveyed to all beholders
the idea of power—a strength, not merely of
gigantic intellect, but of resolute will determined to conquer.
[Pg 572]
Strength of Will as shown in the Endurance of Suffering.—The
same principle is sometimes manifested in a different
manner, and in different circumstances. If it leads to
heroic actions, it leads also to heroic endurance and suffering.
It was the firm and stubborn will of Regulus, that sent
him back to Carthage, to endure all that the disappointed
malice of his foes could invent. It was the firm will of
Jerome of Prague, that kept him from recantation in the
face of death; the firm will of Cranmer, that thrust his right
hand into the flames, and kept it there till it was quite consumed.
A like firmness of purpose has been exhibited in
thousands of instances, both in the earlier and later annals
of Christian martyrdom. Rather than renounce a principle,
or abandon the deeply-cherished convictions of the soul, natures,
the most frail and feeble, have calmly met and endured
the greatest sufferings, with a firmness, and courage, and
power of endurance, that nothing could shake or overcome.
How to be attained.—To multiply instances is needless.
But how shall this strength of will, so desirable, so essential
to true greatness and nobleness of character, be attained?
In part it is the gift of nature, doubtless—the result of
that physical and mental constitution with which some are
more fortunately endowed; in part it is an acquisition to be
made, as any other mental or physical acquisition, by due
care and training. It will be of service, especially, in any
endeavor of this sort, to accustom ourselves to decide with
promptness, and act with energy in the many smaller and
less important affairs of life, and to carry out a purpose,
once deliberately formed, with persistence, even in trivial
matters. The habit thus formed, we may be able afterward,
and gradually, to carry into higher departments of action,
and into circumstances of greater embarrassment and difficulty.
On the other hand, this must not be carried to the
extreme of obstinacy, which is the refusal to correct a mistake,
or acknowledge an error, or listen to the wiser and
better counsels of others.
[Pg 573]
CHAPTER VII.
HISTORICAL SKETCH.—OUTLINE OF THE CONTROVERSY
RESPECTING FREEDOM OF THE WILL.
Question early Discussed.—The question respecting human
freedom, was very early a topic of inquiry and discussion.
It enters prominently into the philosophy of all
nations, so far as we know, among whom either philosophy
or theology have found a place. It is by no means confined
to Christian, or even to cultivated nations. It holds a prominent
place in the theological systems and disputes of India
and the East, at the present day. The missionary of the
Christian faith meets with it, to his surprise, perhaps, in the
remotest regions, and among tribes little cultivated. It is a
question, at once so profound, and yet of such personal and
practical moment, that it can hardly have escaped the attention
of any thoughtful and reflecting mind, in any country,
or in any age of the world.
The Greek Philosophy.—Among the Greeks, conflicting
opinions respecting this matter prevailed in the different
schools. The Epicureans, although asserting human liberty
in opposition to the doctrine of universal and inexorable
fate, were, nevertheless, necessitarians, if we may judge
from the writings of Lucretius, whose idea of liberty, as Mr.
Stewart has well shown, is compatible with the most perfect
necessity, and renders man "as completely a piece of passive
mechanism as he was supposed to be by Collins and Hobbes."
This liberty is, itself, the necessary effect of some cause, and
the reason assigned for this view is precisely that given by
modern advocates of necessity, namely, that to suppose otherwise,
is to suppose an effect without a cause.
On the other hand, the Stoics, while maintaining the[Pg 574]
doctrine of fate, held, nevertheless, to the utmost liberty of the
will. With the consistency of these views, we are not now
concerned. Epictetus is referred to by Mr. Stewart, as an
example of this not unusual combination of fatalism and free-will.
The Jewish Sects.—Very similar was the relation of the
two rival sects among the Jews, the Sadducees and the
Pharisees, the former holding the doctrine of human freedom,
the latter of such a degree, at least, of fatality, as is inconsistent
with true liberty.
The Arabian Schools.—Among no people, perhaps, has
this question been more eagerly and widely discussed, than
by the Arabians, whose philosophy seems to have grown out
of their theology. When that remarkable book, the Koran,
first aroused the impulsive mind of the Arab from his idle
dreams, and startled him into consciousness of higher truth,
the very first topic of inquiry and speculation about which
his philosophic thought employed itself, seems to have been
this long-standing question of human ability and the freedom
of the will. The Koran taught the doctrine of necessity and
fate. A sect soon arose, called Kadrites, from the word
kadr, power, freedom, holding the opposite doctrine, that
man's actions, good and bad, are under the control of his
own will. From this was gradually formed a large body of
dissenters, as they styled themselves, and in maintaining
these views on the one side, and opposing them on the other,
the controversy became more and more one of philosophy,
and for some three centuries, with varied learning and skill,
Arabian scholars and philosophers disputed, warmly, this
most difficult and abstruse of metaphysical questions. Fatalism
seems ultimately to have prevailed, as, indeed, a doctrine
so congenial to error, and to every false system of
religious belief, would be quite likely to do, where any such
system is established.
The Scholastics and the Reformers.—Among the scholastic
divines of the middle ages, some held to the liberty of[Pg 575]
the will, while many allowed only what they called the
liberty of spontaneity, i. e., power to do as we will, in opposition
to liberty of indifference, or power over the determinations
of the will itself.
Among the moderns, the Reformers differed among themselves
on the matter of liberty, the Lutherans, with Melanchthon,
opposing the scheme of necessity; Calvin and Bucer
maintaining it, as the necessary consequence of their views
of divine predestination.
Distinguished modern Advocates of Necessity.—Among
the philosophical writers of the last and the present century,
a very strong array of eminent names is on the side of necessity.
Hobbes, Locke—who is claimed, however, by each
side—Leibnitz, Collins, Edwards, Priestley, Belsham, Lord
Kames, Hartley, Mill, advocate openly the doctrine of necessity.
Doctrine of Hobbes.—The views of Hobbes seem to have
given shape to the opinions of subsequent advocates of this
theory. The only liberty which he allows, is that of doing
what one wills to do, or what the scholastics called the
liberty of spontaneity. Water is free, and at liberty, when
nothing prevents it from flowing down the stream. Liberty
he defines, accordingly, to be "the absence of all impediments
to action that are not contained in the nature and
intrinsical quality of the agent." A man whose hands are
tied, is not at liberty to go; the impediment is not in him,
but in his bands; while he who is sick or lame, is at liberty,
because the obstacle is in himself. A free agent is one who
can do as he wills.
This is essentially the view of freedom adopted by the
later advocates of necessity, and almost in the same terms
it is the view of Collins, Priestley, and Edwards.
Doctrine of Locke.—It is, also, Locke's idea of freedom.
Liberty, he says, is the power of any agent "to do or forbear
any particular action, according to the determination
or thought of the mind, whereby either of them is preferred[Pg 576]
to the other." This extends only to the carrying out our
volitions when formed, and not to the matter of willing or
preferring; power over the determinations of the will, itself,
is not included in this definition.
Locke Inconsistent.—In this, Locke was inconsistent with
himself, since, in his chapter on power, he seems to be maintaining
the doctrine of human freedom. The liberty here
intended, it has been justly remarked by Bledsoe, is not
freedom of the will, or of the mind in willing, but only of
the body; it refers to the motion of the body, not to the
action of the mind.
Locke expressly says, "there may be volition where
there is no liberty;" and gives, in illustration, the case of
a man falling through a breaking bridge, who has volition
or preference not to fall, but no liberty, since he cannot
help falling. In this, again, Locke is inconsistent, since,
elsewhere, he distinguishes between volition and desire or
preference, while here he does not distinguish them.
There can be no doubt that Locke supposed himself an
advocate of human freedom, for such is the spirit of his
whole treatise, especially of his twenty-first chapter; at the
same time, it must be confessed, his definitions are incomplete,
and his language inconsistent and vacillating, so that there
is some reason to class him, as Priestley does, with those who
really adopt the scheme of necessity without knowing or
intending it.
View of Leibnitz.—Leibnitz was led to adopt the doctrine
of necessity from his general theory of the sufficient
reason, that is, that nothing occurs without a reason why it
should be so, and not otherwise. This principle he carries
so far as to deny the power of Deity to create two things
perfectly alike, and the power of either God or man to
choose one of two things that are perfectly alike. This principle
presents the mind as always determined by the greatest
apparent good, and establishes, as its author supposed, by[Pg 577]
the certainty of demonstration, the absolute impossibility of
free agency.
View of Collins.—Collins maintains the necessity of all
human actions, from experience, from the impossibility of
liberty, from the divine foreknowledge, from the nature of
rewards and punishments, and the nature of morality. He
takes pains to reconcile this doctrine with man's accountability
and moral agency, and is careful to define his terms
with great exactness. Thus the terms liberty and necessity
are defined as follows: "First, though I deny liberty in a
certain meaning of the word, yet I contend for liberty as it
signifies a power in man to do as he wills or pleases. Secondly,
when I affirm necessity, I contend only for moral necessity,
meaning thereby that man, who is an intelligent and
sensible being, is determined by his reason and his senses;
and I deny man to be subject to such necessity as is in
clocks and watches, and such other beings, which, for want
of sensation and intelligence, are subject to an absolute,
physical, or mechanical necessity".
Coincidence of Collins and Edwards.—The coincidence
of these views and definitions, and, indeed, of the plan of
argument, with the definitions and the arguments of Edwards,
is remarkable. No two writers, probably, were ever
further removed from each other in their general spirit and
character, and in their system of religious belief; yet as regards
this doctrine, the definitions and views of one were
those of the other, and as Mr. Stewart has justly remarked,
the coincidence is so perfect, that the outline given by the
former, of the plan of his work, might have served with
equal propriety as a preface to the latter.
Views of Edwards.—No writer has more ably discussed
this question than the elder Edwards. He is universally
conceded to be one of the ablest metaphysicians, as well as
theologians, of modern times. His work on the Freedom of
the Will is a masterpiece of reasoning. At the same time,
as to the character and tendency of the system therein[Pg 578]
maintained, the greatest difference of opinion exists. By some
he is regarded as a fatalist, by others he is claimed as an advocate
of human freedom. There is some ground for this
difference of opinion. No writer, from Plato downward,
was ever perfectly self-consistent; it would be strange if
Edwards were so. That the general scheme of necessity,
maintained by Edwards, tends, in some respects, to fatalism,—that
the ablest champions of fatalism, and even writers of
atheistic, and immoral views, have held essentially the same
doctrine, and maintained it by the same arguments—must be
conceded; that such was not the design and spirit of his
work, that such was not his own intention, is perfectly
evident.
Main Positions of Edwards.—The definitions of Edwards,
as we have already seen, are the same with those of
Collins and Hobbes. He understands by liberty merely a
power to do as one wills. The mind is always determined by
the greatest apparent good. The motive determines the
act, causes it. The mind acts, wills, chooses, etc., but the
motive is the cause of its action. That the mind should be
the cause of its own volitions, implies, he maintains, an act
of will preceding the volition, that is a volition prior to volition,
and so on forever in an infinite series. This argument,
the famous dictum necessitatis, has been considered in a
previous chapter. Now, to say that motive is the producing
cause, and volition the effect, especially if the connection of
the two is of the same nature as that between physical
causes and effects, as Edwards affirms, is certainly to say
that which looks very strongly toward fatalism.
Necessity, what.—Edwards maintains the doctrine of
necessity. But what did he mean by moral necessity?
The phrase is unfortunate, for reasons already suggested—it
does convey the idea of irresistibility, of something
which must and will be—in spite of all contrary will and endeavor.
This, however, he is careful to disclaim. He means
by moral and philosophical necessity simple CERTAINTY,[Pg 579]
"nothing different from certainty." "No opposition or
contrary will and endeavor," he says, "is supposable in the
case of moral necessity, which is a certainty of the inclination
and will itself." Now we must allow him to put his
own meaning upon the terms he uses; and to say that
under given circumstances, there being given such and such
motives, inclinations, and preferences, such and such volitions
will certainly follow, is not to say that the will is not
free in its action—is not to shut us up to absolute fate—is
not, in fact, to say any thing more than is strictly and
psychologically true. In defending himself from this very
charge, he uses the following explicit language in a letter to
a minister of the Church of Scotland: "On the contrary,
I have largely declared that the connection between antecedent
things and consequent ones, which takes place with regard
to the acts of men's wills, which is called moral necessity,
is called by the name of necessity IMPROPERLY; and
that such a necessity as attends the acts of men's wills is
more properly called certainty than necessity; it being no
other than the certain connection between the subject and
predicate of the proposition which affirms their existence."
"Nothing that I maintain supposes that men are at all hindered
by any fatal necessity, from doing, and even willing
and choosing as they please, with full freedom; free with
the highest degree of liberty that ever was thought of, or
that could possibly enter into the heart of man to conceive."
This is explicit, and ought to satisfy us as to what
Edwards himself thought of his own work, and meant by
it. Still a man does not always understand himself, is not
always the best judge of his own arguments, is not always
consistent with himself, does not always express his own
real opinions, nor do himself justice, in every part of his
reasonings. This is certainly the case with Edwards. We
are at a loss to reconcile some passages in his treatise
with the foregoing extract, e. g., the dictum necessitatis;
also his declaration that the difference between natural and[Pg 580]
moral necessity "lies not so much IN THE NATURE of the
connection as in the two terms connected." This is an unfortunate
admission for those who would shield him from
the charge of fatalism. If the necessity, by which a volition
follows the given motive, is, after all, of the same nature
with that by which a stone falls to the earth, or water
freezes at a given temperature, it is all over with us as to
any consistent, intelligible defence of the freedom of the
will.
If, moreover, the doctrine of Edwards leaves man full
power, as he says above, to will and to choose as he pleases,
what becomes of the dictum, which makes it impossible for
the mind to determine its own volitions?
Does not distinguish between the Affections and the Will.—It
should be remembered that Edwards does not distinguish
between the will and affections. This distinction had
not, at that time, been clearly drawn by writers on the philosophy
of the mind. The twofold division of mental powers,
into understanding and will, was then prevalent; the affections,
of course, were classed with the latter. Hence there
is not that definiteness in the use of terms which modern
psychology demands. Had Edwards distinguished between
the affections and the will, it must have given a different
cast to his entire work. Even Locke, whose philosophy
Edwards follows in the main, had distinguished between
will and desire, as we have already seen; but in this he is
not followed by Edwards, who, while he does not regard
them as "words of precisely the same signification," yet
does not think them "so entirely distinct that they can
ever be said to run counter."
Views of the later Necessitarians.—Of the views of the
later advocates of necessity, Priestley, Belsham, Diderot, and
others, of that school, we have already spoken in a previous
chapter. They carry out the scheme, with the greatest boldness
and consistency, to its legitimate consequences, fatalism,
and the denial of free agency and accountability. God is[Pg 581]
the real and only responsible doer of whatever comes to pass,
and man the passive instrument in his hand. Remorse, regret,
repentance, are idle terms, and to praise or blame ourselves
or others, for any thing that we or they have done, is
merely absurd.
Advocates of the Opposite.—On the other hand, the doctrine
of the freedom of the will has not wanted able advocates
among the more recent philosophical writers. In
general it may be remarked, that those who have treated of
the powers of the human mind, as psychologists, have, for
the most part, maintained the essential freedom of the will,
while the advocates of the opposite view have been chiefly
metaphysicians, rather than psychologists, and, in most cases,
have viewed the matter from a theological rather than a
philosophical point of view. Among the more recent and
able advocates of the freedom of the will, are Cousin and
Jouffroy, in France, Tappan and Bledsoe, in our own country.
Previously, Mr. Stewart, in his appendix to his "Active and
Moral Powers," had concisely, but very ably, handled the
matter, and earlier still, Kant, in Germany, had conceded
the liberty of the will as a matter of consciousness, while
unable to reconcile it with the dictates of reason.
View of Hamilton.—Substantially the same view is taken
by the late Sir William Hamilton, who, by general consent,
stands at the head of modern philosophers, and who accepts
the doctrine of liberty as a fact, an immediate dictum of consciousness,
while, at the same time, he is unable to conceive
of its possibility, since "to conceive a free act, is to conceive
an act which, being a cause, is not, in itself, an effect; in
other words, to conceive an absolute commencement;" and
this he regards as impossible. At the same time, it is equally
beyond our power, he thinks, to conceive the possibility of
the opposite, the doctrine of necessity, since that supposes
"an infinite series of determined causes," which cannot be
conceived. But though inconceivable, freedom is not the
less a fact given by consciousness and is to be placed in the[Pg 582]
same category with many other facts among the phenomena
of mind, "which we must admit as actual, but of whose possibility
we are wholly unable to form a notion."
Remarks upon this View.—The difficulty here presented,—if
I may venture a remark upon the opinions of so profound
a thinker, and the same is true of Kant,—turns evidently on
the peculiar idea of freedom entertained by those writers,
namely, that in order to be free, an act of the will must be
wholly undetermined, not itself an effect, but an absolute
commencement. Any influence, from any source, going to
determine or incline a man to will as he does, renders the
act no longer free. Such freedom is certainly inconceivable;
and what is more, impracticable; it exists as little among the
possibilities of the actual world, as among the possibilities of
thought. We never act, except under the influence of motive
and inclination; and if acts thus performed are not free
then no acts that we perform are so.
View of Coleridge.—This eminent disciple of the earlier
German philosophy, derives from Kant the view of freedom
now explained, and carries it to the furthest extreme. All
influence and inclination are inconsistent with freedom.
The disposition to do a thing renders the will, and the act
of the will, no longer free. A nature, of any kind, is inconsistent
with freedom. This, of course, shuts out all freedom
from the actual world. Nor is it possible to conceive how
even the acts of Deity can be any more free than ours, on
this supposition; nor how, if any such freedom as this were
supposed to exist, an act thus performed, without any motive,
or any disposition or inclination on the part of the agent,
could be a rational or accountable act.
Views of Cousin, and Jouffroy.—Cousin and Jouffroy
while by no means denying the influence of motive upon
the mind, place the fact of liberty in the power which the
mind has of being itself a cause, and of putting forth volitions
from its own proper power. The law of inertia, contends
Jouffroy, which requires a moving force proportioned[Pg 583]
to the movement of a material body, does not apply to the
human mind, and "to apply this law to the relation which
subsists between the resolutions of my will and the motives
which act upon it, is to suppose that my being, that I myself,
am not a cause; for a cause is something which produces
an act by its own proper power." Cousin, in like
manner, places liberty in the absolute and undetermined
power of the will to act as cause; and "this cause, in order
to produce its effect, has need of no other theatre, and no
other instrument than itself. It produces it directly, with
out any thing intermediate, and without condition; ...
being always able to do what it does not do, and able not
to do what it does. Here, then, in all its plenitude, is the
characteristic of liberty."
View of Tappan.—One of the ablest defenders of the
freedom of the will in our own country, Mr. Tappan, in his
review of Edwards, takes essentially the position just explained.
All cause lies ultimately in the will. It is this which
makes the nisus or effort that produces any event or phenomenon.
Of this nisus the mind or will is itself the cause, and, as
such, it is self-moved. It makes its nisus of itself, and of itself
it forbears to make it, and within the sphere of its activity,
and in relation to its objects, it has the power of selecting, by
a mere arbitrary act, any particular object. It is a cause, all
whose acts, as well as any particular act, considered as phenomena
demanding a cause, are accounted for in itself alone.
Position of Bledsoe.—Similar is the position of Mr.
Bledsoe, one of the most recent reviewers of Edwards, a
writer of marked ability and candor. He denies, however,
that volition is the effect of any thing, whether motive of
mind, in the sense that motion of the arm is an effect. It
is activity, action, the cause of action, but not effect. In
distinction from most writers of the same theological views,
he denies that the will is self-determined, or that it is determined
at all, and by any thing. It is the determiner, but
not the determined.
[Pg 584]
[Pg 585]
REFERENCES.
Among the authorities which have been consulted in the
preparation of this work, the following may be referred to,
with profit, by the reader who desires to pursue the subject
further.
I. THE INTELLECT.
A. ON THE INTELLECTUAL FACULTIES IN GENERAL.
Locke.—Essays on the Human Understanding.
Reid.—Essays on the Intellectual Powers. Walker Ed.
" Works.—By Hamilton, with notes and dissertations.
Dugald Stewart.—Philosophy of the Human Mind. Bowen Ed.
" Philosophical Essays.
Brown.—Lectures on the Philosophy of the Mind.
The works of Upham, Wayland, Winslow, Mahan, may also be consulted,
with profit.
Cousin.—Cours de, 1828. Id., 1829.
" Fragments Philosophiques.
Jouffroy.—Mélanges Philosophiques. Nouvelles Mélanges.
" Esquisses de D. Stewart. Préface.
Descartes.—Méditations. Id., Discours de la Métnode.
Leibnitz.—Nouveaux Essais sur l'Entendement Humain.
Malebranche.—Recherche de la Vérité.
Royer Collard.—Œuvres de Reid. Fragments.
Damiron.—Cours de Philosophie.
Hegel.—Encyklopädie der Philosoph. Wissenchaft.
Rosenkrantz.—Psychologie.
Kant.—Anthropologie. Kritik Reiner Vernunft.
" Kritik der Urtheilskraft.
Aristotle.—Metaphysics.
" On the Soul.
Plato.—Republic.
Cicero.—Tusculanæ Questiones.
[Pg 586]
B. ON THE SPECIFIC FACULTIES.
I. SENSATION AND PERCEPTION.
Reid.—Intellectual Powers.
Hamilton.—Supplementary Dissertation, Note D.
O. Wight.—Philosophy of Sir W. Hamilton. Part II.
Stewart.—Philosophical Essays. Ess. II.
Brown.—Philosophy of Human Mind.
Mill.—Analysis of Human Mind.
A. Smith.—Essays on Philosophical Subjects. Of the External Senses.
Young.—Lectures on Intellectual Philosophy.
Comte.—Philosophy Positive.
Müller.—Elements of Physiology.
Tissot.—Anthropologie.
Maine de Biran.—Nouvelles Considerations sur les Rapports, etc.
Jouffroy.—Nouvelles Mélanges Philosophiques.
Royer Collard.—Fragments in Jouffroy's Œuvres de Reid.
Tortual.—Die Sinne des Menschen.
Buffier.—Traité des Premières Vérités.
Amédée Jacques.—Psychologie. Manuel de Phil. à l'usage des Coll.
Dictionnaire des Sciences Philosophiques. Art. Sens.
Aristotle.—De Anima. Parva Naturalia.
J. Barth. Saint Hilaire.—Psychologie de Aristotle. Notes and preface.
II. MEMORY.
Stewart.—Intellectual Philosophy.
Reid.—Intellectual Powers. (Walker.)
Brown.—Philosophy of Human Mind.
Mill.—Analysis of Human Mind.
Abercrombie.—On Intellectual Powers.
Hume.—Treatise on Human Nature. Book I. Part I.
Aristotle.—Parva Naturalia.
Barthèleme Saint Hilaire.—Psychologie d'Aristotle. Part II.
Malebranche.—Recherche de la Vérité. Liv. II.
Rosenkrantz.—Psychologie.
Hegel.—Encycl. Phil. Wissench. Dritter Theil.
[Pg 587]
III. IMAGINATION.
Stewart.—Intellectual Philosophy.
Brown.—Philosophy of Human Mind.
Rauch.—Psychologie. Part II.
Sidney Smith.—Sketches of Philosophy.
Mill.—Analysis of Human Mind.
Amédée Jacques.—Manuel de Philosophie. Psychol. V.
Rosenkrantz.—Psychologie. Die Einbildungskraft.
Hegel.—Encyc. der Phil. Wissenchaft. Dritter Theil. L's Einbildung.
IV. ABSTRACTION AND GENERALIZATION.
Reid.—Intellectual Powers.
Brown.—Philosophy of Human Mind.
Stewart.—Intellectual Philosophy.
A. Smith.—Considerations on First Formation of Language.
J. S. Mill.—System of Logic.
Whewell.—Philosophy of Inductive Sciences.
James Mill.—Analysis of Human Mind.
Thomson.—Laws of Thought.
Cousin.—Elements of Psychology. (Henry.)
Hume.—Treatise of Human Nature. Book I. Part I.
V. REASONING.
Hamilton.—Supplementary Dissertation, Note A.
Reid.—Intellectual Powers.
Stewart.—Intellectual Philosophy. Part II.
Locke.—On the Human Understanding. Book IV.
Whewell.—Philosophy of Inductive Sciences.
Buffier.—Premières Vérités.
Brown.—Philosophy of Human Mind.
Mill.—System of Logic.
Hamilton.—Discussions on Philosophy. (Turnbull Ed.) Article IV, Logic;
also Appendix II. A and B.
Baynes.—New Analytic of Logical Forms.
Descartes.—Discours de la Méthode.
Condillac.—Art de Penser.
Dictionnaire des Sciences Philosophiques. Logique.
Pascal.—Pensées—de l'Art de Persuader.
Port-Royal.—Logique.
Aristotle.—Organon.
[Pg 588]
VI. INTUITIVE CONCEPTION.
FIRST PRINCIPLES.
Reid.—Intellectual Powers. Essay VI., cap. III.
Hamilton.—Dissertation A. §§ 3, 4, 5.
Stewart.—Intellectual Philosophy. Part II., cap. I.
Coleridge.—Aids to Reflection.
Mill.—System of Logic. Book II., caps. V. and VI.
Buffier.—Premières Vérités. Part I., cap. VII.
TIME, SPACE.
Cousin.—Cours de Philosophie. Tome II., Leçons XVII, XVIII.
" Idem. Elements of Psychologie. Henry. Cap. III.
Locke.—Essay on the Human Understanding. Book II., cap. XXVI.
Stewart.—Philosophical Essays. Essay II., cap. II.
Reid.—Intellectual Powers. Essay III., cap. II.
Mill.—Analysis of the Human Mind. Cap. XIV., § V.
Roger Collard.—Fragments, IX., X.
Kant.—Kritik rein. vernunft. Transcend. Æsthet. Part I., § II.
Dictionnaire des Sciences Philosophiques. Temps. Espace.
Hegel.—Encyclop. Philosoph. Wissench. Tsweiter Theil. Erst. Abschnitt.
IDENTITY.
Locke.—Essay, etc. Book II., cap. XXVII.
Cousin.—Review of do. as above. Eléments Psychologie, cap. III.
Reid.—Intellectual Powers. Essay III., cap. III.
Mill.—Analysis, etc., cap. XIV., § VII.
Whately.—Logic—Appendix. On Ambiguous Terms.
Butler.—Dissertation on Identity.
CAUSALITY.
Mill.—System of Logic. Book III., cap. XXI.
Whewell.—Philosophy of Inductive Sciences. Part I. Book III.
Locke.—Essay. Book II., cap. XXVI.
Tappan.—On the Will. Cap. II. Cause.
Bowen.—Metaphysics and Ethics.
Maine de Biran.—Examples des Leçons de Philosophie de Laromiquière.
Cousin.—Œuvres de Maine Biran. Preface.
As above. El. Psychologie. cap. IV.
[Pg 589]
THE BEAUTIFUL.
Kames.—Elements of Criticism.
Alison.—On Taste.
McDermot.—On Taste.
Stewart.—Philosophical Essays. Part II.
Brown.—Philosophy of the Human Mind. Emotions of Beauty.
Jouffroy.—Cours d'Esthetique.
Cousin.—Philosophy of the Beautiful. (Daniel, Trans.)
Kant.—Kritik der Urtheilskraft.
Hegel.—Cours d'Esthetique. (Benard, Tr.)
THE RIGHT.
Stewart.—Active and Moral Powers. (Walker Ed.)
Brown.—Philosophy of the Human Mind. Ethical Science.
Butler.—Sermons.
Paley.—Moral Philosophy.
Adam Smith.—Theory of Moral Sentiments.
Upham.—Mental Philosophy. Vol. II.
Winslow.—Elements of Moral Philosophy.
Wayland.—Moral Philosophy.
Whewell.—Elements of Morality.
Jouffroy.—Introduction to Ethics. (Channing, Tr.)
" Cours de Droit Natural.
Emile Saisset.—Manuel de Philosophie à l'usage des Coll. Morals.
Descartes.—Lettres.
Cicero.—De Officiis.
Aristotle.—Nicom. Eth.
Plato.—Republic and Gorgias.
II. THE SENSIBILITIES
Stewart.—Active and Moral Powers. (Walker Ed.)
Reid.—Faculties of the Human Mind. Essay III.
Brown.—Philosophy of the Human Mind. Emotions.
Upham.—Mental Philosophy. Vol. II.
Cogan.—On the Passions.
Descartes.—Les Passions de l'Âme.
Condillac.—Traité des Sensations.
[Pg 590]
Damiron.—Cours de Philosophie. De la Sensibilitè.
Jouffroy.—Mélanges Philosophiques. De l'Amour de Soi.
Aristotle.—On the Soul. Books II. and III.
III. THE WILL.
Edwards.—On the Will.
Tappan.—Review of do.
Day.—Review of do.
Bledsoe.—Examination of do.
I. Taylor.—Essay introductory to do.
Tappan.—On the Will. and do. on Moral Agency.
Mahan.—On the Will.
Upham.—On the Will.
Reid.—On the Faculties of the Human Soul. Essay IV.
Belsham.—Philosophy of the Human Mind.
Mill.—System of Logic. Book VI., cap. II.
Mill.—Analysis of the Human Mind. Cap. XXIV.
Cogan.—Ethical Questions. Question IV.
Stewart.—Active and Moral Powers. Cap. VI.
Reid.—Essays on Active Powers. Essay II.
Locke.—On the Human Understanding. Book II., cap. XXI.
Hamilton.—Philosophy of the Conditioned, cap. II., § 1. (O. W. Wight.)
Jouffroy.—Introduction to Ethics, § IV.
Leibnitz.—Essays de Théodicée.
Cousin.—Fragments Philosophiques. Preface.
Amédée Jacques.—Manuel de Phil. Psychologie. Volonté. XV.-XVII.
Maine de Biran.—Œuvres. Vol. IV.
" Controversy with Clarke.
Cousin.—Psychologie. (Henry, Tr.) Cap. X.
Damiron.—Psychologie. Liv. I., § II., cap. III.
Emile Saisset.—Dictionnaire des Sciences Philosophiques. Art. Libertè.
Transcriber's Note
Many omissions of punctuation have been silently corrected, as have
obvious typographical errors.
Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained.
Inconsistencies in headings are as in the original.
Duplicated section headings on consecutive lines have been removed.
The section General Observations (page 94 and 162) has been added to the
Table of Contents.
References has been added to the Table of Contents.
Corrections include:
Page 55 "as that two straight lines should enclose a space" the "a" is
missing in the original and has been added.
Page 89 "The soul seated in its presence-chamber, the brain,
can cognize nothing beyond and without, for nothing can
get except where it is present." the first letter of "get" is missing.
It has been assumed that get is the most likely intention.
Page 435 No reference to Memdelssohn has been found. It is possibly a reference
Moses Mendelssohn.
Page 568 "In order to do this, there is needed an influence from without," The
"do" is missing and has been added.
The text is arbitrary about spacing of e. g. and i. e., as the spaced
variant is in the majority, it has been used throughtout.
The author has wrongly spelled Leibniz as Leibnitz throughout. This has been
retained.
The references to M'Dermot in the text have been changed to McDermot to
conform with the References. Likewise M'Cosh (p534) is almost certainly
James McCosh.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45041 ***