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AN

ENQUIRY

INTO THE

PRINCIPLES

OF

HUMAN HAPPINESS

AND

Digitized by tine Internet Arcinive

in 2011 witii funding from

Boston Public Library

http://www.archive.org/details/enquiryintoprincOOrams

AN

ENQUIRY

INTO THE

PRINCIPLES

OF

i^uman l^appinefis

HUMAN DUTY

IN TWO BOOKS

BY GEORGE RAMSAY B.M.

AUTHOR OF AN IvSSAV ON THE DISTRFnUTION OF WEALTH ETC.

LONDON
WILLIAM PICKERING

MDCCCXLIII

(3 ii<J /Vd/' n

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ADVERTISEMENT.

^ I ^PIE General Introduction prefixed to the
-*- present Work seems to render a Pre-
face unnecessary ; but there is one point to
which I wish to allude. Should any one object
to the number of poetical quotations which
occur in some of these pages, particularly in
the Section on Love, I would refer him to a
passage in Sir James Mackintosh's Disserta-
tion on the progress of Ethical Philosophy. I
have only to add, that almost all the poetical
quotations here found are short, and of the
kind recommended by Sir James in the fol-
lowing words :

" There are two very different sorts of pas-
sages of poetry to be found in works on phi-
losophy, which are as far asunder from each
other in value as in matter. A philosopher
will admit some of those wonderful lines or
words which bring to light the infinite varieties
of character, the furious bursts or wily work-
ings of passion, the winding approaches of

vi ADVERTISEMENT.

temptation, the slippeiy path to depravity, the
beauty of tenderness, the grandeur of what is
awful and holy in man. In every such quota-
tion, the moral philosopher, if he be successful,
uses the best materials of his science, for what
are they but the results of experiment and ob-
servation on the human heart, performed by
artists of far other skill and power than his ?
They are facts which could have only been
ascertained by Homer, by Dante, by Shak-
speare, by Cervantes, by Milton. Every year
of admiration since the unknown period when
the Iliad first gave delight, has extorted new
proofs of the justness of the picture of human
nature, from the responding hearts of the ad-
mirers. Every strong feeling which these
masters have excited, is a successful repeti-
tion of their original experiment, and a con-
tinually growing evidence of the greatness of
their discoveries. Quotations of this nature
may be the most satisfactory, as well as the
most delightful proofs of philosophical posi-
tions." *

* Dissertation ; Section VI. Article, Thomas Brown,

Blackheatii Park,
Nov. 1842.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.

PAGE

General Introduction to Moral Science. Limits
AND Division of the Subject 1

BOOK I.

•ON MORAL SCIENCE IN GENERAL, OR THE SCIENCE OF
HUMAN HAPPINESS.

PART I.

Preliminary Observations on the Hujman Mind, and
ON Human Happiness 20

PART n.

On Desire and Passion.

Chap. I. — On Desire in General 43

Chap. II. — On certain Particular Desires 79

Sect. 1. — The Principal Desires enumerated 79

Sect. 2.— On Love 94

Sect. 3. — On Desire of Power, or Ambition 182

Sect. 4. — On Desire of Wealth, Covetousness, and

Avarice 206

Sect. 5. — On Desire of Reputation ; of Fame or Glory 230

Sect. 6. — On Desire of Knowledge, or Curiosity .... 248

Sect, 7. — On Desire of continued Existence 265

viii CONTENTS.

PART III.

On certain General Principles of Happiness.

Chap. I. — On Occupation ^ 299

Chap. II. — On Activity 313

Chap. III. — On Change or Variety, Novelty, Contrast,

AND Privation 325

Chap. IV, — On Custom, or Repetition 360

BOOK II.

ON ETHICS, OR MORALS PROPERLY SO CALLED.

PART I.

On Speculative Morality, or the Theory of Moral
Sentiment.

Chap. I. — Introduction 393

Chap. II, — On the Nature of the Moral Sentiments. . 395
Chap. III. — On the Causes of the Moral Sentiments. . 406
Sect. I. — On tlie Origin of the Moral Sentiments. . . . 406
Sect. 2. — On the Secondary Causes of Moral Senti-
ment 437

PART II.

On Practical Morality, or the Rule of Action.

Chap. I. — Argument of this Part 465

Chap. II. — On the Final Cause of Moral Sentiment . 466

Chap. Ill, — On the Nature of Virtue 480

Chap. IV. — On the Proper Object of Moral Approba-
tion 524

Chap. V.— On the Motives to the Practice of Virtue 539

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.

GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO MORAL SCIENCE, LIMITS
AND DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT.

BEFORE entering upon any branch of inquiry, it
must always be advantageous to ascertain the
limits of the subject, and its relation to other depart-
ments of human knowledge. And if this be useful
in general, it must be so especially in Morals, a
science of a singularly elastic nature, which by some
has been compressed within narrow bounds, while
by others it has been allowed to embrace a very ex-
tensive territory. But in order to trace the proper
sphere of morals, we must cast a rapid glance over
the vast and varied map of the intellectual world.

One of the most ancient divisions of the sciences
with which we are acquainted, is that into the Phy-
sical, the Practical, and the Logical. The first class
was understood to embrace the knowledge of things
as they are, without any immediate reference to
practice, and to comprehend all purely speculative
investigations into the nature and properties, not
only of matter, but even of spirit. Here, in short,
the end was bare speculative truth. The object of
the practical sciences, on the other hand, was to
modify the actions of men in the manner most con-

B

2 GENERAL INTRODUCTION

ducive to their happiness. The grand question
which they had to resolve was, not what is, but what
ought to be. To the third class, or logic, it belonged
to lay down rules for the due cultivation of all the
other sciences, and it was properly divided into four
parts, which taught how truth, whether speculative
or practical, might best be discovered, appreciated,
retained, and communicated. The whole of human
knowledge was supposed to be comprehended under
one or other of these three primary classes.

However specious this ancient classification may
appear, we may fairly doubt whether it ever has been,
or is likely, in future, to be of much use in practice.
It is liable to the fundamental objection of bringing
together subjects widely different, and separating
those which are nearly allied; for it unites mind
and matter under one head, and forcibly divides the
speculative from the practical, which are often so
closely linked, as by universal consent to form but
one science.

Nothing in nature is more opposed than mind and
matter. Most of our classes of objects pass by in-
sensible gradations the one into the other, till a point
is reached when it is difficult to say where this ends
and that begins ; but mind and matter, the spiritual
and the bodily, are removed from each other by a
wide and impassable gulf. Men may doubt as to
the nature of the thinking principle, and materialists
may maintain that thought is the result of corporeal
organization ; but no one at all accustomed to reflect
on what passes within, can confound thought itself with
an extended substance. When we talk of sensation.

TO MORAL SCIENCE. 3

reflection, emotion, we talk of that which is constantly
present with us, and which, therefore, we know well ;
and never could we be brought to believe that matter
and its properties have any analogy therewith. Here
then, if any where, we may draw a decided line, and
separate accordingly the sciences which treat of mat-
ter from those which treat of mind.

But the ancient division above explained errs not
only in uniting what is dissimilar, but also in sepa-
rating what is closely connected. The speculative and
the practical, the what is, and the what ought to be,
cannot possibly be a distinction sufficiently marked
for the purpose of a primary arrangement, because
this distinction naturally occurs, when we descend to
the particular sciences. Most of those sciences, for
instance, which refer peculiarly to man, consist of two
parts, a speculative and a practical. Thus in politics,
the question on what is government founded, is a purel}^
speculative question ; that, on what ought government
to be founded is a practical one. Political economy,
in like manner, may be divided into two parts, one
treating of the causes of the wealth of nations, the
other shevdng what part government ought to act in
modifying these causes. Morals also, as we shall
presently see, demand a similiar division, and so does
natural theology. It is not here maintained, that this
distinction has always been attended to by those who
have cultivated the sciences just spoken of. But if it
has not, the reason is evident. It is because the two
parts run so much into each other, that it is often dif-
ficult to keep them asunder. For in treating of things
as they are, men are naturally led to consider how they

4 GENERAL INTRODUCTION

may be improved ; and thus the speculative gives
birth to the practical. Eut according to the primary
classification, which we are now discussing, each of
these sciences, of politics, political economy, morals,
and natural theology, which are universally and
justly considered as one, must be split into two, and
the fractions be arranged under totally different heads
of human inquiry. It is impossible that such a violent
separation could be really carried through ; and
therefore the system which requires it must be con-
sidered no less useless for application, than erro-
neous in principle.

The classification of the sciences now most gene-
rally adopted, is that into the physical and moral,
meaning by physical that relating to matter ; by
moral, that which respects the mind. Still we some-
times find the word physical used in the sense above
alluded to, as synonymous with speculative, and by
authors of very high reputation.^ How little purpose
it can serve when thus employed I have already
attempted to show, and therefore I shall always take
it as synonymous with material. Mind and matter
being so essentially different, that they never can be
confounded, form the only really philosophical basis
on which we can build with safety. The distinction
is so natural, that in truth it is always followed in
practice; for in all academies and universities, the

^ I may instance Dr. Brown, in his well-known Lectures on the
Philosophy of the Human Mind; and Sir James Mackintosh, in
his valuable Dissertation on the Progress of Ethical Philosophy,
first published in the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

TO MORAL SCIENCE. 5

sciences of mind and matter are taught in different
classes, and by different professors ; and rarely do
we see the same individuals apply themselves eagerly
to both.^ The term moral being often used in a
much more limited sense, and not expressing with
sufficient precision the simple idea we wish to con-
vey, we may with advantage substitute the word
mental, and divide the sciences accordingly into the
mental and the physical, or material.

Still this does not exhaust the subject. In ad-
dition to these there is another branch of science
which overshadows all the rest, without being incor-
porated with any of them ; maintaining itself, as it
were, in a more elevated region, where it serves to
protect from injury the tender twigs, and allows
them to shoot and swell till they grow to their due
proportion. This is logic taken in its most compre-
hensive sense, the objects of which are so vast and
so important, that it may well be considered as
occupying the first rank in the scale of human pur-
suits. Logic undertakes to classify all the objects
of knowledge, to assign to each its proper limits,
and mark where it touches upon others ; to point
out new branches of inquiry to the curiosity of man-
kind ; to give rules for the proper cultivation of all
the sciences, as well as for each in particular ; to
show the kind and degree of evidence which each
admits of, to explain the different sorts of reasoning,

2 The Institute of France, besides its literary academies, contains
two separate scientific ones: the Academie des Sciences, i. e.
Sciences Physiques ; and the Academie des Sciences Morales et
Politiques.

6 GENERAL INTRODUCTION

and disclose the various sources of fallacy, whether
arising from the nature of man in general, from the
peculiarities of classes or individuals, from the vague-
ness of words and ideas used in daily intercourse,
or from false systems of philosophy.^ Logic also
teaches us what is the real object or objects of all
philosophy ; and in addition to the lofty purposes
above enumerated, which regard discovery and judg-
ment, it likewise instructs us in the arts of retaining
and communicating truth. Here, it will be allowed,
is enough to constitute one leading branch of the
sciences, and therefore we may divide them into the
Physical, the Mental, and the Logical.* The noblest
specimen of universal logic which has ever been
presented to the world, is to be met with in the
two grand works of Bacon — on the Advancement

' The Idola Tribus, Specus, Fori, and Theatri of Bacon.

* Another classification, which seems to have been but little
attended to, is that of Bacon, who divides all philosophy into
th'ree parts — de Niimine, de Natura, de Homine. It belongs
properly to a treatise on logic to discuss at length the merits of
this and other classifications ; suffice it to observe, that although
we consider Bacon's system decidedly superior to the one men-
tioned in the commencement of this Chapter, the physical, prac-
tical, logical, which is adopted by Locke ; yet we by no means
think it so true to nature as that brought forward in the text.
The following objection at once presents itself. Man is com-
posed of mind and body ; and although we should grant that
his mind were altogether different from that of the brutes, yet
his bodily structure is surely very similar, as we know from com-
parative anatomy. But according to the arrangement of Bacon,
the physiology of man would belong to a different leading class
from that of animals, which are comprehended under the term
Natura.

. TO MORAL SCIENCE. 7

of Learning, and the Novum Organum. After these,
may be mentioned the third and fourth book of
Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding.

Dismissing the physical and the logical sciences,
as foreign to our present purpose, let us turn our
attention to the mental. These may be properly
divided into two principal branches, the pure and
the mixed ; the former being purely speculative, the
latter partly speculative, partly practical. The one
is commonly called metaphysics, or the philosophy
of the human mind, and has in view two objects :
first, to consider the nature of mind or spirit as a
substance distinct from matter; secondly, and more
particularly, to examine the phenomena or appear-
ances which mind presents, to analyse and classify
these, and to discover the general laws according to
which they arise and succeed each other. This
science, as we see, is in itself purely speculative,
though remotely it may lead to most important prac-
tical applications.

The second branch of the mental sciences is of a
mixed nature, combining practice with speculation,
and to this the term moral may well be applied.^

^ This being the first occasion on which the term moral occurs,
it may be well to mention the various significations which have
been given to the word, and particularly to determine in what
sense it is used throughout the present work. No less than four
different meanings have been attached to this term. In the first
and most extensive sense, it signifies mental, and is opposed to
physical, as when the sciences are divided into the' physical and
the moral. Secondly, in a less extended sense, it means the
active powers of man, or those mental powers which are imme-

8 GENERAL INTRODUCTION

It admits of several subdivisions, to be mentioned
presently ; bnt before entering upon these, I shall
here take the opportunity of pointing out what may
be called a new science, a general doctrine of hu-
man happiness. It has been remarked by Bacon,^
that the partitions of the sciences are not similar to
diverse lines, which meet at an angle, but rather to
the branches of trees, which are joined in one trunk,
this trunk beino: whole and continuous for a certain
space ere it split into branches. Before pursuing

diately connected with action ; and here it is opposed to the
intellectual. The assemblage of these active powers is what the
French call caracthre. Thirdly, in a sense still less extensive,
it signifies those qualities in which virtue resides, or those con-
nected with duty; and then it is opposed to vicious.

Lastly, it sometimes means merely one kind of virtues, those
comprehended under the general term chastity ; and in this case
it is opposed to immoral. A very moral man often implies one
who is strict merely in this particular. In the first Book of this
inquiry, which treats of Moral Science in general, the word is
used in the second sense above mentioned ; and in the following
Book, which discourses of Ethics, it is employed in the third and
more Hmited signification. Moral science, then, in the widest
sense here given to it, is that which has for its object so to regu-
late the thoughts, feelings, and actions of men, as to produce the
greatest possible sum of human happiness.

Hence thoughts, feelings, and actions are the constant subjects
of moral science, and the human mind as the source of thought,
feeling, and action. It differs from pure metaphysics in this,
that the bare knowledge of the mind, not its regulation, is the
object of the latter. Moral qualities differ from the intellectual
in this, that the former are immediately connected with the re-
gulation of thought, feeling, and action, and hence with human
happiness; whereas the intellectual are connected immediately
with bare knowledge, not with regulation or practice.

^ De Augm. Scient. lib. iii. cap. 1.

TO MORAL SCIENCE. 9

his primary division through all its ramifications, he
therefore lays down one universal science as the
mother of all the rest, to be considered, in the career
of knovrledge, as a portion of the common way pre-
vious to its separation. This he calls philosophia
prima, and it is to be made up of axioms not pecu-
liar to any one science, but belonging equally to
many.

Following in the steps of this great master, I shall
venture to propose a general science of human hap-
piness, or, should we think fit to express it by one
word, the term Eudemonology ^ naturally presents
itself. In subjects of this nature, however, learned
words ought to be avoided as much as possible.
This doctrine will comprehend axioms and prin-
ciples not peculiar to any one of the moral sciences,
but applicable alike to many ; and if properly
founded, will serve as a perpetual guide to conduct
us through the intricate maze of each of these
sciences in particular. In the First Book of this
inquiry an attempt will be made to fix some of the
leading principles of this general doctrine ; but in the
mean time we must pursue our classification, which
these observations have interrupted.

The mixed mental, or moral sciences, consider
man in two points of view : in the one, they look
upon him simply as an individual, or else as belong-
ing to the great family of mankind ; in the other, as
a member of a civil community. In the former
light, he is merely a citizen of the world ; in the

'' From the Greek ivSatfxoyia, happiness.

10 GENERAL INTRODUCTION

latter, he is a citizen of a state. Hence a well-
marked distinction between the cosmopolite and the
civil sciences. To the former belong, 1. Morals,
properly so called, or Ethics, which treats of human
duty ; 2. Natural Theology, which discourses of the
being and attributes of Deity, and the duties" we owe
to him, so far as these can be discovered without
the aid of Revelation ; 3. Criticism, or the science of
taste, inasmuch as it can be reduced to general prin-
ciples. The civil part, on the other hand, compre-
hends, 1. Politics, or the science of government; 2.
Jurisprudence, or the science of law, civil as well as
criminal;^ 3. Political Economy, or the science of
national wealth.

Having marked out the place which properly be-
longs to morals or ethics in the great body of the
sciences, and having seen how it is related to the rest,
to some remotely, to others nearly, we must now pro-
ceed to consider it more particularly. The object of
this branch of philosophy is human duty, and it
treats of right and wrong, moral obligation, merit and
demerit, virtue and vice. It is especially conversant
about certain sentiments of our nature to which the
epithet moral has generally been applied, the senti-
ments of approbation and disapprobation which arise
on considering the characters and actions of ourselves
and others. There is no subject which more con-
stantly presses itself upon our notice than this. It

« Legislation is, properly speaking, an art, not a science. It
applies to practice the principles derived from many sciences,
from morals, politics, jurisprudence, and political economy.

TO MORAL SCIENCE, 11

follows us in all our intercourse with men, of what-
ever nature it may be, solemn or gay, serious or
frivolous, it attends us in all our readings and medi-
tations where our fellow-creatures are concerned, and
when we remove from the busy world, it pursues us
into the deepest solitude, and occupies the recesses of
the heart. But though morals have in all ages been
intimately present to men, though they are constantly
thinking and speaking about them, and every day of
their lives feel approbation or disapprobation of them-
selves or others, yet when they come to dive philoso-
phically into the subject, they soon are bewildered
and lost. In proof of this we need only instance the
numerous and opposite systems of ethics which have
appeared from the earliest ages down to our own
days. Perhaps the very nearness of the object has
prevented it being distinctly perceived ; for as in the
world without we know that a certain distance is
necessary to render any thing distinct, so it may be
in the world within. Certain it is that the subjects
which seem most intimately to concern man, are not
those with which he has become first acquainted, for
eclipses were foretold and the planetary system dis-
closed before he knew that his blood circulated.
Nay, it was long supposed that the arteries contained
no blood at all; and while the nature and motions of
the real fluids were undiscovered, others, such as
animal spirits, were created by the imagination alone.
Even at the present day astronomy is much better
understood than physiology ; and while we can mea-
sure the distance of the most remote planets and cal-
culate the forces which keep them in their orbits, we

12 GENERAL INTRODUCTION

still dispute about the ordinary functions of the hu-
man body. The theory of the tides is better under-
stood than that of digestion, and the effects of the
moon than the uses of the spleen. The same may be
said of mental philosophy. While chemistry is daily
enlarging the boundaries of our knowledge, while it
analyses the earths and alkalis, and discovers the es-
sential principles of bark, opium, and strycknia, we
are still at a loss to analyse our moral sentiments, and
doubt about the foundation of morals.

This diversity in theory, must strike us as the more
extraordinary when we reflect on the general unifor-
mity which has prevailed in practical morality. With
some exceptions the same actions have, in all ages,
been approved or disapproved by mankind ; and how-
ever much philosophers might differ in their reasons,
they have generally been found to agree with each
other and with the rest of the world in applauding
or condemning certain actions and dispositions. Even
those, such as Mandeville and Hobbes, whose prin-
ciples seemed subversive of all morality, still felt and
spoke about particular characters much as other
people : just as Berkeley and his followers who de-
nied or doubted the existence of matter, acted in
every respect as if it really existed.^ This may serve

9 Perhaps Berkeley was the only man who ever pretended to
prove the non-existence of matter. This is in truth the pecu-
liarity of his system, and distinguishes it from all others. Hume
only said that we had no proof of the existence of matter; but
Berkeley attempted to shew that we had a positive proof to the
contrary. See the Principles of Human Knowledge, and the
beautiful dialogues between Hylas and Philonous. Hume was

TO MORAL SCIENCE. 13

to show us that practical morality falls peculiarly
within the domain of common sense, an excellent
guide in the ordinary business of life, though far
from sufficient, as some metaphysicians suppose, to
conduct us through the intricate paths of the higher
philosophy. Common sense being, as the name im-
plies, that portion of intelligence usually found among
men, it follows that its decisions will be pretty uni-
form, much mxore so than those of the higher talents
which admit of every variety and even eccentricity.
This is one cause of the general agreement among
mankind with respect to practical morality. But
though common sense, or, as some would say, common
feeling,^°be a safe enough guide in general, and pretty
constant, it would be absurd to say that it cannot
possibly be enlightened or corrected by more pro-
found inquiry. Individuals produced, bought, sold,
and grew rich ; nations flourished and rose to opu-
lence long before political economy was heard of, but
we do not think this a sufficient reason for neglecting
the cultivation of that science. Some of the greatest
physicians the world ever saw are supposed never to
have dissected a human body, and were entirely un-
acquainted with the circulation of the blood ; but
shall we therefore say that anatomy is useless, and

properly a sceptic, not so Berkeley. Matter, according to him,
was the grand source of scepticism ; and were it once exploded,
infidelity and its consequences would for ever flee away.

10 The reader will observe that these two words are employed
in order not to prejudge the question as to the prevalence of
reason or of feehng in morals.

14 GENERAL INTRODUCTION

that Harvey laboured in vain ? Children learn to
speak their mother tongue fluently and pretty cor-
rectly without ever having heard of grammar, but
still this is always considered as essential to a liberal
education. Speculation constantly tends to influence
practice, though it may be long of actually doing so.
Nor perhaps ought we to deplore that it is so tardy
in its effects, for were all the crude opinions of philo-
sophers to be at once applied to real life, it is difiicult
to imagine the mischief that would ensue. Delay is
absolutely necessary to try the merits of a system,
and if at last it be proved sound, we may be sure
that it will have an effect. Nor is this delay less
advantageous to philosophers themselves than to so-
ciety in general ; for if they knew that their schemes
would be instantly acted upon, their liberty of specu-
lation would be greatly restrained from fear of the
immediate consequences. As it is, they feel free to
throw out many bold suggestions which in part at
least may be correct, well knowing that Time, the
sage, will separate the true from the false. ^^

Nor is the uniformity of the moral sentiments of
mankind with respect to actions and characters so
complete as many have supposed. On certain great
points all no doubt are agreed, but on others there
has been a considerable diversity, particularly when
we compare distant ages and countries. But the
moment there is a diversity, we instantly perceive the
necessity of a rule whereby to determine which opi-

11 This may be pleaded as an excuse for Hume and others
whose speculations have given much offence.

TO MORAL SCIENCE. 15

nion or practice is best. Even in the same or adja-
cent countries we often find a wide disagreement in
judging of the merits of individuals. This may no
doubt arise from some having had more opportunities
of knowing the virtues, others the vices of the cha-
racter in question ; but even where these are a matter
of history, and have appeared in the face of day, the
estimate concerning them is sometimes very different.
Take for instance the character of Napoleon. By
the French in general he is regarded not only as a
military and civil genius of the first order, but as
one whose brilliant and useful achievements cast into
the shade all minor faults ; while by many of the
English he is looked upon chiefly as a finished con-
queror and tyrant. Nay, his conquests themselves
are applauded or condemned according as they are
talked of on this or that side of the channel ; and
in the eyes even of many who blame his ambition, his
moral reputation has suffered more from the single
murder of the Due d' Enghien than from the sacri-
fice of a million of men in Italy, Spain, Germany, and
Russia. Surely we must here see the necessity of a
standard whereby to try the actions of men, and to
discover such a standard is the principal object of
ethical science.

By some, the axiom " de mortuis nil nisi bonum "
has been adopted, while by others, the very circum-
stance of an individual being no longer alive to feel-
ing, is considered as a reason for canvassing his cha-
racter more freely. The attempts of Alibeau, and
Meunier, and Darmes, against the life of the King
of the French, are in general regarded with abhor-

16 GENERAL INTRODUCTION

rence ; but by a certain party in France, these men
are looked upon as heroes, who exposed themselves to
almost certain death to gain a patriotic end. Those
who assassinated tyrants were by the ancients held
in the highest honour; and Harmodius, Aristogiton,
Brutus, who stabbed his friend, nay, Timoleon, who
slew his own brother, were held up as bright examples
to the world, and had statues raised to their memory.
In this respect, moral sentiment has undergone a
great change. The same may be said of suicide,
which amongst the Romans was not only tolerated
but praised ; while those who in certain circumstances
did not put an end to themselves, were branded
as miserable poltroons, dead to every manly virtue.
Most of the eminent men who were doomed to die by
the first Caesars, anticipated their fate by self-slaugh-
ter, and always were applauded for doing so ; and
the Emperor Otho is represented by Tacitus as
having gained as much reputation by killing himself
as he had lost by the murder of Galba.'^ This too
was at a time when his affairs were by no means
desperate. Moreover the exposure of infants was
practised, without remorse or obloquy, both by the
Greeks and Romans.

In another branch of morals, that which regards
the intercourse between the sexes, we find a very con-
siderable diversity of sentiment, not only between
past and present times, but between different nations

12 " Duobus facinoribus, altero flagitiosissimo, altero egregio,
tantumdem apud posteros meruit bonse farase, quantum malse."
Hist. lib. ii. cap. 4.

TO MORAL SCIENCE, 17

of our own day. To say nothing of certain practices
now generally execrated, but which were tolerated
by the most refined people of antiquity ; we may
remark that, from the earliest ages polygamy has
been permitted in the east, while in Europe it has
been generally forbidden. Abraham was married to
his half-sister by the father ; ^^ and at Athens mar-
riages of this sort were legal ; but at Sparta, those
with an uterine sister only were sanctioned, while in
Egypt both were allowed.^* Even now the marriage
of uncle and niece is not uncommon in some catholic
countries, particularly in Spain and Portugal, also in
Savoy, but in protestant states it is generally, if not
always, prohibited. In England a man may not wed
a former wife's sister ; but in America, such a con-
nection is sanctioned and is by no means rare. These
examples may suffice to show that the moral senti-
ments of mankind have not been quite so uniform as
some would have us to believe ; and at the same time,
they prove that ethics is not a matter so very plain
and simple, as to require no rule beyond the common
sense or common feelino; of the world.

After these observations, which go to prove the
necessity of science in morals, it remains to be shown
what are its leading divisions. And here again the
same distinction presents itself, which we formerly
mentioned as applicable to other sciences. Ethics
naturally divides itself into two principal parts, the

13 Genesis, xx. 12.

!■* See L'Esprit des Lois, liv. v. ch. v., and the authorities
there quoted ; Cornelius Nepos, Philo, Strabo, and Seneca.

C

18 GENERAL INTRODUCTION

speculative and the practical, or the Theory of moral
sentiments, and the Rule of action, or rule of life.
This is a distinction of first rate importance, but
strange to say it has been very little attended to.
Almost all writers upon morals have mixed up the
one with the other, and have confounded the two
questions, the what is, and the what ought to be.
Having discovered, or thought they had discovered,
the nature and origin of our moral sentiments, they
conceived they had nothing further to do ; as if, why
do we approve or disapprove, and why ought we to
approve or disapprove, were one and the same ques-
tion. But it is evident that the circumstances actually
present to the mind, and which give rise to our moral
sentiments, may or may not always be the same as
those by which, on mature reflection, we consider
ourselves justified in awarding praise or blame.
Thus suppose, merely for the sake of illustration,
that most of the above sentiments could be traced
to associations formed in childhood and early youth,
would this be a sufficient reason to give to any one
who asked us, why we approved or disapproved such
and such actions? As assigning the actual cause, the
answer might be correct enough, and so express a
metaphysical truth ; but it would not be a moral
answer, that is, it would not shew that we were right
in applauding or condemning. Here we see the dif-
ference between a metaphysical and a moral reason,
or a speculative and a practical, and at the same time
the propriety of the distinction above laid down. In
saying that it has been scarcely at all attended to by
writers on this subject, I must however except Sir
James Mackintosh, who, in his Dissertation on the

TO MORAL SCIENCE. 19

Progress of Ethical Philosophy, has insisted strongly
thereon, and considers that much of the obscurity
which involves this subject has arisen from confound-
ing two questions which ought always to have been
kept separate. It may be true that actions ought to
be called virtuous or vicious according to their gene-
ral consequences ; but does it therefore follow, that
the view of these consequences is always present to
the mind when it approves or disapproves ? These it
is clear are quite different inquiries. The second
part, here termed the Rule of action, is what Sir James
calls the Criterion of morality.

The speculative branch of morality naturally sub-
divides itself into two, in one of which we treat of the
nature of the moral sentiments, and analyse them,
supposing them susceptible of analysis ; while in the
other we trace the sources or causes from which they
spring, in other words, their origin.

Practical morality also admits of a twofold divi-
sion. The first part investigates the final cause of
these moral sentiments, i. e. the purpose for which
they seem to have been given us, or the object which
they serve ; the second considers on what occasions
they ought to arise in order to fulfil that purpose, i. e,
what is the quality of actions on account of which we
are justified in approving or disapproving them, and
in calling them virtuous or vicious. In short, this
last part treats of the characteristic quality or quali-
ties of Virtue and Vice. Each of these heads must
be touched upon in order; but previously we must
endeavour, according to promise, to fix some of the
principles of the general science of human happiness.

BOOK I.

ON MORAL SCIENCE IN GENERAL, OR THE SCIENCE
OF HUMAN HAPPINESS.

PART I.

PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS ON THE HUMAN MIND, AND
ON HUMAN HAPPINESS.

SINCE we are constantly forming plans of happi-
ness, and since there is nothing in which we feel
so deep an interest, we can readily believe that en-
quiries into the sources thereof must have attracted
the attention of mankind at a very early period.
One of the principal objects of the Greek philoso-
phers was to discover wherein lay the summum honum^
or chief good, which the wise man ought always to
pursue. Various systems were formed, all of them
imperfect, but all containing some truth, one placing
the chief good in pleasure, another in the mere ab-
sence of anxiety ; a third in active virtue, and a fourth
in contemplation ; while a fifth denied that there was
any fixed good at all, and maintained that every thing
depended upon individual opinion or humour. Some
philosophers thought they could not be virtuous and
happy but apart from the world ; these said that we
ought to place our happiness in nothing but what

OF HUMAN HAPPINESS. 21

was in our own power, and inaccessible to the strokes
of fortune; and those, instead of instructing us to
master and direct our passions, taught that we should
be perpetually guarding against the occasions of
them, treating the mind as Sanctorius did his body,
who spent his life in guarding it from injury.

But inquiries into human happiness have not been
abandoned to philosophers alone. Hints and reflec-
tions thereupon are to be met with every where, in
prose works having no pretensions to great accuracy,
in poems, plays, and even in daily conversation. In
modern times, indeed, the subject has generally been
considered merely as a popular one, perhaps as be-
neath the notice of persons of exalted attainments ;
and while the appellation of men of science has been
awarded to those who studied grubs and butterflies,
it has often been denied to such as addicted them-
selves to morals and politics. But even when these
were allowed to be real sciences, it seems mostly to
have been overlooked that a higher and more general
philosophy reigns over all branches of knowledge
which especially relate to the actions of man, whe-
ther considered in his individual or in his social ca-
pacity. Attempts, as we have seen, were made by
the ancients towards founding a philosophy of this
description, but with no great success. Their sys-
tems differed as much among themselves, and were
as partial as the opinions met with daily in the
world.

And this brings me to remark a difficulty belong-
ing to all moral science, but in a peculiar degree to
that comprehensive one now to be treated of, and

22 ON THE SCIENCE OF

which will sufficiently account for the great diversity
of opinions here alluded to.

Those who cultivate other branches of human
knowledge require a keen intellect, and that alone.
The mathematician who reasons of number and
quantity ; the natural philosopher who calculates me-
chanical forces ; the chemist who analyses earths and
alkalis, and determines the laws of heat, and of all
insensible motion ; the geologist who attempts to
discover the causes of the changes already undergone,
or now in progress near the earth's surface ; the phy-
siologist who investigates the causes of life and death
and the functions of every organ in the body ; even
the metaphysician, so far as he studies our intellectual
nature alone ; lastly, the natural historian, who ex-
amines, describes, and classifies every mineral, ve-
getable, and animal, all have to do with objects cog-
nizable by the intellect or the senses. Not so the moral
philosopher. The grand end which he has in view
is happiness, and happiness to be known must he felt.
If it be allowed that no description could possibly
give to a man born blind or deaf any clear notion of
colours or of sounds, it must equally be true that no
one could form any idea of an emotion which he had
never at all felt. How should we proceed to give
such an one a conception of beauty or sublimity, of
love, hatred, or ambition? In vain should we heap
words upon words till we had exhausted all the riches
of language, for his mind would remain as before, dead
to all notions of the sort. The only way in which we
could succeed in opening the avenues of his heart
would be to bring him to a spot commanding a

HUMAN HAPPINESS. 23

beautiful prospect, or place him in situations fit to
call forth the passions. If still he should prove insen-
sible, we would give up the case as hopeless. We
should consider him as a moral anomaly cut off by
natural deficiency, not only from the principal sources
of enjoyment, but from the means of acquiring know-
ledge. He might, indeed, pursue one or other of the
sciences above enumerated, and even attain to emi-
nence, supposing the passion of curiosity not to be
extinct with the rest; but were he to attempt moral
subjects, he would instantly appear wanting in the
first elements of success. He might often have read
of love and ambition, and might even write down,
the words on his pages, but it is clear he could know
nothing about them. By carefully attending to what
others had said, he might be able to conceal his
ignorance, and so compose a plausible book, but it
could not add a tittle to the sum of information we
before possessed. Now what is true of a person such
as we have here imagined must apply in a less degree
to many individuals in the world. Some have intel-
lects of a high order, and yet are very deficient in
sensibility or delicacy of feeling ; so that when they
come to reason on human happiness, they are sure
to form some very partial system at best, if it be not
quite erroneous. Here their intellect stands them in no
stead from the want of data to go upon. Not being
able to conceive what they have never felt, they are
ignorant of all sorts of felicity except a few^ and to
these, therefore, they turn their attention, neglecting
all the rest. Of this we have a very remarkable
instance in Hobbes, a man of the highest order of

24 ON THE SCIENCE OF

intellect, but who from want of sensibility composed
a false and narrow system of morals. The same ob-
servation, though in a very modified degree, is appli-
cable to one of the greatest philosophers of our day,
Jeremy Bentham. It would be the utmost injustice
to compare his moral writings with those of Hobbes ;
but it is nevertheless certain, that they often evince a
want of knowledge of the human heart, and take a
confined estimate of the various sources of enjoyment
open to mankind. One who could consider poetry
and the fine arts as no more useful than the game of
solitaire or tee-totum, must be allowed to have been
deficient in that comprehensive sensibility so neces-
sary in moral science. Nor are intellect and delicacy
of feeling alone sufficient. A man may be capable of
feeling, and may have actually felt to a certain extent
every emotion of which human nature is susceptible,
but it is impossible that he can have experienced them
all in great intensity. It is necessary, however, that
he should be able to conceive them existing in every
possible degree of force, otherwise his estimate of their
influence on action and happiness will be imperfect.
Now imagination alone can disclose this new world
to his view, and can magnify passions weak in him-
self, till they rise before him in all their strength and
majesty. Herein lies the art of all great dramatic
writers and actors. Obedient to the call of fancy,
the gates of the mind fly wide open before them,
and allow them to see the inmost recesses of the
heart. They do not reason about the passions, but
they can imagine what they are, and know practi-
cally, though not theoretically, on what occasions

HUMAN HAPPINESS, 25

they are apt to be called forth. So ought the moral
philosopher.

Here then is the grand difficulty of this branch of
knowledge. It requires a combination of qualities
very rarely to be met with, Intellect, Sensibility, Ima-
gination, all in a high degree. If we cannot be sur-
prised that monks and schoolmen who passed their
lives in cloisters should have had very narrow notions
on the subject, removed, as they were, from the busy
world, from the society of women, and from all do-
mestic ties and endearments, we must allow that those
philosophers who spend most of their time in their
closets, who lead either a solitary existence, or one
confined to a few intimates, and whose social affec-
tions have been little cultivated, are on these accounts
peculiarly unfitted for laying down plans of human
happiness. How can any one give comprehensive
views of happiness, without a mind so framed as to
feel enjoyments of different kinds, and imagine them
stronger or weaker in others ? Could he who was
dead to the pleasures of the affection and the imagi-
nation form any just estimate of their importance ?
This is evidently impossible.

The same difference of feeling and dulness of
imagination in men explain what has often been ob-
served, that one half of mankind pass their lives in
wondering at the pursuits of the other. Not being
able either to feel or to fancy the pleasure derived
from other sources than their own, they consider the
rest of the world as little better than fools, who follow
empty baubles. They hug themselves as the only
wise, while in truth they are only narrow-minded.

26 ON THE SCIENCE OF

The above observations will show, that what we
ought most carefully to avoid in all inquiries of this
nature, is the formation of an exclusive system, which
would confine happiness to one or two points alone,
forgetful of the infinite diversity of pursuits and en-
joyments, which the bounty of the Deity has opened
up to his creatures. At the same time were we to
attempt to enumerate all the objects and all the modes
of existence capable of giving pleasure, we should
lose ourselves in interminable details, without ob-
taining any clew to guide us through the labyrinth
of life. Here, as in all the higher branches of philo-
sophy, the grand object is to discover certain general
principles that widely pervade nature, which are
always found united with other things, but which
alone communicate real virtue to the compound. If
these were all known, science would be complete;
for as Bacon has well observed, " Bene scire esse per
causas scire ;" and these principles are the essential
causes of whatever effects we behold. In the lan-
guage of that great philosopher, they are called
forms, and they differ from what he styles the effi-
cient or palpable cause in this, that the latter is only
a vehicle for the former. An example or two taken
from chemistry will render this very plain. The sub-
stances opium and bark had long been employed in
medicine to produce narcotic effects and to cure
ague, but it was not discovered till lately by analysis,
that all the virtue of the one resides in a very minute
part of the whole, called morphea, and that of the
other in quinine. These being taken away, the rest
is an inert mass of no use whatsoever. Here then

HUMAN HAPPINESS. 27

we have the essential principles or forms, the real
causes of certain medicinal effects, separated from
the woody and extraneous matter which . served
merely as a vehicle for those forms. If a dose of
opium be given, and the usual result ensue, we na-
turally say that opium was the cause, and in a cer-
tain sense we are right, for at least, it contains the
cause, as a spoonful of jelly does a nauseous but
active powder. The opium, in the language of
Bacon, is the causa efficiens or vehiculum formcE, the
morphea the forma ; or if we please, the one is the
palpable, the other the hidden and real cause. This,
it is hoped, will suffice to explain the difference be-
tween the two. It is just possible that a further
analysis may detect morphea not in opium only, but
in every plant having a narcotic effect, and if so, we
shall have discovered a general narcotic principle
widely spread throughout nature. The number of
elements is of course very much less numerous than
that of compounds, for the latter are formed by the
former mixed in proportions infinitely diversified. The
number of simple substances known at present to
exist does not exceed forty or fifty ; and almost all
the varieties of vegetable productions are formed out
of three of these elements, and all the animal out of
four.^

From what has now been said, the reader will be
able to see more clearly what is meant by the essen-
tial principles of happiness. They are hidden causes

1 Carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, and azote. The last exists very
sparingly in vegetables, and in very many not at all.

28 ON THE SCIENCE OF

or elements, perhaps not very numerous, which per-
vade all objects, incidents, and pursuits capable of
touching our sensibility, and on these elements the
efficacy of the compounds depends. Were they once
discovered even in part, the science v^ould rest on a
real and solid foundation, capable of being enlarged
from time to time, but v^ithout the destruction of what
had before been laid. To endeavour to fix some of
these principles is the object of the present book.

In the first place it is necessary to form a correct
idea of the nature of those feelings in which all
happiness consists. For this purpose we must take
a summary view of the various mental phenomena
or appearances.^

All the states of mind of which we are con-
scious may be divided into two great classes, ac-
cording as they are, or are not immediately preceded
by a change in the state of the body. To the for-
mer the term Sensations is properly applied ; for
the latter, in the want of a single and appropriate
word, the expression Inward phenomena may be
adopted. Sensations may be otherwise called, for
the sake of uniformity. Outward phenomena. But
we must always remember that they are called out-
ward solely in reference to the cause, or change in
state of the body, and that they as much belong to
the mind within as the inward phenomena them-
selves. Sensation is as much mental as thought or
emotion, though the cause from which it springs is

" The readers of Dr. Brown will perceive that the present clas-
sification of the mental phenomena differs not from the one laid
down in the lectures of that eminent metaphysician.

HUMAN HAPPINESS. 29

not so. This ought never to be forgotten. When the
rays of light strike upon the eye, they produce a cer-
tain change in the expansion of the optic nerve, called
the retina, which is immediately and instantly fol-
lowed by a change in the mind. We are then said
to see, and sight is a sensation. So when the air is
put in motion by some material body, and the vibra-
tions of the atmosphere, at last, reach the ear, they
make an impression on the auditory nerve, and hear-
ing is the instant consequence. The same holds true
of what has sometimes been called internal sensation,
arising from some change in the inward parts of
the frame. A certain change in the state of the
stomach and throat creates hunger and thirst, and
the various and obscure changes which occur in dis-
ease, produce sensations of a very unpleasant nature.
Perfect health, on the contrary, produces a perma-
nently agreeable sensation, though not of a very
lively character.

The inward phenomena are separated from sensa-
tion by this well-marked distinction, that they are
always preceded immediately not by a change in the
body, but by some change in the mind, whether a
sensation or another inward phenomenon. They are
of two sorts, according as they do or do not necessarily
involve pleasure or pain, happiness or misery. By
the late Dr. Brown of Edinburgh the latter of these
were called the intellectual states of mind ; but as
this phrase is somewhat long for ordinary use, I shall
employ the common word Thoughts to express what
is here meant. The Emotions constitute the second
class of inward phenomena. Thoughts differ from

30 ON THE SCIENCE OF

emotions in this, that they are in themselves neutral
as respects sensibility, though they may, and con-
stantly do give rise to pleasurable and painful, excit-
ing and lowering feelings. But these feelings can
always be distinguished from the thoughts from which
they sprang, and they are properly known by the
term emotions, the most comprehensive that our
language affords to express those states of mind
other than sensations which delight or grieve, rouse
or depress, agitate inwardly, and impel us to out-
ward actions. To attempt to explain them "any more
in words, would be useless, for he who knows them
not by feeling never can by description.

Thoughts are of two kinds, simple and relative, or
Conceptions and Relations. When I think of a single
tree, I have a conception of it ; but when I consider
two trees together, and am sensible that one is thicker
than the other, I am impressed with a relation be-
tween them, which in this case is one of comparison.
This may be enough for our present purpose ; for
to pursue the subject further, belongs to a work on
metaphysics.

From the above it follows that happiness or misery,
pleasure or pain, consists in sensation and emotion,
and in these alone. However small, or however
great, however fleeting, or however durable pleasures
or pains may be, they must all be classed under one
or other of these general heads. Here then already
we see a little order breaking through the apparent
chaos of the human mind.

Paley indeed has maintained the singular opinion
that happiness consists not at all in sensation. Such

HUMAN HAPPINESS. 31

an opinion, if broached by the spiritual Malebranche,
would have surprised us less ; but coming from an
author who has gone so far as to say that he knows
no difference between pleasures, except in their con-
tinuance and intensity, and that the refined, the
delicate, and the gross, are otherwise quite on a par ;
it must strike us as very extraordinary. Even the
words in which he expresses his views are utterly
contradictory. " Happiness," he says, *' does not
consist in the pleasures of sense, in whatever profu-
sion or variety they be enjoyed." Here it is allowed
that there are pleasures of sense, and if so, they must
form a part of happiness. Depreciate, vilify, and
revile them as much as you please, still you must
allow them to be something, and something always
bears an infinite proportion to nothing. But the
opinion will appear still more unaccountable when
we reflect, that Paley comprehends under the plea-
sures of sense not only sensations properly so called,
but various more refined pleasures, as " music, paint-
ing, architecture, gardening, splendid shows, theatric
exhibitions ; and the pleasures lastly of active sports,
as of hunting, shooting, fishing," &c. Here is a
sweeping deduction, indeed, from the elements of
human happiness. It is unnecessary to enter upon
the arguments by which he attempts to support his
views, for even if correct, they prove not that the
above pleasures are worthless, but only that they are
inferior to others. That this is the case of most of
them I shall not pretend to dispute. He says that
they continue but a little while at a time ; still they
do continue some time, and this is enough for our

32 ON THE SCIENCE OF

present purpose. Nor is it true of all of them, that
they are so short-lived, not even of sensations, in the
strict sense of the word. That general feeling of en-
joyment which arises directly from a sound state of
body, the sensation of comfort produced by fine
weather, or by a good fire, are of a very durable
nature. Much of the pleasure of indolent and un-
educated people in southern countries arises merely
from the bodily luxury produced by a fine climate.
And however much we may pity those persons, who
from dulness of mind, whether natural or acquired,
have little or no relish for any thing beyond a good
dinner and a bottle of wine, still, as they do enjoy
them, we surely would not wish to deprive them of
all they have. " Laying aside the preparation and
the expectation, and computing strictly the actual
sensation, we shall be surprised to find how inconsi-
derable a portion of our time they occupy, how few
hours in the four-and-twenty they are able to fill up."
But if they do create preparation and expectation, or
in other words, a flow of thought and emotion, they
do a great deal, however insignificant the end may
be. Of those who are neither young, nor have any
fixed employment, not a few, I believe, spend a good
part of the forenoon in planning the feast, and expect-
ing the hour of dinner, and thus the mind is amused
and the demon ennui put to flight. Besides, the ob-
jection of Paley applies not to sensations only^ but to
many other enjoyments which, in themselves but tran-
sitory, are valuable as objects of pursuit.

As to the other pleasures above enumerated, espe-
cially field sports, these have a very great influence

HUMAN HAPPINESS. 33

on the happiness of certain classes of men, and are
so far from fleeting, that they occupy no small part
of life, and are pursued with eagerness even to old
age. How many country gentlemen are kept in
good health and spirits by the activity mental and
bodily to which they give rise !

To complete the inconsistency of Paley, he finishes
by saying, that " these pleasures, after all, have their
value ; and as the young are always too eager in the
pursuit of them, the old are sometimes too remiss,
that is, too studious of their ease to be at the pains
for them which they really deserve." After this we
need say no more, only we may observe that the rest
of the chapter is valuable, though the author, as he is
wont, contents himself with a broad common sense
view of the question, and makes no attempt at deep
or subtle investigation.-^

Having thus established the point that sensation
must always be considered as an element of human
happiness, it must nevertheless be allowed, that by
far the greater part is included in the class of emo-
tions. It belongs not to a work of this sort to examine
these in detail. They form one principal branch of
metaphysics, or the philosophy of the human mind,
which undertakes to analyse, to classify them, and to
trace the general causes in which they originate.
Every science has some point where it joins on to other
and contiguous sciences. Thus sensation marks the
line where physiology and mental philosophy meet, for

^ See Paley's Moral and Political Philosophy. Ch. on Hap-
piness.

D

34 ON THE SCIENCE OF

the cause being bodily, belongs to the one, and the
eifect being spiritual, to the other. So the emotions
lie on the line of separation between the purely mental
and the mixed or moral sciences ; and viewed in one
light they belong to the former, in another to the latter.
When examined merely in a speculative way, as an
object of curiosity, they form a branch of metaphysics ;
but when they are considered as elements of human
happiness, capable of being fostered, stifled, or
directed with a view to the good of individuals or
communities, they appertain to moral science. To
analyse, classify, and trace their causes belongs to the
one ; to show what effects they have upon our happi-
ness, how these effects may be modified, and how the
emotions tend to support or overthrow any practical
system, is peculiar to the other. Dismissing, then,
the general analysis and classification of these feel-
ings as belonging to another department, and amply
sufficient to fill a separate work,* we shall confine our
attention to one great branch of them, by far the most
important for our present purpose, Desires and Fears.
A practical acquaintance with the emotions, espe-
cially with desires and fears, with the occasions on
which they are apt to arise, and the consequences,
whether in word or deed, which they usually produce,
constitutes what is commonly called a knowledge of
human nature. This knowledge is indispensable not

* Those who are inclined to see this branch of philosophy
treated at length, and with great acuteness, will do well to consult
the third volume of" Dr. Brown's Lectures, perhaps the most in-
teresting of the whole work.

HUMAN HAPPINESS. 35

only in proposing schemes for bettering the condition
of mankind, but more or less in almost every branch of
literature, whether history, novels, poetry, or the
drama. Without it no moralist, legislator, or states-
man, no writer in prose or verse has ever risen to much
eminence.

Desire and passion differ only in this, that the former
is the most general term, whereas the word passion is
limited to desires, either intense or durable. A de-
sire, however transitory, if it be intense, is called pas-
sion ; as for instance, momentary anger ; and perhaps
the same word would be applied to a very durable
desire, though it never rose to a height. But as this
is a case of rather rare occurrence, since desires seldom
continue long without waxing powerful, we cannot
so well say whether in common language continuance
alone would be enough to justify the term. This,
however, is of little consequence, for all I wish to
observe is, that between desire and passion there is
no essential difference, and that the one may at any
time grow or decline into the other, the nature of
the feeling being all the while the same. Love of
money, for instance, may in this man be a light de-
sire, and may never greatly increase, while in that
it is the mainspring of life, which, as he advances in
years, becomes the passion of avarice, and engrosses
his whole existence. This being understood, we
may now proceed to consider what more real dif-
ference exists in the nature of our various desires.

Desire and fear are utterly opposed to each othei-,

.and yet the same objects give rise to both. If we

desire to obtain any thing, we may also fear lest we

36 . ON THE SCIENCE OF

should not obtain it ; and when we actually possess
and wish to preserve it, we are apt to fear that we
shall not. So when we fear any evil, we necessarily
desire to escape it, and when it does overtake us, we
again wish for its departure. Thus the two emotions
are produced by the same objects, come and go
together, and both look to the future. For this
reason they have properly been called prospective.
They are both simple feelings, not susceptible of
analysis, either in language or in idea; and therefore
they cannot be defined.

From the above it follows, that whatever real
distinction may be found between our desires, the
same must exist between our fears ; and therefore
that the classification which applies to the one will
also hold good of the other. Moreover, it is evident,
that just as much as desires are favourable, must the
corresponding fears be unfavourable to happiness,
supposing them equally intense and continuous ; and
therefore whatever may be proved true of the former,
the converse must apply to the latter. Consequently,
we are freed from the necessity of discussing both,
for we could only repeat our observations.

Every thing in nature may be considered in two
points of view, first, as it is something in itself; se-
condly, as it is related to a greater whole of which
it forms a part. The globe we inhabit has a real
existence by itself, while at the same time it is a
part of tlie universe, and of our planetary system
more especially, to which it is related in the way
both of cause and effect. The eastern hemisphere was
occupied by races of men, who lived and flourished

HUMAN HAPPINESS. 37

long before tbey heard of the western ; but the old
world was not tardy in forming relations with the
new when this was once discovered. Every country
has a real importance of its own, as well as in re-
ference to others, whether we view it in a geogra-
phical, a political, or a moral light ; and so has every
province, parish, family, and individual. The moral
duties have generally been divided into those which
regard self and those which look to others; and in
politics and political economy, home and foreign
affairs, home and foreign trade are always kept dis-
tinct. This real and fundamental distinction is also
met with in the human mind. The great Author of
our being has implanted in us two orders of desires
very different in their nature. By the one, we are
directly impelled to seek the good of self, by the
other, that of the world without. Those are pro-
perly Self-regarding, these are Social. Without the
former man would be a fool, without the latter a
savage ; take away the first, and the human race ex-
pires ; extirpate the second, and it is scarcely worth
preserving. But besides the desires which directly
seek the good of others, there are some which point
to their evil ; and these also may be called social, the
term being employed to signify what relates to the
world without, whether for good or for ill. Thus of
the two grand classes of desires, the self-regarding
and the social, the latter is subdivided into the bene-
volent and the malevolent. The former class, it is
evident, admits of no such general subdivision, for we
cannot be conceived as wishing our own injury ; and
therefore, the particular desires alone remain here to
be enumerated.

38 ON THE SCIENCE OF

This distinction appears so obvious when once
pointed out, it admits of such convincing proof from
direct experience, and is so agreeable to the general
analogy of nature, that w^e are almost at a loss to
conceive how it ever could have been called in
question. Still, authors have not been wanting who
have denied the reality of the social, or at least of
the benevolent desires, and have attempted to prove
that man looks only to self. This is but one instance
of that tendency to excessive simplification, which in
the figurative language of Bacon, is one of the gene-
ral idols of the human mind. No more acceptable
incense could be offered to this deceitful divinity,
than that which arose from the ruins of the altar of
benevolence. It had always been observed, that self
over-ruled a great part of our emotions, but how
great would be the glory of him who should prove
that it governed alone !

It will not be difficult to prove that the distinction
we have pointed out is really founded in nature,
even on the supposition that all our desires origi-
nate in a regard to self. Those who maintain this
last opinion must, at all events, admit that there is a
decided difference between direct and reflected plea-
sure, between that which arises immediately from
the presence or prospect of any object, and that
which we feel, because pleasure has first been felt
by others. That we do often rejoice on account of
the happiness of others, and are grieved on account
of their misery, is a fact which falls within the ex-
perience of all men, and to this experience we may
boldly make an appeal, and rely upon it as impli-

HUMAN HAPPINESS. 39

citly as in proving the laws of motion. It is also
indisputable, that we often desire the happiness of
others and occasionally their woe, and we call the
fact indisputable, because we think it established
chiefly by what every man experiences in his own
breast; likewise by observations on the words and
deeds of other men, whether known by personal ob-
servation or by testimony. True, it has been main-
tained, that in desiring the welfare of our fellows,
we really look to our own, and that the pleasure
anticipated from sympathy creates the motive to
charitable deeds. In this view of the case, we still
wish for the good of our neighbour, but only as the
means to an end, that end being self-gratification.
Even here it is allowed, that we have benevolent
desires, and this is sufiicient for our present purpose.
This being granted, it may be a matter of curiosity
whether self-interest lie at the bottom of all, or whe-
ther it do not, and as such the question properly
belongs to purely mental philosophy, but having no
perceptible influence on practice, it is excluded from
moral science.^

Being once thoroughly convinced of the truth of
the distinction between the self-regarding and the
social desires, and the reality of the pleasures of sym-

5 Dr. Brown puts the purely disinterested theory in the most
startling- point of view, when he says, " We desire the happiness
of others, and we have pleasure in this desire; but with the same
capacity of mere love as now, we should have desired the hap-
piness of others, though no direct pleasure to ourselves had fol-
lowed our generous wish." Lectures, vol. iii, lect. Ixvi. " With
the same capacity of love as now ! " this is indeed a strange sup-
position ! How can we conceive such a Capacity co-existing with

40 ON THE SCIENCE OF

pathy, it follows that all systems of happiness which
make no account of these last, must be considered as
radically deficient. They at once cut off a grand
source of human enjoyment, and leave us as maimed
in mind as if we were deprived of sight or hearing.
What should we think of a treatise on the senses,
which should omit all mention of the eye 1 And
shall a system of moral philosophy be considered
perfect, which excludes our social feelings, the boast
and brightest ornament of our nature ?

Here, then, is a fundamental point never to be lost
sight of. He who pursues, exclusively, his self-re-
garding interest, acts like the man who should cut
off one healthy limb, with a view to increase the other.
If more blood and nourishment should really fall to
its share, would this be a sufficient compensation for
the member which he had lost? We may concentrate
all our thoughts in what concerns our self, we may
never lose an opportunity of pushing what we call
our interest ; we may be long-sighted and dispas-
sionate, and yet be far from the greatest happiness of
which our nature is susceptible. Laughing at the be-
nevolent folly which would make us forget our end,
were it but for a moment, we may think ourselves
supremely wise, while in truth we are lamentably
ignorant. In laying our plans of enjoyment, we have

the absence of all pleasure of sympathy ? One is even at a loss
to understand the meaning of the terms, so contradictory do they
appear. I may observe once for all, that Brown, admirable as
a pure metaphysician, sinks at once when he approaches the
subject of morals. This remark on Brown has been made also by
Dr. Chalmers, in his very interesting work, " Sketches of Moral
and Mental Philosophy.''

HUMAN HAPPINESS. 41

omitted some of the principal data, and therefore, it
cannot be surprising if the result should prove a
failure. In vain should we hope to obtain the greatest
happiness by denying the first principles of our nature.
God has given us propensities and corresponding
gratifications of two very different kinds ; and if by an
over devotion to self we become dead to the social
feelings, we abandon, of our own free will, some of
the choicest blessings of His providence. When,
therefore, the cares of life begin to engross our soul,
when the more generous sentiments of youth wax
cold by contact with the world, let us repair to the
temple of Divine philosophy, and consult her hallowed
voice. She will tell us, that in seeking for bliss, we
must enlarge not contract our minds, and keep them
open to reflected, as well as to direct felicity. Before
quitting the threshold she will show us the altar
of benevolence, rising beside her own, and will tell
us to snatch from it a brand to nurse the sacred
oflow.

In that invaluable part of the " De Augmentis,"
where Bacon touches upon moral science, he lays
particular stress upon what he calls the Bonufii Com-
munionis, or social good, considered as a source of
happiness to the individual who pursues it ; and he
shows, by a reference to various systems of antiquity,
that here lay their radical deficiency ; for those systems
placed happiness in the honum suitatis only, or in
that of which self is the direct object. This consi-
deration alone is sufficient to determine the merits of
many highly venerated schemes, which have been
handed down to posterity under imposing names, to

42 OF HUMAN HAPPINESS.

some of which I have alluded in the opening of the
present chapter. They agreed in this alone, that
they were based upon a narrow view of human na-
ture, some attending more to one class of phenomena,
some to another, while the importance of the social
feelings was properly estimated by none. The
stoics, in some respects, approached most nearly
to the truth ; but their system was disfigured by
the most shocking paradoxes, such as the denying
of all outward advantages, and of pain as a real evil.
Still to them belongs the merit of having estimated
the social good much more justly than the rest. It
was reserved for the Christian religion to raise the
common good to its highest pitch, by enjoining us
to love our neighbour as ourselves, a precept which
philosophy shows to be equally favourable to both.
Charity, like Mercy, is twice blessed, " it blesseth
him that gives, and him that takes."

GTD (r^:^ (JYS errs crvi) ciys ciYD <JYD (j^

t/WU i-VV- ./e\. »/l3\. >J^ Jmi lAfU .AfV. i/wU Jy\> •/ffVj .AfU i/wVj ./cT^ t/^

•m,-" <^A,-" '\j&^ "W" ■^fl,■' ^S/' 'Nfly'" "W" 'W' "W" "vy* '\4k^ "W" "W* "W"

CAT' (i5Ci) CAS c3ti) c3to (:Xi) (iXD (i3(^

PART II.

ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

CHAPTER I.

On Desire in General.

HAVING, by tliese general considerations, in
some degree prepared the way for what is to
follow, and, as it is hoped, already thrown a little light
upon our path, we may proceed with greater security
to inquire further into the essential elements of human
happiness.

I. The first element to be mentioned is the exist-
ence of one or two strong and permanent desires for
some object or objects. This is an element of the
utmost importance. Two very different systems of
life may be conceived and acted upon ; in the one, a
perpetual succession of little wishes is attempted to
be kept up ; in the other, one or two prominent and
durable desires pervade our whole existence. As-
suredly we ought to prefer this latter regulation of
the mind. One or two strong desires give that zest
to every thing in life, which nothing else can supply.
They are not only eminently delightful in themselves,
at least if well chosen, but they throw a charm round
all other things by effectually expelling the t<j£.dluin
vit(E. They constitute a 'perpetual emotion generally

44 ON DESIRE A1MD PASSION.

of an agreeable kind, and though, like every thing in
life, sometimes accompanied with pains, they drive off
the perpetually recurring pain of listlessness or ennui,
which seldom fails to wait upon those who have no
prominent desire. And true wisdom tells us, that it is
better to endure some acute suftering of short dura-
tion, than a smaller uneasiness of much longer con-
tinuance. If then the system we are considering
succeed in expelling ennui, it secures at least one
immense advantage, for it puts to flight one of the
most formidable foes to human happiness. In avoid-
ing Scylla we may run, no doubt, into Charybdis,
for such are anxiety and ennui in the voyage of life.
But to be sure of steering clear of the latter is at
least one certain good ; and being at ease on this
quarter, we can bend all our efforts to the other.

When the mind is under the empire of some strong
desire, it can never be vacant of emotion, or of thought,
and so left a prey to ennui, for if not engaged with
the subordinate desires and the trains of thought to
which they give rise, the main-spring itself enters to
fill it up. But in the opposite case there will as-
suredly be frequent intervals between the satisfaction
of one wish, and the finding out of some object for
another, and in these intervals steps in our languid, but
wakeful foe. Nay, before one pursuit is fairly at an
end the mind often feels a foretaste of its coming
languor, and is trying to discover something else to
occupy the vacant hour. Thus life is spent in a suc-
cession of petty desires and gratifications, alternating
with positive suftering, a state as little enviable as can
well be imagined. Among those who have no fixed

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 45

occupation, how many pass their days in solving
two important questions ! If they be in town, where
the evening is chiefly looked to for amusement, the
question is, what shall we do to-night? if in the
country, where the morning affords most interest, the
inquiry becomes, what shall we do to-morrow? In
Paris, the qiiest ce que nous ferons ce soir is a pro-
blem perpetually solved, and yet for ever recurring ;
in the country, the qiiest ce que nous ferons demain is
again and again discussed.

Let any man examine his past life, and say whe-
ther he was happier when moved by some vast
desire, or when, on the contrary, he was always on
the watch for fresh interests and feelings to succeed
in perpetual flow. I am confident that his answer
will be in favour of the former period, particularly
if the kind of desire were well chosen ; for assuredly
all are not equally conducive to happiness. Any,
however, is better than none ; or if there be an ex-
ception, it is in the case of the malevolent affections.

If a man have once been fairly in love, does he not
look back upon that period as the most delightful in
his existence ? Can there be a stronger proof of the
pleasure attending a strong desire ? /

The principle here insisted upon will serve to
settle the oft debated question as to the compara-
tive happiness of the married and the unmarried
state. If a man be completely taken up with some
grand desire of the self-regarding class, but more
especially if he be engrossed by general benevolence,
and have thus an object for his social affections, he
may do without particular attachments : otherwise,

46 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

he will feel a want, the want of something to love.
But as there are few so occupied by an interest of
the first kind as to exclude all wish for social de-
lights, and as there are probably still fewer who can
be altogether absorbed by general benevolence, it
follows with the strongest evidence that particular
attachments are necessary to the great bulk of man-
kind.

And this explains why it so often happens that
men who live at home, say with their mothers and
sisters, are less anxious about marriage, or even
never think of it until they lose their relations.
Having fit objects for loving, they feel not a want
beyond. For the same reason a very strong friend-
ship between persons not at all related may serve to
prevent either from marrying, though instances of
such friendships are rare. Separate the friends, re-
move the son or brother from his family, and then he
will look out for a wife.

The attachment of a man to a woman, and of
both to their children, are, after those, the only par-
ticular ties that can be formed. Thus the necessity
of marriage to the happiness of the great majority of
mankind seems to be established.

If, then, the habits of one nation be more domestic
than those of another, if private morals be more
pure, there is so far a strong presumption in favour
of the superior happiness of the former.

A question of considerable interest here presents
itself. Does the formation of particular attachments
tend to increase or diminish general benevolence ?

I am inclined to believe that particular attach-

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 47

ments encourage general benevolence to a certain
extent, but prevent it from becoming so fervent, as
it may sometimes be found in persons who have no
such ties. And I am led to this conclusion by re-
flecting on the following principles : first, that of
occupation, to be afterwards dwelt upon ; secondly,
the principle that one emotion tends to suggest and
encourage another of a similar kind. The principle
of occupation leads us to conclude that, if a man's
affections be much taken up with individuals, they
cannot be engrossed with the love of mankind in
general ; while the other principle would persuade
us that love of one or a few may open many a heart
to feelings of universal love, at least to a certain
extent. The warmth of the private attachment may '
kindle the general fire, which otherwise might have
smouldered for ever.

This conclusion, moreover, seems to be supported
by experience. It is not without reason that the
world has a certain dislike to old maids and bachelors.
Are they not more frequently than others of a sour
and crabbed disposition, cold, ungenial, and devoid
of affection for any one ? This is particularly the
case with old bachelors ; for woman being naturally
of a more loving nature than man, she often takes to
her bosom some niece or other relation when she
has neither husband nor children of her own/

After all, it is by no means contended that desires

1 One possible eiFect of private ties, similar to the first effect
above stated, is thus alluded to by Tasso in accounting' for the
timid counsels of Orqanus : —

48 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

cannot be too strong ; for what may not err by ex-
cess? Happiness seems to depend very much upon
a due proportion or equilibrium between our desires
and intellectual faculties. Now happiness is of two
kinds, happiness of tranquillity, and that of activity ;
and opposed to these, are the pains of ennui and
those of anxiety.

When desires are not strong enough in proportion
to our intellectual faculties, it is clear that we are
cut off from many active pleasures which those
faculties fit us to obtain. But this is not all; for it
is precisely this state of mind which engenders the
pains of Ennui. Having more than once alluded to
this grand enemy of human happiness, I shall now
take the opportunity of saying a few words concern-
ing it.

The proper idea of ennui is that of a feeling which
occupies the mind when it has nothing else to en-
gage it, since in our waking hours it cannot be
altogether vacant. To keep off this uneasiness, it
signifies not what may fill the mind, whether plea-
surable or painful sensations or emotions, or else a
succession of thoughts of a neutral character. Any-
thing, in short, may serve the purpose, provided it
keep us employed ; for we find that persons who
perform even the most mechanical drudgery do not

Orcano, uom d'alta nobilta famosa
E pill neir arme d'alcun pregio avante ;
Ma or, congiunto a giovinetta sposa,
E lieto omai de' figli, era invilito
Negli affetti di padre e di marito.

Gerusalemme Liberata. Canto x. st. 3^9.

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 49

suffer from this malady. It is difficult to conceive
any pleasurable or painful emotion as arising from
certain occupations which are ever the same, such
as cotton-spinning, v^hen labour is much divided,
stone-cutting and savvying, coal-heaving, pin-making,
and innumerable others ; the business of under-clerks
in banking houses, of copyists, &c. ; but yet these
occupations drive away mental languor, I make
this remark for the purpose of showing that pleasure
or pain is not necessary for expelling ennui, as has
sometimes been asserted, but that thought alone will
suffice. The feeling in question seems to be of a
simple nature, and admits of no analysis.^

When we look abroad and observe what are the
characters most liable to this evil, we shall find that
they are precisely those who with considerable intel-
lectual faculties, or at least not inferior to the ordi-

2 The word ennui, though derived from the French, is used in
that language in a much more extensive sense than in ours. With
us it means but one thing, namely, that languid, uneasy feeling
which arises from the want of any other emotion or occupation ;
but with the French it may mean any annoyance, or even grief.
Thus, in Corneille's play of Les Horaces, Camilla, when labour-
ing under the deepest anguish on account of the approaching
combat between her brother and her lover, says to Sabine, in re-
ference to the " bonne nouvelle" of delay,

" Je pense la savoir s'il faut la nommer telle ;
On I'a dite a mon p^re, et j'etais avec lui ;
Mais je n'en congois rien qui flatte mon ennui."

Acte iii.

Melancholy is sometimes confounded with ennui properly so
called, but they are very different. The French are perhaps as
much liable to the latter as we are, though not to the former.

E

50 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

nary, possess but weak desires. Dimmish the faculties
or increase the desires, and in both cases ennui will
abate. Whatever the circumstance may be on which
the lowness of the faculties depends, whether natural
conformation, want of education, or a long course of
mental inactivity, age, or temporary causes, such as
illness, drinking, and opium eating, the consequence
is always the same. Observe very old men, whose
faculties have become impaired, they can sit doing
nothing nearly all day long, and yet without ennui.
The same more or less holds true of savages and half-
savages, such as the Esquimaux, who spend many
months of the year shut up in snow houses without
any occupation, and still appear cheerful ; the Laz-
zaroni of Naples, who lie down in the shade for
hours together; and many of the poorer Irish who
may be often seen standing and looking over the
country in an indolent state of mind equally void of
pleasure and of pain. It has frequently been re-
marked of negroes, whose intellects are of an inferior
order, that if not forced to work they will rather lie
all day in the sun than exert themselves in any way,
so that we cannot suppose them to feel any painful
mental lassitude. In like manner persons in illness
which depresses the faculties lie in bed perfectly
idle, without suffering from vacuity of mind ; but
no sooner does the illness subside and the faculties
return, than the want of occupation is again felt.
Wine or spirits, tobacco and opium, produce the
same effect for a short time. At first they exhilarate,
but afterwards they bring on a calmness of mind
nearly allied to torpor and sleep, and often ending in

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 51

one or other. The first effect is decidedly agreeable,
and the second not unpleasant, were it only that it
expels ennui, the constant foe of the idle. The Turks,
as we know, carry opium eating to the greatest ex-
tent, and often impair their faculties to such a degree,
as to stand in need neither of business nor amusement.
Tobacco has a similar effect, though not to the same
extent. We can, therefore, be at no loss to account
for the great consumption of this nauseous and un-
wholesome drug ; for if it at first enliven, and after-
wards stupify, it serves a double purpose to those who
have no better means of procuring pleasure and driv-
ing away pain.

Children, though full of activity and fleeting-
desire, seem more subject to ennui than the very
aged ; and clever children, I think, more than others,
until they find out some continuous employment,
such as reading. It is the more singular that chil-
dren should in any degree suffer from this evil, since
all is new to them, but novelty alone will not fill the
head.^ They are, no doubt, much less liable to it
than grown up people.

These examples may serve to shew us, that what-

3 The instance of children is a remarkable one iri proof of the
fact, how little a constant succession of desires can be kept up
without a leading one ; for after all his plays were exhausted, I
have seen a child ready to cry, merely from the want of some-
thing to do. And if this be sometimes the case, where everything
is new, alid the mind easily filled up, what must occur in after
life ? The more we advance in years, until the faculties decline,
the more we feel the necessity of a strong pursuit, and that for
two reasons ; every day brings less of novelty, and the intellect,
gradually expanding, requires more copious food.

52 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

ever depresses the faculties, causes the tendency to
ennui to decrease also. On the other hand, increase
the desires in proportion to the faculties, and then
these will find a direction wherein to exert them-
selves, and the man will be all activity. But the
more we enlarge the latter without the former, the
more will the vacancy be felt. Faculties then with-
out desires proportionably strong give rise to ennui.
Also, this want of desires deprives us of all the plea-
sures connected with such active pursuits as our
faculties are really fit for.

On the other hand, desires too strong in propor-
tion to our intellect lead to endless agitation, anxiety,
and final disappointment. Here there is a total loss
of tranquillity. From these two opposite conditions
of mind then result the two opposite sorts of pain,
the pains of ennui and those of anxiety. Persons
whose desires are too weak for their faculties sufier
from the former, those whose desires are too strong
for their faculties suffer from the latter. From all
this it follows, that where the faculties and desires
are in equilibrium, there we may expect happiness ;
whether the happiness be one of tranquillity chiefly,
or of activity.

In extreme old age, both faculties and desires
being often weak, there is an equilibrium between
them, so that there is neither over-agitation from
excess of desire, nor ennui from a disproportionate
strength of faculty. The result, therefore,' is tran-
quillity. In childhood, desires are pretty ardent ;
but being principally for objects within reach, here
again there is an equilibrium, and the pleasures of

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 53

activity are felt more than the pains of anxiety. It
is in the intermediate period that the two opposite
kinds of pain are most experienced, because there is
then more frequently a striking disproportion between
desires and faculties. But as these are found in their
highest degree of intensity and perfection at that
time of life, so, should they go well together, the
degree of happiness of which we are susceptible will
then be the greatest. We shall enjoy the pleasures
of activity to the utmost extent without the loss of
tranquillity.

Emotion is what we are constantly in search of,
and rather than be without any, we prefer one in
which the pain bears no inconsiderable proportion to
the pleasure. Nothing is so intolerable as the con-
tinued feeling of vacuity. It renders life utterly
tasteless, and gives us the most humiliating sense of
the worthlessness of our existence. This hankering
after emotion can alone explain the eagerness with
which sports of the most cruel kind are frequently
run after, such as English bull and badger baiting,
Spanish bull fights,* and the gladiatorial shows of
antiquity. It also accounts for the extraordinary
crowds that flock to public executions, which, to a
sensitive heart, communicate unmingled disgust, and
it shows the origin of the ruinous passion for play.

* The following anecdote may exemplify the hardness of heart
and perversion of sentiment produced by these sanguinary exhi-
bitions. A Spanish lady present at a bull-fight happening to see
a Frenchman near her shudder with horror, cast upon him a look
of inexpressible contempt, and called him butter-hearted, {cceur
de heurrc.)

54 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

It is certain, that high play must produce nearly as
much pain a.s pleasure even before the game is up,
but when the last fatal die is cast, never does man
endure such intense misery. In general the previous
fear of losing must nearly balance the hope of v\^inning,
and w^here the stake is excessive, probably exceeds it;
but when the cast is unlucky, and all is over, the
suddenness of the transition from riches or com-
petence to poverty, surprise at the new situation, and
the galling idea that self alone is to blame, all com-
bine to overwhelm the mind with agony. Nothing
can prove more clearly this utter wretchedness than
the fact, that gaming is the most common cause of
suicide. The emotions produced by deep tragedy
and pathetic tales are no doubt partly of a painful
nature, and yet they are very much courted ; but
here the beauty of the language and the incidents,
and the correct imitation of nature throw the balance
greatly on the side of pleasure. Persons little alive
to beauty often dislike tragedy. In countries where
nearly all public worship consists in preaching, pulpit
'oratory is of course very highly prized ; and clergymen
who terrify their audience are generally more popular
than those who deliver sensible but cold discourses.
Such fiery preachers are there much run after, be-
cause they excite emotion, though, if their hearers
were to bring home to themselves what is said, many
ought to feel rather uncomfortable.

So great, indeed, is this longing for strong emotion,
that for want of greater interests, we see people work
themselves up into a sort of enthusiasm about small
matters, about an actress, a singer, &c. lis se font

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 55

de renthousiasme, as the French say. We may
remark this particularly in Paris and other capital
cities, the resort of persons having no professed object
in life, and where consequently the necessity for
amusements is strongly felt. These amusements
have their value, for the busy as well as the idle,
though chiefly for the latter, and they give an out-
ward appearance of gaiety, but if we go beyond the
surface, they rather indicate a want of more solid
felicity.^ Under the Greek Empire, where the lively
spirit of the people could find no fit occupation, it
vented itself in contests between the rival factions
of the circus, which at one time convulsed the state
and deluged the capital with blood.

I cannot help remarking in this place, how neces-
sary it is to go to the real fountains of human happi-
ness, in order to form correct judgments concerning
various modes of life. When we know the essential
elements, we can pronounce between the modes with
some confidence ; otherwise we may dispute for ever
without arriving at any certain conclusion. The
gaiety of the French, and the gravity of the English
are frequently mistaken by superficial observers for
happiness and unhappiness.

If it be true that we are constantly in quest of
emotion, it follows that we ought to value a strong-
desire more than any other, because it is much more
permanent. Many emotions are exceedingly fleeting

5 I have heard a singular saying, which, being in point, it may
be worth while here to record. Paris est le seul endroit oil Von
pent vivre sans bonheur.

56 ' ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

in their nature, but this may endure for years, and
animate life till its close.

With the following maxims of Bacon we may sum
up the foregoing reflections : —

" Qui sapit desideriura quaerat : nam qui non aliquid insig-
niter appetit, ei omnia ingrata sunt et tsedio plena."

" Non est melior ordinatio animi quam ex imperio afFectus
alicujus insignis."

II. Philosophers, moralists, and poets have united
in extolling the pleasures of Hope. Now hope is no-
thing but desire, combined with belief in the proba-
bility of the attainment of its object. The belief may
vary in every conceivable degree from a bare possi-
bility to nearly absolute certainty, and the compound
state of mind may rfeceive different appellations ac-
cordingly, as it rises from a bare wish to hope, from
hope to expectation, from expectation to confidence,
but the essential elements of these three are still the
same, and vary only in degree. In all, emotion is
combined with relation ; a desire with a judgment.
Now in order that a desire may be either strong or
permanent, it is necessary that it be united with such
a belief, otherwise it merely passes through the
mind and leaves no trace behind. We may feel a
momentary wish for things quite beyond our reach,
but no more ; the impossibility of attainment stifles
it almost in its birth. We do not hear of persons in
the humbler walks of life falling in love with those
far above them, though the converse is by no means
uncommon. Therefore the difference of manners and
tastes will not alone account for the fact. The pea-

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 57

sant does not desire the wealth and station of the
nobleman, nor the nobleman the splendor of a throne;
but the one may long to become a little farmer, and
the other to rise to a dukedom. If the throne be
elective, as formerly in Poland, or liable to be upset
by ambition, then indeed, the prize being supposed
attainable, desire may arise and grow into hope.
The more frequently, and the more recently a govern-
ment has been overthrown, the more chance does
there seem of another downfall, and on that account
it really is less secure, for the wishes, and hence the
projects of the restless are fostered by the probability.
A minister is never so violently assailed as when
he is supposed to be tottering ; and being thought
weak, he really is so. The most triumphant minister
this country ever saw lived to see his opponents re-
cede in despair. They almost ceased to wish for a fall
of which they could see no prospect. The revolution
of 1830 aroused the reformers of England, for they
saw that reform was within their grasp, and every
change, even the most radical, has since been more
ardently wished, because it was thought possible.
Those foes to innovation are the most far-seeing who
resist it from the very first, for every novelty suggests
and facilitates another by creating a belief that it may
be realised.

We here see the reason of the great stress which
the gospel lays upon faith. Without faith or belief
there can be no hope, and without hope there is no
religion.

As to the degree of belief necessary to keep alive
desire, no general rule can be given, so much does it

58 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

vary in different individuals. Some require a very
strong persuasion to sustain the wish and prompt to
action, while others can desire and labour almost
against hope. It may be remarked that the greater the
natural tendency to desire in general, or to any one
kind in particular, the less probability is required, and
vice versa. If a m^an be of an ardent character, a
trifling faith will suffice, but if he be indolent, little
short of certainty will do. Very frequently, no doubt,
the strong desire creates a firm belief, but not always.
When a wish continues for some time, it naturally
suggests a train of corresponding thoughts, and leads
the mind insensibly to those topics and arguments
which favour the ruling emotion. Such is one of the
most remarkable and important effects of this class of
mental phenomena. They constitute directly by far
the greater part of our happiness, and by swaying the
intellect, they in fact govern the man. Emotion is the
parent of attention, and hence of invention, and of all
advancement in real knowledge. Our opinions are for
ever exposed to its influence, secret though it be. If
we feel strongly on any subject we must attend to
it, if we attend we must think, and if we think we
shall probably gain ideas be they right or wrong.
So, if we wish strongly for any object, we are im-
pelled to meditate upon it, and the wish alternating
with thought, constantly tends to give a certain di-
rection to the latter. Thus it is, that desire has so
strong a power over our opinions, and inclines us
to believe as probable our bright but airy visions.
Still this effect is not universal, for persons there are
aware of this law of their nature, and therefore on

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 59

their guard against it. These are so much afraid of
falling into error from the insidious influence of pas-
sion, that they run, or at least try to run into the
opposite extreme, and doubt because they desire. In
this way they may perhaps succeed in keeping the
middle course ; for if a bough incline too much in
one direction, we ought to bend it in the other, more
than we would otherwise wish. This line of conduct
is evidently the result of reflection, and therefore not
likely to be very general. But others there are whose
very eagerness seems to abate their faith. They long
so ardently after an object, and imagination in con-
sequence so heightens its importance, that its attain-
ment seems too much to be looked for. " It is too
good to be tTue,'* is no unusual saying, and the sen-
timent is founded in nature. When we desire very
strongly, we also fear that we shall not succeed ; in
other words, we fear disappointment, and this dis-
appointment we are unwilling to increase by allowing
ourselves to believe that we shall be fortunate. Fear
of the pain of failure is then the cause of our dis-
belief or doubt ; and the more fear prevails in the
character, the more will its consequence be felt.
On the same principle, some upon hearing any un-
happy rumour instantly believe the worst. They are
afraid of nursing desires which may terminate in more
bitter anguish. The passion of fear explains these
apparent anomalies, which are wholly unaccountable
by reference to desire alone.

Desire being intended to lead to action, and hence
to gratification, it is easy to see and admire the wis-
dom of the First Cause which willed that our wishes

60 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

should be bounded by ou r power of attainment. From
a few unhappy cases we may judge what would have
been the effects of an opposite law, and so find occasion
to venerate the goodness of the same great Cause.
Now and then we meet with hoary sinners whose
powers have decayed long before their longings, and
who live like some fallen spirits, mentioned by Dante,
tormented with desire without hope. In all large
capitals, particularly in Paris, there is also a set of men
to be found, who with means very small, and minds
badly regulated, are constantly hankering after the
endless luxuries and amusements that are strewed
around them, but of which they cannot partake. These
outward sources of pleasure act as a tempting bait at
which they are perpetually nibbling, yet never dare to
swallow. The taste, however, is just sufficient to keep
alive a desire which can never be fully gratified. Nu-
merous objects of unattainable enjoyment acting upon
a diseased state of mind sufficiently account for this
phenomenon, which is so well known in Paris, that the
phrase to live en rage is commonly used to express it,
There is, probably, no part of the character which
can so little be modified by education as the greater
or less tendency to hopefulness. It is not asserted that
education can here do nothing, but nature assuredly
does very much more. In nothing do we see greater
differences between men. Taking the two extremes,
there is no one who would not prefer the sanguine to
the desponding disposition, but still it may be a ques-
tion whether we can be too sanguine. Hume in
his own life has said that he considered himself more
fortunate with such a tendency to hope, than if he

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 61

had been born to ten thousand a year ; and on the
whole I doubt not he was right. The principal in-
conveniences attached to minds of this sort, are, first,
that in constantly looking forward they are apt to
disregard the present ; secondly, their liability to
disappointment. It follows directly from the prin-
ciple of occupation to be afterwards dwelt upon, that
the more we are engaged with the future the less can
we be taken up with the present, and therefore we
may neglect many duties, and lose many gratifica-
tions for which the present is the fit occasion. Moral-
ists have often dwelt on the absurdity of our com-
plaining of the general shortness of life while we are
wishing it away in detail ; but it is clear that if the
future did not appear to us in more bright colours
than the present, we should not long for its coming.
Therefore it belongs to the sanguine disposition to
make little of the passing hour. Again, by constantly
dwelling on the future, its gratifications are fore-
stalled, and that in two ways; first, by exagger-
ation, and secondly, by wearing out novelty ere the
time, for what we have long thought of, when it
comes is no longer new. Both lead to disappoint-
ment, for both render the promised bliss less than we
had expected ; and disappointment is a cause of bit-
terness, that gnawing canker of the soul. Some how-
ever there are whose lives may be compared to a ball of
India rubber, which though constantly falling to the
earth as often bounds from it again. Their hopes
are for ever being blasted, but instantly they shoot
out anew. Disappointment has no hold on these
elastic spirits ; they are restless and buoyant as a

62 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

healthy child, and their tears dry up as soon. Plea-
sure is their constant companion ; pain but a momen-
tary visitor ; for they enjoy the advantages of hope,
and scarcely know its evils. ^

This is an instance of the sanguine temperament
pushed to its utmost extreme, and nothing, it would
seem, can well be more favourable to happiness. It
is apt, no doubt, to encourage very wild projects,
which may end in ruin to the individual, as well as
to all around him ; and therefore where found, a
more than usual judgment is necessary. Otherwise
the extreme of hopefulness might lead to the extreme
of folly. But to desire ardently and yet bear dis-
appointment well, must be allowed to be the most
happy disposition imaginable.

It will be shown under another head what is the
kind of hope which chiefly contributes to our happi-
ness, and in what way it conduces to that end. In the
mean time we may observe that if a tendency to hope
be good, that to fear is assuredly, most unfortunate.
Fear has been implanted in our nature as a preserva-
tive against danger, but when carried too far it pro-
duces just the opposite effect ; for it dims the clearness
of the understanding and unnerves the energy of the
will. While it calls up airy spectres to haunt and
torment the brain, it overlooks the substantial forms

6 At lliis moment I have in my eye an individual, wlio having
suffered for years under one of the most painful diseases to which
the frame is liable, and having consulted one physician after ano-
ther without success, still feels confident of being cured. " L'es-
perance touts trompeuse qu'elle est sert au moins a nous conduire
a la fin de la vie par un chemin agreable." Rochefoucauld.

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 63

which really lie in our way. It possesses the opposite
qualities of a convex and a concave lens, for in magni-
fying certain dangers it equally diminishes the rest.
The latter effect, indeed, is the necessary consequence
of the former, for according to the principle of occu-
pation, if the mind be engrossed with one thing, it
must neglect another. Thus fear, which was meant
for a friend, may become our worst foe.

Considered in itself and without reference to its
consequences, fear is unalloyed misery. Therefore
those characters and those conditions of life which
are most liable to this emotion cannot be considered
as enviable. Herein consists the misfortune of kings,
who, as Bacon has observed, have few things to de-
sire and many things to fear ;^ and the same may be
said of all who have reached the pinnacle of their
wishes. They cannot rise, but they may fall. There-
fore those pursuits are to be preferred which, instead
of terminating in a fixed point, admit of an indefinite
progress. We must always have an end in view,
but it is well when this end serves to conduct us
on to another. Moralists and satirists have often
laughed at this chase which is ever ending, and yet
is still beginning ; but in deriding what is most agree-
able to our nature, they have ridiculed that nature
itself.

Were we to exercise our fancy in picturing a hell
upon earth, we should search for an original in the
hearts of those tyrants who having overthrown a
constitution by violence, have afterwards ruled by

» ■< Essay on Empire.

64 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

force. Depending for support on a few interested fol-
lowers, they govern the mass through the same pas-
sion to which they themselves are a prey. They have
little left to desire ,' much, every thing, to fear. Tor-
mented with terror, they at last distrust every one,
even their own family, as that tyrant of old, who used
to mount to his solitary bed-room through a trap-door,
and draw up the ladder after him.^ The mighty
Julius himself, the conqueror of the Gauls and Bri-
tons, of Pompey and Cato, is represented by Shake-
speare, as trembling at the sight of Cassius.

Let me have men about me that are fat,

Sleek -headed men, and such as sleep o' nights ;

Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look ;

He thinks too much ; such men are dangerous.

*******

'Would he were fatter : — But I fear him not ;
Yet if my name were liable to fear,
I do not know the man I should avoid

So soon as that spare Cassius.

I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd,
Than what I fear, for always I am Csesar.^

Cromwell, courageous as he naturally was, passed
his latter years in continual alarm. Such is the na-
tural punishment of crime.

Age is chiefly distinguished from youth by the
greater prevalence of fear. The hopes of the young
would be quite inconceivable by the old, were it
not from the remembrance of what they once felt.
Almost all the peculiarities attached to those different
periods of life may be accounted for from this cir-

^ Alexander of Pherae. 9 Julius Csesar, Act i.

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 65

cumstance alone. " Young men," says Bacon, " in
the conduct and manage of actions embrace more
than they can hold, and more than they can quiet, fly
to the end without consideration of the means and
degrees, pursue some few principles which they have
chanced upon absurdly, care not to innovate, which
draws unknown inconveniences ; use extreme remedies
at first, and that which doubleth all errors, will not
acknowledge or retract them, like an unready horse
that will neither stop nor turn. Men of age object
too much, consult too long, adventure too little, re-
pent too soon, and seldom drive business home to
the full period, but content themselves with a medio-
crity of success." ^^ The correctness of this descrip-
tion few, I suppose, will deny. Now, most of these
distinguishing characteristics may be traced to the
hopefulness of youth and the timidity of age. True,
it may be said, that superior knowledge and experi-
ence produce greater caution, by pointing out many
dangers which youthful ignorance had never even
suspected. This may be correct, and may help to
account for the greater prevalence of fear or caution,
as it is often called when it exists in a modified de-
gree; but the reasoning plainly assumes that the
fact cannot be disputed.

As ignorance often leads to courage, so does know-
ledge to timidity. Verj^ bold riders frequently lose
much of their daring after having been at a school,
where they first became acquainted with danger from
being taught to guard against it. Old soldiers know

^^ Essay of Youth and Age.
F

66 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

the perils they run much better than young recruits,
and therefore for hazardous enterprises the latter are
often preferable. They may be less steady, but they
are better for a sudden exploit. The fears, then, of
the aged may be partly owing to experience, but they
are not the less real ; and as years creep on they are
apt to run into excess, and poison the cup of life.
This consideration alone would prove to us the bles-
sedness of youth.

III. Another and most important consequence of
firm desires remains yet to be mentioned. It will not
be disputed that decision of character is of the utmost
importance in all our undertakings, great as well as
small, and that both immediately and remotely it is
eminently favourable to happiness. Now decision of
character results from strong desires. In most cases
where our personal good only is concerned, desire
leads the way, and judgment follows after. Where
the intellect is left to itself, unbiassed by any desire,
the more clear-sighted the more difficulty there often
is in coming to a decision. In most steps to be taken,
there are so many conceivable advantages and disad-
vantages, that, in the want of a predominant liking, it
becomes a matter of extreme difficulty to determine
between them. It is this liking alone which can fix
the waverino- mind. Imao-ination soon takes the colour
of the prevailing passion, and the judg-ment is not
backward in finding out arguments to favour it, and
in devising means for its gratification.

This I believe to be the order of things in all cases
where we pursue any object with eagerness. When
the desire which prompts us to action is the result of

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 67

a calm review of all the circumstances in wHich we
are placed, that is, when it is entirely the offspring
of reason, it is seldom sufficiently strong to give great
energy to our conduct. Unquestionably violent de-
sires tend to pervert the judgment, as all are aware.
On the other hand, it has been less observed that,
from the absence of desire, judgment is left like a
ship without a rudder, tossed about by the waves,
sometimes driven towards this shore, sometimes to-
wards that, never reaching the port, or at least never
in time. When it does arrive, the tide is already out
and the harbour dry. Such is an irresolute character.
Judgment has to determine what is best to be done ,•
but what is best to one may not be so to another ; for
this must, in an essential degree, depend upon the
likings, the permanent likings, of the person con-
cerned. Unless, then, there be some previous likings
or dislikes, how can a judgment be formed ?

If a boy have a strong wish to go to sea, and if
there be reason to think that the inclination will be
permanent, it may be very advisable that he should
go to sea, because, on this supposition, it is the line
of life most likely to conduce to his happiness ;
whereas to another boy similarly situated in all out-
ward respects, but without the same desire, such a
course could by no means be recommended. This
familiar example may serve to illustrate the truth,
that, in forming our judgment as to any pursuit, our
desires, our permanent desires, are and ought to be
consulted. If desires we had none, or two equal but
inconsistent ones, it would be impossible to come to
a decision.

68 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

" Reason the means, affections choose our end.''^^

" Know thyself," was a maxim of the Greek sages ;
and no part of self-knowledge is more essential to
our success and well-being than an acquaintance
with our permanent as distinguished from our fleet-
ing desires. Those who are ignorant in this respect,
or who are incapable of lasting desires, pass their
lives in a perpetual succession of trials which lead
to no result ; for they tire of everything before they
can make it answer. But success in life mainly de-
pends upon having a fixed end constantly in sight.
Happy they who know their own mind, and, knowing
it, pursue !

The advantages of decision of character are of two
kinds, immediate and remote. When tossed about
in the ocean of irresolution, at one time inclining
this way, at another that, we can enjoy but little
happiness. Inconstancy and doubt oppress the mind
with a consciousness of weakness, and produce a
painful feeling of humiliation leading to low spirits ;
whereas a firm decision rouses the whole soul, gives
it the sentiment of its force, and communicates cheer-
fulness.

Viewed in its more remote consequences, decision
of character really governs the world. In active life,
whether public or private, political or domestic, it
masters even intellects of a superior order who fail
in energy of will ; for while these are planning and
debating, the other has begun to perform. Before
speculation is finished, the time for application is

" Night Thoughts. N. vi.

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 69

often gone. Besides, nothing imposes upon others
so much as the appearance of decision, whether in
opinion or in conduct. Men are naturally prone to
adopt the sentiments and follov/ the advice of those
who have confidence in themselves, while they slight
the cautious and the hesitating. Superior self-confi-
dence often passes current for superior ability. Future
experience may, indeed, show that some of the plans
proposed were better than those put in practice, but
it cannot recall the past. Thus the bold, the rapid,
the decided, get the start of the thoughtful and the
wise, especially in stirring times. No one will pre-
tend that the men who led the French Revolution
were always the most enlightened which the country
could boast. On the contrary, they were, in general,
of ordinary intellect, but reckless and daring in the
extreme. Such were the audacious Danton, the un-
principled Robespierre, the visionary St. Just, and
the blood-stained blasphemous Murat. Before these
and other chiefs of the sans-culottes fell the eloquent
and accomplished Gironde, with Condorcet, Lavoi-
sier, and all the flower of France.

Superior intellect, united with firmness of will,
forms a character of a very high order, such as
Hannibal, Caesar, Alexander, Columbus, Cromwell,
Washington, Napol€on,Wellington, and others, whose
actions have had an immense influence on their own
and future times. This union constitutes what we
commonly call greatness, or, when in a less degree,
strength of character. But a firm will is sometimes
found in those who are rather low in intellect, and
then it is named obstinacy. Persons who fail in firm-

70 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

ness of purpose, may or may not be possessed of a
clear judgment, for instances of both are not uncom-
mon ; but in either case, the character is weak. A
defect in intellect is not usually termed weakness,
hut folly. Thus a man poor in understanding, but not
in will, is an obstinate fool; he who fails in both is a
weak fool.

IV. From all that has now been said on the sub-
ject of desire, we are able to draw some important
practical conclusions. What are we to think of those
continual attacks upon the passions which we meet
with in satirical and moral writings ? If there be any
truth in what has been above advanced, it follows, that
to run down the passions generally is nothing but
empty declamation. This may have arisen, in the first
instance, from a confined sense given to the word; but
if by it be meant any strong desire, then nothing can
well be more absurd than such indiscriminate attacks.
It is not desire or passion in general that is to be kept
down, but particular kinds of desire ; while others, on
the contrary, ought greatly to be encouraged.

This leads me to observe, that there is only one effec-
tual way in which any propensity can be combated,
and that is, by fostering another of a different sort.
Do we wish to restrain the self-regarding desires?
let us endeavour to rouse the social. Would we de-
press sense ? let us raise the intellect, the imagina-
tion, and the affections. Man to be happy, must have
wishes and interests, so that we never shall succeed
in weaning him from those he has, unless we give
him others in stead. In vain do we vilify his tastes
and pursuits to induce him to forsake his ways; for

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 71

though the words may strike upon his ears, they
change not the soul within. Unless we succeed in
giving him more worthy desires our labour will be
in vain. Can we suppose, that the libertine and vo-
luptuary will change his course of life before he has
been made to conceive and feel enjoyments of a nobler
sort ? It is chiefly by indirect means that we can
hope to have an influence over him.

The moral harmony of man depends upon a certain
proportion between his various desires; and this pro-
portion may be destroyed as much by the feebleness
of one as by the excessive strength of another. Thus
in comparing two men, the one seemingly quite wrapt
up in self, the other very attentive to his neighbour,
we might say with Bishop Butler, that the diflerence
arose, not because self-love was too strong in the for-
mer, but because benevolence was too weak. This
may be so, but it must always be difficult, if not im-
possible, to determine whether strength of self-love
over-bear benevolence, or benevolence be too weak
to offer effectual resistance to self-love. And although
as a metaphysical question it may be curious, in a
practical point of view, it does not appear to be im-
portant. In either case the remedy is the same, for
whether benevolence be absolutely or only relatively
feeble, it ought equally to be encouraged.

The grand object of all moral education ought to
be to stir up those inclinations which are naturally
weak, and so to tame, or at least curb, those which
are apt to run into excess. It will readily be granted
that the self-regarding desires are more likely to
become excessive or exclusive than the social ; and

72 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

that the natural tendency to the pleasures of sense is
stronger than to those of the intellect, the imagina-
tion, and the affections. Moreover, the gratification
of the present hour, fleeting though it may be, is apt
to be preferred to a more permanent but distant in-
terest. From these general facts, which are amply
confirmed by experience, we draw the following con-
clusions. Moral Education ought to have three prin-
cipal objects in view ; first to encourage the social
desires, and thus keep in check the self- regarding;
secondly, to foster a taste for the pleasures of the in-
tellect, the imagination, and the affections, and so dis-
courage the sensual ; thirdly, to teach self-control.

Man, though born with a capability for much that
is great and exalted, would have scarcely any idea
beyond the pleasures of sense, were he left by others
to follow his natural inclinations. Education alone
can call forth this latent capability, and create a
taste for refined enjoyments. What a miserable mis-
calculation is that which seeks for happiness chiefly
in the indulgences of the senses! For the sake of
short-lived gratifications we lose the constant pleasure
derived from a consciousness of the dignity of our
nature, and get a distaste for purely mental delights
which are very durable.

Since man, when left to himself, degenerates into
an animal but little raised above the brutes, and
since education alone can draw out his susceptibili-
ties for the joys of the intellect, — of the imagination,
— of the affections; wherever we find a strong attach-
ment to these, we may be sure of a cultivated mind.
A considerable part of mankind, even of those who

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 73

have leisure from manual toil, know little of the plea-
sures derived from the two former, though there are
few in civilized regions who do not share in the last.
Travellers in picturesque countries are often surprised
at the insensibility of the peasantry to all the beauties
around them, and these again equally wonder what
strangers come to see. Even among those who are
called well educated, how many are dead to high
intellectual deli2:ht as well as to the charms of
poetry ! Even the great Newton called poetry in-
genious nonsense, because he could not relish it;
and how many treat metaphysics with no greater
ceremony !

The pleasures of the imagination, and the higher
pleasures of the social affections are often stigmatized
as romantic by those who know them not. This is
one of those words which are found so convenient,
when it is wished to throw blame or ridicule upon
anything without assigning a reason. If by roman-
tic be meant unreal, no error can be greater, for no
pleasures are more intense, and except those of in-
telligence, none are more permanent. Opposed to
romantic is worldly. A very worldly person is one
who is dead to these enjoyments, whose pleasures are
mostly self-regarding, and also of the grosser sort.

If man without education be naturally sensual, it
is no less true that he is also selfish. Men may
form erroneous notions of their interest, they may
pursue apparent rather than real good, and they may
often be diverted from their permanent advantage by
a present temptation ; but in all this we see the ten-
dency to self more or less guided by reason. No

74 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

one seems to think that this tendency is too weak,
however badly it may be directed.^^ On the other
hand the tendency to sympathize with the pleasures
and pains of others, and to desire their welfare
is very rarely too strong, and in the want of cultiva-
tion, it may scarcely appear at all. Here then again
education steps in and opens our minds to feelings as
necessary to our own happiness as to that of others ;
since the pleasures derived from the exercise of the
benevolent affections, whether towards a few or
many, are probably the greatest of which our nature
is susceptible. The culture of these affections has a
twofold good effect; for it checks those two great
tendencies of our nature, the tendency to self, and
that to sense ; whereas the improvement of the intel-
lect and imagination counteracts the latter alone.
How can a being immersed in sensual indulgences
have any relish for the exalted and lasting delights
of love and friendship ? ^^ But without supposing a

12 I have elsewhere said, " No oversight is more common in
philosophy than by changing the definition of a w^ord to arrive at
conclusions which wear the air of novelty, while nothing is really
new but the altered signification of a term," — Essay on the
Distribution of Wealth, part ii. ch. 3. Much as I admire
many of the speculations of Bishop Butler in his famous Sermons
at the Rolls, I must say, that this remark seems to apply to what
he there says of self-love. He maintains that self-love, far from
being too strong in man, is very often too weak ; but when we con-
sider what he means by self-love, we find that he excludes from
it all the self-regarding passions, and takes it to signify solely a
calm rational view of our interest. This definition being borne
in mind, his conclusion appears neither so startling nor so new.

13 It was observed of Fox as a remarkable circumstance, that

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 75

devotion to such indulgences in particular, the cir-
cumstance of constantly pondering upon our own
interests, of whatever kind they may be, tends
amazingly to shut the heart to social affections, and
therefore to deprive us of the greatest happiness of
life.

Between the education of man and of woman, this
is the grand difference to be made, that the imagi-
nation of the latter and the intellect of the former
should be cultivated with peculiar care. In either
case, both ought to be improved, but with the dis-
tinction now mentioned ; and for these reasons.
Public affairs are exclusively managed by men, and
most private ones also which require a great stretch
of intellect ; while women have generally some male
protector and guide. Again, the peculiar office of
woman is to delight, and form the ornament, whether
of a domestic circle or of a more extended society, and
for this purpose imagination is necessary. Besides,
to prevent jealousies and dissensions in married life,
it is of great consequence that the intellectual supe-
riority of the man should be undoubted. When the
one guides, and the other enlivens and adorns, all goes
on well ; otherwise, there is a perpetual struggle.

If men generally surpass women in intellect, these,
on the other hand, possess a greater refinement of

in spite of his dissipated life, he continued to the last the same
simple, warm-hearted creature as ever. Nothing could show
more strongly the excellence of his nature. What would have
spoilt any other man could not spoil him. Simplicity and warmth
of affection rarely long survive innocence.

76 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

feeling. They are certainly less sensual than men.
How little in comparison do they care for the plea-
sures of tlie table !

We may notice three differences in mind with res-
pect to our feelings or sensibilities; strength, deli-
cacy, and refinement.

Strength of feeling exists in those who are capable
of feeling intensely and permanently, though they
may not easily be roused.

Delicacy of feeling implies that feelings of what-
ever kind are easily excited.

Refinement of feeling signifies a susceptibility to
the pleasures of the intellect, imagination, and affec-
tions, rather than to those of sense.

Persons of strong feelings are often difficult to move,
but when moved, their impressions are deep and last-
ing ; while those of delicate feelings, though easily
warmed, are wont as quickly to cool.

Strong feelings are seldom found but in company
with a strong intellect ; whereas delicacy of feeling
is frequently united with an understanding of no
very high order. In common discourse the word
sensibility is often used to signify a peculiar sus-
ceptibility to the tender impressions, such as pity and
love ; but in this work it means the simple fact of
susceptibility to pleasure or pain, — emotion or sensa-
tion in general, without any reference to kind or
degree. In the former sense, sensibility is one sort of
delicacy, and as it is thought amiable and pleasing,
especially in women, it is very frequently put on
where it does not really exist. This sort of affecta-
tion seems to have been more common formerly than

ON DESIRE AND PASSION. 77

now, probably, because the reality was more highly
prized.

We lately remarked that women have generally
more refinement than men. They have also more
delicacy, but on the whole less strength of feeling.
Their social affections, however, though not so violent
as those of men, appear to be quite as lasting, and in
the case of love much more so. Their attachment to
their children is even more intense than that of fathers,
and fully as durable. These are important excep-
tions. But the self- regarding passions are commonly
much stronger in man.

That women surpass us in quick or delicate sen-
sibility there can be no doubt. This is in truth one
of their principal charms. It allows them to catch
the perfume of a thousand little flowers that strew
the path of life, over which the foot of man would
pass with unheeding tread. It keeps them attentive
to the little wants of all around, enables them to
divine a wish even before expressed, to avoid every-
thing that might possibly wound the feelings of others,
and it prompts them to seek out, to visit, and relieve
the poor and unfortunate. That women are pecu-
liarly alive to pity is proved by the widest experi-
ence. The African traveller Park has said, that in
all his wanderings among civilized or savage nations,
whatever might have been his treatment from man,
he had always reason to bless the tender sympathy
of woman.

Persons of the strongest feelings are often esteemed
cold by such as know them little, because they are
not easily moved; while those of delicate feelings

78 ON DESIRE AND PASSION.

please us at the very first. The union of great
strength with delicacy is rare, but not unexampled.

One more distinction deserves to be noticed.
Though we are certainly much indebted to nature
for refinement, as well as for delicacy and strength
of feeling, yet the former depends far more upon
education than the two latter. To raise the mind
above the pleasures of sense, and fix it on those of
the intellect, imagination, and affections, is, as before
observed, one grand object of mental culture. This
is true refinement, or mental civilization.

I may conclude this head by remarking that dif-
ferent orders of mind require very different treatment
in order to keep them in a healthy state. Persons
naturally of high spirits and of delicate sensibilities,
if they have fit objects at home, are supported by
their buoyancy of humour, and can do without out-
ward amusements, though they relish them much
when these fall in their way. Others, of great
equanimity of spirits, and of rather dull sensibility,
get on in an uniform manner, without at all thinking
of such amusements, which they are little capable of
enjoying. The former can do without, but the latter
cannot relish them.

There is a third class, however, naturally rather
of low spirits, but of lively sensibilities. To them,
pleasures, commonly so called, are not only agree-
able, but useful ; for, by varying the train of ideas,
they prevent melancholy, and improve the whole
tone of mind. While these can relish amusements,
they cannot well do without them.

1

79

CHAPTER 11.

ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Section I.— The Principal Desires ejiumerated.

HAVING treated of desire in general, we come
now to consider some of the particular desires.
It has already been remarked that it does not belonof
to a work of this nature to give a general analysis
and classification of the emotions, or to trace the
sources from which they spring. This is the pro-
vince of pure mental philosophy, otherwise called
metaphysics. Moral science views the emotions
chiefly in their eftects upon human conduct and hu-
man happiness, and as desires and fears are the most
important in this respect, it naturally pays the greatest
attention to these. Even when thus limited the sub-
ject is still sufficiently vast, probably quite enough
of itself to fill a volume, and therefore we shall be
excused from entering into a minute detail, that
would draw us too far away from the main track
which we wish to pursue. Having already made
sundry observations on desire in general, we shall now
content ourselves with remarks on the more impor-
tant species.

We must begin by calling to mind the grand dis-
tinction, which was formerly laid down between the
self-regarding and the social desires. Now, almost
every good which we are capable of desiring for

80 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

ourselves may be classed under one or other of the
eight following heads: 1. Sensual gratifications. 2.
Amusement. 3. The Affections of others. 4. Wealth.
5. Power. 6. Reputation. 7. Knowledge; and lastly,
what is necessary to them all, Continued Existence.

It will be remarked that we have not put pleasure
as a separate object of desire, and for this reason, that
pleasure is intimately associated with each, so much
so, indeed, as to have induced many to suppose that
we never really long for any thing else, however
varied the forms in which it may present itself :

" Whate'er the motive, pleasure is the mark,"

says Young, and many are of his opinion. To settle
this disputed point, belongs not to a work like the
present, but to purely mental philosophy. Whether
pleasure be or be not our sole aim, one thing is cer-
tain, that we cannot wish for any thing without con-
necting with it ideas, either of positive pleasure or
of the absence of pain. These ideas are, at least, in-
separably united with every thing that we long for.
It may sometimes remain in doubt, whether the
pleasure in prospect first give rise to the desire, or
whether certain objects directly rousing desire, plea-
sure follow after and react upon the previous pas-
sion ; but whichever view we may adopt, desire and
pleasure are indissolubly associated. In either case,
our moral conclusions must remain the same. It is
because the question is a purely speculative one, or
has at least no perceptible application to practice,
that it appertains to metaphysical and not to moral
philosophy. It would require but a very slight dif-

ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES. 81

ference in language to suit either theory; for instead
of saying desire of wealth, of power, of knowledge,
&c. we should have merely to insert a word, and talk
of desire of the pleasures of wealth, power, &c. Nay,
even this difference could only be maintained at first,
for having made the statement in the outset, it would
become too tedious to repeat so many words on every
occasion, and therefore an ellipse would be indispen-
sable. Those readers, therefore, who think that plea-
sure is our only aim, may supply the ellipse for them-
selves.

This being understood, we now proceed to observe,
that every good is valued by us on two distinct ac-
counts; first, as it is in itself; secondly, as it leads
to some other good. But there is one good in par-
ticular, for which all the eight above mentioned, or
others, if there be such, may be highly prized, inde-
pendently of the gratification which they offer from
their own peculiar nature. They may all flatter our
love of Superiority. This is the most general desire
of human nature, for it is found in every walk of life,
and mixes with every pursuit, gay as well as grave,
trifling as well as important.^ There is, perhaps, not
a good we are capable of possessing which may not
feed this universal passion. Taking in order the eight
above stated, sense seems to afford the least grounds

1 In Madame de Sevigne's Letters, there is a story told of Louis
the XlVth's head cook, which is a very curious instance of the force
which this passion may acquire even in the most trivial pursuits.
He prided himself so much on his skill in arranging a dinner,
that he is said to have killed himself from vexation, because one
day an expected dish of fish did not arrive in time !

G

82 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

for distinction ; but yet there are persons who pride
themselves on their superior powers of hearing and
seeing, and above all, on a delicacy of taste, which
can perceive sundry flavours in one dish, and ac-
curately determine the quality of various wines, and
the merits of different vintages. Among some savage
nations, where the senses of hearing and seeing are
greatly cultivated, I have no doubt that those who
peculiarly excel in these faculties, look upon them-
selves with no slight complacency. Amusements are
valued not only as such, but also because they can
confer distinction; particularly those where skill may
be shown, as chess, whist, tennis, rackets, cricket,
shooting, coursing, and horse racing. People dis-
like very much to lose at chess, and even at certain
games of cards, not merely because they lose their
money, but because they feel humiliated. They have
shown a want of skill, or at the least of good fortune,
for even this may be made a ground of superiority.
Not a few feel pride in being called lucky fellows.
We delight in knowing that we possess the affections
of others, but we glory in the thought that we can
easily command them. Wealth is sought after as the
source of numberless comforts, and also as conferring
a well-marked distinction. Up to a certain point, de-
sire of power is the same as the desire of absence of
restraint, or of liberty, so dear to the human breast;
but it may swell into an insatiable thirst of dominion
over others, and dominion is superiority. While re-
putation is a passport to general favour, and is neces-
sary for success in every pursuit, it also leads us ta
fame or glory, which raises us high in the world.

ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES. 83

Knowledge is charming for its own sake, and also
on account of the high consideration in which its
votaries are held. Zealots have made even con-
tinued existence a ground of superiority, and in con-
demning to annihilation or torments all who differ
from themselves, have felt their hearts swell with
pride. To be one out of a few elect, and all others
reprobate, is a thought as distressing to benevolence,
as flattering to love of distinction. Spiritual pride
is often the greatest among those who most preach
humility, because the speculative doctrines they
hold, falling in with natural bias, are too much for
their practical precepts.

The social desires are of two different, nay, oppo-
site sorts, the benevolent and the malevolent; of which
the former are subdivided into general and particular,
or such as we feel towards mankind at large, and
those which are confined to certain individuals. The
malevolent desires admit not of this subdivision, they
being only particular; for though we were to believe
some accounts of general misanthropy, such instances
must be looked upon as mental diseases, no more
belonging to the regular and healthy state of man
than madness itself. We cannot hate those who have
caused us no evil, intentional or unintentional, and
the immense mass of mankind must be included under
this head. Good-will towards others, however faint,
is the ordinary condition of the mind ; ill-will, but an
exception. In one case, indeed, namely, national an-
tipathy, ill-will may be felt by many towards many,
on account of some national injury, real or supposed,
but still the vast majority of the human race are re-

84 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

garded with favour rather than the contrary. The
hatred too in this case is rather for the abstract than
the concrete, for the nation than the individuals v^^ho
compose it, for when the inhabitants of the two
countries meet, except in time of war, they perform to
each other the usual duties of humanity. With re-
spect to the benevolent affections, it is clear that the
same sorts of good which we desire for ourselves,
we may wish also for others. We like to see our
fellow creatures in general, but especially our friends,
partaking in moderation of the pleasures of sense,
amused, loved by those around them, above poverty,
free from undue restraint, held in good repute, well-
informed, and enjoying long life here with the hopes
of happiness hereafter. To desire superiority for
every one is, however, a contradiction ; and though
we like to see our friends superior to others, we
can hardly wish them to surpass ourselves, especially
in those points wherein we think to excel. In other
points, we may tolerate, but cannot well rejoice in
our friends' superiority over us. Therefore it is diffi-
cult for those who have exactly the same pursuit to
be very sincere friends. To do away with rival-
ship a slight difference may be enough, but there
must not be identity. Two professors, for instance,
in the same university, but lecturing on different sub-
jects, may be the best possible friends ; and so may
a barrister and a solicitor, a pleader and a convey-
ancer, but two barristers, or two physicians, practis-
ing in the same place, can hardly feel very warmly
towards each other. They may indeed be good com-
panions, for they have always subjects in common to

ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES. 85

talk upon, but they can scarcely be real friends. In-
deed, the quarrelsome temper of the medical faculty
has long been quite notorious.

To each sort of good above enumerated, a similar
desire must of course correspond ; but there are six
in particular which deserve to be called the master
passions of human nature. These are, 1. Love; 2.
Covetousness, terminating in avarice; 3. Desire of
Liberty, or mere absence of restraint, leading on to
desire of positive power or Ambition ;^ 4. Desire of
Reputation, tending to desire of fame or glory; 5.
Desire of Knowledge or Curiosity; 6. Desire of Life
here and of continued existence hereafter. On each
of these in order I shall offer some remarks.

But the pleasures of the senses and amusements
must first detain us for a moment. Having already
touched upon these, I need not now say much, but
shall confine myself to a few observations on the sub-
ject of excesses.

If we look abroad in the world, we shall find three
sorts of persons particularly addicted to excesses ;
and they would not be so if they did not feel a want
of them. These are,

First, those who lead a life of constant labour.

Secondly, those who do nothing.

2 It has not unfrequently been remarked, that great sticklers for
hberty are sometimes very fond of domineering in their own sphere.
In America, people may be heard advocating liberty and slavery
in the same breath. This will not appear so strange, when we
consider that desire of liberty being the desire that others should
have no power over us, it easily passes into the wish that we should
have positive power over them.

86 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Thirdly, those who by reason of some calamity
experience a great depression of spirits. To these
may be added such persons as without any outward
and evident cause, but merely from an unhappy
temperament, labour under a like depression.

Now, though these remote causes be different, nay,
opposite, it will, I think, readily appear that the state
of mind resulting from them, that is the immediate
cause which gives rise to the desire of excess, is
in all the cases pretty much the same. It is a par-
ticular lowness or dejection, to get rid of which ex-
cesses are eagerly sought for. Constant hard labour,
the total absence of any occupation, and a great ca-
lamity, all tend to produce this depression of spirits.
The feeling becomes sometimes so insupportable, that
people fly to any thing, however desperate, in order to
drive it away : nor can we always blame them, for in
such circumstances excesses are often necessary. To
violent disorders, violent remedies. It is the cause of
these excesses which we ought to try to obviate,
namely, the state of mind ; for if we relieve this, the
effects will cease of course. Thus we explain the
tendency of the above three states of existence to
push men to excesses. They do so by producing
dejection. But is it certain that they have such a
tendency ? Let us examine them separately. First,
as to hard labour. Do we not see that the most
laborious populations are those most addicted to
drunkenness ? To what must we attribute the great
use of spirituous liquors among the manufacturing
people in England and Scotland ? Can we doubt
that the dejection produced by constant toil is at least

ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES. 87

one powerful cause. Men who have laboured all day
in the over-heated atmosphere of a cotton-mill, with
nothing to cheer and much to depress the mind ; or
those w^hose work has been of a more severe, though
otherwise less lowering nature, cannot be contented
with some such gentle amusement as might suffice
for persons whose general life was more agreeable.
To make existence bearable, they must have some
strong excitement. And this account is confirmed
by the fact often observed, that the harder and more
disagreeable the labour, the more improvident are
the workmen. In these respects nothing can surpass
colliery. The toil of colliers is not only very severe,
but it is carried on under ground amidst foul air and
dirty water. And it is well known that they never
save, but live, when they can, sumptuously, and run
into all kinds of excesses.^ The business of coal-
heaving is also most laborious, and the men engaged
in it have long been noted as prodigious drinkers of
porter.

This leads us to observe how difficult it must be
to teach prudence to an over-worked population. To
persuade men to forego their sole enjoyment must in
truth be an arduous task. Were it even possible to
give much education to people in such circumstances,
this could not greatly avail, unless it should induce
them to extirpate the root of the evil — early marriages,
and the consequence, superabundant population. But
that very misery which ought to prevent men from

^ I once received from the chief magistrate of a coal district
in Scotland, a most vivid account of the dissipation and turbu-
lence of Colliers.

88 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

marrying, serves to urge them to it, that at least they
may have some pleasure in life. So insupportable is
existence v^^ithout enjoyment ! Thus we are led to the
grand truth, that unless the progress of population be
duly checked, little can be done for the people. To
say that the frequent practice of drunkenness is an
effect of superabundant population, may appear
somewhat strange, but it is nevertheless true. For
it is the superabundance of labourers which obliges
each to toil unremittingly ; and out of this toil arises
the necessity for excess.

The truth of these remarks will be further con-
firmed by a reference to countries where the vice of
drunkenness is little prevalent, such as Italy and
other southern nations. A Lazzarone at Naples, after
having earned what is just sufficient to buy his ma-
caroni and ice, cannot easily be prevailed upon to
labour for any one. He prefers reclining in the shade,
enjoying his meal, his ease, and the fine weather.
Such an one can feel no want of drinking or other vio-
lent stimulus. The French are a less laborious people
than the English, and also less given to excess.

And here I cannot help throwing out a hint, not
to be followed up now, but which others may turn
to some advantage. Since early marriages are the
source of so much misery, we must naturally be de-
sirous of knowing how they may be prevented. Now
one of the principal incentives to marriage with all
men, but with the poor especially, is the feeling of
loneliness apt to attend celibacy. Though the rich
are so much better provided for marriage than the
poor, they can better do without it ; because they can
command servants to attend them, and companions, if

ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES. 89

not friends, to sit round their hospitable board. But
the poor manj who has neither wife nor female rela-
tion to keep his house, is desolate in the extreme. Re-
turning from his daily labour, he finds a cold hearth
and cheerless walls, without even the countenance of
a domestic to welcome him home again. Can we,
therefore, wonder that he should look out for a part-
ner to break this silent gloom ? Who else will prepare
his evening meal, keep alive the cheerful blaze, and
receive him with accents of kindness; and who but
children will

" Climb his knees the envied kiss to share ?"

How then shall we induce the poor man to forego
for a season these tempting but dangerous joys ? give
him a comfortable house to receive him when his
work is done, light the fire, lay the table, and collect
society around him, and our task is accomplished.
But how is this to be done? I answer, in the same
way that gentlemen, even poor gentlemen, contrive
to live in luxury, by means of association, or in fami-
liar language, by clubs. Why should there not be
clubs for the working classes as well as for the higher
orders, on a scale suitable to their means? Are we
not all aware of the immense advantage which
single men of small fortune derive from such institu-
tions. These have sometimes been found fault with
on the ground that they render married men less
domestic ; but to single men they are invaluable ; and
the very objection shows only that they are too com
fortable and agreeable. When those who have fami-
lies and good private houses are apt to desert them
for clubs, can we doubt that those who have neither

90 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

would be glad to have such a resource ? It is impos-
sible here to pursue this idea further ; but leaving- it
to be improved upon by others, and hoping that the
importance of the subject may excuse this brief di-
gression, I return to our regular way.

But it is not only bodily labour which leads to a
craving for excesses, since great mental exertion pro-
duces a similar effect. There are probably few in-
stances of study more remarkable for continuance and
intensity than such as we meet with among those
young men at Oxford and Cambridge, who aim at the
highest honours. The limited period during which
their efforts are available, the number of competitors,
the difficulty of the subjects, especially at Cambridge,
where the whole range of mathematics must be gone
through, the importance of the prize, both as to honour
and subsequent emolument, the definite nature of the
reward, its exclusive quality, for the success of one is
the failure of another ; and lastly, the ardour of youth ;
ail conspire to urge to the greatest exertions. This is
particularly the case at Cambridge, where every thing
is given to merit, and where, after the examination,
the names are arranged, not merely in classes, but
individually. Indeed there can be little doubt, that
the stimulus is too great, for many suffer from it
afterwards, in mind as well as body; like a spring
over-stretched, that can never recover all its former
elasticity ; and some are so disgusted by the labour
they have undergone, that the end once attained,
they throw away their books for ever. It might even
be doubted on another ground, whether these great
distinctions do much good; for people are too apt

ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES. 91

to rest in honours early won. A high wrangler or a
fellow in a large college, finds himself so much
thought of within the precincts of the university, that
he often forgets he is unknown elsewhere, and that
his course of fame, so far from being finished, is
scarcely yet begun. But what we have to notice at
present is the immediate effect of these extreme mental
exertions in leading to excess of another sort. The
hardest readers are not unfrequently dissipated. Over-
worked and fatigued with poring over Greek and
mathematics, they rush to supper, or wine parties, and
renew their exhausted spirits by riot and jollity. Ano-
ther and more harmless recreation is adopted by some,
though it also has its evils ; this is novel-reading. It
is a singular fact, that some of the hardest students at
Cambridge are the greatest readers of novels. These
are taken up to change the current of ideas ; and
though they relieve the mind, they neither recruit the
body nor give repose to the eyes, while they prevent
that best recreation, exercise in the open air.

It has been remarked, that the English judges,
who lead a life of o-reat labour, are fond of witnessino;
the broadest buffoonery, and the most ridiculous pan-
tomimes. This though not called an excess, is in
its effects very much the same, for to them it affords
more excitement than a natural and quiet representa-
tion. A late celebrated lord chancellor, remarkable
for assiduity in his profession, was one of the keenest
sportsmen in England.

Secondly, if it be true that great labour, bodily or
mental, leads us to excesses, it is also certain that an
absence of all occupation tends to a like effect. This,

92 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES:

I think, will be allowed. Indeed I must remark that
if at college great readers are sometimes very dissi-
pated, those who read not at all are more generally
and more constantly so. With the former, excess is
of rather rare occurrence, with the latter it is a daily
affair. To what but to the want of occupation shall
we attribute the rage for horse-racing and gambling,
which still prevails among our aristocracy, as well
as for drinking and cock-fighting, formerly more com-
mon than now ?

Thirdly, that those whose spirits are much de-
pressed by any calamity, are apt to indulge in ex-
cesses, is a truth that will not be disputed. The
bottle has long been known as the friend of the
wretched.

To sum up what has been said ; we find that
desire of excesses results from a certain languor or
depression of mind produced by various causes of a
painful nature. The feeling which results from over-
exertion, and from calamity, is dejection, not ennui ;
that which follows upon want of occupation is ennui,
which may terminate in dejection. There can scarcely
then be a greater proof of a mind ill-constituted for
happiness, than the frequent want of excesses.

This is not to say that all excesses are at all times
to be avoided ; on the contrary, they may occasionally
do good on the principle of change, and break the
uniformity of life : but they ought not to be felt as a
want.*

■* In the " De Augmentis" of Bacon, it is stated as an argu-
ment in favour of excesses, " Languetmens quee excessibus caret;"
but 1 would rather say, Languet mens cui excessibus opus est.

I

1

ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES. 93

If a frequent want of violent excitement be a strong
proof of an unhappy mind, a facility of being amused
must surely denote the contrary. And if we examine
the human mind, we shall see further reason to be
convinced of this. It is a principle of our nature that
emotions are apt to give rise to others of a similar
kind. A man who has just met with some disap-
pointment is ready to vent his ill-humour on all that
surrounds him, even on brutes and things inanimate;
while he who has received some agreeable intelli-
gence is prepared to be pleased with every thing.
In the former case, circumstances which, on other
occasions, would give much satisfaction, the cheerful
hearth, and smoking dinner, even the endearments of
wife and children, cease to charm. Nothing gives
pleasure. In the latter, mere trifles afford an un-
wonted gratification. If this be so, does it not follow
that facility of being amused, of receiving pleasure,
is a proof of a happy state of mind? Does it not
show that the ordinary tenor of life is agreeable ?
Let us look at children. Perhaps the happiness of
children has been exaggerated ; for they certainly are
not susceptible of the same high delights as men in
the full enjoyment of their mental faculties. But
allowing this, they cannot, if well treated, be called
unhappy. Their pains are generally few and of short
duration, and they have many pleasures. Now we
know how easily they are amused. If then in grown
people we notice the same facility, ought we not to
conclude that the state of mind from which this arises
is also a happy one ?

The most that can be said against this is, that as

94 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

tliey are children in their amusements, it is probable
they are also children in their minds, and though not
positively unhappy, yet incapable of those exalted
enjoyments which belong to men of enlarged and
cultivated faculties, endued with strong intellect and
strong feelings. And this, I am inclined to think, is
often the case. The happiness of such persons re-
sembles much that of children, and partly arises from
a want of thought or serious reflection on any thing.
Not that this is always so, for there are persons of
great acquirements capable of being pleased with
trifles ; as Prince Potemkin, who used to amuse him-
self with Solitaire. The French in general are more
easily amused than the English. That facility of be-
ing amused is in itself a good, it would be a waste of
words to prove. The thing is self-evident. He who
is hard to please must be frequently disappointed,
and lose many gratifications, which others enjoy ;
while his occasions of amusement will be more rare,
since costly pleasures cannot be had so often as cheap.
When facility of being amused is united with strong
intellect and strong feelings, then we truly have a
happy compound.

Section II. — Love.

We must now turn our attention to the six master
passions above enumerated ; beginning with Love.
The word Love sometimes signifies a liking for any-
thing ; more properly it means any benevolent affec-
tion towards our fellow-creatures, varying from the

ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES. 95

most indiscriminate and weak, to the most concen-
trated and strong ; but in a peculiar sense it marks
the most ardent and engrossing of all passions, that
which exists between the sexes. When taken for any
benevolent affection, Love certainly constitutes one
of the principal elements of human happiness ; for
there is always a pleasure in loving as well as in
being loved, and sometimes an intense pleasure ; the
feeling may be very permanent, and in some shape
or other it runs throughout all society. Thus it is
a source of enjoyment, at once keen, durable, and
comprehensive.

All the ties that bind man to man may be classed
under two heads ; those which he finds ,ready formed
for him, and those which he forms for himself. A
man is born a member of the great community of
mankind, a citizen of some particular state, a relative
of a private family ; but his wife, friends, or compa-
nions are of his own choice. General benevolence,
patriotism, filial, fraternal, or other family ties con-
nect us in the one case ; love, friendship, or good-
fellowship in the other.

It is evident from this statement how widely dif-
fused the feeling of Love must be, whatever modifi-
cation it may assume, and consequently that it ought
to form a most important element in our estimate of
human felicity.

It falls not within the plan of this work to discuss
in detail each of these sorts of Love ; but rather to
consider what is common to them all ; or else, what
is peculiar to that most remarkable kind to which the
word Love is especially applied. If we take general

96 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

benevolence and Love between the sexes which con-
stitute the tw^o extremes of universality and weakness
on the one hand, of concentration and force on the
other, we shall be able to form a pretty correct notion
as to the mean terms, since these must partake of the
character of that extreme to which they most nearly
approach.

I. Love under every form consists of at least two
elements; first, a certain pleasure derived from the
presence of the beloved object, or simply from re-
flecting upon it; and secondly, a desire of its good.
These elements are essential ; for w^herever these are,
there is love ; and wherever they are not, there is
none. Another desire is very often connected with
the above, always, indeed, when Love is limited to
certain individuals, and that is, desire of being loved
in return. But the two former elements seem suffi-
cient to constitute general benevolence ; for though
the benevolent man may wish for the good-will of
others, yet, in numberless cases he feels an affection
which he knows cannot be reciprocal. He longs for
the happiness of nations which he may never visit,
and he rejoices in the prosperity of millions who may
never even hear of his name.

Considered as a source of happiness to the indi-
vidual, the grand advantage of philanthropy is uni-
versality, and the chief drawback is general weak-
ness. The objects of most other affections may be
snatched from us in a moment, when we least expect
it, and leave us a prey to all the agonies of grief;
but as long as the human race exists, the benevolent
man can never want beings to love. He walks out

ON LOVE. 97

on a sun-shine holiday, he sees the crowd gay and
apparently happy around him, he notices the gambols
of childhood, the sports of youth, the animating ac-
tivity of mature life, and even the repose of age ; and
his heart expands with universal love, and with grati-
tude to the Giver of all good. To such a man, the
world is a perpetual feast, where dainties may be
gathered on every side, arising as by enchantment
from the earth. But if such be the joys of contem-
plation, what must be those of action ? The true
philanthropist does not content himself with this
luxurious benevolence, but is constantly on the watch
for objects to gladden, console, or relieve. He is
perpetually contributing to the happiness of those
around him, in small matters as well as in great, and
thinks not that good can be done only on important
occasions. To few is it given to change the aspect
of their country, to improve its laws, education, or
prison discipline ; and to still fewer to travel, like
Howard, over the wide world, in order to succour the
wretched ; but all may perform innumerable acts of
kindness to those who lie in their way. These small
doings may not be blazoned by fame, and may not
strike the imagination, but they are highly to be
valued on account of the numberless opportunities
for performing them. Even politeness will be culti-
vated on benevolent grounds, and the little interests
and feelings of others meet with a due regard; while
even their weaknesses will be touched with a delicate
hand. Can we doubt that such a conduct brings its
own reward, and that those who learn to make others
happy, share the blessedness they give ?

H

98 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Sympathy is intimately associated with love, for
it is impossible to desire the good of others without
feeling for their weal or woe. The benevolent man
" rejoices with them that do rejoice, and weeps
with them that weep." In the first case, he has a
manifest advantage over the selfish and hard-hearted,
possessing a world of enjoyment to which the latter
is a stranger ; for, wherever the human race exists
and flourishes, there wells out for him^ a spring of
happiness. His spirit seems not confined within the
narrow limits of personal identity, but ranges abroad,
and communicates with the souls of countless millions.
By sharing in the blessedness of others his very being
appears to be expanded, and to approach more
nearly to that divine original in whose image man
was first created.

But he who rejoices with his fellow creatures must
also weep with them ; and hence it may be thought
by some that the pains balance the pleasures. This,
however, would be a great mistake ; for joyful sym-
pathy is without alloy, and even mournful sympathy
or pity has generally more of satisfaction than of
sorrow. The tear that falls for another's woe is not
of unmingled bitterness. The first feeling in pity is
pain for the sufferings of another ; the second, a de-
sire to relieve those sufferings ; the union of which
constitutes the emotion, pity or compassion, that
properly comprehends these two elements and no
more. But, subsequent to them, another feeling is
apt to arise, a feeling of satisfaction and self-com-

5 " Wells out" — Spenser.

ON LOVE. 99

placency proceeding from the consciousness of our
being susceptible of so amiable an emotion. Again,
this agreeable impression is often followed by ano-
ther, which results from comparing our own situation
with that of him whom we compassionate ; for we
are always pleased at being made sensible of our
own superiority.^ Thus the first element of pity
is alone painful, the second doubtful, while the two
subsequent feelings are decidedly of an agreeable
nature ; so that, upon the whole, we can have little
doubt that the gratification generally exceeds the
annoyance. But add to this the activity to which
the desire of relieving suffering gives birth, and the
pleasure derived from actually relieving it, and any
remaining doubt must be dispelled. Thus pity, with
the consequences thereof, is a blessing even to him
who feels it ; while to those towards whom it is
shown, it is the sweetest gift of heaven.

Persons, indeed, there are of morbid sensibility,
who feel so deeply for others that they fly from every
sight of woe, and, from excess of feeling, act as if
they had none. These being unable to resist the first
impression, know only the wounds of compassion,
without its healing balm. Where such timid conduct
is pursued, it may often, however, be doubted whether
more be really felt, since the habit of yielding to
impulse, and the want of self-command, along with
common sensibility, would lead to a similar course.

The principal drawback to benevolence arises out

^ Upon this subject, the reader will do well to consult Bishop
Butler's two admirable Sermons on Compassion.

100 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

of its very universality, for w^hat is felt for all can be
felt but little for each. It is grand, comprehensive,
and beneficent, but weak. It is also too vague an
affection to stand instead of others ; for without some
definite objects to rest upon, the social tendencies of
man would often fly wide of the mark. For most
men, it is absolutely necessary to have some persons
or classes of persons toward whom they feel peculiarly
bound, for without such, the firmest well-wishers of
mankind might waste much time in searching for fit
objects, and many, it is to be feared, would never
make the search. And this, be it remarked, is neces-
sary as well for the happiness of those who love as
of those who are loved. Few, very few, find their
hearts sufficiently filled by general benevolence alone.
Now and then, indeed, we see a remarkable instance
to the contrary, such as the philanthrophic Howard,
who, in his latter years, was almost wholly engrossed
by benevolence ; but, without some more limited
ties, the immense mass of mankind cannot be fully
happy. When they have them not, they hasten to
form them ; and in the want of human beings, they
will fix their affections on animals, whether dogs,
cats, parrots, or cockatoos. Nothing, in short, which
lives is so insignificant that it may not be an object
of love. I once knew a gardener so fond of toads that
he used to keep them in his bosom. Let us then
encourage universal benevolence as much as we pos-
sibly can, but let us not suppose that it can be made
to replace other and closer ties.

II. Having thus considered love in its most general
form, we may descend to the particular affections.

ON LOVE. 101

and especially to that passion which lords it over '
all the rest. In the first place, it is necessary to
remark one important addition which the emotion in
question receives, when individuals are its object ;
which addition is common to every variety of pri-
vate attachment. General benevolence, as has been
shown, consists of but two essential elements : 1. A
pleasure derived either from the presence of its
objects, or from thinking upon them ; and 2. A
desire of their good. These also are found in every
private affection, but along with them co-exists ano-
ther feeling, the desire of being loved in return.
Whoever loves another wishes to possess his affec-
tions, nay, often to monopolize them. This, as we
shall find, makes an essential difference between
general and individual ties, not only in the nature of
the compound feeling, but also in its consequences.
The desire which forms an element of general bene-
volence belongs to the social class, but the desire of
securing the affections of others for ourselves cannot
be ranked under the same category. It evidently
belongs to the self-regarding class ; and by it, there-
fore, self enters into love, which before was a purely
social affection. This is a most important circum-
stance, for it serves to explain many particularities
which otherwise could not be accounted for. It
explains, for instance, the origin of jealousy, which,
like the shadow to the substance, attaches to every
modification of individual love, and grows with the
form that casts it ; for the greater the love the darker
can be the jealousy. Because jealousy is more
marked in the case of love between the sexes, it may

102 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

sometimes have been thouglit confined to it; but
this is quite a mistake, since every private attach-
ment is subject to the same unhappy passion. Only,
as no love can be compared with that between man
and woman in intensity, so no jealousy can come near
that of distrustful lovers.

Jealousy, of whatever kind, comprehends two ele-
ments : 1. A fear of being deprived by another of
something which we consider ours by right : 2. A feel-
ing of ill-will towards the person who is the cause of
the injury. Thus, fear, and a malevolent desire, are
the essential elements of the passion. Now, in every
private love, what we fear to lose is the affections of
an individual which we look upon as our own. From
this it is evident, that it is through the self-regarding
desire that jealousy enters into love. So long as the
social alone prevails, there can be no occasion for
jealousy.

In every variety of private attachment, we have
thus discovered three elements ; but Love, properly so
called, comprehends yet another. To the pleasure
derived from beholding or thinking on the object, to
the wish for its good, and to the wish for its affec-
tions, must now be added another desire of a nature
so powerful, that the word desire is sometimes used
to signify this alone. As by the third element, self
entered into every particular love, so by the fourth,
sense now enters also. By this last element, sexual
love is distinguished from every other species or
variety.

Thus, at last, we have a feeling of a very mixed
nature, comprising, at least, four simple feelings, all

ON LOVE. 103

different from each other, but still agreeing- in this,
that each is full of pleasure. To form this delight-
ful compound, nature has culled from various herbs
and flowers their most luscious and intoxicating: es-
sences. Emotion and sense, the social and the selfish,
the affections and the imagination, the refined and
the voluptuous, all unite to compose and season this
enchanted mixture. Here all the tenderness of our
soul, all our social longings, all our selfish and sensual
propensities, are poured in one cup. We quaff the
potion, and instantly our desires are concentrated in
one object, for whom alone we think, feel, move, and
live. Quid nisi in unitate acquiescat unus? Ah,
happy love ! happy, if it would but last ! This con-
centration of feeling is beautifully expressed by Shake-
speare :

O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame,
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her ! When liver, brain, and heart.
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fiU'd
(Her sweet perfections) with one self king ! ^

This is unquestionably the most violent and the
most engrossing of all the passions, and if unsatisfied,
it may be very permanent, ending only with life.
Religious enthusiasm seems to come next to it in
intensity. Though all the passions may occasionally
occupy the whole man, yet these two have a greater
tendency to do so, as is proved by their effects ; for
none else can so upset the mind or body. The differ-

8 Twelfth-night, Act i.

104 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

ence between them is seen in this, that unsatisfied
love peculiarly affects the body, while religious en-
thusiasm chiefly preys upon the mind. To die of
love is by no means an unexampled occurrence ; and
instances of religious madness are frequent. The
sensual desire which forms a part of love, readily
explains the peculiar way in which it acts ; for
though people kill themselves for love, or pine away
from it till they die, they do not often run mad on
that account.^ Unless we except intense and unex-
pected joy, no emotion has such an effect on the bodily
health as love. Shakespeare, in a celebrated passage,
has beautifully expressed the effects of a hopeless
passion :

" She never told her love,
But Jet concealment, like a worm i' the bud.
Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought ;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief." 1°

Nothing can show more clearly the engrossing

9 Instances of suicide from thwarted love are less common in
England than in France ; but, in the latter country, they occur
every now and then. Sometimes both parties kill themselves by
common consent. Lately, a couple, both married, but not to
each other, threw themselves into the Canal St. Martin. In
Roman history we read of a parricide, that of Lucius Ostius,
from thwarted love.

1*^ Twelfth-night, Act ii. People are said to have died from
gazing constantly, even upon statues, as the maid of France
mentioned in Milman's beautiful poem, who fell in love with the
Apollo Belvidere ; and the Spanish youth who, in St. Peter's at
Rome, was smitten with a naked figure, which, out of compas-
sion to others, has since been robed in bronze.

ON LOVE. 105

nature of love than its effect in blinding the judg-
ment, and even setting at nought the evidence of the
senses. It may so overpower the whole man that he
cannot understand, feel, or even see like any one else.

" The lover all as frantic
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt ; "

SO completely is the object of his affections metamor-
phosed by fancy. This delusion is, no doubt, ex-
ceedingly blissful while it lasts ; and could it be
continued, nothing would be wanting to happiness.
For love, which, at one time, is the most turbulent of
affections, is, at another, the most calming. In the
former stage, it is full of the most violent perturba-
tions, of boisterous hopes and fears succeeding with
marvellous rapidity, so as to make the mind one
whirlwind ; in the latter, where all fear is at an end,
it becomes the most full and perfect satisfaction of
which our nature can admit. Love that ends well is
like a mountain way, animating, sublime, but terrific,
conducting us through awful chasms, and along the
edge of lofty precipices, till at last it brings us to a
valley happy as that of Abyssinia.

This passion has long been a fruitful theme for
poets and novelists, who have thrown around it every
charm which incident or language could bestow ;
well knowing that no subject can possibly be found
more interesting. Assuredly these writers would not
have dwelt so much upon love, had they not been
aware that the chord once struck would meet with a
response in every bosom, and that no other music is
so truly grateful to the soul. But, however much

106 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

they may have laboured to embellish the strain, they
could not surpass that original harmony of which
theirs was but a copy. Love has really existed upon
earth fully as intense and profound as ever poets
could feign ; and living Hamlets and Othellos have
trod the stage of the world. These words of Othello,
looking towards Desdemona, express no fanciful af-
fection:

Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul,
But I do love thee ! and when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again."

Hamlet says to Laertes, who had been boasting of
his fraternal love :

/ loved Ophelia ; forty thousand brothers
Could not with all their quantity of love
Make up my sum. 12

These lines serve to illustrate the excessive fervour
of the affection. The following show the full and
perfect satisfaction which attends it.

Othello to Desdemona on first meeting with her
after their separation at sea :

O my soul's joy !
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken'd death !

If it were now to die,

'Twere now to be most happy ; for, I fear.
My soul hath her content so absolute.
That not another comfort like to this

Succeeds in unknown fate.

I cannot speak enough of this content.

" Act iii. 12 Act V.

ON LOVE. 107

It stops me here ; it is too much of joy.
And this, and this, the greatest discords be,

[Kissing her.
That e'er our hearts shall make 1 1^

If there be anything else on earth capable of giv-
ing this inexpressible contentment, it is religion.
When in this state, the mind of the lover is so filled
with delight that he feels no wants, no desires of any
kind; and is proof against numberless annoyances
which otherwise might disturb his peace. He aban-
dons himself to enjoyment without alloy, and tastes
on earth the blessedness of Heaven. To constitute
that heaven, duration alone is wanting, at least to our
conceptions, for imagination can picture no happiness
greater than that of successful love.

2. Though the passion of love seems always to
comprehend the four elements above-mentioned, yet
it may present a considerable variety of appearances
according to the proportion in which these elements
are mixed ; and this difference of proportion will
sufficiently account for all the modifications it may
assume, without supposing any other change in the
component parts. Thus, in one man, the sensual
desire may be the strongest, in a second, the wish
for the affections ; while in a third, the social desire
m9,y predominate ; and whatever be the ruling desire,
since it may exceed the others in a greater or less
degree, the compound can thus be infinitely diversi-
fied.- This will account for the doubt which we
sometimes hear expressed, whether such a person be

13 Act ii.

108 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

or be not susceptible of real love ; for those who have
very elevated and refined ideas of the affection, are
unwilling to believe that it ever can be felt by the
grossly sensual. Nor can it, exactly in their sense of
the word ; for what these last experience, though
composed of the very same elements, differs so widely
in the proportions, that it might almost pass for a
separate species; but in truth it is only a variety.
So long as the four elements are found at all, we may
say that love exists ; but if any be utterly wanting,
we must adopt another term. Thus lust is specifi-
cally distinguished from love.

The most constant variety to be met with is that
between man's and woman's love. We have before
remarked that women are more refined than men,
and we should therefore suppose that this difference
in character would show itself particularly in that
passion, so important to the female heart. It has
been observed by Madame de Stael, that love which
forms but an episode in the life of man, often oc-
cupies a great part of woman's. Women are un-
doubtedly more constant than men, and not only are
less given to change the object of their affections,
but they can feel warmly for a much longer time.
This, in all probability, depends upon a difference in
the nature of their love, and especially upon this,
that the sensual desire is comparatively weak in them,
while the social is not only relatively but absolutely
stronger than in men. Sometimes the wish for the
happiness of the object, and sometimes the wish for
its affections may be the predominant feeling, but
sense is rarely supreme. And as those refined in-

ON LOVE. 109

clinations are commonly more lasting than the gross,
we need not be surprised that the love in which they
prevail should better stand the test of time.

But, whatever may be thought of this explanation,
the fact, I conceive, is certain, that female love is
peculiarly constant, durable, refined, and self-deny-
ing, willing to make the greatest sacrifices for the
sake of the happiness of another. It is retiring, ten-
der, beneficent, and confiding, rather than passionate ;
though on fit occasions it can display the greatest
energy.

In the very enthusiasm of love, Juliet is made to
say :

Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face ;
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to night.

Soon after she says :

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond ;
And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light :
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.

What a picture of enthusiastic attachment have we
in the following lines :

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep ; the more I give to thee.
The more I have, for both are infinite.

And of devotedness in these :

If that thy bent of love be honourable,

Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow.

********

Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite ;

And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay,

And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.

110 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

The scene closes thus :

Good night, good night ! parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say — good night, till it be morrow. !■*

The character of Helena presents us with an in-
stance of love, at once the most ardent, constant, and
self-denying : '. '

I know I love in vain, strive against hope ;
Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve
I still pour in the waters of my love,
And lack not to lose still. ^^

Upon receiving the letter from Bertram announc-
ing his flight from France and from her, she says :

Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.
Nothing in France, until he has no wife !
Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France,
Then hast thou all again. Poor lord ! is't I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
Those tender limbs of thine to the event
Of the none-sparing war ?

And she ends by giving up all for his happiness :

I will be gone :
My being here it is that holds thee hence :
Shall I stay here to do't ? no, no, although
The air of Paradise did fan the house.
And angels offic'd all. I will be gone !
That pitiful rumour may report my flight,
To consolate thine ear.i^

So deep-seated was the affection of Desdemona,
that not all the cruelty of her husband could expel
it:

14 Act ii. ^^ All's well that ends well. Act i.

16 Act iii.

ON LOVE. Ill

Emilia. I would you had never seen him !

Des. So would not I ; my love doth so approve him,

That even his stubbornness, his checks, and frowns, —
have grace and favour in them.iT

In Imogen we see a striking example of the energy
of female love. Upon receiving the letter from her
husband, Posthumus, informing her of his arrival at
Milford-Haven, she says :

O, for a horse with wings ! — Hear'st thou Pisanio,

He is at Milford-Haven. Read, and tell me

How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs

May plod it in a week, why may not I

Glide thither in a day ?

Pr'ythee, speak,

How many score of miles may we well ride

'Twixt hour and hour ?
Pisanio. One score, 'twixt sun and sun,

Madanv's enough for you ; and too much too.
Imogen. Why, one that rode to his execution, man.

Could never go so slow.

In Portia, v^^e behold love, dignified, pliant, con-
fiding, and disinterested ; all which qualities are
marked in her famous speech, beginning with

You see me. Lord Bassanio, where I stand.
Such as I am.

But the passage is too long for insertion.

I may conclude these quotations illustrative of
female love, by one from the Second Book of Samuel :
" I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan : very
pleasant hast thou been unto me : thy love to me
was wonderful, passing the love of women." ^^

17 Othello, Act iv. i^ 2 Samuel, i. 26.

112 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

In Europe, during the middle ages, there grew up
a singular passion for the fair sex, half real, half
affected. Every chivalrous knight considered it quite
as indispensable to have a favoured lady in his eye,
as to possess a horse and armour ; and in the want
of a real flame, he was bound at least to feign one.
There can be no doubt that this practice had an ex-
ceedingly civilising influence, and not only tempered
the rude manners of that age, but has left a lasting
effect on modern society, where women hold a more
important rank, and are treated with more respect
and deference than amongst the most polished nations
of antiquity. Before a knight could pretend to any
favours from his fair one, he was obliged to distin-
guish himself in some bold adventure ; and thus his
love was stimulated by difficulty, fed by hope, yet
unsatiated by possession. Spenser, in the "Faery
Queene," even represents the lovely Una and the red-
cross Knight as travelling together with no attendants
but a squire and a dwarf, without either thought of
ill, or loss of reputation ; and though this may be a
poetical exaggeration, yet it serves to show what was
thought possible, and how high a conception of
virtue was formed by the code of chivalry. When
we consider that, at the present day, there are coun-
tries in which a young woman may not be seen
walking with a young man in the open streets, and
where even a brother is not thought a fit protector,
we shall be conscious how different an idea can be
entertained as to the purity of either sex.

Under the warm and poetical sky of Italy, this
passion for the fair sometimes melted into a fanciful.

ON LOVE. 113

dreamy, sentimental affection, such as we see depicted
by the early poets of that country, particularly Dante
and Petrarch. Though Petrarch be most celebrated
for this kind of love, yet his was by no means a sin-
gular case, for Dante and others partook of the same ;
and if the one had his Laura, the other had his
Beatrice. The lyrical poems of Dante are less known
in this country than the " Divina Commedia," but
in them we find a strain very similar to that of
Petrarch. ^^ Many laugh at this visionary passion,
that rather shunned than sought its object, lest reality
should dissipate the charm ; that dwelt with Petrarch
in Italy while his idol was beyond the Alps, and
which vented itself only in odes and sonnets to Laura,
living or dead ; but such a feeling, though possible
to few, is still within the limits of nature. Supposing
it to exist, it certainly would be highly delightful.
If we felt not the vehement wishes and raptures of a
more earthly love, neither should we feel its disap-
pointments ; but, instead of these, a soft desire and a
pleasing melancholy would constantly fill the soul.
Whoever has known such a state would probably be
unwilling to change it for aught that this world can

bestow.

Per alti monti, e per selve aspre trovo
Qualche riposo, ogni abitato loco
E nimico mortal degli occhi miei.
A ciascun passo nasce un pensier novo
Delia mia donna, che sovente in gioco
Gira '1 tormento ch' i' porto per lei ;

^^ The English reader may now peruse these poems in his own
language, by means of the very elegant translation of Mr. Lyell,
of Kinnordy.

114 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Ed appena vorrei
Cangiar questo mio viver dolce amaro.i9

Perhaps the reader may excuse another quotation
as illustrative of this state of mind, which, in a philo-
sophical point of view, is really a curious phenome-
non. After having given a most beautiful description
of Laura as she first appeared to him, amidst a shower
of flowers, Petrarch says,

Quante volte diss' io

Allor pien di spavento :
Costei per fermo nacque in Paradiso !

Cosi carco d' obblio,

II divin portamento,
E '1 volto, e le parole, e '1 dolce riso

M' aveano, e si diviso

Dair imagine vera,

Ch' i' dicea sospirando :

Qui come venn' io, o quando ?
Credendo esser in ciel, non la dov'era.^o

3. The greatest drawback to love is Jealousy. We
have already explained the nature of this passion, and
shown that, while in pure benevolence it can have no
place, when self is looked to, then it may spring up.
Fear and a malevolent desire are its component ele-
ments ; and in the case of love, it is the affections and
the exclusive possession of the person which we fear
to lose. Now, the more we value these, the more
must we hate any one who should attempt to deprive
us of them ; and consequently, the stronger the love,
the more dreadful will be the jealousy. And should
we suspect that the very object of our affections
may be herself in league against us, we shall then

19 Petrarca, Canzone xvii. ^o Canzone xiv.

ON LOVE. 115

direct our bate against her, and pass from the ex-
treme of one passion to the extreme of its opposite.
These resuhs, which may be deduced from the nature
of the human mind, are amply confirmed by ex-
perience ; for we know that violent love often passes
into deadly hate. This effect, however, is not brought
about at once ; nay, within certain limits, jealousy
may foster love, as is often said. Jealousy and Ab-
sence have long been thought to fan the tender
flame. According to this view, jealousy, which is a
consequence of love, afterwards reacts as a cause.

Supposing this to be true, on what principle can
it be explained ? The effects both of jealousy and
absence may, I think, be accounted for from two prin-
ciples of human nature, to be afterwards dwelt upon,
the principle of variety and that of privation. The
pains of jealousy interrupt that perfect satisfaction
of love which is apt at last to pall, and make us feel
more sensibly returning confidence and joy. And as
we never value any thing so much as when we have
actually lost it, or even fear to lose it, so the fear,
which is an element of jealousy, causes us to cling to
our affection with redoubled ardour. The same prin-
ciples explain the effects of absence, for absence is
both a change and a privatioti. To a certain extent,
then, it is probable that jealousy does encourage
love ; but, when carried far, it extinguishes it alto-
gether. When the pains which it causes become so
frequent and lasting, as greatly to over-balance the
pleasure derived from the intercourse, then hatred
becomes the prevailing passion ; and as much as we
formerly loved the being who was the source of all

116 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

our delight, so much do we now detest the object
which is associated chiefly with misery. Jealousy
can exist only so long as there is doubt ; for when
doubt is at an end, there is either pure love or hate.
Suspense would appear to be sometimes the most in-
tolerable state of all :

O, beware, ray lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on : that cuckold lives in bliss,
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger;
But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er,
Who dotes, yet doubts ; suspects, yet strongly loves !
******

Othello. Think'st thou, I'd make a life of jealousy,
To follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions ? No : to be once in doubt,
Is — once to be resolved.

******

No, lago;
I'll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove ;
And, on the proof, there is no more but this, —
Away at once with love, or jealousy.

So insupportable is the doubt, that a little further
on, Othello seems to wish that the worst were proved
to him :

Villain, be sure thou prove my love a ;

Be sure of it ; give me the ocular proof;

\^Taking him by the throat.
Or, by the worth of mine eternal soul.
Thou hadst been better have been born a dog.
Than answer my waked wrath.

******

Make me to see it ; or, (at the least) so prove it,
That the probation bear no hinge nor loop.
To hang a doubt on : or, woe upon thy life !

ON LOVE. 117

Even when jealousy is at an end, and hate becomes
the predominant passion, love still enters at times;
for an affection once strong cannot be utterly de-
stroyed in a moment, even by the proof of unfaith-
fulness. The mind, like the body, is very liable to
relapses, and easily falls back into a train of thought
or feeling which once was habitual. Thus, in the
intervals of hate, love will still recur, as may be
illustrated from Othello, who, just before putting his
deadly purpose in execution, thus speaks :

Yet, I'll not shed her blood ;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.

When I have pluck'd thy rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It needs must wither : — I'll smell it on the tree. —

[Kissing her.
O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice to break her sword ! — One more, one more. —
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after ; — One more, and this the last :
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep.
But they are cruel tears : This sorrow's heavenly ;
It strikes, where it doth love. She wakes — ^i

A writer less acquainted with human nature would,
probably, never have thought of putting such words
into the mouth of one who was about to do a deed of
hate ; but we feel them to be perfectly suitable to the
former depth of the Moor's affection, which was sud-
denly recalled by the prospect of its object being
speedily severed from him for ever.

2' Act v.

118 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Since love is the cause of jealousy, it might be
supposed that, when the cause has ceased, the effect
must terminate along with it : but such is not always
the case; and for this reason, that love is not the
only cause of this evil passion. An excess of jea-
lousy puts an end to love ; but jealousy may still
survive ; for what began from affection may be con-
tinued from vanity :^^ and this occurs the more readily
on the principle of custom, as, every day, we see
that opinions, feelings, and practices long out-live
the causes that first gave rise to them. Thus, even
when the original cause has ceased, many incidents,
in themselves insignificant, may rouse the jealousy
of one who had long been used to such a feeling.
The only difference will be, that vanity, not love, will
now take the alarm ; for a blow that cannot reach the
heart, may wound our self-complacency.

Original conformation of mind, and particular cir-
cumstances, may greatly favour jealousy. Some
minds are particularly prone to this passion; and it
would be difficult to imagine any more unfavourable
to happiness. Not only is it a perpetual thorn in
the breast of him who harbours it, which irritates
and may kill the sweet and delicate plant of love ;
but it also inflicts a wound in its innocent object, and
a wound that may be fatal. He who is constantly
exposed to unjust suspicion, must at last be alienated

22 " La jalousie nait toujours avec I'amour, raais elle lie meurt
pas toujours avec lui." Rochefoucauld, Max. 383.

" 11 y a dans la jalousie plus d' amour — propre que d' amour."
M331.

. ON LOVE. 119

from one who is the cause of so much annoyance.
No love, however deep, can resist these incessant
attacks ; as no stone, however hard, can withstand
a perpetual dropping. Nay, more, unjust suspicion
is apt to lead to that which is well founded. When
a man knows that whatever he do, he cannot escape
censure, he at last comes to think, that he may as
well give real cause. This may be accounted for
in the following way : First, the constant suspicion
of harm puts an idea into his head which otherwise
might never have occurred ; and this idea once fairly
in, is not so easily got out. It is often very dan-
gerous to suggest an evil, though to warn against it.
Secondly, the frequent irritation caused by the jea-
lous temper of his partner, and the low opinion she
has of him, both create a malicious feeling towards
her, which prompts him to wound her in the most
tender point. Thus it is that unjust jealousy gives
rise to real unfaithfulness. Can there be a stronger
argument against too ready suspicion ?

Besides original conformation of mind, peculiar
circumstances may also favour jealousy. Such are,
a great disparity in age or appearance ; the known
want of affection in one of the parties, who may have
married from prudential considerations, or in order
to please her family ; and, we may add, light con-
duct before marriage, which suggests the possibility
of the same afterwards ; or even any deception prac-
tised on friends and relations.

The jealousy of Othello is particularly natural, on
account of the striking disparity between the young
and lovely Desdemona, whose skin was " pure as

120 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

monumental alabaster," and the swarthy Moor, who
was certainly very much her senior.

Brabantio. And she — in spite of nature,
Of years, of country, credit, every thing, —
To fall in love vpith v?hat she fear'd to look on ? ^s

And although Othello says,

Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw
The smallest fear, or doubt of her revolt ;
For she had eyes, and chose me ; *•*

there can be no question that these " weak merits "
render his jealousy all the more probable.

But the crowning argument with which lago con-
trives to instil his poison into the mind of the Moor,
is this,

She did deceive her father, marrying you ;

And when she seem'd to shake, and fear your looks,

She loved them most.
Othello. And so she did.

lago. Why, go to, then ;

She that, so young, could give out such a seeming.

To seel ^5 her father's eyes up, close as oak, —

,He thought, 'twas witchcraft.26

These words convey so striking a moral, and so
applicable to common life, that with them I shall
leave the subject of jealousy ; hoping that those per-
sons, in particular, will ponder over them, who dare
to say that Shakespeare was not a moral writer.

4. Since love is so sweet a plant, but frail and

23 Act i. 24 Act iii.

25 An expression from falconry : to seel a hawk is to sew up
his eye-lids. Commentator.
s" Act iii.

ON LOVE. 121

delicate withal, liable to be nipped hy outward cold,
as well as consumed by its own inward and excessive
heat, we must naturally wish to know how it may
be kept alive. Now, in order to defend any thing-
from injury, we must first discover what are its prin-
cipal foes. Love, then, is destroyed by two different,
nay, opposite causes, despair and security ; that is,
by the absence of hope, or by the absence of fear,
or, in other words, by the want of all probability of
obtaining, or of losing the object of our affections.
It has been before observed, that we cannot earnestly
and long desire anything which we know to be unat-
tainable ; and this holds true of love as well as of
any other desire. In reference to this one in parti-
cular, we remarked, that we scarcely ever hear of
persons in the lower ranks of life falling in love with
those much above them ; though the converse is by
no means uncommon. This shows that improbability
of success, not difference of manners and ideas, is
the principal obstacle to the affection. The proba-
bility may be slight, but it must exist in a degree ;
otherwise there can be no lasting passion. In Shake-
speare's play of " All's well that ends well," we, in-
deed, find an inferior deeply in love with, her superior ;
and Helena is even made to say to Bertram's mother,
'' I know I love in vain, strive against hope," as
before quoted ; but, after all, Helena was a gentle-
woman, daughter of a famous physician, deceased,
Gerard de Narbon, and it is evident that she really
did entertain hopes, chiefly on account of a specific,
left to her by her father, applicable to the illness
under which the king of France was labouring.

122 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Who ever strove
To show her merit, that did miss her love ?
The King's disease — my project may deceive me;
But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me.^^

Again,

There's something hints,
More than my father's skill, which was the greatest
Of his profession, that his good receipt
Shall, for my legacy, be sanctified
By the luckiest stars in heaven. 28

Nothing is more common than for people to say to
others that they have no hope, and sometimes they
think so themselves, while the comforter really oc-
cupies a hidden corner of the heart.

But if despair nip love in the bud, security kills
it when full blown. Where there is perfect security,
there is no fear, and without fear desire can hardly
maintain itself. Desire and fear mutually promote
each other ; for the desire of attaining an object
creates a fear of its non-attainment, and this fear re-
acts upon the desire, and increases it, according to
the principle of privation. So desire of preserving,
gives birth to the fear of losing, and this fear again
strengthens the desire. In like manner, fear of any
evil rouses the wish to avoid it, and the wish keeps
alive the fear. Thus, there is a constant action and
re-action, and if one of the agents cease, the other
must lose great part of its force. Desire left to itself
without its wonted goad, is apt to resemble a sober
steed when freed from the whip or spur; for, though

27 Act i, sc. 1. 28 Act i. sc. 3.

ON LOVE. ^123

a fiery blood-horse may require neither, a hackney of
less mettle will be likely to go to sleep. So a desire
of uncommon vigour might live without the aid of
fear, though it would almost certainly cause it ; but
one of less energy will gradually sink and die.

The more remote influence of security, or the
absence of all fear upon love, may be thus traced-
Security gives birth to carelessness, as to the various
expedients necessary to foster passion, in self as well
as in the other party ; whereas, its opposite, wake-
fulness, which results from fear, keeps one constantly
on the alert to notice the slightest symptom of decay,
in order to apply a timely remedy.

It is safer for love to be watchful and weep,

As he used in his prime, than go smiling- to sleep :

For death on his slumber, cold death follows fast,
While the love that is wakeful lives on to the last.29

This habit of watchfulness serves to fill the mind ;
and the various expedients which it suggests engage
us still more, all constantly recalling, and therefore
strengthening our affection according to the principle
of occupation.

Carelessness, on the other hand, affects not only
our own mind and conduct, and through them the
other party, but it also acts directly on the latter ;
for, if a woman see that her husband allows her to
go about everywhere without him, or that he expresses
no anxiety at all the attentions paid to her, she will
naturally suppose that this arises from want of affec-

29 Moore's National Melodies.

124 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

tion, and thus she may become estranged. Not to
mention that such carelessness really exposes her to
temptation. It is actually putting her in harm's way.

Fear, as we thus perceive, tends to cherish love,
both immediately and remotely; immediately, by in-
creasing this desire, like every other, on the principle
of privation ; remotely, through the wakefulness
which it creates. Let us not then quarrel with fear,
for it is the tutelary saint of love.

It is evident from the above, as well as known by
general observation, that the dangers which love has
to encounter are greatest after it reaches the port.
The bark which bears it can withstand much better
the storms of the open ocean, than the little worm
that causes the dry rot. Since desire always looks to
the future, it could not possibly exist along with the
possession of its object, if this possession were sup-
posed final and complete ; for it would be quenched
from want of aliment, like fire when there is nothing
to burn. If, then, love were so triumphant as to have
achieved its point once and for ever, it must speedily
be extinguished ; since desire of one kind or other
forms three-fourths of love. But, scarcely in any
case can love be thus satisfied in a moment, though
it may speedily.

The durability of the passion will mainly depend
upon its nature, that is, upon the proportions of the
various elements of which it is composed. When
sense forms the chief part of the compound feeling,
love will not long survive possession ; because, the
object, when once attained, seems attained completely
and for ever. Here, there is no vague idea in pros-

ON LOVE. 125

pect which the imagination can picture as more
brilliant than what is already known ; and con-
sequently there is nothing to desire. If the tie be
far life, as in marriage, there can seldom be much
fear of losing the person, and on this account, also,
desire rapidly declines. Should any such fear arise,
the husband would probably be roused from indiffer-
ence, and feel somewhat of his former flame.

Again, it is peculiarly the nature of sense to be
soon satiated with one thing, and to pine after
variety.

Lastly, beauty, which principally gives rise to sen-
sual love, is not only fleeting, but by custom soon
loses its magic. We are often astonished at the
insensibility of husbands to the personal charms of
their own wives. Beauty is much more for the
world than for the chimney corner ; and the pursuit
of it has well been described as

A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.

The lovely toy so fiercely sought
Hath lost its charm by being caught ;
For every touch that wpo'd its stay
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away.
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone,
'Tis left to fly or fall alone.so

But if love be of a different nature, consisting
principally in a desire for the happiness of the object,
and a desire for its affections ; and if it be founded
on mental more than on bodily qualities, then it may

^0 Giaour.

126 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

be very lasting ; and for these reasons. As, in this
case, the affections are a more important object than
the person, and, as neither law nor custom can secure
those, we never can feel certain that, though we
possess them to-day, we shall to-morrow. Besides,
they are of so delicate a nature, that a single chilly
blast may grievously impair them. Hence, the affec-
tions constantly present themselves to us in futurity
as an object to be attained, a conquest to be made,
or at least to be preserved ; and therefore they keep
up both desire and fear.

Secondly, the above affections are not nearly so
liable to change their object as the sensual propensity.

And, thirdly, Mental qualities are far more durable
than bodily. These reasons sufficiently account for
the greater permanence of this kind of love. The
author of " Gil Bias" is universally allowed to have
been intimately acquainted with human nature ; so
that, any anecdote taken from that novel carries in
this respect a great authority along with it. We
there meet with a story which shows very forcibly
how strong may, in love, be the desire for the affec-
tions, even when the person is secured. The husband
of the beautiful Seraphina, after a year spent in fruit-
less endeavours to inspire his wife with a mutual
passion, set off in despair for the seat of war, in
quest of that death which he soon met with on the
field of battle.

But, whether love be very durable or not, it would
be a great mistake to suppose that its influence on
our happiness is limited to the period when it lasts.
That period remains for ever in the memory as a past

ON LOVE. 127

but blissful reality, to prove to us of what exalted
felicity our nature is susceptible, and favour the
belief that what we have enjoyed once, we may
enjoy again, if not here, hereafter. Strong delights
need the less to be repeated, because they live in our
remembrance, even until our dying day. No man
who was once in love can afterwards forget it ; and
therefore he has within him a fountain of thought and
emotion which can never dry. Even from curiosity
one would wish to know such a passion ; for he who
knows it not, must have but an imperfect idea of
human nature. The greatest of heathen philo-
sophers is said to have discoursed so eloquently on
marriage, that the single all rushed into matrimony ;
and we may be certain that he did not separate
marriage from love. Those who rail at the emotion
would do well to take a hint from Socrates.

Having shown by what causes love is blighted,
we are now the better prepared to inquire how it
may be cherished. As to the birth of love, we need
say but little, for the great master of human nature
informs us on this point :

Tell me, where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head.

How begot, how nourished 1
It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed.

Let those who wish to nurse or cure a passion
attend to this.

Though love at first sight be not unfrequently
laughed at, it is far from unnatural. Nay, it would
seem that, in most cases where the feeling is very

128 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

strong, a decided impression had been produced at
the first, which has afterwards been increased by-
time and intercourse. The strongest cases of love
occur between those who never met till they were
grown up ; for the affection which exists between
parties who have known each other from infancy is
of a much tamer nature, and more allied to friend-
ship. It is the same with the beauties of nature or
of art. Nothing so much deadens sensibility as to
become familiarized with any object before we can
appreciate its perfections ; and therefore, we are
more struck with the charms of foreign countries
than of our own. In the former case, a strong im-
pression is produced at once, because we do not see
them until our faculties are fully developed ; while,
in the latter, custom has blunted our feelings pre-
maturely. On the same principle, the strongest love
is that which begins at the first interview.

Shakespeare, at all events, believed in love at first
sight ; for Romeo becomes enamoured of Juliet the
moment he beholds her at the ball.

Romeo. What lady's that which doth enrich the hand

Of yonder knight ?
Servant. I know not, Sir.

Romeo. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright !

Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night,

Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear :

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear !
* * * . * * *

Did my heart love till now ? forswear it, sight !
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.^i

31 Act. i. sc. 5.

ON LOVE. 129

So, likewise, the duke in Twelfth Night says ;

O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought, she purged the air of pestilence ;
That instant was I turn'd into a hart ;
And my desires, Uke fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me.^^

Since love is born and fed by gazing on its ob-
ject when present, and thinking on it when absent,
the obvious cure is not to gaze and not to think. The
first of these is much easier than the second, for we
can always keep our person aloof, though we may
not be able to prevent our thoughts from dwelling on
an interesting subject. It is, however, a great mis-
take to suppose that love, or any other passion, is
purely involuntary ; the first movement undoubtedly
is so, but afterwards it may be encouraged or dis-
couraged at will. We cannot, indeed, directly will
away any idea that besets us ; nay, the more we de-
sire its absence, the more pertinaciously does it cling
to us, because the desire constantly suggests the idea ;
but, we can turn our attention to something else, we
can seek amusement or business, violent bodily exer-
cise, or, above all, travel, which is so well calculated
to chang'e the current of our ideas. Flio^ht is the best
cure for the wounds of Cupid.

In nothing do men differ more than in the com-
parative facility of transferring thoughts. Some have
as great difficulty in retaining, as others in getting
rid of their ideas ; and the same holds true of the
emotions, which greatly depend upon the former.

32 Act. i. sc. 1.

K

130 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Those who are tenacious of thought will be likewise
tenacious of passion ; they will be ardent, or, at least,
constant in love, business, or study, and therefore they
will be likely to push discoveries in science further
than more volatile natures ; as well as to reach the
pinnacle of their wishes, whether in the way of fame,
power, wealth, or knowledge ; but these great advan-
tages are not entirely gratuitous. Men of this stamp
are apt to be overwhelmed with passion or with grief,
domineered by habit, fatigued with the sameness of
their thoughts ; and they are even more liable to in-
sanity than other people. To such characters, amuse-
ment is particularly valuable, as tending to dissipate
for a while their prevailing ideas, and give freshness
and elasticity to the mental faculties. What would
be injurious to more volatile natures by driving away
all serious reflection, is an unmingled good to them.
I have known persons of this sort who never engaged
in their occupations with such alacrity and success,
as after having spent great part of the previous night
in a scene of diversion ; for such a scene was suffi-
cient to animate, but not permanently to distract their
minds. It unfortunately happens that where there is
an evil, we are generally averse to the remedy, because
the remedy is opposed to our own bent. Thus, the
above class have constantly to struggle against habit,
which urges them to go on in the same course, while
they ought to do just the contrary ; and though they
may relish amusement, and though it may do them
good, they are not much inclined to seek it.

Having peeped at Love in his cradle, we must now
witness his future growth.

ON LOVE. 131

We have seen that the principal foes of love are
des'pair and security. Now, when we consider what
is common to these two, we shall find that in spite of
their opposition, they agree in one point ; for cer-
tainty belongs to both. In the one case there is felt
a certainty of not obtaining, in the other of not
losing. Hence we are brought to the conclusion, that
the grand promoter of love is uncertainty . This it
is which keeps up hope as well as fear, both of which
we have found necessary to love. It is self-evident
that the certainty of not attaining any thing does
away with hope, and the certainty of obtaining or of
not losing, destroys fear ; but it is not so obvious that
the certainty of attaining also abates hope, and the
certainty of not obtaining or of losing dispels fear.
Such, however, seems to be the case. When we are
quite sure of getting any thing, our desire for it
speedily declines, and when we are sure of the con-
trary, so does our fear. The final cause of this is
manifest, for desire and fear being intended for ac-
tion, for conquering obstacles and avoiding danger,
when there are no longer any obstacles or any danger,
or none that can be conquered or avoided, these pas-
sions are useless. They were meant to cease when
no more required.

In considering the proximate cause of the pheno-
menon, we shall find a further exemplification of the
truth of the principle above stated, that desire and
fear mutually promote each other, and that they can-
not long exist apart. When we are sure of obtain-
ing any good, we can have no fear, and for that very
reason we almost cease to desire. So, when we are

132 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

certain of not escaping any evil, we soon give over
desiring its absence, according to the principle that
we cannot long wish for what is unattainable ; and
because we desire no more, we fear no more.

The effect of certainty upon fear may be seen in
cases of extreme danger, such as occur at sea, or on a
field of battle. Persons, who, when the danger was
slight, were in a dreadful state of alarm, sometimes
become quite calm when death seems close at hand.
When pestilence stalks over a land, the inhabitants
are smitten with terror ; but no sooner is one really
attacked, than fear declines or ceases. In illness, so
long as there is hope, so long is there fear ; but when
the sick man is certain of his approaching end, he
becomes very sorrowful or else resigned, but he is
not afraid, unless it be of a judgment to come. It
may be thought an objection to the above view that
men fear death, though they know it to be inevitable ;
but the final event alone is certain, the time uncer-
tain, and this uncertainty as to time keeps up the
desire of long life, and hence the fear of losing it pre-
maturely ; for what death-doomed criminal ever less
rejoiced in a reprieve, because it might be but tem-
porary ?

Desire and fear being those emotions which chiefly
agitate the mind, the calmness which follows their
absence is easily accounted for. This calmness may
not exclude all emotion, but it must be of a milder
nature.

It is evident from the above that uncertainty is the
grand promoter of every passion, and of love in par-
ticular. Women, generally speaking, have a secret

ON LOVE. 133

instinct of this, for they like to keep their admirers
long in suspense, and are brought with difficulty to
an explicit declaration. Poets from force of imagin-
ation, and women from delicacy of feeling, some-
times see further into human nature than philosophers.
Though they cannot state their conclusions in set
terms, and reason them out, they still are conscious
of them ; and they certainly are less liable to gross
mistakes than mere mathematical thinkers who sup-
pose that the mind of man, like an algebraic equa-
tion, contains but one or two unknown quantities, to
be discovered by the intellect alone. Guided by
their delicacy of feeling, women rather like to plague
their lovers, and keep up a degree of doubt ; well
knowing that their empire hangs upon the thread of
uncertainty. The moment that thread is cut, joy fills
the soul ; but afterwards love is apt to cool. When
the chase of hopes and fears is at an end, then is the
time of trial ; for the little God, who was kept awake
by the storm, may fall asleep in the calm.

Another great promoter of love is difficulty. Diffi-
culty is allied to uncertainty, for where there are
obstacles, there must be some doubt; but there is
sufficient difference between them to require a sepa-
rate notice.

Ah me ! for aught that ever I could read,

Could ever hear by tale or history,

The course of true love never did run smooth, ^s

And this want of smoothness was one cause of its
being true.

3* Midsummer-nis^-ht's Dream. Act i, sc. 1.

134 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Obstacles tend to increase any passion before as
well as after the attainment of its object.

In the first case, obstacles tend perpetually to keep
that object in our mind ; for where there is some im-
pediment to be removed by our own exertions, we
will constantly be forming schemes or putting them
in practice for that purpose. This effect, then, of dif-
ficulty, depends upon the principle of occupatioji.

While the mind is devising plans and pursuing
them, it must be occupied about the object of those
plans, and not only will the intellect be thus engaged,
but the emotions will be kept in a constant agitation
by a succession of secondary hopes and fears, accord-
ing as our projects promise well or ill. Now, all this
activity, both of intellect and feeling, must tend to
fix as well as strengthen the primary passion.

When difficulties are thrown in our way designedly
by others, then some additional principles are called
into action ; for our pride receives a wound. Partly
from a desire to get rid of this pain of humility,
partly from revenge, or desire of giving pain to those
who both oppose our design and wound our pride,
we pursue our original purpose with increased energy.
These principles are the source of the marriages from
pique, or manages cle vengeance^ which occur now
and then in the world as well as in the realms of
fiction. In Gil Bias, for instance, there is a famous
story of this kind.^^ With some, to forbid any thing
is the way to secure its being done.

■'*■* I have in my eye at this moment a remarkable instance in
real life. An Englishman of noble family being- prevented by

ON LOVE. 135

But difficulties not only stimulate our desires pre-
vious to the attainment of their object, but they make
us value and love it more when within our grasp.
To this tend both reason and feeling ; for we are
apt to think that what has cost us much trouble must
be really precious ; and we are loth to believe that
we have laboured or made any sacrifice in vain.
The pain which attends the idea of efforts thrown
away, is the cause of this slowness of belief. We
thus explain the peculiar attachment of some authors
to their second-rate productions. It is natural to
conclude, that what cost them most toil must be the
most valuable ; humiliating to think that when they
exerted themselves in the greatest degree, they were
the least successful ; painful to suppose that their
time has been thrown away ; and therefore they will
have it that their most laboured works are the best.
Sometimes, however, authors are partial to those
writings in which they took the greatest interest, and
this is probably a safer ground of preference ; for,
what is done con amove is likely to be done well.

If it be true, as somewhere said, I think in the
Spectator, that the happiest marriages are those
which have been preceded by the longest courtships,
this may be accounted for partly on the above prin-
ciple. The time and pains which it has cost us to
possess the beloved object enhance its value in our
eyes, and make us cling to it with pertinacity. To

his friends from marrying the object of his choice, he said that,
in that case, he would " e'en take Sally the housemaid." And
so he did.

136 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

throw away or neglect, now that we have got it, is
to render vain all our past sacrifices. Another cause
is the better acquaintance with each other's charac-
ter, which a long courtship may afford. If affection
stand the test of this intimate acquaintance before
marriage, it probably will after, and if not, the match
is broken off". These causes render it probable that
long courtships are favourable to happy marriages.

As a familiar instance of the effect o^ facility on
our desires, we may mention the well-known circum-
stance that those who live in a place are the last to
see its sights. Many have been over half Europe
before they knew the beauties of their own country,
or even of their own neighbourhood ; for curiosity is
deadened by the ease with which it may be gratified.
The same holds true of that curiosity which leads
to other knowledge. To a certain extent ardour in
study increases with our interruptions ; and, when
sure of our time, we are apt to become lukewarm.
This is one reason why, even among the literary,
those who have most leisure are not always the most
studious ; and why others, with a fixed employment,
sometimes do more in their hours of recreation, than
the former in their whole lives. Knowing that their
opportunities are short, they labour with exceeding
energy. Those who retire to the country in order to
have all their time at command, free from visits of
friendship or of ceremony, often do less than before,
for they fall asleep amongst their books.^^

35 Not long ago, meeting a celebrated French author, lately-
returned to Paris after spending many months in the country, I

ON LOVE. 137

The effects of difficulty, however, are two-fold.
Up to a certain point, it sharpens our desires ; but
beyond that, it blunts and destroys them. The par-
ticular point at which the reverse effect will begin
must depend upon the original force of the desire :
and the same obstacle which might deaden a weak
desire would stimulate a strong one. When difficulty
becomes impossibility, the firmest passion will die
away. This may be illustrated by the love of play.
It is vain to suppose, that those who have acquired
a strong passion for gaming will be prevented from
indulging it in secret by the fear of fine or imprison-
ment ; but hundreds who have either no liking as yet,
or but a feeble one, may be stopped by a timely
obstacle. In the former case, difficulty will but in-
crease the propensity, in the latter it may hinder
this from springing up at all, or blast it in the very
bud. Facility gives opportunity at least, and so
suggests an idea which to the many might never
have occurred ; and therefore it tends to render a taste
more general though less strong. On this ground
there can be no doubt that the measure lately adopted
of putting down the public and licensed gaming-
houses in Paris will produce the most happy effects.
It will not slake the thirst for play in all bosoms,
but it will prevent or quench this in many, and
narrow the sphere of its ravages.

A curious exemplification of the influence of fa-
cility on our desires may be seen in the case of public

said to him, " You must have had plenty of time for study"-
J'en avals trop, was his answer, Je devins engourdi.

138 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

marks of honour. It might have been thought that
the great number of ribbons and crosses distributed
by the French government under the Restoration
would have rendered them of no value, and that
people would have ceased to demand them ; but the
effect was just the contrary. The facility with which
they were obtained probably weakened the desire
in a few, but spread it among many. People who
saw their equals with an order at their button hole,
thought they might get one too, and if not, that
they would be considered below the others; so that
ribbons came to be sought less to mark superiority
than to avoid inferiority. A saying of Cardinal Maza-
rine deserves here to be recorded as founded on a simi-
lar view of human nature. When apprehensive of
losing his power, he said, " Je ferai tant de dues quil
sera honteux de I'etre, et honteux de ne Vetre 'pas ;"
for, dukedoms becoming so common, people would be
almost ashamed of so paltry a distinction, and yet
they would feel ashamed not to possess that which
others enjoyed whom they thought no better than
themselves. If kings or ambassadors became too pro-
miscuous in their parties and receptions, the great
would pretend to be ashamed of being seen in com-
pany with such a rabble ; but, at the same time, they
would be more ashamed to be left out.

We have seen that some interruption is favourable
to ardour in study ; but too long and frequent, damps
and puts it out. The periods during which we can
apply being so short, or so far removed, we at last
begin to think it not worth while to make the attempt,
and so either seek for fresh amusement to fill up the

ON LOVE. 139

vacant hour, or pass it in an indolent manner. Our
desires may be stifled by too little as well as by too
much food. Every passion may be surfeited, but
every one must be fed. Without some aliment, desire
can seldom live long, but flickers and is finally ex-
tinguished ; while, with too much, it becomes feeble
as the light of a wick overloaded with tallow or wax.
Those numerous slaves who people the harem of an
eastern despot must be enough to cloy the most eager
appetite ; but in the total absence of women's society,
desire would die away altogether. Here, then, as well
as in the bodily frame, over-repletion is less fatal than
inanition. The boa constrictor having gorged itself
with food, and remained torpid for a season, at length
resumes activity, but what can rouse it from the sleep
of famine ? Many are the rich who suffer from excess
and luxury, but how few as compared with the poor
who perish from want and starvation ! ^^ As bodily
health is best maintained by temperance, that is, by
a due medium between too much and too little sus-
tenance, so the passions are perpetuated by a course
of life removed from the extremes of abstinence and
indulgence.

We are probably but little aware, how much our
enjoyment depends upon difficulty and uncertainty.
There can scarcely be any sport without them. In
every kind of game, play, or exercise of address, our

36 See the fearful accounts lately published of the famine
which has been desolating the province of Agra in India. This,
too, is only one out of several calamities of the sort which have
afflicted Hindostan since the British first settled there. (1839.)

140 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

pleasure nearly ceases as soon " as we are sure of
success. The interest of all games of chance evi-
dently depends much upon uncertaint37", and so it is
with those of skill. When the young sportsman
brings down his first bird, he is beyond measure
delighted, because he expected to miss, and he con-
tinues for a long time to enjoy the diversion ex-
tremely, till by constant practice, he becomes a dead
shot. Then his pleasure at hitting is very much
diminished ; but should he ever miss, his pain is as
greatly augmented, for now he expects to hit. The
chief object with him now is not delight in killing,
but the glory of having slaughtered his hundreds ;
for love of superiority takes this turn, and is gratified
with having it trumpeted about in the newspapers
that he has slain so many brace in a day. So, the
young author feels intensely the first praise, partly
because it is the first, partly because of the previous
uncertainty ; but as he advances in writing and in
honour, he gradually comes to expect applause, and
therefore cares for it less,, though he is sadly wounded
by the contrary. Hence it is, that persons who have
established a reputation in one line, sometimes take
much greater pleasure in hearing themselves praised
in another, though it be comparatively frivolous. In
the former case there is certainty, in the latter not.
The great Cuvier is said to have prided himself more
on his political talents, which were but second-rate,
than on his merits as a natural historian, which were
known to all Europe ; and a late celebrated chemist
was, finally, more elated by his success in salmon fish-
ing, than by his well deserved scientific fame. Thus

ON LOVE. 141

uncertainty and difficulty not only increase desire, but
also the pleasure of success.

Many amusements which now greatly please us
would probably soon cease to be amusements, if they
cost us nothing. Were the doors of theatres, opera-
houses, and concert-rooms thrown open to the public
gratuitously, we should begin to fancy that they were
scarcely worth entering ; and even when we did
enter, the preconceived notion would somewhat pre-
vent our enjoyment : so much are our feelings in-
fluenced by our opinions. Those contrivances which
abound in civilized society for the convenience and
comfort of life may often overshoot the mark by ren-
dering pleasure too easy. Even travelling, one of
our principal excitements, may thus be stripped of its
charm. Locomotive engines are admirable expedients
for saving time and clearing space, but in spite of the
rapid motion, railway coaches, when novelty is over,
will be found rather dull conveyances. Steam boats
also, though most useful inventions, are certainly far
from amusing. To enjoy travelling thoroughly, the
traveller must have something more to do than merely
to sit and gaze ; he must seek adventure, and neither
fear difficulty nor shrink from bodily labour; and
then he will find that

There is sweetness in the mountain air,
And life that bloated ease can never hope to share. ^^

The dull and morbid meets with difficulties every
where, for in the want of real, he creates imaginary ;

37 Childe Harold, Canto 1.

142 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

while the gay and animated scarcely perceives any.
The former is open to every annoyance, the latter to
every delight ; the one, after travelling over Europe,
tells of the impositions, the discomfort, the dirt,
the loathsome insects he has met with ; while the
other dwells on the charms of scenery, the pleasing
contrast of manners and customs, the useful institu-
tions of the present day, and the interesting recol-
lections of the past. Ccelum non animutn mutant qui
trans mare currunt, says the poet ; and in part he is
right, for the mind we bring with us casts a light or
a shadow on every object.

Having already alluded to absence as a promoter
of love, and having accounted for its eflfects on the
two principles oi variety and privation, little remains
to be said under that head. Here, however, I must
allude to the opinion of Rochefoucauld, who has
said that absence diminishes moderate, and increases
strong passions. "^^ There is truth in this, but not the
exact truth. The fact seems to be, that absence, like
difficulty, has a two-fold effect ; it first inflames, and
afterwards deadens passion ; but the period which
may elapse before the secondary result take place,
will depend upon the original force of the desire. In
the beginning, absence always acts in the former
way ; but when prolonged, in the latter. No passion
is so weak as not to be enforced for a moment by
absence, and none is so strong as to resist it when
long continued. The time at which the reverse effect

•^^ L'absence diminue les mediocres passions et augmente les
grandes, comme le vent qui eteint les bougies et allume le feu.
Maxime 284.

ON LOVE. 143

shall commence admits of infinite variety, and there-
fore cannot be exactly stated.

Besides the original strength of the passion, the
nature of the life led by the parties, and the turn of
their minds, will materially influence the period dur-
ing which the primary effect of absence shall be felt.
A life of great variety, of study, or of business will of
course sooner drive the absent object from the mind
than one of monotony, idleness, or contemplation ;
and a deep, retentive, melancholic character will not
so soon forget as the gay and the frivolous. This is
so obvious as scarcely to deserve notice.

Absence seems to imply separation at a distance,
and this, no doubt, produces the greatest effects, whe-
ther in the way of increasing or diminishing love ;
for when the beloved object is within our reach, the
knowledge that we can see it when we please does
away greatly with the feeling of privation, but pre-
vents us from forgetting. So, absence from one's
native country at a great distance, makes one long for
it extremely, or else forget it altogether. Another rea-
son is, that separation near at hand is not likely to be
of long duration. It is, however, very valuable, be-
cause always in our own power. Scarcely any per-
sons, however fond, can be all day together without
getting tired of each other's company. The lover,
husband, or friend who has any knowledge of human
nature will be aware of this, and will take care by a
timely separation to prevent that wearisome feeling
so injurious to every affection. Lovers are constantly
complaining that they cannot see enough of each
other, but fortunate are those who complain ; for if

144 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

they saw more, they would probably feel less. They
think not how the pain of separation enhances the
rapture of intercourse.^^

To conclude, absence, if short, is good ; but if long,
dangerous.

" When a person is once heartily in love, the little
faults and caprices of his mistress, the jealousies and
quarrels to which that commerce is so subject, how-
ever unpleasant they be, and rather connected with
anger and hatred, are yet found, in many instances,
to give additional force to the prevailing passion." *°
The only explanation of this which Hume has at-
tempted amounts to no more, than that one passion
favours another, however different. " The connection
is, in many cases, closer between any two passions,
than between any passion and indifference." This
may be true, but it is by no means self-evident ; and
consequently, the explanation is, at best, incomplete.
In truth, it is no explanation properly so called, but
simply the fact stated in other terms, a very frequent
fallacy ; for we are first told that these tiffs do in-
crease love, and then as a reason we are informed
that every passion favours another. Here no cause
is assigned for the fact, but this is simply classed as
a particular case of a general law. We have there-
fore generalization, but no causation.

Amantium ires amoris redintegratio est

39 The Spartan lawgiver, however, was well aware of this, for
he took care to throw difficulties in the way of the intercourse
of young married people.

40 Hume ; Dissertation pn the Passions. Sect. vi.

ON LOVE. , 145

is an old and well-approved maxim ; so that all we
have to discover is, what is the essential circumstance
or circumstances involved in these quarrels, on which
their efficacy depends as a wholesome medicine of
love ; just as we have discovered the essential prin-
ciple, morphea, enveloped in a mass of opium.

Having already explained the effects of jealousy,
we need not say more on that point ; but the efficacy
of little caprices and quarrels may be stated to de-
pend upon two circumstances connected with them ;
the variety and the occupation which they afford.
It is evident that they break that uniform sweetness
which is apt at last to cloy, and by a short interrup-
tion make us more alive to the joys of returning love.
At the same time they oblige us to think upon the
object of our affections ; for, being naturally anxious
to find out what has given displeasure, and to re-
move the cause, we must reflect upon every circum-
stance connected with the past intercourse, and lay
plans for our future behaviour. Now, all these
thoughts recall the object, and the object constantly
suggests the passion, and fixes it deeply in the soul.

Here, then, we see the real causes why women
who most deserve to be loved, are not always the
most successful in retaining the affections of those to
whom they are attached. That angelic sweetness of
temper which " can make to-morrow cheerful as to-
day," and that readiness to forgive occasional neglect
or injury, which is so amiable in most relations of
life, are not the most favourable to love, which re-
quires occupation and variety.

But if uniformity be one deadly foe to love, over-

L

146 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

vexation is another. Women cannot be too cautious
in adopting the practice of teazing, for it is a game
in which much skill is required, and much know-
ledge of the opposite party. To be sure of winning,
they must look into the other hand. Some men feel
these jarrings more than others, and will sopn throw
up their cards when they find them a source of dis-
pute. Others care for them less ; but let it be al-
ways remembered, that every instance of pure caprice
or of ill-founded resentment tends to lessen esteem,
and without esteem, love is but the sport of an hour.
Occasional quarrels, like occasional jealousies, may
increase love, but who could endure a life made up
of the one or the other ?

" Nothing more powerfully excites any affection
than to conceal some part of its object, by throwing
it into a kind of shade, which at the same time that*
it shows enough to prepossess us in favour of the
object, leaves still some room for the imagination."*^
This holds true, not only of the affections, properly
so called, which have a reference to sentient beings,
but also of the other emotions ; for instance, those of
beauty and sublimity. Obscurity, as Hume observes,
is always attended with some uncertainty, and this,
as we have seen, is eminently favourable to emotion.
Besides, the sphere of imagination is boundless,
while that of reality is fixed ; so that by exchanging
the former for the latter, we give up the infinite for
the finite. It is scarcely possible to gain by this ex-
change, unless our imagination be very dull, or the

*! Hume ; Dissertation on the Passions, Sect. vi.

ON LOVE. 147

reality be of transcendent excellence. Views partially
concealed are generally the most beautiful ; and hence
hills of moderate elevation offer the most agreeable
prospects, and the sides of lofty mountains are com-
monly more interesting than their summits. The
charm of waterfalls depends very much upon the
narrow bed in which the river flows, for if the same
quantity of water fall over an exposed rock, it strikes
us but little. When a river is confined between
rocks, it appears more considerable than when it
flows in a wide and open bed ; for fancy, in the
former case, exaggerates its capability of expansion.
The most costly and elegant furniture cannot make
up for the want of curtains to break the glare of light.
So it is with the emotion of beauty depending on the
human form, and with the subsequent emotions which
are probably heightened rather than diminished by
-the veil of dress. In a few cases, the naked figure
might surpass our expectations, but in the great ma-
jority, it would be otherwise. We see a little, and
fancy a great deal more, commonly more than the
reality. But although a naked figure should equal
or surpass our expectations, and should produce a
more powerful effect at first, still it would be much
less lasting. The impression of beauty being instan-
taneous and involuntary, the mind in receiving it is
altogether passive, and when all is disclosed at once,
it has no scope for activity, and therefore speedily
tires : but when much is concealed, the mind has
something to work upon, a veil to be torn asunder by
the aid of fancy, and unknown beauties or deformities
to be hoped or dreaded. Thus the mind is kept ac-

148 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

tive and occupied about the object, and occupation
is necessary to maintain emotion. In the one case,
the impression is produced entirely through the senses,
in the other, partly through these, partly through the
imagination and its kindred emotions. From this and
other considerations it is probable that dress dimin-
ishes the empire of lust, but greatly increases that of
love.

An objection to the above views may be raised
from the case of painting and statuary, since in these
arts, naked figures are more beautiful than clothed,
and are more apt to excite lasting as well as strong
emotions. But this is exactly an instance in which
a seeming exception proves the rule. There are two
circumstances peculiar to works of art which suffi-
ciently explain the apparent anomaly. While, on
the one hand, the artist who copies nature takes care
to choose the finest models, to bring together every
beauty, and discard every deformity ; on the other,
he who represents a clothed figure cannot make us
fancy that any charms lie hid under painted or mar-
ble folds. In the former case, we have nudity in its
perfection, in the latter, concealment without scope
for the imagination ; and therefore we cannot be sur-
prised that the naked figure should impress us more.

The following lines occur in Tasso, when describ-
ing the beautiful Armida, and the arts which she
employed to entrap the hearts of the Christians :

Mostra il bel petto le sue uevi ignude
Onde il foco d'amor si nutre e desta :
Parte appar delle mamme acerbe e crude,
Parte altrui ne ricopre invida vesta ;

ON LOVE. 149

Invida, ma s'agli occhi il varco chiude,
L' amoroso pensier gia non arresta,
Che non ben pago di bellezza esterna,
Negli occulti secret! anco s'interna.^s

In the intercourse of lovers or friends nothing'
ought more to be avoided than too much familiarity.
Familiarity is injurious to affection in three ways :
First, it may make us acquainted vrith little weak-
nesses and peculiarities, and so give birth to contempt:
Secondly, it may disclose some bodily defect or un-
pleasantness, and thus create disgust: and thirdly, by
leading to unwarrantable liberties it wounds pride,
and hence produces dislike. In all cases, the vitcE
Postcenia are carefully to. be hid. Celanda vitcB
Postcenia^^

Moreover, everything relating to sense cannot be
too sedulously shrouded in the gossamer veil of the
imagination.

If the saying be true, that " a prophet is of no
honour in his own country," it is owing to this that
he is known too familiarly ; so that any peculiarity

*2 Come per acqua, o per cristallo, intero
Trapassa il raggio, e nol divide o parte ;
Per entro il chiuso raanto osa il pensiero
Si penetrar nella vietata parte.
Ivi si spazia, ivi contempla il vero
Di tante meraviglie a parte a parte :
Poscia al desio le narra e le descrive,
E ne fa le sue fiamme in lui piu vive.

La Gerusalemme Liberata, Canto iv. st. 31, 32.
43 Nee Veneres nostras hoc fallit : quo magis ipsse
Omnia summopere hos vitse postcenia celant,
Quos retinere volunt, adscriptosque esse in aniore.

Lucret. Lib. iv. 1179.

150 ON SOME PARTICULAJI DESIRES.

of character or some circumstance connected With
his birth and parentage may predispose his country-
men against him, and prevent them from duly appre-
ciating his great qualities.

Reserve is opposed to familiarity ; but we must
not confound reserve of manner with reserve of mind,
which is allied to want of confidence, and is there-
fore opposed to affection. Rochefoucauld, indeed,
has said that in love deceit almost always goes farther
than distrust;^* and there can be no doubt, that in a
certain stage, both may exist to a certain extent; that
the latter is often unavoidable, while the former may
even be necessary. Distrust is often unavoidable,
because we cannot desire any object strongly without
fearing to be baffled ; so that the more we prize the
affections of any one, the more, at first, do we doubt
that the love is reciprocal. We may fear lest our
fair one be merely playing with us, and so prove an
arch coquette. Again, some deceit is frequently
necessary to rouse a feeling in the opposite party ;
for the grand remedy for cruelty in the one is pre-
tended indifference in the other. Indifference real or
affected wounds vanity, dispels security, and may
rouse jealousy, if our attentions be transferred to a
third party ; and jealousy which began in vanity may
terminate in love. But should there have been any
latent love beforehand, jealousy will be sure to bring
it out. This, as we have seen, is readily accounted
for on the principle oi privation, for fear forms a part

^'* Dans I'amour, la trompeiie ra presque toujours plus loin
que la mefiance. Max. 342.

ON LOVE. 151

of jealousy, and we value that more which we fear
to lose. Thus, in the first and growing stage of
Love, distrust and deceit are found, and both may-
serve to bring it to maturity ; but when fully ripe,
they turn it all to rottenness. Then mutual confidence
should be the general rule ; though still there may
be exceptions. Many thoughts pass through the
mind, which, if not communicated, are sure to be
speedily forgotten; but when imparted, they may
acquire a real importance in the eyes of the indivi-
dual himself, and still more in those of the other
party. Any serious cause of displeasure ought of
course to be mentioned, but many petty grievances
are best passed over in silence. Silence as to great
matters fixes them . more deeply in the soul, but
silence as to small allows them to be forgotten. It
is impossible to say how many quarrels may be pre-
vented by this beneficent goddess, whose genuine
offspring is Peace.

Books and music which tend to soften the heart
may be considered as a principal food of love. Pro-
bably nothing promotes it more than reading together
some tale in prose or verse, naturally written, and re-
presenting the passion in its most amiable and perfect
light. Dante pictures Francesca da Rimini and her
kinsman as thus engaged when the smouldering fire
of love at once burst into a blaze :

Noi leggievamo un giorno, per diletto,
' Di Lancillotto, come amor lo strinse.^^

*5 Deir Inferno, Canto v.

152 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

With some, music has a most powerful effect in
raising the tender emotions :

If music be the food of love, play on.
Give me excess of it.
That strain again ; — it had a dying fall :
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets.
Stealing, and giving odour.^s

Music-masters have long been considered as rather
dangerous companions for young ladies.

Since the imagination and the affections are closely
allied, poetry and all works of fiction may have a
decided effect; for when the imagination is once ex-
cited, it soon warms the prevailing passion by cloth-
ing it in a garment of many colours.

Lastly, Gifts and other little attentions may be men-
tioned as promoting love. Gifts produce an effect in
various ways. In the first place, being associated
with the giver, they serve perpetually to recall him ;
secondly, they recall him agreeably ; thirdly, they are
a proof to the receiver that he also is remembered ;
and lastly, that he is remembered with partiality.
Undoubtedly, the principal charm of gifts consists in
their being considered as love-tokens, so delightful
is it to think that we are* indeed preferred by another.
The heart of man yearns after affection, and eagerly
catches at any mark of it in look, gesture, word, or
deed. The three former vanish in the act, and leave
no memorial behind them ; but the last may exist in
its effects longer than we ourselves. Let us not then

•*6 Twelfth-night, Scene 1.

ON LOVE. 1.53

undervalue gifts, which in themselves may seem but
trifling, for nothing really is trifling that serves to
conciliate love.

Nay, in this respect, small favours are decidedly to
be preferred to great. In every species of affection
those acts please the most w^hich prove that we are
beloved, yet lay us under no obligation. Very im-
portant favours, on the other hand, are always some-
what dangerous, and for the following reasons : he
who receives the bounty is thereby made sensible of
the other's superiority, and hence of his own in-
feriority, and therefore he is painfully humiliated ;
while the giver, on his part, is too apt to expect
something in return. The gift instead of recalling
the donor with pleasure, rather associates him with
pain, and pain, even when unintentional, leads to dis-
like of its author. Partly from a wish to silence his
conscience, which rebukes him for such ingratitude,
partly from the rarity of disinterested bounty, the
person obliged will have it that the present was not
quite gratuitous, but given for a secret end. He thus
strives to throw off" the load of obligation and the
consciousness of his baseness which together sink
him to the earth, and becomes openly ungrateful to
show that he does not consider himself obliged. The
benefactor, on the other hand, too frequently does ex-
pect a return proportionate to the greatness of the
favour, and is indignant when he finds it not; but
when he meets with just the contrary, he naturally
swells with rage. This demand for a return is
eagerly seized upon by the other party as an excuse
for being ungrateful; and thus in both bosoms love

154 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

is supplanted by hate. We may be sure, however,
that ingratitude would be less common were favours
more frequently gratuitous. The expectation of a re-
turn does away with the whole merit of the gift, and
renders it in truth no gift at all ; but while it affords
the receiver the only fair excuse for ingratitude, it
does not prevent the giver from feeling as incensed
as if he had been a free benefactor. Nay, he is prob-
ably more so, because he expected something and is
disappointed ; whereas, had he looked for nothing,
one pain at least would be saved him, and therefore
his anger would be less.

The danger of excessive gifts, the speedy ingrati-
tude consequent thereon, and the ungovernable rage
upon the first symptoms of such ingratitude are all
admirably exemplified in the tragedy of King Lear,
a miracle of genius and knowledge of human nature.

Darkness and devils ! —
Saddle my horses ! call my train together. —
Degenerate bastard !

is Lear's first reply to Goneril's complaint as to the

conduct of his followers.
Presently he says :

Hear, nature, hear !
Dear goddess, hear ! Suspend thy purpose, if
Thou didst intend to make this creature fruitful !
Into her womb convey sterility !
Dry up in her the organs of increase ;
And from her derogate ^^ body never spring
A babe to honour her ! If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen ; that it may live,

■*^ Degraded.

ON LOVE. ' 155

And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her !

that she may feel

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child !

' Again,

Blasts and fogs upon thee !
The untented^s woundings of a father's curse
Pierce every sense about thee !

Yet have I left a daughter,
Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable ;
When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails
She'll flay thy wolfish visage.^s

5. Having discussed two of the principal draw-
backs to Love ; first, Jealousy ; secondly, Love's own
frail and delicate nature, so liable to be chilled and
blasted in every stage of its growth ; and having
shown how it may be fostered and kept alive ; we
have now to notice the vicious and imprudent con-
duct to which it often leads. This, however, is an
inconvenience common to all our desires. All of
them may lead to" our harm, nay, to our destruction ;
but since without them man would be an inert, a
joyless, and an useless being, and since to destroy

4*^ Undressed. Commentator.

49 Act I. Scene IV.

Cases more or less similar to the above are met with frequently
in the world ; but it has happened to me to know one remarkably
analogous to that of Lear. I was well acquainted with a Tuscan
gentleman of good family, lately deceased, who, from some
peculiarity of mind, chose to make over his whole estate to his
younger brother, reserving to himself only a small pension to be
paid by the latter. He was treated with the blackest ingratitude,
and had the greatest difficulty in obtaining that income which
was his sole resource.

156 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

them is impossible, even if desirable, it follows that
we have only to direct and regulate them to the best
advantage- Things the most essential are sometimes
those which are subject to the greatest drawbacks.
Thus, self-interest, though absolutely necessary to
the well-being, and even to the existence of mankind,
is the source of innumerable evils ; and though love
may frequently lead to vice and misery, it is essential
to the continuance of our race. At least one of the
elements is so, which has a peculiar appellation ; and
this, the most indispensable part of the whole com-
pound, is precisely the source of the evil. Were
Love not sensual, it would cease to be dangerous;
but then it would miss its principal end. It is well
however to know where the danger lies, in order to
be on our guard. The more we refine Love and se-
parate it from Sense, the more do we lessen the ill
effects and secure the good ; nor need we fear to
carry this refinement too far, since nature tends so
strongly the other way. Most of the misery con-
nected with Love, whether to individuals or nations,
arises from the predominance of Sense ; for this it is
which leads to vicious connections, to headlong mar-
riages, to the beggary of families, and the decline
of states. It is Lust, not Love, which is the real cause
of the mischief, and which therefore requires a check.
This check must be supplied by reason, and by edu-
cation, which refines the mind, gives a taste for the
pleasures of the intellect, the imagination, and the
affections, and teaches self-control. Thus, and thus
only, shall we find the happiness, without the misery
of Love.

ON LOVE. 157

The wretchedness arising from imprudent mar-
riages is so well known, so palpable, and has been
so much dwelt on by different writers, as well as by
the author himself in other publications, that it
seems unnecessary to dwell upon it here. But what
he would insist upon in this place, is another and
more concealed sort of unhappiness which often fol-
lows such rash connections. We must not, however,
confound two very different sorts of marriages, the
one the result of a sudden and impetuous passion
kindled by beauty alone ; the other the consequence
of Love no doubt, but of Love confirmed by time, by
a mutual knowledge of tastes and disposition, and
therefore approved by reason. Marriages of the last
sort may still be imprudent if entered upon too early,
before a fit provision be secured, but otherwise they
are the wisest of all ; while the former are certainly
the most silly. Beauty is one of the poorest founda-
tions for a lasting connexion, because we tire of it so
soon.

Nay, we sometimes see persons, who married
from this violent love, come in time to as violent
hate ; and they are even more prone to such extreme
than others who came together without a spark of
affection. The reason is, that Love had prodigiously
exaggerated the merits of the object, and concealed
or diminished every fault and imperfection ; while
the passion being founded chiefly on personal charms
cannot long be supported. Even if it could, persons
so thoughtless are not the most likely to hit upon ex-
pedients for the purpose, and still less would they
have strength of mind to put them in practice.

158 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Therefore, the unavoidable consequence is a decline
of affection, an opening of the eyes as if from a dream,
a view of character never before suspected, and hence
the anguish of disappointment, speedily followed by
aversion.

Those, on the other hand, who marry without love,
expect nothing- at all events, and therefore cannot be
disappointed ; and in course of time there sometimes
grows up a certain want of each other, the necessi-
tudo of the Latins ; a sort of mutual regard, trifling
as compared with love, but still the shadow of affec-
tion.

It may be a question, whether those who began
their married life in transports, and continued it in
hate, can ever experience a rise of kindly feeling
similar to this necessitudo ; but if so, it cannot be until
time has thrown into forgetfulness both the expecta-
tions and the disappointment. The original cause of
the aversion being forgotten, the effect itself may
cease, if not kept alive by other and subsequent irri-
tations ; and then, out of long intercourse, there may
spring up a secondary affection, like the ghost of a
friend departed. In this case, the following would
probably be the succession ; love, hate, indifference,
renewed regard.

But to marry on the faint prospect, that at some
remote period, a degree of regard may arise, is to incur
a present and certain evil, for the sake of a distant
and uncertain good. If purely passionate marriages
be very silly, marriages of pure convenience are so too,
though in this case the folly is not quite so palpable.
The evils of the former are such as any one may see ;

ON LOVE. 159

straitened circumstances, misunderstandings, quar-
rels, and sometimes final dislike, all which strike us
the more by contrast with the previous love. The
latter, on the contrary, carry an air of wisdom about
them, they are said to be prudent, convenient, and
so forth ; but how often is folly clothed in a bor-
rowed garb ! One would think that any man of sense
and spirit, having the common use of his bodily fa-
culties, would rather delve or plough than submit to
pass his life with one who was quite indifferent. To
be burthened for life with such a weary load, to
feel it at all hours, and on all occasions, at home and
in society, at table and by the fire-side, to be ham-
pered eternally, and never be able to forget it, is
a consummation of annoyance, which nothing, one
would think, but absolute necessity, could induce a
man to undergo. But facts speak otherwise ; for
marriages of this kind are not only very common,
but in some countries there are scarcely any other.
This, it must be confessed, does not speak much for
the general clear-sightedness of men, but above all,
it shows how they are led by example ; for where such
alliances have long been usual, they are entered upon
as a matter of course.

When persons meet only now and then, indifference
may be maintained, but when they are constantly
thrown in each other's way, it will generally change to
love or hate. One with whom we always live, must
be a source either of pleasure or of pain, and therefore
will be liked or disliked ; and since matrimony with-
out previous affection is a decided evil, bringing with
it increase of care and loss of liberty, it follows, that

160 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

the person associated with such evil will be apt to
create aversion. This aversion may in time be got
over, and be followed by a degree of regard, but the
secondary result is doubtful. To man especially
liberty is a pearl of price, which is not given up with-
out a struggle, nor ought without an equivalent.

For know, lago,
But that I love the gentle Desdemona,
I would not ray unhoused free condition
Put into circumscription and confine,
For the sea's worth.

Affection, then, is a real equivalent for loss of
liberty ; but in marriages without affection, what do
we get in exchange ? Women, indeed, may gain, for
in countries where wedlock is reduced to a mere bar-
gain between parents, girls are kept in perfect bond-
age, and marriage is hailed as the era of emancipation.
The previous constraint gives to the subsequent re-
laxation, a charm which otherwise it could not have
possessed. This increase of freedom may balance
the loss of that watchful care, that tender solicitude
which the daughter commonly meets with from her
parents, but which the wife can never expect from
an indifferent husband ; though modesty alone might
make a girl shrink from a man who cares for her not
a rush. But example has a wonderful effect in mo-
difying our genuine sentiments, and the prospect of
change is generally pleasing to the young. Besides,
in the above countries, girls are often sent to convents
and other establishments, partly for education, partly
to be out of the way, and therefore they know only

ON LOVE. 161

the restraint and monotony of school, not the sweets
of home. In such unnatural and heartless states of
society, marriage, even without affection, may be an
advantage to woman, but to man it must be an evil ;
though example, solicitation of parents, and perhaps
pecuniary considerations induce him to submit to it
as a necessity. Whatever benefit he reaps from it,
at first at least, is derived not from the matrimonial
commerce, but from extraneous circumstances at-
tached to it, not from the personal qualities of his
partner, but from her purse. He marries the dowry,
not its owner, who is only an unpleasant appendage ;
like the babe who swallows a drug for the sake of a
lump of sugar. In time, indeed, children may come,
and give a charm to that intercourse which at first
had none, and so create a feeling in favour of the
mother ; and to the " old and fond of issue," such
may be a sufficient inducement ; but to those who
have the world before them, what a poor look out is
this!

But these are not the only evils belonging to such
marriages. They entirely do away with courtship,
that most delightful and fairy period of life, which
can be enjoyed in perfection but once. He who has
passed through such a period seldom fails to consider
it as by far the brightest scene of his existence, the era
of romantic hope, of novelty, of poetry, and of love.
Creatures at other times dull and inanimate seem
then to renew their being, and to soar upon eagles'
wings to regions of visionary bliss. Their eye be-
comes more brilliant, their speech more eloquent,
their susceptibility of enjoyment more acute, and they

M

162 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

view the world and those who it inhabit, through
a medium which enlivens all things. Assuredly the
most perfect idea which we can form of happy love,
is tha:t of a long courtship with marriage at the close ;
a courtship varied by difficulty, yet animated by hope,
prompting to exertion, yet always sweetening toil,
feeding on luxuries to come, but prevented from
plucking the fruit before it be fully ripe. Who would
compare with this the mercenary bargain where liberty
is sold for pelf, or the appetite which destroys itself
by a premature voracity ? How frequent among the
Scottish peasantry are instances of devoted attach-
ment continued for years, till prudence allow an
union, we may learn from the interesting work of
Dr. Currie ; and certainly he could not have brought
forward a stronger proof of virtue. How different the
sensual Irishman, who, throwing away all the plea-
sures of the prospect, and shutting his eyes to ruin,
leaps at once into the gulf !

It is of great importance to our present happiness,
as well as to our future improvement, so to manage
our life as to seize upon those sources of interest that
are peculiar to each stage of it, and which, if once let
slip, are gone for ever. We thus obtain one grand
advantage, variety. The boy who is educated entirely
at home loses all his school existence, and all the pecu-
liar amusement, the emulation, and the knowledge of
his fellows, which school can give. So he who is sent
too soon from home loses the peculiar happiness and
morality of early family life. Were the arguments in
favour of public or of private education even less ba-
lanced, this consideration should decide us to adopt

ON LOVE. 163

each in its turn ; for if home be invaluable in child-
hood, school is for boyhood alone. It is a fountain of
health, from which we must drink to-day, for it will
have ceased to flow for us to-morrow. The same obser-
vation applies to an university life, which is necessarily
limited to one period of our existence. The three or
four years which a young man spends at Oxford or
Cambridge are passed in a manner quite peculiar,
different from any thing either before or after, and
they can be so passed only at a certain age.

Now this sort of life contains not only a great deal
of enjoyment, and often of improvement, but these
are exactly of a kind that can be had no where else.
No where shall we find that peculiar society which
is free from many of the formalities of the world, yet
has nothing of the rudeness of boyhood, and which
possesses a singular charm, from combining youth,
equality, community of pursuits, and facility of inter-
course. There, away from home, its affections and
its restraints, true friendships are formed, such as it
would be vain to look for in the world of ordinary
life.

The above remark holds true of courtship, which
must be run through at the proper time, or not at
all. If the youth who goes neither to school nor
college miss a sort of happiness which he never can
afterwards enjoy, so assuredly does he who leaps
over the period of courtship. Fortunate, then, are
those who meet with some obstacles in the way, not
to be cleared at a bound, but only by successive ef-
forts, which prolong the period of fancy, and put off
the day of reality. Women especially ought to de-

164 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

sire the prolongation of a period during which they
rule supreme ; for the wife must submit to a master,
but the betrothed may command at will.

But the last and most weighty objection to mar-
riages without affection remains yet to be mentioned.
The grand argument against them is, that they tend
to immorality. Since few persons pass through life
without feeling love, ^° if the passion do not find a
vent within matrimony, it probably will without.
Marriage with no affection cannot fill the heart nor
prevent the parties from falling in love with some-
body else, and principle apart, they will be as apt to
do so as if they were not married. Therefore, the
natural consequence of such alliances is a general
corruption of morals. And this conclusion is fully
confirmed by experience ; for wherever marriage is
nothing but a family arrangement, there a general
laxity prevails. This laxity is a cause as well as an
effect of such matrimonial connexions ; a cause, for
the knowledge that great laxity is commonly prac-
tised, and therefore treated with lenity, induces the
parties to consent to a mercenary union; an effect,
according to the principle above stated. Thus, the
practice of marrying without affection must be re-
garded as a symptom as well as a cause of a corrupt

^ An anecdote is told of the German political writer Gentz,
not long dead, which shews that a man may fall in love at al-
most any age. He is said never to have been attached to any
one till the age of sixty, when he became so enamoured of a very
young person, since one of the principal dancers at the French
Opera, that he could not exist without her.

ON LOVE. ' 165

state of society. ^^ The utmost that can be said in
favour of such marriages amounts only to this, that
as nothing is looked for, there can be no disappoint-
ment ; but on the same principle, we ought to desire
no good, lest it should not fulfil our expectations.

III. Before concluding the present subject, it may
be well to compare love with friendship, and both
with family attachment.

It has already been remarked, that all the ties that
bind man to man belong to two classes, those which
he finds ready formed for him, and those which he
forms for himself. Now love and friendship make
up the latter class of affections, which are distin-
guished from the former by this circumstance, that
they are entirely the offspring of choice. Love and
friendship, then, being most nearly allied, we shall
first show how they differ, and then compare them
with other attachments.

Friendship is essentially distinguished from Love
by the absence of the sensual desire, which is a ne-
cessary element of the latter. Thus of the four ele-
ments which compose love, friendship contains but
three ; a pleasure derived from beholding or thinking
on the object, a desire of its happiness, and a desire
of its affections. Probably all the peculiarities of
the two may be traced to this one fundamental
difference.

We know by experience that friendship is a less
selfish affection than love ; and we now readily see
the reason; for, of the two self-regarding desires

51 See note A.

166 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

which exist in the latter, one alone is found in the
former. Friendship is also a more refined affection,
because the gross and sensual desire is wanting.

When love approaches to the nature of mere lust,
that is, when the sensual desire becomes by far the
most prominent of the whole compound, then its sel-
fishness is quite apparent, for it will often sacrifice
the permanent peace of its object for a mere tempo-
rary gratification. But even when love is a more
refined feeling, self is more looked to than in friend-
ship ; not merely on account of the above desire pe-
culiar to the former, and which always exists in a
degree, but also by reason of the greater craving for
a return of love. We certainly desire the affections
of our friends, but we wish their welfare more ;
whereas we are more eager for the heart than for the
happiness of our mistress. So long as that happiness
is owing to ourselves alone, we are all anxiety to
promote it, but if it proceed from another, it may
give rise to jealousy, and every bad passion. No-
thing can prove more clearly that to secure the af-
fections, to make them our own is the principal ob-
ject, to do good but secondary. Nor is it necessary
that a rival be of our own sex, for we often see a
husband jealous of his wife's female relations, of her
mother or sisters. Wishing to monopolize her affec-
tions, he is unwilling to share them even with
woman. Sometimes he throws every impediment in
the way of her intercourse with her own family, or
even prevents it altogether, although he know it to
be necessary to her happiness, a proof that this is
not his first object. Such instances are instructive,

ON LOVE. 167

chiefly because they shew that the desire for the
affections is truly self-regarding, and that by its
predominance it may render love a very selfish
passion, liable to jealousy and other malignant feel-
ings, even when the person is monopolized and out
of danger.

This same desire exists in every private attach-
ment ; though in love it is stronger than in any
other. It is this which sometimes renders very af-
fectionate parents jealous of the love which their
married children bear to their wives or husbands ;
for, with no other cause of complaint, they are apt
to consider these as foes who have stolen away their
choicest treasure. The stronger the parent's love,
the deeper this feeling will be ; and where the
former is slight, the latter may never take root.
But more or less of antipathy is natural between a
husband and his wife's parents, or a wife and her
husband's parents, for the affection of the wife or
husband is like a property to which many pretend ;
and while the one party wishes for all, and the other
demands a share, there must be a degree of conten-
tion. In time this may calm down, because the love
of all gets tamer, in the one case from custom, in the
other from continued separation ; but so long as the
affection is ardent, jealousy will be felt. Where
parents pretend to any authority over their married
children, there we have another source of jealousy,
and when they live together, we may be sure that
the former will not give up at once the habit of their
lives.

Jealousy may certainly exist in friendship, but on

168 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

the whole it is more rare and less intense than in any
other private attachment. The reason seems to be,
first, that friendship is seldom a very warm feeling,
and secondly, that even when it is, the desire for the
happiness of the object is stronger than for its affec-
tions. It is because friendship is generally cool and
peculiarly free from selfishness, that it seldom gives
occasion for the malignant passions. The absence
of the sensual, and the weakness of the other self-re-
garding desire, which render friendship so tame as
compared with love, make it also the most amiable
of affections. But whatever the relation may be, lover,
friend, parent, child, or brother, the stronger the
social desire as compared with the self-regarding, the
more free is the affection from jealousy and every bad
feeling of our nature.

The peculiar characteristics of friendship are per-
fect confidence, and a mutual communication of
thoughts and sentiments without suspicion or reserve.
In love, as we have seen, there is often distrust, and
therefore the intercourse cannot be perfectly frank
and unconstrained, and were it so, it might defeat its
end ; but in true friendship there is neither distrust,
deceit, nor concealment. Here all is openness, ease,
and mutual reliance. The peculiar charm of this
commerce lies entirely in the interchange of opinions
and feelings, and in the ready sympathy they find ;
so delightful is it to meet with one who can under-
stand and enter into our most secret thoughts and
emotions. The immense advantage of a true friend
is manifest from this, that grief is diminished and joy
increased by communication ; so that he who has

ON LOVE. 169

bound another to himself, has found at once an anti-
dote for the bitterness, and a seasoning for the sweets
of life.

The most interesting description of friendship to
be found probably in any author, is that which Mon-
taigne has given us in his Essays, and the description
is valuable because it is drawn from nature, and not
from mere fancy. He represents himself and his
friend as having become acquainted before they met,
having sought each other from report alone ; and the
moment they did meet they were bound for ever.
Thenceforth, they became, as he says, like one soul
with two bodies, for all their thoughts, wishes, and
even goods were in common. Their minds did not
touch in one point only, but in all, and the will of the
one became completely blended and identified with
that of the other. In the whole of French literature I
know nothing so beautiful or so striking as this Essay.
Montaigne says in concluding ; " In truth, if I com-
pare all the rest of my life, though by the grace of
God I have passed it sweetly, easily, and, barring the
loss of such a friend, free from grievous affliction, full
of tranquillity of mind, having partaken of my natural
and original advantages without seeking others ; if, I
say, I compare it all with the four years during which
it was given to me to enjoy the sweet company and
society of that person, it is but smoke, it is but a dark
and tiresome night. Since the day that I lost him,

quern semper acerbum
Semper honoratum (sic di voluistis !) habebo,

I drag on languidly ; and even the pleasures which

170 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

present themselves to me, instead of consoling me,
redouble my regret for his loss ; we went halves in
every thing ; I seem to rob him of his share.

Nee fas esse ulla me voluptate hie frui

Decrevi, tantisper diim ille abest mens particeps." ^-

The above essay of Montaigne is descriptive ra-
ther than philosophical, and since to that description
it would be difficult to add any thing, I shall pro-
ceed to consider the circumstances necessary to the
growth of friendship. These circumstances are
chiefly two, similarity and equality, which is in
truth but one kind of similarity ; but by the former
I mean sameness of mind, by the latter, of age and
station. Herein we see a marked difference between
friendship and love, that the one depends on Similarity
alone, while the other owes much to Contrast. That
mutual and constant interchange of thoughts and
feelings which is necessary to the former, can take
place only where these are mutually assented to and
understood, and such an agreement supposes simi-
larity of mind. If persons differing in many respects
are sometimes friends, or at least close companions,
their intimacy is not owing to the differences, but in
spite of them ; while some point of resemblance
known perhaps only to the parties forms the real
bond of their union. It is manifest that indivi-
duals whose opinions are constantly jarring, or whose
emotions are quite opposed, can never be joined in
soul ; and that those who are one in mind can alone

52 Essais de Montaigne, liv. i. ch. 27.

ON LOVE. 171

be really one. Every point of difference must render
the fusion less intimate, and therefore the friend-
ship less complete. Were friendship perfect, we
should wish for the happiness of our friend as much
as for our own, and the closer the resemblance the
easier does this become, because the other is then as a
second self. By a sort of deception, one exceedingly
similar is looked upon almost as the same, and there-
fore the good of the former seems identical with that
of the latter. Thus, by a singular effort of imagi-
nation, a friend is put for self, and his interest pursued
as our own.

Love, on the other hand arises partly from Simi-
larity, partly from Contrast. The qualities which
man most admires in woman are precisely those
most opposed to his own, delicacy of feeling, a be-
witching softness of manner, voice, and appearance,
tenderness, bashfulness, even weakness and timidity.
Masculine women may have many great and praise-'
worthy qualities, but they cannot boast of conquests
in love ; while those who are utterly helpless are
often quite adored. So strong is this tendency in
some men that they are captivated with women
chiefly on account of their feeble health, care little
for the ruddy and strong, and even marry for no other
cauSe than what ought to be a powerful reason
against matrimony. Frail but beautiful creatures re-
posing on a sick couch, are too much for the hearts of
such men ; for sickness creates pity, and pity is akin
to love. Women, again, are struck with the strength
of mind and body peculiar to man, with his courage,
decision, independence, his rough mien, and . un-

172 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

blushing countenance ; while they rather despise
beardless boys, and simpering drawing-room gentle-
men. Thus, it is clear that contrast is a source of
love ; though without similarity it can hardly con-
tinue long. The former produces a sudden and
violent impression, but the latter is more to be relied
on, for the one loses its effect, and the other becomes
known by intercourse. Similarity alone could never
give rise to passion, nor contrast to a pure affection ;
but their union creates a feeling combining the steadi-
ness of friendship with the energy of love. The truth
seems to be that so far as the two are alike both de-
pend upon similarity ; but for what is peculiar to
itself, love is indebted to contrast.

Equality of age and station is also essential to
friendship, chiefly because it is necessary to produce
similarity of mind ; for every age and even every
station has its own character. It is evident that
childhood and manhood, boyhood and old age differ
too widely to admit "of an intimate union; and this
remark, though modified, must be applicable to the
intermediate ages. The nearer the ages approach,
the less is difference of character perceptible, so far
as that depends upon time of life. If infancy and
extreme old age often seem to suit, it is partly
because the latter is somewhat similar to the former,
partly because the little gaiety of the one, and its
ceaseless but gentle activity form a contrast which
wonderfully relieves the dullness and torpor of the
other. Such an intercourse, however, must, it is
evident, be very different from friendship.

Equality of station is also required, for without it.

ON LOVE. 173

there cannot be a community of tastes and pursuits.
This is manifest where the difference is great, as
between a ploughman and a nobleman, a workman
and a wealthy manufacturer; and what is true of
extremes must, in a degree, hold good of the means.
Besides the necessity for harmony in the above par-
ticulars, it is essential to true friendship that each of
the parties have an equal, or nearly equal power of
benefiting the other ; otherwise, the relation becomes
that of patron and client, where gratitude is due and
expected. As soon as one is laid under an obliga-
tion such as he cannot repay, he becomes less a
friend, because he finds himself no longer free to
perform the first duty of friendship, admonition, and
no longer able to enjoy one of its chief delights, be-
nefaction. Do what he may he cannot return an equi-
valent, and therefore he never feels the full pleasure
of doing good ; for he seems always to be making up
a debt not conferring a gratuitous kindness. Not to
mention what has before been dwelt on, that a great
obligation is apt to create a painful feeling of hu-
mility that may lead to total estrangement. Hence
an approximation to equality in station and fortune
seems to be indispensable to friendship. Kings, it
has long been remarked, have no friends ; and why ?
because they have no equals.

The above principles will enable us to determine
in what relative positions we may or may not ex-
pect a real friendship. Between parents and children
there often is a strong affection, especially on the
part of the former, but rarely if ever can it be of
this kind ; because the inequality of age and position

174 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

is too great. A child is bound to reverence and
obey his father and mother, and must by no means
admonish them, and therefore he cannot be a true
friend ; while a parent cannot communicate all his
secrets to his son without diminishing the distance
between them, and consequently lessening that re-
spect which he thinks his due. Between brothers
or sisters, the difference of age and position is com-
monly much less ; though in countries where the
right of primogeniture prevails, the elder occupies a
station very different from the rest, and on this ac-
count he at least is shut out from equal commerce
with the others. Amongst children of the same
parents, there is generally some family resemblance
in mind as well as in body, and strange would it be
if otherwise, since they are commonly brought up
and educated in the same manner. Moreover, they
are constantly together, at least in their younger
years, and have therefore every opportunity of form-
ing a close intimacy. These circumstances con-
sidered, it may appear singular that brothers or
sisters are not more frequently sworn friends ; for
the case is but an exception. We must remember,
however, that, after all, education can only modify,
not make the character, for we frequently see
children who have always been treated alike, dis-
play from their earliest years the most opposite dis-
positions. Recollections of first intercourse and
community of origin generally give brothers • some
feeling for each other, at least when nearly of an
age ; but if their characters be much at variance,
they can never be intimate friends. Nay, there

ON LOVE. 175

seems to be something in that relationship which is
even opposed to such intimacy. In manhood, the
difference of a few years may go for nothing, but not so
in boyhood ; and the elder brother being accustomed
to assume some authority in his early years, he is apt
to expect deference afterwards, and is annoyed if he
find it not. This inequality, whether acknowledged
or disputed, is enough to prevent a close connexion.

Partly on account of this early inequality of posi-
tion and pretensions, partly by reason of the very
nearness of the relationship, which makes any vice or
disgrace of a kinsman a reflection on self, brothers
or sisters are usually some restraint upon each other,
and rarely are confidants. In youth especially, the
elder thinks that he ought to take some charge of
the younger, and if he communicate his own weak-
nesses, he can hardly expect to be listened to as a
monitor ; while the younger conceals his faults from
one who, from family pride, and even from sense of
duty, would deal with them more severely than any
other. Thus, on both sides, principles are at work
utterly opposed to real friendship. A boy or a man
would much rather impart his follies or vices to a
mere companion than to a brother, for the elder fears
to lose his dignity, and the younger to increase his
inferiority, and meet with a bitter mentor.

Another disadvantage of the fraternal relationship
is this, that brothers and sisters are constantly brought
into comparison ; and since they start from the same
point, if one outstrip the other, the latter cannot but
see how much he has fallen behind. Had they not
been brought so near, the difference between them

176 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

might not have been so perceptible ; as the respective
merits of two race-horses are unknown until they run
together. Should the elder be the one that is dis-
tanced, he will naturally feel jealous of the younger
who has robbed him of his fancied superiority, and
even left him in the lurch. Hence it is, that an elder
brother is very often jealous of a younger, while the
converse is more rare, because the latter has no sup-
posed superiority to lose. The advancement of his
senior being merely a continuation of that pre-emi-
nence which the other has been accustomed to ac-
knowledge, it therefore excites neither surprise nor any
malignant feeling. This is especially the case with
reference to the eldest of the family where the right of
primogeniture prevails, for having always occupied a
station decidedly above his brethren, his subsequent
success or elevation cannot give rise to jealousy.

In the above remarks we have supposed no favourit-
ism to be shown by the parents to any one of the
children ; but when this occurs, it always creates
jealousy, and often in an intense degree. The history
of Joseph and his brethren presents a striking instance
of the force of those bad passions which are roused
by parental partiality. All these causes serve to ex-
plain how it comes to pass, that brothers or sisters
so rarely are intimate friends .^^

^3 Solids fratribus odiis is the dreadful sentiment of Tacitus,
which, for the credit of human nature, I must believe to be a great
exaggeration. So far as brothers are liable to jealousy, there is
truth in the observation, for hate is an element of this passion. The
first murder was fratricide from jealousy; and agreeably to what
is said above, it was the elder who was jealous of the younger.

ON LOVE. 177

Marriage is unfavourable to friendships formed out
of wedlock, partly because it too much engages the
affections, partly because it necessarily involves secrets
which can hardly be communicated to a third party.
The latter also may have secrets which he would will-
ingly communicate to a friend, but not to a friend's
wife. This reserve attacks friendships in its very
essence, and tends to prevent any strong attachment
of the kind, or to loosen the tie if already formed.
Indeed, it is well known, that after marriage, a man is
no longer the same to his former intimates or to his
near relations. If a husband did continue as bound to
his friend as ever, a very loving wife would probably
be jealous of the latter, and if the friend tried to in-
gratiate himself with the wife the husband might take
the alarm. Thus there are various causes connected
with marriage, which render it unfavourable to any
other strong attachment.

Since each country has a set of notions and feelings,
or a character peculiar to itself, it follows that friend-
ship must always be rare between the inhabitants of
different nations. Difference of language is of itself
a great cause of separation.

We have seen that love and friendship are by' this
distinguished from all other ties, that they depend
upon our own choice. This is a circumstance which
gives a peculiar and inexpressible charm to such at-
tachments. We are all apt highly to value what is
our own doing ; and in some, the tendency is so strong
that they never find any thing right in which they
have had no part, while they pertinaciously cling to
every thing, however faulty, which the darling self

N

178 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

has chosen. Bacon observes, "It is often seen that
bad husbands have very good wives ; " and then adds,
" but this never fails if the bad husbands w^ere of
their own choosing, against their friends' consent ; for
then they will be sure to make good their own folly." ^*

But choice, which renders persons so dear to us,
is liable to fickleness and caprice. One principal
reason why strong and lasting friendships are so rare
is, that, the parties not being bound together by any
necessity, they can break whenever they please. Ne-
cessity is a grand cause of agreement. It is this
which makes many married people live together on
very tolerable terms, who otherwise would have come
to an open rupture, and the same cause prevents in-
numerable quarrels between neighbours in the coun-
try. These, when brought together at county meet-
ings, road meetings, &c., may find many sources of
difference and dispute ; but knowing that they must
pass their lives near each other, and that peace is
their common interest, they soon shake hands and part
in amity ; or should any rancour remain, it is effec-
tually drowned after dinner in an additional bottle.

The advantage in question belongs likewise to re-
lationship, for the parties being bound together by a
tie not to be severed, they have a mutual interest in
keeping on fair terms. This interest, however, we
find is frequently insufiicient, so numerous are the
points at which relations come into collision. Since
they can hardly help comparing themselves together,
they are peculiarly liable to jealousy, and since their

54 Essays ; of Marriage and Single Life.

ON LOVE. 179

pecuniary interests often clash, they are exposed to
deadly feuds.

This brings me to notice a circumstance which has
often been remarked, but never been well accounted
for. It is a well-known fact, that in France different
families of relations frequently live together, amicably,
or at least civilly ; while in England such a commu-
nity generally breaks up with a quarrel. In the one
country, married sons or daughters often dwell with
their parents until death ; in the other, they commonly
separate immediately, or at least, after a short time, for
they cannot get on in peace. Whence this difference ?
Is not human nature the same on both sides of the
channel ? and if so, how to account for this striking
diversity ?

The explanation lies, as I conceive, in the different
opinion of Necessity prevailing in the two countries ;
and this opinion has been gradually formed by custom.
In England, it has never been the general custom for
different families of relations to live together, and
therefore those who do, do so upon trial; and the
knowledge that it is but a trial is the very reason why
it does not succeed. Since they feel free to separate
when they please, they have no sufficient interest to
keep the peace. Were marriage a trial, how often
would it prove a failure ! In France, on the other
hand, partly because it has been thought barbarous
to leave old people to live alone, partly from the very
social habits of the people, partly from considerations
of economy, an union of families has long been cus-
tomary. Those, therefore, who are induced to asso-
ciate, make up their minds permanently to dwell to-

180 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

gether, and though there may be drawbacks, they
submit to what seems a necessity. The real advan-
tages of the arrangement first suggested it, and the
numerous examples around confirm the resolution.
Moreover, that resolution once taken, it is looked
upon as final, and for that reason the plan succeeds.
The parties knowing that they are to pass their lives
together, feel a mutual interest in making every thing
as smooth as possible. Necessity, real or supposed,
is the grand peacemaker. Besides, the love of the
French for society, and the great want they feel when
without it, prompt them from their earliest years to
cultivate those qualities which render society agree-
able, such as civility, forbearance, and mutual com-
pliance. These qualities, the habit of their lives,
they bring with them to their homes, and though
they may not engender cordiality, they serve to keep
the peace. Towards a woman, in particular, rarely
can a Frenchman divest himself of politeness, how-
ever much he may dislike her ; but an Englishman
w^ho loves not his wife or his female relation can
hardly refrain from rudeness. The one loses all
regard to sex ; the other may hate, but still respects
the lady.

In some countries, the tie of relationship is much
more binding than in others, and unites a much voider
circle. Scotland, in particular, has ever been remark-
able for family attachment. Till^ttie middle of last
century, the state of that country, always more or less
turbulent, rendered such connections of the greatest
importance, whether for aggression or defence. This
readily accounts for the origin of the peculiar regard

ON LOVE. 181

to family, and what began from necessity has been
continued from custom, as well as from some secon-
dary advantages. In England, where life and pro-
perty have long been secured by laWj we find no
such clannish spirit.

This regard to relationship ought still to be con-
sidered a good ; for it is a source both of pleasure
and profit. Thus a child enters the world not as an
isolated being, but in the midst of a numerous circle,
who, as one of their own, regard him with partiality,
and favour his future advancement.

The strong family feeling that prevails in Scotland
must be considered as a palliative to the evils of en-
tails ; for the possessor of an entailed estate is, in a
manner, considered as holding it in trust, not merely
for his successors, but even for his contemporaries.
Thus he is bound by opinion to keep open house for
his relatives ; while they, on their side, think that
they have a right to his hospitality, and consequently
are not oppressed by such a feeling of obligation as
might destroy the pleasure of intercourwSe. But it is
not to them alone that this system is favourable. To
a well constituted mind it must always be a source of
delight to contribute to the gratification of others ;
and to every mind, power or consequence is dear.
Now consequence is obtained in two ways, either by
a man's personal qualities and his possessions, or
through a body to which he belongs. Thus every
native of a state, every member of an aristocracy,
every individual of a profession, has a weight in
society, partly derived from his private merits and
advantages, partly from his country, his order, or his

182 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

occupation. So, the possessor of an extensive landed
property is regarded not merely on account of his
qualities and his wealth, but also as the centre of a
large family circle.

With respect to advancement in life, it is self-
evident that a man vs^ith many friends, or at least
relatives having some friendly feeling, has a great
advantage ; for they lift him from the ground, and
give him a point to stand on, vs^hence he may soar to
fortune. To become known is always difficult, even
for a man of talent ; but the fewer his relations and
acquaintances, the greater the difficulty. This is
well seen in France at the present day, where the
excessive subdivision of fortunes and the consequent
dispersion of families have so much narrowed the
circle of each man's society. To remedy the incon-
venience attached to this state of things, literary men,
in Paris, frequently form a sort of association known
by the name of Camaraderie. But, having now got
beyond the affections, I am warned that it is time to
conclude.

Section III. — Desire of Power or Ambition.

The reader may feel surprised that we have dwelt so
long upon the various modifications of love, and in
particular upon the passion properly so called ; but
his surprise will be diminished when he considers, in
the first place, how important an element of human
happiness is affection ; secondly, that love is the most
violent, the most complicated, the most irregular, and

OF POWER OR AMBITION. 183

the most engrossing of the passions ; and, lastly, that
much of what has been said of it is applicable to
other desires. Thus love may be taken as a type or
pattern of the other master passions, not indeed in all
respects, but in many. Whatever passion may pre-
vail, there is always a succession of hopes and fears,
and fear seems necessary to keep alive the desire.
Moreover, every passion is killed by despair, and
weakened by security, as well as cherished by some
degree of difficulty and uncertainty ; nurtured by
partial fruition, but surfeited by excess. These appli-
cations the reader can easily make for himself, and
therefore they need not here be further stated. Having,
then, treated at large of the desires in general, and
of love in particular as a sample of the passions, we
may pass more rapidly over the others.

And here, in reference to the passions, we must
make one general observation, which the reader will
do well to bear in mind throughout ; namely, that
there is scarcely one of them which has not been
attacked and vilified by some moralist or satirist.
One is for discarding love as folly in itself, and as a
cause of imprudence ; another runs down ambition,
desire of wealth, or of fame ; a third traduces even
knowledge, and a fourth scoffs at all religious zeal,
which he pleases to term superstition. Some, again,
disparage the senses, others the imagination, and a
few reason itself ; so that between them man bids fair
to be left a being without body, parts, or passions.^^

^5 Even the sagacious Butler shows a tendency to this system
of exclusion when he talks of the imagination as " that forward,
delusive faculty, ever obtruding beyond its sphere ; of some as-

184 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

From what has been already said on desire in
general, a ready answer may be given to these decla-
mations. We have seen that desire is a very im-
portant element of human happiness ; first, in itself,
as an emotion ; secondly, from its consequences, as
the source of all activity. Without desire of some
kind, man would be an inert, a joyless, and an useless
being. But all men do not, and cannot, take an in-
terest in the same things ; nor probably is it to be
wished that they should, and therefore a diversity of
desires is unavoidable. Destroy this diversity, and
you destroy a great part of the happiness of the

sistance, indeed, to apprehension, but the author of all error."
Analogy of Religion, Part i. chap. 1. Bacon, however, was of a
different opinion, for he enumerates three distinct sources of
error : " Regimen enim rationis impeti et perturbari videmus
tribus modis ; vel per illaqueationem sophismatum, quod ad
Dialecticam pertinet ; vel per prsestigias verborum quod ad
Rhetoricam ', vel per affectuum violentiam, quod ad Ethicam."
This is sound philosophy, not mere declamation. He then goes
on to defend rhetoric which addresses itself to the imagination, and
which he considers worthy to be mentioned along with dialectics
and ethics. After stating the object of the two last, he says,
" Finis denique rhetoricse, phantasiam implere obversationibus
et simulachris quae rationi suppetias ferant, non autem earn
opprimant." He argues in favour of rhetoric especially on this
ground, that there is no one who does not speak more honourably
than he either feels or acts ; and, therefore, that rhetoric is more
frequently employed in adorning virtue than vice : and he agrees
with Cicero in his ridicule of the stoics, who sought to implant
virtue in men's minds by means of concise and pithy sentences,
which had no hold on the imagination or the will. He concludes
thus, " Concludamas igitur non deberi magis vitio verti Rhetoricce,
quod deteriorem partem cohonestare sciat ; quam Dialecticce,
quod Sophismata concinnare doceat." De Augm. Scient. Ub.
vi. cap. iii.

OF POWER OR AMBITION. 185

world, directly, as well as indirectly through the de-
cline of activity, and reduce a large portion of man-
kind to the condition of the negro, who basks and
sleeps in the sun. True, our desires may be abused,
but so may every thing human ; and we have seen
that principles the most indispensable are precisely
those most liable to abuse, because they are the most
vigorous. The Author of Nature has guarded more
strenuously against deficiency than excess; judging
that the former was much the greater evil of the two.
We must always go upon the principle that nothing
has been made in vain, and if we agree to this axiom
in general, and in reference to our bodily frame in
particular, we cannot dispute it with respect to the
mind. Therefore every faculty, every feeling, every
desire, performs a useful purpose ; and so dependent
is one thing upon another, that probably no single
principle of our nature could be eradicated without
endangering the whole system. If any, one might
think that desire of evil to others could be dispensed
with, but were it so, a grand check to oppression and
injustice would be taken away, and good or indolent
men given up as a prey to those who would ill treat
them with impunity; not, indeed, from a wish to
injure, but to obtain their selfish ends. Extirpate
desire of wealth, power, or fame, and you instantly
reduce a large part of mankind to a truly deplorable
state. Victims to ennui, and without any interest in
life, they would be unhappy in themselves, indolent,
and useless to others. General benevolence and de-
sire of knowledge are, no doubt, superior principles,
but still they are far from sufficient for the business

186 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

of the Yv^orld, or to occupy the lives of all men. In
short, since desire of some kind is necessary to acti-
vity, to virtue, and to happiness ; since all men cannot
have the same desire, and since it is probable from
analogy that not any was given in vain, we must con-
clude that every one may require regulation, but that
none can or ought to be suppressed.

One circumstance which serves in part to explain
the obloquy thrown on many of our desires is this,
that mankind are much more struck by a few remark-
able instances on one side than by innumerable though
minor cases on the other ; and that the positive evil,
excess, is more evident than the negative, deficiency.
This is a grand source of fallacy. A few striking exam-
ples of evil produced by ambition, avarice, or love of
glory, are sufficient to throw into the shade the num-
berless and every day benefits derived from these
desires existing in a modified degree ; and when
these principles are too weak, and ill consequences
ensue, the cause, being negative, does not readily
attract observation. It is only when the deficiency
is extreme that the cause forces itself on our notice ;
as in the case of slaves lately emancipated, who, from
want of desire, refuse to work. This instance is
enough to show us what would be the consequence
of extirpating those active principles that are ridi-
culed by so many moralists, but which we are eager
to restore whenever they are really lost.^^

56 The following maxim of Rochefoucauld seems to me to
contain a great truth : " C'est se tromper que de croire qu'il
n'y ait que les violentes passions, comme I'ambition et I'amour,
qui puissent triompher des autres. La paresse, toute languis-

OF POWER OR AMBITION. 187

Another circumstance which helps to account for
the abuse heaped upon human nature in general, and
on the desires in particular, is the love of satire ,in
man, which may be traced to the love of superiority ;
for he who vilifies or laughs at the common pursuits
of his fellows, seems, by so doing, to place himself
far above them. He appears to be placed on a lofty
pinnacle

" Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre
Errare, atque viam palanteis quserere vit8e."^7

The passion now to be considered, is desire of
power, or Ambition. This is the correct meaning of
the word ambition, though it is often used in a more
vague and extended sense, for desire of superiority
in general. Thus we talk of a man being ambitious
of wealth, of fame, of high alliance, or any other dis-
tinction. But in the following remarks the term is
limited to its proper signification, desire of power.

Power, in one shape or other, being very generally
desired by men,^ and by some with an intense and
permanent ardour ; it must be connected with some
great pleasure or advantage. We shall therefore
consider in the first place, what are the elements of the

sante qu'elle est, ne laisse pas d'en ^tre souvent la maitresse ;
elle usurpe sur tous les desseins et sur toutes les actions de la vie ;
elle y detruit et y consume insensiblement les passions et les
vertus." Max. 274. It is indeed singular to hear some moralists
run down desire as well as indolence, forgetting that the one
is the only remedy for the other. Again, " Les passions de la
jeunesse ne sont guere plus opposees au salut que la tiedeur des
vieilles gens." Max. 348.
^7 Lucretius, lib. ii.

188 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

pleasure of power, and then we may trace the origin
and some of the consequences of ambition.

Why is power agreeable ? or in other words, what
are the elements of the pleasure it confers ?

It cannot be denied that a sensible pleasure is de-
rived from the reflection, that we have exerted our
faculties, whether of mind or body, in any way what-
soever. To have done something is of itself an agree-
able thought.

This gratification is different from the pleasure
connected with activity in the pursuit, for we feel it
not till the action is over ; and it is also different from
self-approbation of virtuous conduct, for we experi-
ence it where no virtuous effort has been made. To
write a book, to paint a picture, to travel on foot over
some difficult country, cannot of themselves be called
virtuous deeds, independently of the intention, but
they give rise when completed to a self-satisfied feel-
ing. We have made use of our faculties, we have
done something, and that is sufficient. Though the
pleasure of activity be past, though no lasting good
should result from it, and though we had no benevo-
lent end in view^ we still rejoice in the thought that
we have exerted power.^^ This pleasure is, no doubt,,
frequently connected with the self- approbation of vir-
tue, and therefore is apt to be confounded with it ;
but from what has now been said, we perceive that
it is really distinct. It differs also from delight in
superiority, for we feel it where no comparison is
made with others, and where no influence has been

5s Acti labores sunt jucundi, says the Latin axiom.

OF POWER OR T^MBITION. 189

exerted over them. This then is the feeim^ peculiai"
to power, for which it is valued in the first instance ;
and it seems to be elementary, and so admits not of
analysis.

Secondly, power is valued because it confers supe-
riority over others. We have seen that there is no
pursuit, however trivial, no good, however insignifi-
cant, which may not minister to this universal passion ;
but power or dominion, and superiority are almost
the same thing. Power over self may, indeed, be ex-
ercised and delighted in without supposing any com
parison ; but power over others is always a marked
superiority, and is accordingly prized as such.

Lastly, power is valued on account of its results,
for as the very term implies, it leads to almost every
gratification ; to fame, wealth, and all that wealth
can bestow.

Such are the three elements of the pleasure of
power. It is agreeable, partly from a feeling peculiar
to itself, partly from the superiority it gives, and
partly from its consequences.

The pleasures of ambition are certainly less in-
tense than those of love, and it is also less violent
and engrossing; but on the other hand, it is a far
more durable passion. Were there any doubt whe-
ther the pleasures of ambition be inferior to those
of love in intensity, it ought to be dispelled by this
consideration, that the delights of the former are in
their nature solitary, while those of the latter are
shared with another. This is a circumstance of such
importance as would suffice to decide the question,
should it ever be raised. The most ambitious of

190 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

men was arrested for a while, in the midst of his con-
quests, by the charms of Cleopatra ; and another,
scarcely less aspiring, lost an empire for her sake.

Ambition is also less violent and engrossing than
love or religious enthusiasm. That ambition is less
violent and absorbing at any one time, is proved by
this circumstance ; that men do not literally become
mad, or die from it, as from the two others. Meta-
phorically speaking, men are sometimes said to be
mad from ambition, that is, they are led by it blindly
to their ruin ; but between error or imprudence and
insanity, there is a wide difference. Neither do people
die of this passion as they may from disappointed love.

But if ambition be less violent and less absorbing
at any one time than love, it greatly surpasses it in
durability. In truth, this and avarice seem to be the
most lasting of all the passions.

Rochefoucauld has said, " We often pass from love
to ambition ; but scarcely do we return from ambition
to love." ^^ With many, love is but an episode, am-
bition, the main story of their lives. It may begin
early in youth, but it seldom arrives at maturity until
a much later period, and even after middle age it often
continues to increase. Julius Caesar, certainly as am-'
bitious a man as the world ever saw, was forty-three
years old before he began that series of achievements
which has rendered his name so remarkable ; and he
was turned of fifty ere he undertook to make himself
master of the state. Not content with the undisputed

59 On passe souvent de I'amour a rambition ; mais on ne re-
vient gu^re de I'ambition a I'amour. Maximes.

OF POWER OR AMBITION. 191

possession of the Roman world, he is said, just before
his death, to have been meditating an expedition
against the Parthians. Tamerlane, after conquering
great part of Asia, set out to invade China at the age
of seventy, when death put a stop to his career. The
ambition of Napoleon grew more and more as he ad-
vanced in conquests and in years, and had he subdued
Russia, he would have panted for something beyond.
Thus, the son of Philip is said to have wept, that he
had no more realms to vanquish.

A few examples, indeed, may be brought forward,
of persons who, having enjoyed great power, volun-
tarily gave it up and retired, fatigued or disappointed,
as Sylla, Diocletian, and Charles V. But these in-
stances are rare, and rarer still are the cases where
repentance has not ensued. Some who had resigned
power, afterwards attempted to regain it ; and others,
like Sylla, did not long survive their abdication.
That must be no ordinary mind which, after all the
excitements of ambition and all the pride of power,
can find interest in a life of tranquillity. Such, indeed,
was Washington, who, quitting the tumults of war,
and the enjoyments of the highest office, could retire
to his farm on the Potowmack, and delight in agri-
cultural pursuits. But the world has, as yet, seen
only one Washington; though, in this particular, the
example of Diocletian is far more remarkable.^^

^° The example of Diocletian is, all things considered, pro-
bably the most striking in history. Such an action, as Gibbon
has observed, was " more naturally to have been expected' from
the elder or the younger Antoninus, than from a prince vpho had
never practised the lessons of philosophy, either in the attainment

192 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Ambition has its pains, and often great pains, and so
has love; but how few, having felt these passions,
ever ceased to regret their absence ? ^^

On what does this durability of the passion am-
bition depend ? It depends, I conceive, on the con-
stant activity to which it gives rise. The object of
ambition can seldom be obtained without reflection,
frequent, long, and deep, and a series of active efforts;
and this though tfulness and exertion being all em-
ployed about the prevailing passion, they serve to fix
it in the soul. Want of occupation never fails to sub-
due passion, but this is a want which ambition can-
not feel. So long as power is difficult of attainment
or difficult to keep, so long as competitors are to be
got rid of, or any new height of power remains un-
reached, so long will the faculties be kept on the
stretch and employed about ambition. And this
brings me to remark the source of this activity, which
evidently springs from hope, the hope of something

or in the use of supreme power." Decline and Fall, ch. xiii.
The example is alike singular, whether we consider the height
from which Diocletian descended and the uninterrupted success
of his reign, his want of taste for science or literature, or his con-
tentment in retirement, which lasted nine years. We are told by
the above historian, that " he had preserved, or at least he soon
recovered, a taste for the most innocent, as well as natural plea-
sures, and his leisure hours were sufficiently employed in building,
planting, and gardening." Ibid. His colleague Maximian, who
had been induced to resign at the same tinre, took the earliest op-
portunity of regaining his power ; he twice laid down, and twice
reassumed the purple.

61 Rochefoucauld has said ; " Ceux qui out eu de grandes pas-
sions se trouvent, toute leur vie, heureux et malheureux d'en etre
gueris." Maxhne 508.

OF POWER OR AMBITION. 193

beyond. In love, so long as the object is unattained,
passion may be kept up from the hope of future en-
joyment; but when the idol is won, desire loses its
point, and is often swallowed up in possession. But
power from its very nature cannot thus be gained at
once. It is like a journey divided into many stages,
each of which leads on to another ; and a journey so
long, that life may end before we reach the termina-
tion. Thus, no sooner have we gained one eminence
of power than we instantly descry another, which of
course we are eager to reach, and so on indefinitely.
It is this progressive and indefinite nature of the ob-
ject which keeps us constantly in movement, bodily
and mentally, desiring, acting, attaining, in a cease-
less and never-ending race. The existence of some-
thing beyond constantly stimulates desire, desire
promotes activity, and this again increases the ruling
passion.

Moreover, every new acquisition of power is ac-
companied with a degree of pleasure, which serves
like sufficient fuel to feed, but not smother, the fire,
or acts like a wholesome meal that adds fresh vigour
to the frame. The enjoyment which ambition affords
is always partial, never complete like that of love,
and therefore, instead of satiety, it creates a desire
for more ; for every passion, though surfeited by ex-
cess, is fostered by some fruition.

The love of power originates^ in our early years,
and is first displayed in the efforts of the child, who
must be doing something. This tendency may be
traced almost from the period of infancy, and it fre-
quently is very troublesome to grown up people, who

o

194 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

are unwilling to permit the awkward and often hazard-
ous attempts of those little bustling- creatures, who
are never so happy as when allowed to imitate the
actions of their elders. They thus early feel a sense
of importance from the exercise of their own childish
powers, which grows with their years and strength,
and readily gives rise to the wish for obtaining do-
minion over others. Could we trace the history of
any remarkable conqueror up to infant days, we
might discover that thirst for rule which was after-
wards to desolate the world, beginning in the urchin
who was ambitious to perform of himself any com-
mon domestic office, such as men are used to dis-
charge.

We have seen that the love of liberty is connected
with that of power, inasmuch as the desire of absence
of restraint for ourselves easily passes into the wish
of exercising restraint over others, without which,
indeed, our liberty cannot be complete, except in a
state of solitude : for in the social state, as I have
elsewhere remarked,^ the perfect liberty of one would
be the perfect slavery of all others. So long as the
will of one man is different from that of another, so
long must we expect opposition ; and every opposi-
tion impedes our doing as we please, or, in other
words, breaks in upon our liberty, and is disliked
accordingly. Consequently it becomes desirable to
get rid of the obstacle, and for this purpose power is
necessary. Therefore the desire of power flows di-
rectly from that of liberty. We have before observed,
that great sticklers for the latter have frequently been

^ Political Discourses. On Civil Liberty, ch. i.

OF POWER OR AMBITION. 195

remarked to be despotically inclined, so far as their
sphere extended; and of this we have a wide and
striking instance in North America, where liberty
and slavery are defended in the same breath. Ar-
dently to desire freedom for self, and yet to respect
that of others, must be allowed to be no easy task,
for the two are -constantly apt to interfere ; and the
stronger the selfish feeling, the less readily will it
yield to the social. Universal liberty at a distance,
or where we expect to gain by it, may be admired
without difficulty, as a slave-holder in the colonies
might have been a radical at home : but our own
practice is liable to be perverted to the contrary by
that very principle which we profess to extend to all,
but really limit to self.

Power may be sought and obtained in various
ways ; through the affections, by exciting sudden
emotions, by superior intelligence or persuasion, by
reward or punishment giving rise to hope or fear,
and, lastly, by physical force. The empire which
women exercise is chiefly founded on the first ; and
the less it is perceptible, the more is it undisputed.

" And if she rules him, never shows she rules ;"

as both good taste and good policy dictate ; for the
spectator is revolted, and the governed roused to
rebellion by an open display of female domination.
The power of orators, again, is obtained by elo-
quence and persuasion, or in other words, through
sudden emotions and reason; sometimes more by
the one, sometimes by the other, according to the
genius of the speaker, or the audience whom he may
address. He who declaims before a small and se-

196 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

lect body will generally try to convince ; he who
harangues a mob will aim at rousing the passions.
The power obtained in the former way is better
suited for quiet times, and is then commonly more
lasting ; but in tumultuous periods it will yield to
the influence of the demagogue who can kindle a fire
among the many. In our own days, the peculiar
circumstances of Ireland, and the oratorical talents
of an individual, combined to confer upon him a
power which could move a nation at will.

The philosopher, on the other hand, addresses him-
self to the reason alone, and therefore his dominion is
founded laboriously and increases by slow degrees,
like every thing that is to last ; for it is a general
law of nature that whatever is meant to be durable is
long of coming to maturity. This may be observed
in plants and animals, in the physical as well as the
moral world. The poplar and pine spring up rapidly,
while the oak is extremely slow ; but the former de-
cay within the century, while the latter may endure
for many. The horse is full grown at four or five,
and seldom lives much beyond twenty ; while man
who increases till seventeen or eighteen, often reaches
fourscore. So it is with other plants and animals,
and so likewise in the moral and political world. A
very precocious child generally disappoints expecta-
tion, and those whose talents have shone conspicuous
in early life rarely reach an advanced age, or main-
tain their excellence to the last.* Zenghis Khan or

* Hobbes is a most remarkable instance of tardy development,
for we are told that he began to educate himself at thirty, pub-
lished his translation of Thucydides at forty, his philosophical
works not till sixty, and lived to upwards of ninety.

OF POWER OR AMBITION. 197

Tamerlane might subdue half Asia in a life-time, as
Napoleon did half of Europe ; but when the founder
sank into the grave, his empire crumbled into dust.
On the contrary, the Roman power rose at first by
imperceptible degrees, increased during six hundred
years, continued long unimpaired, slowly declined,
and was not finally extinguished till the lapse of
twelve centuries.

Reward and punishment, giving rise to hope and
fear, are the most common means by which power is
sought and acquired. The power of a father over
his family, of a schoolmaster over his boys, of an
oflficer over his men, of a government over its sub-
jects, are all founded upon these, partially, if not en-
tirely. And here we may remark that as man has
much more scope for conferring pain than pleasure,
punishment must be a far more powerful engine than
reward, fear than hope. Whatever may be the re-
sources of a government, however great its patronage,
it can operate in this way on a very small part of a
nation; but by means of fear it can exert an influence
on every individual. Accordingly, reward acts but
a very subordinate part in the laws of any country ;
though as Bentham supposes, it might be more em-
ployed. Still, as compared with punishment, it must
always be a weak contrivance. Since the revenue
of any government is soon exhausted, and cannot be
increased without impoverishing the people, and thus
creating more foes than friends, honorary distinctions
have been fallen upon to increase the power obtained
by means of reward. Hence, crosses and ribbons,
which flatter the vanity of some, and so strengthen

198 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

the existing government, without causing discontent
in another quarter. The eagerness with which they
are sought may often excite a smile ; but while we
laugh at the weakness of men, we can pardon those
rulers who adopt a cheap expedient for turning it to
their own advantage, if not to that of the people.

One man's physical force can go but a little way ;
no where probably more than at school, where the
big bully beats the trembling boy. But an immense
power may be obtained by him who can command
the physical force of many, in whatever way such in-
fluence may be gained, whether by affection, sudden
impulse,* persuasion, reward or punishment, or by
all these means united. Physical force, then, to any
extent, is always the result of a moral influence over
the minds of others; and, consequently, all govern-
ment, despotic or free, is founded on a moral basis.
The tyrant, whose throne is surrounded by armed
hosts, or the chief magistrate who sits under a con-
stable's staif, alike derive their authority from feelings
existing in the minds of their fellow-men. The only
difference is this, that the one rules the few directly,
and the many indirectly through the physical force
of those few who by union may be far the stronger ;

* The power of Napoleon, for instance, was founded in a great
degree on what I here call impulse ; for he lived by satisfying the
national passion for glory : while that of the kings of France
before the revolution rested much on affection ; for even now a
considerable party in France has a real love for the family of their
former princes,'- such as many in Great Britain once felt for the
Stuarts.

OF POWER OR AMBITION. 199

while the other governs the many directly without
the intervening force.

From what has now been said, we may draw this
conclusion, — that a government which aims at per-
manence must seek for power in every variety of
way. That government will be the strongest which
lives in the affections of its subjects, flatters their
leading propensities, is approved by their sober judg-
ment, supported by extensive patronage, the terrors
of law, and the swords of a well-disciplined army.
Should, then, any sort of government from its very
nature exclude any of these means of influence, so
far it must be less secure. Thus a despotic monarchy
cannot address itself to the reason of its subjects, for
the principle that one should rule irresponsibly over
many, is utterly contrary to reason ; nor can a pure
republic maintain a considerable army without caus-
ing more danger than it prevents. Therefore neither
of these forms can be the most secure. On the other
hand, a mixed government, like that of Great Britain,
seems to admit of every means of influence, and on
that account it seems better calculated for stability
than either of the two extremes.

In discussing the consequences of the love of
power, we shall do well to consider, in the fi st place,
how it bears upon the affections. We may remark,
then, that afl'ection is greatly promoted by the power
of benefiting. The pleasure which we derive from
the exercise of power increases the kindly feeling
that serves as an occasion for calling it forth. In
other words, we love persons the more because they
have given us an opportunity of gratifying a leading

200 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

propensity of our nature. Hence the affection of him
who confers benefits is generally greater than that of
him who receives them. The one is pleased by his
superiority, while the other is apt to be pained by
his inferiority ; so that, in the former case, the con-
nection is altogether agreeable, in the latter of a
mixed character.

This is one reason why love is greater on the part
of parents than of children, why it declines as sons
and daughters grow up, and why children or wives
who are sickly and give the most trouble are often
the most adored. Parents and husbands delight in
supporting the weak, for thus they become conscious
of power. Man is less liable to be taken with mas-
culine women, or with those who have natural pro-
tectors, than with the delicate, the helpless, and de-
pendent, who look up to him alone. Hence girls
without father or brother are regarded with peculiar
interest, and, other things being equal, are more
likely to marry than those who have one or both.
But where there are many sisters, they are apt to
marry more slowly, for numbers less require a pro-
tector.

In these and similar cases, the love of power serves
a most useful purpose, and, according to the inten-
tions of our Creator, combines with pity in prompt-
ing us to assist the helpless. It is interesting as well
as improving to ascend occasionally to first causes,
and discover proofs of the wisdom and goodness of
the Deity in the workings of those very passions which
have so often been condemned indiscriminately.

In estimating the consequences of ambition, as it

OF POWER OR AMBITION. 201

concerns the happiness of the individual himself, or
of those with whom he is connected, we are chiefly
exposed to error from limiting our view to a few re-
markable cases, forgetting that the passion in ques-
tion, in some shape or other, pervades all human
society, and may be traced in the cottage as well as
the palace, in the village as well as the city, in
private as in public life. The petty magistrate or
country justice, and the ruler of a hundred provinces,
are both alive to its influence. In one, it may be
only suflicient to rouse to useful exertion, while in
another it swells into an ungovernable desire which
strews the world with ruins.

The first use of ambition, as of other leading pas-
sions, is, to animate and occupy the mind, and thus
to expel ennui, and the whole host of imaginary ills
which are apt to beset those who have no suflicient
interest. Some are more prone to ennui, others to
visionary evils ; but as soon as ambition is felt, or
any strong desire, the mind rises from its lethargy,
" like a giant refreshed with wine." No longer
sunk in languor, nor feeding on its own distempered
thoughts, it swells with a lofty purpose, and rejoices
in conscious force. So much of what has been said
on desire in general is applicable to ambition in par-
ticular, that we need not now enter into any long
developement ; and therefore we may go on to ob-
serve, secondly, that ambition leads to activity, and
that activity is agreeable in itself, and essential to all
personal success as well as to our general usefulness.
We oug-ht never to forofet that indolence is our
greatest enemy ; for it both destroys our own happi-

202 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

ness and renders us incapable of contributing to that
of others. Moreover it is a foe whose attacks, though
slow, are insidious and incessant, and therefore the
more to be feared. It besets us at all times and on
all occasions, and, without a powerful antagonist, is
sure at last to gain the victory by dint of constant
repetition. Like other propensities, love of ease is
not backward in suggesting arguments in its own
favour, and is fond of dignifying indolence with the
name of virtue, or moderation. This, then, is the
ground on which ambition and other passions may
best be defended. Whatever may be the excesses
into which they are apt to run, they are necessary to
produce action, and action is essential to virtue, use-
fulness, and happiness.^^

Since we cannot desire any thing very strongly
without fearing to lose it, all the passions tend to
anxiety, but ambition in a peculiar degree. This
constitutes the chief drawback to the happiness
derived from desire, and as ambition seems more
exposed to it than any other, so far it is less favour-
able to felicity. The anxiety connected with ambi-
tion depends, no doubt, upon the strength of the
desire, but partly also on other and peculiar causes,
such as the uncertainty of getting and retaining

11 De tous nos defauts celui dont nous demeurons le plus
aisement d'accord, c'est la paresse : nous nous persuadons qu'elle
tient a toutes les vertus paisibles, et que, sans detruire entiere-
ment les autres, elle en suspend seulement les fonctions. Roche-
foucauld Max. 420.

Pendant que la paresse et la timidite nous retlennent dans notre
devoir, notre vertu en a souvent tout rhonneur. Id. Max. 169.

OF POWER OR AMBITION. 203

power, arising from the number of competitors to be
set aside, and the envy which high station creates.
The ambitious man is never at rest, he lives in a
perpetual fever of hopes and fears, and is often worn
down prematurely by this constant agitation ; but he
knows not the miseries of languor, nor the phantoms
of an unoccupied brain.

As an assistant to the other desires of our nature
which of themselves might be too weak, love of
power is highly beneficial, because, while it rouses
the mind, it is at the same time kept in check by
opposing principles. Thus, general benevolence or
even desire of virtuous reputation might not alone
suffice to stimulate to useful exertion ; but when
aided by love of power, they may move the whole
man. This co-operation, however, is only to a certain
extent, or in a certain direction ; for no sooner does
ambition seek for improper means, or point to un-
worthy objects, than it is instantly checked by the
other principles. It is only when ambition becomes
the sole ruling passion that the consequences are
truly alarming. Then indeed it is a tyrant which
beginning from its dominion over the individual may
not cease till it has spread its ravages over the fairest
provinces of the earth. Subduing the sentiments of
humanity, and stifling the voice of conscience, it
deluges the world with blood.

Such are the extreme evils of the thirst for power.
But power when actually attained is also a dangerous
possession ; for nothing has such an eftect on the
character; and by it dispositions naturally amiable
have often been so chanp^ed as not to be known for the

204 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

same. Tacitus says that Vespasian was the only
prince who had ever grown better in the exercise of
supreme power ; but if we add Gelon of Syracuse,
we shall probably be at a loss for a third : while
examples of the contrary are endless. This tendency
of unchecked power to corrupt the character is one
of the strongest arguments against despotism, for
what must be the condition of the people when bound
to obey a ruler who can hardly be a virtuous man ?
The influence of supreme power on the character
may be thus explained. Where the authority of the
prince is not securely founded, fear is the grand
cause of cruelty ; and where it is, there is no occasion
for self-restraint. The despot knowing that he may
do as he pleases, becomes accustomed to follow every
fancy, and when he unexpectedly meets with any
opposition or delay, he resents it as a positive injury,
because he has been used to consider implicit obe-
dience his right. Therefore in punishing the erring
individual he seems to himself to be doing only an
act of justice. On the one hand, being accustomed
to indulge his passions, he is the less able to control
them; and on the other, his moral judgment being
blinded, he does not even make the attempt.

The evils of inordinate ambition and of despotic
rule are so generally known and acknowledged that
it is needless to dwell any longer on them ; but we
must not allow ourselves to forget that there is also a
laudable ambition, and that men who have talents to
command should not be content in obscurity. Strong
love of power being generally accompanied with
more than ordinary intellectual faculties, it serves,

OF POWER OR AMBITION. 205

along with other motives, to bring forward into public
life men who without such a stimulus might for ever
have been lost to their country. Those who might
not have stirred from patriotism or love of fame may
be awakened by the call of ambition.

In conclusion, it is only necessary to remark that
the evils of an undue thirst for power are not con-
fined to high station or public life ; but may be seen
in every rank and in the daily intercourse of society.
These evils, indeed, are limited by the sphere in
which the actors move, and what in one position is
a widely destructive passion, becomes in another a
petty and troublesome spirit of rule ; differing from
the former as the rage of the lion differs from the
malice of the wasp. Thus we sometimes meet with
people who have a mania for directing every thing
from important affairs down to the most minute ; who
cannot see a person proceeding in one direction
without urging him to go in another. Such indi-
viduals live upon fault-finding, for nothing is right
but what they have done themselves. There is really
no pleasing these persons, unless one consent to be
directed and marshalled by them on all occasions.
This petty ambition must be allowed to be very an-
noying, and is often given in to for the sake of
avoiding disputes, and so is encouraged ; whereas it
ought to be repressed by ridicule or neglect.

206 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Section IV. — Desire of Wealth, Covetousness,
Avarice.

In considering desire of wealth in general, and that
extreme form of it in particular known by the name
Avarice, we shall adopt, as far as possible, the method
already used in treating of love and ambition ; and
shall first analyse and describe the passion, then trace
its origin and growth, and lastly pass on to its con-
sequences.

Why is wealth agreeable 1 or, in other words, what
are the elements of the pleasure of wealth ?

It is evident, in the first place, that desire of wealth
is not an original passion like love or ambition, which
have pleasures connected with them independently of
their consequences ; affection and power being in
themselves delightful, whereas wealth in the begin-
ning has no peculiar charms. It is then sought entirely
as means to an end, for the purpose of satisfying our
wants and ministering to our enjoyments ; that is, in
order to gratify other and primary desires. At first,
the pangs of hunger and cold create in the savage a
desire for food, clothes, and lodging ; and in a more
advanced state of society, there arises a wish for
luxuries, indulgences, amusements, education, know-
ledge, and leisure, to be obtained through the medium
of wealth. Thus wealth is coveted for the sake of
warding off" the pains of want, and preserving life,
for the gratifications of sense, for amusement, ease,
and knowledge, which are primary pleasures of our
nature. So far riches are valued only as means to
an end.

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 207

Secondly, wealth being the means of so much good,
not only directly to our bodily frame and sensual na-
ture, but indirectly to our moral and intellectual ex-
istence, being possessed by different persons in very
different degrees, and obtained at first at least, by in-
dustry and praiseworthy qualities, being moreover
material, and therefore tangible and conspicuous, it
soon came to be esteemed as a mark of superiority.
Here riches are valued not for their proper use, but
because they serve to gratify an universal passion of
our nature. Still, even in this case they are prized
only as means.

Thus far all is plain enough ; but lastly we meet
with a case which certainly seems somewhat singular,
and difficult of explanation, the case in which the end
seems almost, or altogether lost sight of, and riches
come to be valued for their own sake. This properly
is avarice. The miser alone hugs wealth for itself;
but all men love power : the one is a derived taste,
the other original. Thus love of riches in general
and particularly of money, becomes in some a distinct
passion, different from the primary desires in which
it originated, and on that account it deserves a sepa-
rate consideration.

How then comes it to pass that wealth, the means,
may be valued almost, or altogether, independently
of the end, at least without employing it towards that
end ; in other words, what are the elements of the
pleasure of having and accumulating as distinct from
spending and consuming.

There is no more common tendency of our nature,
than to substitute the means for the end. This is

208 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

not surprising when we consider that we are chiefly
occupied about the former, while the latter is only
now and then brought into view. Whatever may
be the pursuit in which we are engaged, so long
as it lasts, the means must chiefly engross our atten-
tion, for thus alone can the end be reached ; and
those being so miich pondered on, they acquire in
consequence an exaggerated importance, so as even
to put the end out of view, for a longer or shorter
time. Happiness is said to be "our being's end and
aim," but how often in the business of the world does
it seem to be over-looked !

This substitution of the means for the end is an
exceedingly general and copious source of fallacy in
reasoning, as well as of error in practice, and there-
fore it ought to be largely dwelt on in works of logic
or morals. In no case is it seen more remarkably
than in love of money for its own sake. Wealth, and
money in particular, being associated with most of
the pleasures of life, it becomes on that account
agreeable in itself, at first by a momentary delusion,
which may however become permanent. Objects,
properly insignificant, may be dear to us when only
casually associated with scenes of past pleasure, or
with persons whom we love ; and therefore it cannot
surprise us that wealth, which is necessarily connected
with enjoyment, should itself share in our regard.
Moreover, those who are employed in any profitable
business, are of course constantly handling, think-
ing, and talking of money, and other property, and
scheming to increase their store ; till at last, these
means of well-being may so completely occupy the

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 209

mind, as to prevent it from seeing the end, except at
distant intervals. So far then the love of money for
itself depends upon the two great principles of Asso-
ciation and Occupation.

The truth of this account will the more appear
when we consider that money, though only one species
of wealth, was long considered as the only, or at least
the principal one, by writers on trade and commerce,
as well as by practical men ; and therefore the grand
way to enrich a nation was to amass gold and silver.
Hence the commercial system, as it is called, the ob-
ject of which was to increase exports and diminish
imports, in order that there might always be a balance
due to be paid, as was supposed, in the precious me-
tals. Nothing can more clearly show the tendency
of man to substitute the means for the end ; for money
being the medium by which all other riches might be
procured came itself to be thought the whole.

These principles account for the origin of the desire
of wealth for its own sake ; but they are insufficient
to explain that inordinate and eccentric love for it
which is felt by the miser, who hoards and hoards
eternally, and grudges every shilling he spends.
Wealth as such, independently of its use, must flatter
some very strong propensity of our nature, or it never
could be thus adored.

We may remark, that the miser's passion is in an
especial manner for money, or for some very perma-
nent sort of property, such as land, and keeping this
in mind, we shall perhaps be able to arrive at the
true account of the matter.

Money being the universal medium or means of

p

no ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

exchange, it becomes for that reason peculiarly
esteemed, because we know that by it we can pro-
cure whatever we please, and when we please. Hence
the seller of goods always considers himself obliged
to the seller of money, that is, to the buyer of the goods,
and thanks him accordingly ; though, in fair trade,
the value on both sides is the same ; and hence also,
as we have seen, gold and silver were once considered
as the chief or only wealth. Money, then, being an
instrument by which almost every thing may be turned
to our use, commodities, labour, skilled and unskilled,
intellectual talents as well as manual dexterity, it is
looked upon as equivalent to power, and is valued
accordingly. Now the consciousness of power is
agreeable,, independently of the exercise thereof; and
therefore the possession of wealth, which confers
power, is also satisfactory to the mind, though it
should never be actually employed in obtaining do-
minion over others. And as every expense tends to
lessen wealth, and hence to diminish future power,
therefore expense is shunned, and regretted when in-
evitable. Thus love of wealth, and of money in
particular, depends in part, at least, upon love of
power.

Again, money or land is permanent, and on that
account gives a feeling of security from indigence or
want. This feeling, in particular, seems to me the
chief pleasure attached to the passion of avarice,
though the other must not be overlooked. Avarice
increases with age, and so does love of power ; and
the increase of the latter favours the growth of the
former.

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 211

Further, fear, or want of security, increases with
age ; and therefore property, which confers security,
comes to be more and more valued. If the young-
and active be seldom avaricious, it is owing partly
to this, that having a confidence in their own powers,
they are rather rash than timid ; as in America,
where every man can easily gain his livelihood, there
is a prodigious activity in acquiring money, but little
strict economy, and less avarice, because there is little
fear. In short, the pleasure of having and accumu-
lating, as distinct from that of spending, seems to be
composed of two elements, a pleasure of power, and
a pleasure of security, and the latter appears the
principal. The dread of spending, which always
accompanies avarice, arises from false notions of in-
security more than from an attachment to power, the
loss of a portion of which might indeed occasion
regret, but could scarcely create such alarm as the
miser is wont to feel when forced to draw his purse.
In the midst of riches, he fancies himself on the verge
of ruin, and when he could command the attentions
of hundreds, he fears that he may die in a ditch.

Now, then, we perceive what it is which compen-
sates the miser for his endless privations. The feel-
ing of power and that of security are his only plea-
sures, and rather than forego these, he will abstain
from all use of his riches.^

3 The following anecdote is characteristic. A certain miser
being asked why he took such pains to amass that wealth which
his son would certainly spend after his death, he answered, " Let
him spend it; but he will never have so much pleasure in spend-

212 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Wealth is obtained first by industry, and is after-
wards increased by industry and economy. No riches
could exist without labour, nor could labour be of
much avail without some capital to aid it, and capital
comes by saving. Moreover, when a man has amassed
by labour a certain capital, he may lend it to be em-
ployed by others, and live upon what he bargains to
receive for it ; and out of this revenue he may still
continue to save, to lend, to receive, and save again.
Thus there are two ways of getting rich, and both
must contribute at first to amass a fortune ; but after
a time, economy alone will suffice.

Now we shall find that love of wealth exhibits two
striking varieties, according to the mode of acquiring
it ; the one being an eagerness in getting, the other
an aversion to spending ; the former known by the
name of Covetousness or Cupidity, the other by the
terms Frugality, Parsimony, Narrowness, and Avarice,
which differ chiefliy in degree. The covetous person
desires wealth extremely, and will make the greatest
exertions to obtain it ; but he may spend as liberally :
whereas the miser may be doing little, but he always
saves with avidity. Both greatly value riches ; but
the one for their uses, the other for their own sake.

It is certainly conceivable that the two characters
may be united, that the covetous man may also be a
miser ; but rarely, I think, do we observe them in one
person, at least in an extreme degree. Generally

ing as I in accumulating," There is assuredly a positive pleasure
in accumulating, independently of the pains of humiliation and
insecurity which thus are warded off.

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 213

speaking, activity in getting and parsimony in spend-
ing belong to different orders of mind, or to the same
mind at different periods. Thus a man who was very
covetous in his youth may become a miser in his old
age, when retired from active life. No people are
more eager after money, or more enterprising in the
pursuit of it, than the Americans, yet they spend
liberally ; while the French are comparatively inac-
tive and timid in industry, but strictly economical.
The very activity of business is opposed to avarice,
because it occupies the intellectual faculties, and so
prevents the mind from being completely engrossed
by the passion ; whereas in retirement it may absorb
the whole man. Those who in early life were em-
ployed in making a fortune are very liable to avarice
after they quit the busy scene ; because their thoughts
naturally recur to that which has been the constant
object of their lives, and they seldom have other tastes
sufficient to fill up existence. Hoarding becomes now
their chief interest, as getting was formerly. Still
more commonly those who have risen to wealth labori-
ously, and by slow degrees, continue frugal to the last,
merely from habit ; for wealth coming upon them by
imperceptible degrees, they never see a decided reason
for changing their mode of life, and so go on as before.
In order to break a habit, sudden change is neces-
sary, but in their case it never occurs, and, therefore,
they make no great change in their expenses. We
have heard of a grocer that died a few years ago in
London worth eight hundred thousand pounds, who
lived no better than a common shopkeeper. In this
and many similar cases, frugality is not avarice, for

214 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

it arises more from habit, and an indifference to un-
known and costly pleasures, than from an over-ween-
ing' love of money.

Those, on the other hand, who are born to wealth,
or become suddenly rich, are frequently prodigals ; for
we value that little which has cost us little or nothing ;
while they who rise laboriously to fortune esteem and
preserve it on the opposite principle. This is another
reason for the frugality of those who have risen by
their own exertions. Sudden elevation, on the con-
trary, is always dangerous, and sometimes fatal ; as
many a man has been ruined by a high prize in the
lottery. But when a man advanced in years sud-
denly becomes rich, he does not so readily change ;
for with the old, custom is omnipotent.

Those, again, who hold their riches by a very un-
certain tenure, who embark in such speculations as
may either ruin or make them, are generally very
liberal, not to say extravagant; for their maxim is,
let us enjoy ourselves to-day, for we may not be able
to-morrow. If our plans succeed, this expense will
make little difference ; if not, we shall be no worse
off. Hence merchants in the foreign trade are gene-
rally free in spending ; and airy speculators of all
kinds are noted for their want of economy. This
may be particularly remarked during those periods
of excitement which are seen every now and then in
great commercial countries, and are called bubble
years, when a rage for adventure and extravagance
in expenditure always go hand in hand. In such
cases, want of security is the real cause of the phe-
nomenon. This effect of insecurity was most strik-

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 215

ing-ly seen in France during the reign of terror ; for,
as M. Say informs us, who had witnessed that awful
period, there was then a fury for expense such as
almost exceeds belief. Life and property were then
felt to be so uncertain, that there was no inducement
to save, but every motive to spend, and make the
most of the present. The epicurean maxim, " Let
us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die," was then
really acted up to ; and not only revenue, but capital,
dift'used with a lavish hand. It seemed as if people
thought they could not too quickly get rid of their
fortune, in endeavouring to concentrate in a month,
week, or day, the enjoyments of many years. Such
was the consequence of insecurity.

The pleasures connected with love of wealth seem
to be less intense than those of ambition. There is
something much more vague and mysterious in power
than in wealth, which is material and palpable; and
therefore the former gives more scope to the imagina-
tion, and may be clothed in more enchanting colours.
The one is as a whirlwind which lifts a man in air ;
while the other is but a hurricane which drives him
along the face of the earth. The votary of wealth
feels not the same " exulting sense," nor does his
pulse beat with the same " maddening play" as thrills
the votary of power.

On the other hand this passion is fully as perma-
nent as ambition, or rather more so, and, like it, in-
creases with age, but still more surely and constantly.
Desire of riches, like desire of power, may indeed
commence in youth, but a young miser would be a
wonderful phenomenon ; whereas avarice in old age

216 ON SOiME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

causes no surprise, and after a time is generally con-
sidered incurable. By repeated disappointments,
ambition may sometimes be subdued, but avarice
continues to the grave. The causes of this perma-
nence are the same in both cases, and have been
stated in the former section, to which I may refer the
reader. The fundamental cause is this, that in the
pursuit of wealth, as of power, there is always some-
thing beyond which serves to rouse our wishes, to
employ our intellect, and through it react upon de-
sire ; and so draw us on indefinitely. And this is
still more the case in the present instance than in
the former, for a man may be arrested in an ambi-
tious course by the impossibility of further advance-
ment, but to the increase of riches there is evidently
no limit. The greatest sum which any man can
scrape together must be a mere atom as compared
with what still remains to be accumulated. Avarice
then is insatiable, because its object is infinite ;
whereas love, which has a definite end, may enjoy a
perfect satisfaction, and afterwards come to a close.

Avarice, like ambition and other passions, is in-
creased by partial indulgence ; and as in this case
indulgence is always partial, every increase of wealth
feeds, but cannot satisfy. " Crescit amor nummi
quantum ipsa pecunia crescit," has become prover-
bial. Hence an increase of fortune sometimes gives
rise to a passion hitherto unknown, or dormant ; for
it creates the possibility and hence the desire of accu-
mulation, which could not grow up so long as the
means were sufficient only for daily expenses. It
seems hardly worth while to save a trifle, and there-

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 217

fore that trifle is not saved, and consequently there
can be no passion for money ; but when something-
more can be laid by, something frequently is laid
by, and thus the taste begins. For this reason, the
poorest class in any nation is generally the most im-
provident, and the poorer, the more prodigal, as we
see in the working people of England, who are less
prudent than the middle ranks, and in the labourers
of Ireland who are far more reckless than those of
Great Britain. Whatever facilitates saving tends to
encourage the love of money, and hence the institu-
tion of savings banks has spread it far and wide.

In analyzing the love of wealth, we traced its origin
to the pleasing associations with which it is early
connected, and to the occupation which it gives to
the mind. These early associations connected with
vrealth in general are afterwards greatly assisted by
feelings of powder and security, arising from the pos-
session of any durable riches, of money in particular,
which is not only very durable, but the medium for
compassing all things. Here, however, as elsewhere,
pain treads upon the heels of pleasure ; for if enjoy-
ment be connected with the possession of wealth,
misery is linked with the want thereof. The priva-
tions, humiliations, and insecurity to which poverty
is exposed, as well as the regret consequent upon
any foolish expense that has brought us into diffi-
culties, associate pain with the absence of wealth in
general, and of money in particular ; and hence create
a love for that which is to rid us of such evils. And
as pain to be avoided affords a more powerful motive
to action than pleasure to be attained, it is probable

218 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

that avarice is fostered more by associations of ne-
gative than of positive enjoyment.

Dr. Brown, in his excellent lecture on Avarice,^
traces it chiefly to the painful feeling of regret con-
sequent on expense ; in opposition, as he says, to the
ordinary theory, which accounts for it from associa-
tions of pleasure ; and there can be no doubt that
regret is a cause as well as an effect of this passion.
Still, it is but one cause, and, I am inclined to think,
not the primary; for if wealth or money had not
been previously agreeable, why should we regret its
loss ? Without doubt, the ills we undergo from the
want of money make us value it much more than if
we had always enjoyed it, agreeably to the great
principle of privation ; and these ills may give rise
to regret ; but the regret is subsequent to the evil as
well as to the good. Hardship or privation of some
kind, humiliation, or the fear of want, must have
existed before we felt the regret, and may exist with
but little regret, or none ; for many have experienced
poverty without having themselves to blame, or with-
out having known better days. Pleasure, then, was
connected with the possession, pain with the want of
riches, before any regret at prodigality arose ; and
therefore in that pleasure and pain originates the
love of wealth. Afterwards, indeed, regret is felt for
the loss of that which we valued, and this regret in-
creases our love of riches ; but it first was the effect,
before it came in aid, of the propensity.

" Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human Mind. Vol. iii.
lect. Ixix.

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 219

This feeling of regret certainly contributes largely
to form the accomplished miser ; for when almost
every expense is followed by such a pain, we cannot
be surprised that it should be avoided as much as
possible. And as little expenses are more frequent
than great, and therefore more frequently associated
with painful regret, we readily see, with Dr. Brown,
why avarice is so much seen in small matters : though
we ought also to remember, that little gains being
more common than great, they are associated with
more pleasure than a sum amounting to many, and
are therefore spent in detail with more regret than
in a lump.

The connection between the feeling of regret and
avarice, is most remarkable in those cases where one
extreme is followed by another; as when the spend-
thrift in youth becomes a miser in his old age. In
such instances, which may be rare, but are not un-
exampled, it is the intense regret for loss of fortune
consequent on his own folly that drives the prodigal
into a course diametrically opposite, and renders him
as careful and penurious in future as formerly he
was thoughtless and improvident. Fortune, or any
other good, will always be regretted when lost, what-
ever may have been the cause of our misfortune ;
but the reflection that we alone are to blame, inflicts
the deepest wound. It is to avoid the recurrence of
this intolerable regret, that the spendthrift becomes
a miser.^

9 In Erskine's Internal Evidence of Christianity, there is a
stui-y told of a person who, having " wasted his substance in

220 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Love of riches having thus taken root in the mind,
its growth is afterwards favoured by three principal
causes, increase in the love of power, increase of ti-
midity, and decrease in susceptibility of amusement.
We have already remarked that love of power is
wont to become stronger as we advance in years ;
and therefore love of riches, which depends partly on
it, may well grow stronger also. Few have those
superior abilities, or superior moral qualities, which
fit men for leading senates or ruling over millions,
but many may hope for some influence in a larger or
smaller sphere ; and they whose characters might not
command obedience may obtain it through their purse.
Wealth forms the most general of all means by which
power is acquired, because it is within the reach of
very ordinary talents, and may be inherited by the
foolish or the wise.

Secondly, timidity is apt to increase as we descend
the vale of years ; partly from experience of danger,
which induces caution, partly from consciousness of
a decay of bodily or mental power. Hence the old
cling to riches as a substitute for other sources of in-
fluence ; and as their only ground of security. When
mental energy and bodily power decline, nothing but

riotous living," and been obliged at last to sell his patrimonial
estate, walked up to the top of the hill overlooking his family
mansion, and after long meditation, formed a resolution that the
lands should again be his. From that moment he became a con-
firmed miser, and never ceased till, by scraping and saving, he
actually accumulated enough to purchase back his former pro-
perty. The anecdote is brought forward by Mr. Erskine to show
the possibility of sudden conversions.

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 221

our hoarded wealth or the charity of others can save
from destitution, so that when no longer able to gain,
we are naturally prompted to save. This fear of
future want seems to be the grand promoter of ava-
rice ; for we have seen that fear always strengthens
desire ; and therefore timid characters are most liable
to that passion ; whereas the young, the hopeful, and
the enterprising are seldom if ever avaricious. There-
fore if you wish your son not to be miserly, beware
of encouraging timidity.

Lastly, the grand antagonist to niggardliness is
a taste for passing amusements ; and this is wont
to decline with the progress of years. At first, and
perhaps for a long time, there is a struggle between
the wish for enjoyment on the one hand, and the
love of money on the other : but, by degrees, novelty
wears off, amusements cease to please, or we are too
indolent to seek them, and we prefer the chimney
corner to the play, the opera, or the ball. Then the
love of money begins to have the ascendancy, because
no longer checked, and it easily induces us to believe
that we are too old for these costly gaieties. And
when that passion has become confirmed, it destroys
all remaining sensibility to amusement, by constantly
sugge'sting the thought how much the pleasure has
cost :

medio de fonte leporum
Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat.

In this case regret is the wormwood which changes
sweet to bitter.

The consequences of desire of wealth are numerous
and striking. Since wealth is of a material nature.

222 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

and therefore visible and tangible, these consequences
press themselves more forcibly upon us than in the
case of any other desire, and admit of a more ready
appreciation. Some of them, no doubt, can be known
only to the metaphysician or moralist, who considers
the state of mind ; but others are palpable to the
senses, and may be computed with mathematical
accuracy. Thus, in order to discover how love of
wealth directly affects the character and happiness of
each individual, we must penetrate into the mental
recesses ; but to know what effect it has had on the
outward condition of mankind, we must consult his-
tory, travels, and political economy.

Desire of wealth, like other strong desires, has the
immense advantage of effectually expelling ennui, as
well as the whole train of imaginary ills which be-
siege the unoccupied mind. Nor is this influence
merely negative, for the pleasing object which it
shows in prospect, and the activity thence created,
give a constant interest to life. In this respect, in-
deed, the desire in question may be considered supe-
rior to almost any other; first, because it is very
general ; secondly, because it is very permanent ;
and thirdly, because it may be gratified without any
extraordinary skill or ability. To gain a livelihood,
or to make a fortune, is the chief object of the great
mass of mankind, and forms the business of their
whole lives, and without such a pursuit it is difficult
to imagine how they could fill up their time. This,
too, is a career in which no wonderful talents are
necessary, but simply industry, prudence, and com-
mon honesty, though, of course, when superior abili-
ties or superior activity are turned into this line, they

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 223

will generally have their reward. Thus, as an anti-
dote to all the ills which attend want of occupation,
and as a source of interesting activity to the great
bulk of mankind from youth to age, desire of wealth
forms a most important element of human happiness.
Like love and ambition, it assuredly has anxieties
which may corrode the heart and furrow the brow,
but so has every desire and every interest ; and he
who should quarrel with mental activity on that ac-
count, ought also to object to bodily exercise, because
it may end in fatigue.

The activity to which desire of wealth gives rise is
not barren of fruits, but leads directly to an object
which is necessary to the existence of the individual
as well as to the continuance and increase of the human
race. And here a prospect opens before us, too wide
for the keenest vision, too dazzling for the strongest
eye. Look abroad upon the vast and varied scene
presented by the globe we inhabit, and first turn your
eyes to the icy Tierra del Fuego, or to the sunny
Australia, where want and the climate in the one ^ase,
want alone in the other, thin the ranks of a scanty half
starved population, living on worms or filth ; or see
the native American supplying the necessities of his
family by the precarious products of the chase, and
feeding a few individuals from a widely extended ter-
ritory. Then change the scene, and behold the civi-
lized world, plains waving with corn, pastures covered
with cattle, navigable waters bearing vessels and
barges, smiling farms and villages, and cities gleaming
from afar ; and lastly, see millions of men supplied
with wholesome food, and protected from the incle-
mency of the weather; and you will naturally enquire.

224 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

whence this wonderful difference? Among all the
concurring causes, one will be found preeminent, de-
sire of wealth, as the means of bettering our condition.
This it is which makes a land to flow with milk and
honey, causes " the wilderness to be glad, and the
desert to rejoice and blossom as the rose."

Nor is wealth valuable only as the means of living
and of common well-being, but it is also essential to
the higher improvement of man. Without some ac-
cumulated riches, there could be no leisure from the
care of providing for daily wants, therefore no study,
no moral or intellectual advancement, no adequate
notion of a Deity, no true religion. Every invention
which facilitates the production of wealth tends to in-
crease the number of those who can addict themselves
to the higher pursuits ; and therefore the substitution
of the plough and harrow for the spade and rake, of
the spinning-jenny for the simple spindle or spinning-
wheel, and other such inventions, must be considered
as of no less importance to the progress of mind than
to the comfort and increase of the human race.

We can easily imagine that a desire so strong and
so general will sometimes be a source of evil to the
individual himself, as well as to those around. Here,
as in other cases, the desire may lead to evil, because
either too strong in itself, or too little checked by
other principles ; but in either case the effect will be
the same. In ourselves, the effect will be seen in
the growth of Avarice, one of the most unamiable if
not one of the most destructive passions, for it ren-
ders us disagreeable rather than injurious to others.
So far as self alone is concerned, avarice is also a foe
to happiness, for it tends to rob us of all but one en-

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 225

joyment, and that too greatly alloyed with pain. No
passion more deadens the heart to all kindly impulses,
to the pleasures of general benevolence or private
affection, to those of benefaction and liberality ; and
none so completely deprives us of all the amusements
and even the common comforts of life. In the first
place, avarice so engrosses the mind with self, that
its votary has neither time nor inclination to cultivate
the social feelings ; and secondly, as society and
amusement always lead to expense, they are there-
fore to be avoided. Hence the miser becomes more
and more solitary, more and more averse to pleasure
and gaiety, till at last he loses all taste for them ; or
when he makes an exception, his enjoyment is poi-
soned by regret at what it cost. Thus, without
friends, and almost without acquaintances, he sinks to
the grave, solitary, selfish, and joyless, except when
thinking on his wealth, which stands him instead
of all things. Fear waits upon every passion, and
even every desire; but avarice seems subject to it
more than any other, and on that account it is more
unfavourable to happiness.

His life was nigh unto death's dore yplaste ;
And thred-bare cote, and cobled shoes hee ware ;
^ Ne scarse good morsell all his life did taste ;
But both from backe and belly still did spare,
To fill his bags, and richesse to compare :
Yet childe ne kinsman living had he none
To leave them to ; but thorough daily care
To get, and nightly feare to lose his owne,
He led a wretched life, unto himselfe unknowne.^"

^^ Faerie Queene, book i. canto iv. st. xxviii.
Q

226 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Still, with all his selfishness, privations, and anxie-
ties, the miser is probably less wretched than is com-
monly supposed, less so than those who have no
pursuit whatsoever ; and he rather refrains from be-
nejfiting than positively injures his neighbour. His
love of money may be called sordid, it may almost
amount to a disease, and he may deny himself every
luxury and even common comforts ; but these being
voluntary privations, they are the less felt, and to.
the last he has an interest which dispels langour and
mitigates the fear of death. Nor can we doubt that
he has some enjoyment, nay, in an intense degree,
for, as a great poet has observed,

" A miser filling his most hoarded chest
Feels rapture."

His wretchedness, moreover, being of a palpable kind,
and consisting much in the want of comforts, it makes
the greater impression upon the observer, and may
be magnified beyond the reality. The miser is more
a foe to himself than to any one else, for though he
does not directly minister to the pleasure of others, and
therefore is thought very disagreeable, and is loaded
with reproach, yet all the while his money lies not
idle. Except in countries where property is inse-
cure, no one now thinks of locking up his treasure in
a box ; for a talent hid in a napkin can bring in no
interest. If, then, the miser do not himself employ
his funds, he lends them to those who will, and thus
labour is maintained, and the wealth of the country
increased ; whereas the spendthrift may be loved by
his bottle companions, but in wasting his own re-

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 227

sources he impoverishes his family as well as the
nation at large. The former hurts himself more than
any one else, and is even useful, though uninten-
tionally ; the latter injures both himself and others.
But as the agreeable qualities of the spendthrift are
more evident than the useful propensities of the
miser, and as, moreover, it is the agreeable rather
than the useful w^hich conciliates love, therefore the
prodigal is treated vi^ith greater lenity.

Avarice in the extreme is of rare occurrence, but
in a modified degree it is often met w^ith. In what-
ever degree it may be found, the phenomena and
consequences will in kind be similar to the above,
though they be much less strong and glaring, and
the propensity, in consequence, assume a milder
name; such as stinginess, narrowness, parsimony,
frugality, economy, a series of terms passing gradu-
ally from blame to praise. It cannot be denied that
love of wealth, as it gains upon us more and more,
tends to subdue some of the finer principles of our
nature, generosity, liberality, general charity, and
even private love; that it hardens the heart and
shuts the hand, and thus deprives us of the social
pleasures, and prevents us from relieving the wants
of others. It seems to act partly on the principle of
occupation, partly from incompatibility ; for it may
so engage the mind as to leave little room for other
and loftier sentiments, and these often leading to
expense, they are contrary to the ruling passion.

Thirst for riches is a more selfish passion than
either love or ambition ; for love, as we know, has
in it much that is social, and even ambition can-

228 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

not be gratified without the aid of others, whose
interests or affections must be looked to. But love
of money regards self alone, and is adverse to all
communication, except in the way of business, for
we can seldom do good to our fellow-creatures, or
even associate with them, without being led into
expense. In the breasts of rulers, the passion in
question has never produced such gigantic evils as
ambition, yet in this respect it is more formidable,
that the one is often arrested by difficulty or impos-
sibility, while the other can neither be satiated nor
easily stopped. To his own subjects a rapacious
tyrant may be a greater scourge than an ambitious
one ; for while the latter is restrained by his neigh-
bours, the former may pillage with impunity. Henry
VII. and Vespasian had certainly good qualities, and
no remarkable vices, but they were dreaded and dis-
liked for their avarice ; while Louis XIV. though
prodigal of blood and treasure, was lauded as the
mighty monarch. Here, however, as in other cases,
the avaricious tendency was disliked and disapproved
even more than its effects could justify, while the
evils of prodigality were covered by splendour and
glory. In truth, a prodigal monarch must also be a
rapacious one ; but those who live on his prodigality
stifle the complaints of the sufferers : whereas a rapa-
cious monarch may not be prodigal, but may use-
fully employ what he has unjustly amassed. George
IV. of England was a prodigal king, and his prodi-
gality was supplied by large sums drawn from the
people, but it has left only a flimsy pavilion ; while
Vespasian, who was called avaricious, built the Co-
losseum.

WEALTH, COVETOUSNESS, AVARICE. 229

The consequences of desire of wealth will, of
course, vary considerably, according to the form
which the passion may assume, whether it be Covet-
ousness or" Avarice; the one shown by activity in
getting, the other by carefulness in spending. It is
the latter, in particular, which tends to deaden the
heart, to close the hand, to produce intense selfish-
ness, and to strip us of all common enjoyments ; but
it contains a principle essential to private as well as
public welfare, and is not much given positively to
injure others ; whereas covetousness is not inconsistent
with liberality, nor even with imprudence and prodi-
gality, and prevents us not from enjoying society or
other amusements ; but it is a fertile source of wrong
and violence.

Thus I am led to remark, in conclusion, that desire
of wealth, when excessive, or unrestrained by other
principles, may and often does lead to attacks upon
our neighbour's goods. The tendency of civilization
is in some degree to tame the passions of hate, such
as anger and revenge, but to increase the desire for
riches ; so that in savage life crimes against the per-
son predominate, in civilized, those against property.
This will not appear surprising, when we consider,
first, that in the latter state of society wealth can
command so many more enjoyments ; secondly, that
it becomes itself a great distinction, and may lead
to most others, while the want of it is almost a dis-
grace ; and, lastly, that it is more constantly exposed
to view, so as to tempt the beholder. The needy
man, who walks through a rich and populous city, is
liable to be perpetually mortified by the inferiority of

230 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

his condition to numbers whom he sees around him,
and his desires are for ever stimulated by the pre-
sence of objects which he is forbidden to touch. In
such circumstances all will not refrain, but some will
attempt to get that by force or fraud which they
cannot or will not by labour. To curb the desire of
wealth is then the chief object of criminal law ; and
to preserve property secure from the attacks of the
needy or the rapacious, of the low or the high, of
fellow -subjects or of rulers, becomes the principal
end of political government.

While, then, by a wise system of criminal and con-
stitutional law these evils may greatly be prevented,
the other inconveniences may be lessened by educa-
tion and early moral training : but be the evils what
they may, they cannot be compared with the advan-
tages that flow from a desire which more than any
other has led us on to the civilized state; has made
corn stand thick on our plains and valleys, and covered
even our mountains with flocks and herds, has raised
up cities and villages in woods and wilds, and has
enabled man to fulfil his destiny, to multiply and re-
plenish the earth.

Section V. — Desire of Reputation ; of Fame
or Glory.

The desire next to be considered is one of great im-
portance in a moral and political point of view, and
it admits of considerable variety in its nature and in
its consequences. This is desire of reputation, leading

REPUTATION, FAME, GLORY. 231

on to love of fame or glory ; in its humbler form one
of the most useful, in its higher, one of the most in-
toxicating and dangerous of the passions.

According to the method formerly adopted, we shall
proceed in the first place to examine the question,
Why is reputation agreeable? or in other words, what
are the elements of the pleasure of reputation ; and
hence of the desire connected with that pleasure ?

Though there is a considerable difference between
Aifection and Esteem, there is still a certain analogy ;
while Admiration seems to occupy the interval, and is
somewhat allied to both. In affection, there is more
of emotion than of judgment; in esteem, more of judg-
ment than emotion ; while in admiration the two are
nearly balanced, the scale, however, sometimes in-
clining to the one side, sometimes to the other; though
in general it tends more to warmth than to cool intel-
lectual decision. Admiration may warm into affec-
tion, or cool down into esteem ; but the former change
is the more common, proving that the primary state
of mind was thus more allied to love than to reason.
Admiration may arise from bodily as well as from
mental qualities, and is often the commencement of
a real passion ; but when it terminates in esteem, the
effect is produced by the decline of the emotion
which formerly warmed the judgment. The one
having subsided, the other remains nearly alone, and
constitutes esteem, which always depends upon mental
excellence, and sometimes leads on to affection, rarely
to sexual love ; for esteem itself is not without some
emotion.

As we are formed to take pleasure in being be-

232 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

loved, so are we framed to delight in admiration and
esteem, and we can no more account for the phe-
nomenon, than explain why sugar is more palatable
than wormwood. It must be considered as an ultimate
fact in human nature, one which cannot be traced any
further ; and therefore the corresponding desire is
primary or original, like desire of affection or of
power, and unlike desire of wealth which we have
seen to be derivative. In the first place then, repu-
tation is agreeable in itself, and is wished for accor-
dingly.

Secondly, such is the constitution of man that when
he acts in one way, there arises within him a senti-
ment of approbation, when in another and contrary
way, a sentiment of disapprobation. The former is
inseparably connected with pleasure, the latter with
pain ; and as one or the other is constantly recurring,
upon them depends much of our happiness or misery.
To analyze these sentiments, to show the occasions on
which they appear, and thus to arrive at the funda-
mental circumstance or circumstances which give
rise to them, belongs to the science of duty or Ethics,
and will be gone through in the proper place. Suffice
it for the present to observe that our self-approval or
disapproval depends not a little upon the sentiments of
those around us ; that in doubtful cases our opinions,
and hence our feelings, are greatly swayed by the
known opinions and feelings of others, and that it is
next to impossible for a man to persevere in a course
which he knows to be universally obnoxious without
being driven from self-complacency to self-condem-
nation. Therefore the approbation of our fellows is

REPUTATION, FAME, GLORY. 233

eagerly sought after, not only because it is agreeable
in itself, but also because it fortifies a good opinion
of ourselves. It makes us feel at ease, and relieves
that intolerable burthen v\^hich hangs upon the spirits,
and sinks us to the earth, when conscious of acting
amiss.

So much indeed does the pleasure of reputation de-
pend upon the above circumstance, that praise which
we knov7 to be undeserved scarcely gratifies at all,
and may even have a contrary effect, by reminding
us of our real want of merit. Such a reflection might
never have occurred had it not been forced upon us
by the applause conferred upon a different conduct,
or different springs of action. By this disagreeable
suggestion, all the delights of praise may be balanced
or outweighed, so that the result shall be decidedly
unpleasant. This might be thought a proof that the
applause of others has no direct charm, but acts only
through self-approbation ; but it is not so, for ap-
plause, though in itself agreeable, may not be suffi-
cient to compensate the humbling feeling suggested
by unmerited praise. Roses are sweet, but the thorns
they bear make us choose another bed. Warmth is
delightful, but the noxious insects it engenders often
cause us to sigh for cold.

How much, however, our love of praise depends
upon its effect in favouring self-complacency, is shown
by the well known fact, that we are always most gra-
tified with applause when it is least expected. When
sure of approbation we value it but slightly; when
previously uncertain, we hug it with delight. This
seems to show that praise giatifies the mind by sup-

234 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

porting the tottering fabric which self-love had begun
to raise. If the building can stand alone, we are not
anxious for a prop, otherwise we are glad to have
such an auxiliary. Thus persons are fond of bring-
ing forward some new accomplishment, rather than
an old undisputed one, casting about on all sides for
admiration and encouragement. Hence the connec-
tion between diffidence and vanity ; for by making a
display we hope to meet applause and thus to banish
all sense of inferiority.

Those, on the other hand, who are full of confidence
do not appear vain, for being already satisfied with
themselves they seek no encouragement from others.

These facts and reasonings certainly show that the
approbation of others is very much sought, because
it fortifies our own, but they are insufficient to prove
that it is not also directly agreeable. Sweet as me-
lodious music fail the notes of praise on the ear, and
to reach the heart we have only to sound them well ;
for who among the sons of men can withstand ingeni-
ous flattery ? Those who can flatter with skill possess
a power over others, which may become unlimited,
for he who praises will be always liked, if he be but
thought sincere, and he who can thus deceive another
may do with him what he will. Here, as in similar
cases, we must consult our own minds, and they, I
think, will inform us, that we value praise not only be-
cause it makes us well pleased with ourselves, or in
other words, gratifies our self-love ; but also because
the admiration and esteem which it indicates, are in
themselves delightful ; -exactly as we value tokens
which seem to denote aflfection. The last is un-

REPUTATION, FAME, GLORY. 235

doubtedly valued for itself, and so are the two former ;
and thus by a triple motive we are urged to stand well
with our fellows ; for we may hope to be admired
or esteemed by many from whom we can expect no
love.

In addition to the reason above given, it ought also
to be borne in mind, that unexpected praise is sweetest,
because it excites surprise, itself a most agreeable
emotion, and one which never can be roused by long
paid and customary applause.

Thirdly, reputation is agreeable by reason of its
consequences. In all situations of life, reputation is
useful, and in some it is absolutely indispensable.
Now this is of two kinds, reputation for ability, and
for moral worth, and sometimes the former is more
required, sometimes the latter, according to the na-
ture of the employment ; but one or other is sure to
be advantageous. From the common servant up to the
minister of state, none can do without a character, for
honesty, for talents, or both ; and what is a passport
to fortune must itself be highly prized.

Fourthly, reputation is valued as a distinction
which lifts us above the crowd, and flatters our love
of superiority. And here we may perceive the com-
mencement of the love of fame or glory ; and may
mark how what was only a desire, begins to swell
into a passion. It is impossible to fix the exact limit
between the two, for there is no exact limit, and it
will therefore be determined differently by different
persons ; but when we first long for renown, the seeds
of the passion are sown. Formerly we desired es-
teem, because we are so constituted as to take plea-

'236 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

sure in the esteem of others, or because it sets us
inwardly at ease, or lastly, because it serves to pro-
mote our material interest ; now we wish for admira-
tion to raise us above our fellows. Corresponding to
this difference in the feeling which we wish to excite
in others, is the difference of qualities on which we
chiefly rely ; for esteem mainly depends upon moral
excellence, but admiration upon intellectual as well
as moral pre-eminence. Therefore while we can look
for esteem only in one way, we can expect admiration
in several ; and so may reach the temple of fame by
one road, rather than another ; and should we choose
the intellectual path, may almost forget the moral.
For superior talent does command the admiration of
men independently of moral worth, in spite of all we
may preach, to the contrary. Whatever may have
been the crimes of Alexander, Caesar, or Napoleon,
whatever misery they have caused, their names are
great and illustrious ; and though the glory of Bacon
be shaded, it is not obliterated, by meanness and cor-
ruption. Call this a prejudice if you will, a noxious
prejudice, still the fact is such ; and so long as men
can command admiration apart from the practice of
virtue, it will often thus be sought. Hence desire of
reputation first begins to be dangerous when it passes
into love of fame ; and the danger depends upon this,
that admiration more than esteem is then the principal
object, and that the former may be attained with or
without virtue. Nay glory is sought and gained by
means subversive of all morality, by unjust warfare,
and by licentious prose or poetry ; for though the
vice should be condemned, the ability will command
applause.

REPUTATION, FAME, GLORY. 237

We may remark further that men are much more
tolerant of animadversions upon their moral character
than on their intellect ; and that there is scarcely any
one who would not rather be called a bad man than
a fool. The fact I think certain, and the reason
seems to be, that folly is probably as destructive as
vice, and at the same time generally incurable ;
whereas vice may and often is got rid of by a slow or
rapid conversion. Since in the one case there is hope
of amendment, in the other none, the former is na-
turally preferred. On the same principle, superior
intellect is admired, even when abused ; not merely
on account of its general tendency, which is highly
beneficial, and on account of its rarity, but also from
the consideration that it may be better employed in
future.

So far there is nothing peculiarly mysterious in de-
sire of reputation or of fame ; but other and less evi-
dent principles lend their aid to heighten the passion
for glory. It subdues the whole man by flattering
two universal principles of human nature, the wish
to extend, and the wish to perpetuate our being.
But how does fame gratify these propensities ? This
we shall endeavour to show ; but first, we may remark
that in no case does the influence of imagination ap-
pear more like enchantment. It operates upon us in
a way that we cannot resist, and all the powers of
reasoning vanish at its touch. Moralists and satirists
attempt to dissipate the charm, but all to no purpose ;
for they who endeavour to break it, are themselves
bound by the spell. What is fame? say they, a
phantom, a breath, a smoke that speedily vanishes in

238 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

thin air. "What is honour?" says FalstafF. " A
word. What is in that word, honour ? What is that
honour ? Air. A trim reckoning ! — Who hath it ? He
that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth
he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? Yea, to the
dead. But will it not live with the living ? No. Why ?
Detraction will not suffer it : — therefore I'll none of
it : Honour is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my cate-
chism."^

In these short sentences, we have a lively summary
of the arguments against the love of fame which have
filled ponderous volumes, and if they all prove vain,
it is not that they are void of reason, but because they
are met by an invincible argument on the other side,
the pleasure which men cannot help feeling in being
known and admired by others. So long as this plea-
sure exists, men will pursue it, and though, perhaps,
founded on a delusion, or trick of the fancy, yet that
matters little, provided the delusion be universal and
incurable. That it is so, all past experience shows ;
and therefore we must reckon upon this as an essen-
tial part of our nature. Were we to give in to the
line of reasoning pursued by many moralists who call
themselves philosophers, nothing ought to be desired
by man, but what serves to drive away cold and
hunger ; for with them, whatever is not palpable is
vanity. If it be asked, what is the use of glory? I
would also ask, what is the use of affection ? The one
as well as the other may, no doubt, lead to our phy-
sical well-being; but whether they do or not they

1 Henry IV, part i. act v. scene 1.

REPUTATION, FAME, GLORY. 239

would still be highly prized, because our nature is
such as to delig-ht in both for their own sakes. But
could it be shown that glory is worthless, the same
arguments would prove that affection is altogether
vanity.

Fame, like affection, is greatly valued on this account,
that it seems to enlarge our being ; for according to
common language, which must correspond to common
ideas, we are said to live in the hearts, or in the breath,
of all who love and admire us. The knowledge that
many, in various and distant parts, feel for us, think
and talk about us, gives rise to an idea of our ubi-
quity. The delusion seems to be brought about in this
way. We gradually acquire the notion that our fame
is a part of ourselves, and as that fame becomes more
and more extended, self, to which it belongs, seems
to expand along with it. That fame is considered as
a possession is evident from ordinary language, for
we talk of our reputation, our fame, as we do of our
power, or our wealth, and if it be thought a posses-
sion, it must be of a more intimate nature than riches,
which are material and outward, and may change
hands from day to day. It is, therefore, something
nearer to us, a portion as it were of our personal iden-
tity ; and it is also that portion by which we are ca-
pable of indefinite expansion, for power and affection
have their limits, but fame has evidently none. In a
word, fame, being constantly associated with self,
comes at last to be confounded with it, and then by a
natural inference, an extension of the one is thought
to be an extension of the other. Exactly in the same
way fame gratifies our love of immortality ; for our

240 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

fame being so closely associated with self, as at last
to become identified with it, we can hardly escape
the deduction that what prolongs the one must serve
to perpetuate the other, and though ever and anon
the illusion be expelled, yet it constantly recurs, and
is eagerly caught at by the mind that longeth after
immortality. One poet says :

Non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei
Vitabit Libitinam.2

and another,

CCim volet ilia dies, quae nil, nisi corporis hujus
Jus habet, incerti spatium mihi finiat eevi :
Parte tamen meliore mei super alta perennis
Astra ferar, nomenque erit indelebile nostrum.

■ perque omnia secula famse,

Si quid habent veri Vatum praesagia, vivam,^

Here we see that fame is completely identified with
self, that it is considered as a part, and the better
part of it ; and hence if the former be immortal, so
must the latter. The premises being granted, the
conclusion is immediate and irresistible.

The illusion is moreover favoured by this circum-
stance, that although for a moment we can consider
our identity as divided ; self, upon reflection, seems
always one and indivisible ; and therefore fame must
either be all or none. To put fame for the whole of
self, would be too bold a step at once, for nature goes
but slowly, and it is only at college that a degree can
be reached per saltum. When Caesar was but a private

2 Hor. •■' Ovid Metamorph. Conclusion.

REPUTATION, FAME, GLORY. 241

citizen, he little thought of being one day Emperor of
Rome. So the mind does not begin by putting fame
for the whole of self, but first it breaks down our iden-
tity, and assigns to fame a part ; and then as it can
neither maintain the idea of division nor entirely
separate fame from self, it is obliged to yield all.
Here, as before, the error is entirely at first, for if the
primary step be sound, the secondary follows of
course.*

It is evident that there can be but one real immor-
tality consisting in our continuance as a thinking and
sentient being, such as we are at present, a being sus-
ceptible of change, and may be, great and progressive
improvement, but in every state endowed with thought
and feeling. Though such a futurity must always
be considered the noblest subject for human contem-
plation, yet it does not prevent us from desiring
another and less real sort of immortality. There are
three ways in which men seek to perpetuate them-
selves, all more or less fanciful ; for none of them
really prolong the existence of the individual. Still,
since the illusion is pleasing as well as salutary, and

* On this subject the reader will do well to consult Brown's
Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human Mind, vol. iii. lect. Ixxi.
That author treats of the fancied expansion and perpetuity of our
being, which enter into the passion for glory, and attempts to ac-
count for the illusion, but it is not easy to follow him through a
maze of words. My view of the case is shortly this ; first, fame
is considered as closely allied to self, then from constant associa-
tion, it is put for a part of self; further, since upon reflection,
self is indivisible, fame is the whole of self, and therefore the ex-
pansion and perpetuity of the former is the same as the expan-
sion and perpetuity of the latter.

R

242 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

since it cannot be quite dispelled, it deserves to be
respected by the philosopher, rather than ridiculed
by the satirist Men seek to perpetuate themselves
corporeally in their offspring, spiritually in their
works of purely mental or mixed labour ; and lastly,
by glory in the minds of others. This glory is no
doubt founded on their works, but it may long survive
them : for, of the conquests of Alexander, Zenghis,
or Tamerlane, what is now left ? and of the writers
of antiquity, how many are known to us only by
name ! The perpetuity by children, as Bacon has ob-
served, is common to man with brutes, while that by
works and by fame belongs to the former alone. And
of all our labours, those which are purely mental are
likely to last the longest, especially since the invention
of printing, which, by flattering a darling propensity,
stimulates the energies of man. The meditations of
Bacon and Newton are perpetuated in their writings,
in the discoveries of science, in the increasing power
of man, and in the improvement of our social condition,
and their talents will be admired and their memories
blest to the latest posterity. The works of Homer
have survived the wreck of many empires, and will
probably outlive many more ; and they will be read
with delight when the temples of Athens are fallen,
and the marvellous statues of Phidias are broken or
crumbled into dust. They may even witness the
time when the stately pyramids shall decay, and the
magnificent tomb of Cheops be levelled with the sur-
rounding sands.

Having thus traced the various elements comprised
in the pleasure of fame, and in the desire connected
with it, little remains to be said on the origin of this

REPUTATION, FAME, GLORY. 243

passion. We have seen that love of fame springs
from love of reputation, an original propensity of our
nature, and comes gradually to vary from the latter,
by seeking admiration rather than esteem ; and that
it derives force from three elementary principles, love
of distinction, of expansion, of immortality. Suffice
it to add that the passion may be observed very early
in life. The child who is brought forward by a
doting mother to recite some nursery rhymes before
company, feels his little bosom palpitate with a thirst
for applause ; and when grown into the school-boy,
he his chosen along with a few to speak in public, his
youthful soul is rapt in visions of glory. Through all
his after-life, never can he forget the day when first
he stood aloft to be gazed on and admired, while
trembling with emotion, he uttered some eloquent
strain. Thus is a passion nursed, which in future
years may rule the whole man, and urge him to noble
actions, but possibly to deeds of crime.

In its moral and political consequences, desire of
reputation is one of the utmost importance. Next to
our own conscience, the approbation or disapproba-
tion of others is the best and most powerful sanction
to virtue, public as well as private. The force of
this sanction entirely depends upon the susceptibi-
lity of man to good or bad repute, for if he cared for
neither, they could not influence his actions. One
who should utterly disregard the sentiments of others,
would be either above or below humanity ; for such
disregard could proceed only from conscious superi-
ority, or from indifference to crime. A man whose
conscience was seared might be proof against the
disapprobation of his fellows, and this indifference to

244 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

blame would still further deaden his conscience. For,
though conscience or self-approbation ought never to
be sacrificed to the opinion of others, yet in general,
this opinion has a wonderful effect in modifying our
views of right and wrong, and hence the sentiment
which follows. We have seen above that one reason
why praise is agreeable, is that it fortifies a good
opinion of ourselves, and where there is a doubt, sets
us quite at ease. In such cases, it is evident that
our own approbation is fixed by that of others ; and
though a man may fly in the face of the world, and
yet his conscience acquit him, still such instances are
rare ; and in general, either he is converted to the
popular sentiment, or it to his. This popular senti-
ment may err, and indeed cannot always be right,
for in a few cases it enjoins opposites, according to the
age or country ; but on the whole it is a safe guide :
and if man were indifferent to it, he would be freed
not only from one of the most general and powerful
sanctions, but also one less liable to error than almost
any other. Religion, so far as it goes, is no doubt
to be preferred, but religion, giving only general
rules, the application is often doubtful ; and as for
conscience, this, as we have remarked, commonly
coincides with opinion. Where conscience is weak,
opinion steps in to strengthen it, and if the latter
may err, so may the former ; for both analogy and
direct experience prove it not to be infallible.
Opinion, be it observed, shows us the public con-
science, for what people blame in another, they
would also blame in themselves ; and surely there is
no reason why the conscience of many should be
more fallible than that of one. Nay, the opinion of

REPUTATION, FAME, GLORY. 245

others ought to be more valuable, because it is more
impartial, especially if distant countries or posterity-
be consulted ; whereas the conscience of the indivi-
dual may not only be hardened by custom, but judg-
ment, which guides the feeling, may be blinded by
interest or passion.

The desire we are now considering is as important
in politics as in ethics. The vast and growing power
of the press, that palladium of free institutions, is
founded, in great part, on this principle of our nature,
the susceptibility of man to good or bad repute. Take
away this susceptibility, and what avails praise or
reproach ? They would be like harmonious or dis-
cordant notes to those who have no ear for music, or
like the beauties or deformities of nature to those who
have no sight. Extirpate this desire, and nothing
but fear remains to restrain the ruling powers ; but
what evils may governors inflict before they dread a
revolution ! This is the last resource of a suffering
nation, and ought to be the last; for the remedy is
sharp and dangerous : but were men indifferent to
character, such a change, or the fear of it, would be
our only safeguard. The grand advantage of the
press is this, that it brings in desire of reputation as a
motive to public conduct ; while by giving due warn-
ing it keeps alive a salutary fear; and so facilitates
gradual and prevents violent changes. The power
of public opinion rests generally upon that desire,
and occasionally upon this fear ; and public opinion
rules, or will one day rule, the world.^

6 See more on this subject, in " Political Discoinses," Disc. i.
p. 16.

246 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

When desire of reputation passes into love of fame
or glory, its consequences are of a more mixed nature.
In common with other passions, it expels all languor
of mind, all fanciful evils, rouses the energies of the
soul, and leads especially to noble deeds. Generally
speaking, these deeds are useful to mankind as well
as glorious to the individual ; and if not always, it is
owing to the circumstance above mentioned, that ad-
miration may be obtained by high and rare talents,
apart from moral worth. Hence a passion which was
meant to urge us to all that is truly great and excel-
lent, has sometimes proved a scourge as fatal as am-
bition itself, with which it is frequently united ; and,
along with the latter, has helped to desolate the earth.
When love of glory becomes separated from desire
of virtuous reputation, it may lead to any extrava-
gance, and terminate in mere love of notoriety, noto-
riety for good or ill ; a passion which caused the
burning of the temple of Ephesus. In such instances
the passion becomes no better than madness, and
deserves only hard diet and a strait waistcoat. And
well would it have been for the world if many of
those conquerors who have waded through blood to
glory had been put under close confinement, and fed
upon meagre fare, till their ardour had somewhat
cooled ; for a passion, which the tears of humanity
could not soften, might have yielded to restraint and
hunger. Sometimes this passion for glory, apart
from virtue, may seize upon a whole nation, and
render it as formidable to its neighbours as a volcano
to the villages beneath, liable to be buried under a
flood of lava or showers of cinders. We may deplore

REPUTATION, FAME, GLORY. 247

the fate of those ancient cities overwhelmed by an
eruption of Vesuvius, but we must curse the memory
of the monarch who could waste with fire the Pala-
tinate.

But we should not allow ourselves to fall down
before a mighty idol, and be blinded to the general
utility of the passion by a few glaring "instances to
the contrary. At every turn we must guard against
that powerful spell, which leads the judgment captive
by drawing all our attention to a few illuminated
spots. Love of glory, like love of power, sometimes
leads to gigantic mischief; but the general operation
is salutary, though this be less observed ; for if admi-
ration may be sought and gained by means which
morality disclaims, it is much more commonly won
in ways that virtue approves. It is only extraordi-
nary ability that so captivates men as to make them
forget whether it be well employed ; and less brilliant
talents that wish for admiration must, at the same
time, seek for esteem. Don Juan may be read and
admired, but Faublas excites disgust; and though
the greatness of Caesar or Napoleon may often blind
us to their crimes, how many less gifted adventurers
are remembered with hatred or scorn ! Finally, love
of fame, when combined with a regard to virtue,
leads to the highest excellence in every department,
in science, letters, and the arts, and is one of the con-
stant causes of the improvement of the human race.

248 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Section VI. — Desire of Knowledge, or Curiosity.

In the whole range of the passions none seems to
have been treated in general with greater favour than
Desire of Knowledge, or Curiosity ; though even this
has not entirely escaped the attacks of those who
appear determined to run down every propensity of
human nature. Few have dared openly to avow
themselves the apostles of ignorance, but by depre-
ciating one branch of knowledge after another, many
have singularly narrowed the sphere of intellectual
exertion, while some religious zealots have not scru-
pled to decry all profane learning, as opposed to
devotion in general, and especially to humility.*
Scarcely any precept of the inspired writers has been
more dwelt upon than that whereby we are told not
to allow ourselves to be spoilt by philosophy, and to
avoid oppositions of science falsely so called ; and not
unfrequently the word false has been dropped, and
philosophy, in whatever form, been assailed with in-
discriminate obloquy. That desire of knowledge has
its dangers we shall presently see, but what propen-
sity of our nature is free from them ? and he who
should seriously object to curiosity on that account,
ought, likewise, to discourage benevolence as well
as religion, because the one is often misplaced, while

1 See, in particular, the famous work of Thomas a Kempis De
Imitaiione Christi. The forty-third chapter of the third book is
thus entitled, Contra vanam et secularem scientiam.

KNOWLEDGE, OR CURIOSITY. 249

the other gave birth to the crusades, and nerved the
arm of Ravaillae.

What are the elements of the pleasure of know-
ledge, and hence of the desire connected with that
pleasure ? It is certain that as we are formed by
nature to delight in knowledge for its own sake, in-
dependently of its results or practical application, as
well as to be grieved at conscious ignorance, so are
we prompted incessantly to seek the one and shun
the other. This desire is properly called curiosity,
and it is a simple feeling, not susceptible of decom-
position or analysis.

True it is that knowledge leads to innumerable
improvements in social life ; that it is the grand
source of power over nature, animate and inanimate,
and is our guide in the present, our ground of hope
in the future condition of mortality. On account of
this utility, public as well as private, knowledge is
highly prized ; as also on account of the distinction
which attends those who have made more than usual
proficiency. In short, knowledge may be desired as
the means of palpably benefiting ourselves or others,
or as a token of superiority. But genuine curiosity
pursues not knowledge as the means by which other
propensities may be gratified. Here knowledge itself
is the end in view, and though considerations of pri-
vate interest, or public utility, may afterwards occur,
and increase our ardour in study, yet these encourage
or accompany, rather than constitute, curiosity. Desire
of wealth, of fame, of influence, or perhaps general
benevolence, may combine with curiosity to rouse our
intellectual energies, or may direct and cherish it,

250 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

but they are altogether different, and look to different
objects, though they happen to meet by the way ; as
two or more travellers may chance to be thrown to-
gether and may lend mutual assistance, though one
journey for business, another for the mere pleasure of
the trip. It is seldom that men follow any great object
from one motive alone, for when the ruling desire has
pointed out the course, secondary advantages present
themselves, giving rise to new motives, which may even
outlive the original. Thus many a one who in youth
was prompted to acquire learning chiefly by curiosity,
may in after life pursue it as leading to fortune.

And this brings me to remark, that curiosity is not
only very different in degree in different persons, but
is generally strongest in youth, and, unlike ambition
or avarice, is apt to decline with age. As men differ
from each other in the intensity of their desires for
power, fame, or wealth, so likewise in their desire for
knowledge ; and the same individual may scarcely
less differ from himself at distant periods of life. In
some, curiosity may certainly amount to a strong and
durable passion, and suffice to determine a career ;
but in general it is less to be relied on than the desires
above enumerated. It seldom altogether deserts us,
but it is apt soon to tire of one thing, and requires to
be fed by novelty. At times it is so intense as to
drive us into danger with a force not to be resisted,
as when it urged Franklin to draw down lightning
from the clouds. How many chemists have exposed
their lives in making new and hazardous experi-
ments ! and how many run into scenes of tumult
purely from curiosity ! Young medical students have

KNOWLEDGE, OR CURIOSITY. 251

been known seriously to injure their health from trying
the effect of poisons on their own frame. Such is the
strength of this passion, that it often leads us into
scenes which otherwise would be utterly revolting,
and so far overcomes the natural delicacy of women
as to impel them to public executions, and to gaze on
the carcases of the Morgue. Objects naturally most
disgusting to the senses lose all their ugliness in the
eyes of the medical student, who looks upon them as
curious and instructive phenomena in natural history.
Nay, the best feelings of our nature, the ordinary
sentiments of humanity, can be completely stifled by
the predominance of this passion, as when animals
are submitted to the most intense and lengthened
tortures, for the sake of discoveries in physiology,
without an involuntary shudder, or any one symptom
of compunction. It seems doubtful whether love
itself can afford us a more striking instance of desire
so engrossing as to exclude every othei* feeling.

But, in general, curiosity is a far less steady and
durable passion than ambition, covetousness, or love
of glory. A few who have become renowned for
their scientific discoveries have, no doubt, felt its in-
fluence during their whole lives, and in an uniform
direction ; but with the mass it is a wayward pro-
pensity, sometimes attaching itself to this, sometimes
to that, from the most lofty objects to the most low ;
here diving into secrets of state, there into secrets of
families ; at one time tracing the mysteries of politics,
at another prying into personal history, and gossiping
from door to door. It may, indeed, be said, that the
same observation applies to ambition and love of

252 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

glory, that a few only are actuated by them steadily
and in one direction, while the many are led by
them in a more capricious manner, sometimes seek-
ing power or fame in this line, sometimes in that ;
but still those passions seem to have a greater tend-
ency to fix a man, and much more frequently do so,
than curiosity. Besides, the last generally decreases
with age, while the former, on the contrary, increase,
and on that account they are more likely to give per-
manent occupation to the mind.

Why, it may be asked, does curiosity decrease
with age '( The reason seems to be, that it requires
the spur of novelty, and of this, as we advance in
years, there is always less and less. All objects be-
come more and more familiar, and though, in fact,
we may know very little about them, yet such is the
eftect of custom, that we fancy we know them well.
Show a person for the first time the effect of the
magnet and he will be excessively surprised, and
will probably feel an eager curiosity to investigate
the cause of the phenomenon : but this first impulse
being checked, let him daily witness the same occur-
rence, and he will cease to think it so strange. If a
native of Timbuctoo were transported all at once to
Europe, and without previous information were to
see ice, he might more readily be induced to study
the properties of caloric than an Englishman or
Frenchman, who has so often seen water frozen that
he thinks the event unworthy of peculiar attention.
Before Newton, every body had seen heavy bodies
fall to the ground, but no one thought of inquiring
why they did not go upward ; and if a common per-

KNOWLEDGE, OR CURIOSITY. 253

son had put such a question he would probably have
been thought a fool ; for what men have always wit-
nessed, they think could not possibly have been
otherwise, and needs no explanation.

When we first come into the world every thing is
so new, that we cannot but be sensible of our igno-
rance, and desire to be informed, as we see in children
who have constantly in their mouths that puzzling
monosyllable, why ? But as years creep on and cus-
tom gains the ascendancy, though in truth we may
know very little, we forget that we have aught to
learn. Thus, novelty is the nurse of curiosity, cus-
tom the deadly foe, and therefore it is the passion of
youth rather than of age. Novelty makes us see our
ignorance, custom blinds us thereto, and hence the
former stimulates, the latter extinguishes, desire.
When we consider that we enter upon life ignorant
of every thing, and do what we may, that we must
leave it ignorant of most things, it cannot but appear
surprising that cariosity should ever decline ; for as
this desire can never want an object in futurity, it
ought to be insatiable. One truth attained opens up
the view of another, and so on for ever. But this,
like every other desire, requires to be fed, otherwise
it languishes and dies ; it demands more mental ex-
ertion than almost any other ; and the object, know-
ledge, beyond a certain point, leads not surely or
directly to the increase of our personal comforts, or
to the support of our families. The immense majority
of mankind are excluded by dire necessity from ad-
dicting themselves to intellectual pursuits as the main
business of life, and therefore their curiosity dies for

254 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

want of nourishment ; while of those who possess
leisure, few have sufficient energy to conquer the
first difficulties which beset the path of science. They
who might have leisure, and who really have both
ardour and intellect to fit them for any undertaking,
generally prefer the career of wealth or ambition,
because the reward, being there of a palpable nature,
more readily makes an impression ; whereas the re-
ward of knowledge, being inward, may be imagined,
but cannot be seen. Though the delights of investi-
gation, leading to invention and discovery, be among
the greatest we possess, they are felt in secret, and
are known only to the individual ; while the advan-
tages of wealth and power display themselves in out-
ward show, and captivate the senses before they in-
flame the desires. The stately palace, the beautiful
garden and grounds well stocked with fruit and game,
the long retinue of servants, and costly equipages,
strike directly upon the eye and rouse the passion of
covetousness; but no one witnessesthe lonely student,
though wrapt in an elysium of joy. Among the
sources of fallacy common to the whole human race,
or the idola tribus of Bacon, the undue importance
given to what is outward over what is inward, to the
visible and tangible over the purely mental, ought
never to be forgotten.

Curiosity is a desire which shows itself in our ear-
liest years; it impels the infant to stretch out his
little arms to seize and examine the objects before
his eye, and as he grows in strength and faculties,
curiosity increases along with them. Nothing is more
remarkable than the inquisitiveness of children, and

KNOWLEDGE, OR CURIOSITY. 255

nothing is more puzzling or embarrassing, for they
frequently put questions which their elders either
will not or cannot answer. As by their sincerity
they often wound our vanity, so by their wish for
knowledge they make us aware of our ignorance.
Moreover, the greater the curiosity the brighter is
the promise of the child, for it is valuable both as a
cause and a symptom ; a cause because it stimulates
to the acquisition of knowledge, a symptom, because
it is generally found in degree proportional to the in-
tellectual faculties. A child without curiosity might
be fairly put down as a dunce.

I before remarked that a question had been started,
whether all desire arise from the prospect of pleasure
or of relief from pain, or whether it do not in the
first instance precede all such consideration ; and at
the same time I observed, that this being a purely
metaphysical question, of no manifest influence on
practice, it was not necessarily included within the
range of the present inquiry. Consequently, I shall
not here pretend to determine whether curiosity do
or do not originally spring from the view of pleasure
or pain ; but shall content myself with one observa-
tion of great practical importance, and which seems
to be indisputable. Though it were granted that
desire first springs up spontaneously, yet it must be
allowed that pleasure, and especially pain, greatly in-
fluence it afterwards ; and in the present case, the
pain of ignorance is a prodigious incentive to curio-
sity. Whoever has looked within him will agree, that
his zeal for knowledge was never so ardent as when
he had been made to feel his deficiency. To get rid

256 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

of this humiliation, we eagerly set to work to pro-
cure all the information in our power, and cannot
rest till our object has been attained. Hence the ad-
vantage of conducting young persons to visit such
persons and places as may make them sensible how
little they know. When a boy I was taken to see
the Tower, and on entering the room where several
kings of England are represented on horseback and
in armour, I was so grieved at knowing nothing of
their achievements, that I instantly procured a history,
and devoured it with avidity.

He who will be the first in company must bid adieu
to all improvement; and they who are brought up en-
tirely at home are somewhat in the same position,
for they see none of their own age superior to them-
selves ; while he who frequents the society of the
truly learned, and they who go to public schools or
colleges, are soon awakened to a sense of their in-
feriority. There is, probably, no stronger argument
in favour of public education than this, that it makes
a boy aware of his ignorance, and then if he feel it
not, his case is hopeless.

When we consider curiosity in its effects upon hu-
man happiness, we must proclaim it a truly delight-
ful passion. While in common with the other passions
it occupies and animates the mind, dispels ennui,
melancholy, and all imaginary ills, it is peculiarly
full of variety, and exempt from the evils to which
the rest are liable. The objects of the other passions
may not only be never attained, but when attained,
they may be readily lost, or may please us less than
we expected ; while knowledge, to a certain extent,

KNOWLEDGE, OR CURIOSITY. 257

can hardly be missed by him who pursues it in ear-
nest, and when possessed it can also be kept, and is
sure to reward its votaries. Hence curiosity is little
exposed to that anxiety -and disappointment which
are the principal drawbacks to the other ruling de-
sires, and on that account it must be more favour-
able to happiness. Not that it is free from all un-
easiness, for the pain of unsatisfied curiosity is con-
siderable, and in striving to solve difficulties the mind
is put upon the rack, and can find repose neither by
day nor night. In some rare instances this has even
gone so far as quite to overthrow the reason. But in
general these pains are no more than sufficient to keep
desire alive and lead to advancement in knowledge,
and they certainly cannot be compared vi^ith those
which wait upon the other passions. When they be-
come too irksome, they admit moreover of a ready
alleviation, for society, travel, or any other amuse-
ment, may serve to dissipate the thoughts, and give
fresh vigour to a mind fatigued with long exertion.
This is one reason why literary men prefer to reside
in cities, where a multiplicity of objects, and a con-
stant movement, tend without an effort to change the
current of their ideas.

Closely connected with the above is another grand
advantage of curiosity, that it can be gratified inde-
pendently of others, whereas love, ambition, covetous-
ness, and desire of fame, require the concourse of our
fellow-men. Though this circumstance may prevent
curiosity from becoming the passion of many, it ren-
ders it peculiarly safe, and therefore well adapted to
those sensitive natures, who from dread of pain shun

s

258 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

the busy world, and are terrified at the vicissitudes
of active life. Those who are so constituted as to
feel reverses deeply, while they are ill calculated to
struggle against them, do - well to choose the safe
path ; though it would be absurd to say that all men
should follow their example. Some shake off dis-
appointment much more readily than others, and
though they may fall, they soon rise again with
alacrity. In vain would we dissuade such persons
from the active scenes of life, and it would be ill if
we could dissuade them, for these scenes are suited
to their nature, and they would probably be less
happy in any other. Still, it is true, that curiosity
is almost the only passion than can hardly be too
much encouraged ; first, because its object is highly
useful ; secondly, because after youth it is apt to
decline, rather than increase ; and lastly, because it
is a solitary independent passion, which animates
individual existence, without endangering our own
peace of mind or the happiness of our neighbour.
General benevolence is no doubt to be preferred,
though this very rarely amounts to a passion, but
when it does, it is the noblest of all ; so that the most
social and the most solitary of our desires are the two
which best we may promote.

Curiosity is the proper passion of studious men,
and though it need not exclude other and auxiliary
desires, such as desire of fame, or even of wealth,
yet scarcely any one ever attained to excellence in
science, who did not pursue knowledge chiefly for its
own sake. An eagerness for fame or wealth is often
a real obstacle to perfection, for it prompts us to con-

KNOWLEDGE, OR CURIOSITY. 259

suit the passing taste of the day, and to rush before
the public with crude and superficial performances.
Even the desire of doing good may have a similar
effect, especially when combined with the desire of
extending our influence, for neither can bear to wait.
The student certainly requires to be stimulated by
every motive, but curiosity ought to be the chief, and
order all the rest ; for his direct object being the
acquisition of truth, that passion alone which looks
to it can never lead him astray.

Many of those pursuits which occupy mankind, and
which are either manual, or uniform, or both, rather
give pain than any direct pleasure, and, therefore, they
are submitted to solely for the end in view. They are
useful no doubt in expelling ennui, imaginary ills, and
the whole train of melancholy and hypochondriacal
feelings, and the cessation of labour always has a
charm. But what an advantage is enjoyed by those
who, having both taste and opportunity, addict them-
selves to intellectual pursuits ; for as Bacon has ob-
served, scientific and literary men are the only persons
to whom labour itself is pleasurable. In common with
others they have an agreeable object in view, but
instead of thorns, their way is strewed with flowers.

A love of study is also valuable on this account,
that it prevents us from dwelling too much on our
own aflPairs. Much of that care and anxiety to be
met with in men of the world arises from the habit
of constantly pondering on their private concerns,
for as every object grows more important in our eyes
the more we reflect upon it, petty difliculties thus
swell into insuperable obstacles, and distant dangers

260 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

into imminent ruin. On this subject I cannot do
better than transcribe the words of one of the most
talented women of her age. " The attention which
study requires, by withdrawing our thoughts from
personal interests, prepares us for judging them
better. In reality, an abstract truth always becomes
clearer the more we reflect upon it ; but an affair, an
event which affects us, is exaggerated and perverted,
when we are occupied about it perpetually. Since
the judgment which we ought to pass upon such
matters depends upon a small number of ideas,
simple and quickly perceived ; whatever more time
we give to them is wholly filled up with the illusions
of the imagination and the heart. These illusions,
becoming soon inseparable from the object itself, ab-
sorb the soul by the immense career which they
open up to fears and regrets. The wise moderation
of studious philosophers depends, perhaps, as much
on the little time which they devote to dreaming on
the events of life, as on the courage with which they
support them."^

It is scarcely necessary to remark that this want of
attention to our private affairs may sometimes be
carried too far, as by those book-worms who entirely
neglect their families. Some striking instances in
point have fallen under my own observation ; and
others, no doubt, have met w^ith similar. This seems
to be an inconvenience peculiarly attached to the
love of study on account of its solitary nature ; for
though other passions may engross the mind as much,

2 Madame de Stael De L'Influence des Passions, sect. iii. ch. iii.

KNOWLEDGE, OR CURIOSITY. 261

they generally lead us into a career in which the in-
terest of our family and friends is pursued along with
our own. The enjoyments of the student being so
private as not to be shared even with those immedi-
ately around him, these he is rather apt to forget, and
since his pursuits are such as seldom lead to wealth,
he may prove no better guardian of the fortune than
of the mental improvement of his children. Men of
business may have no more time to devote to their fami-
lies than men of letters ; but they are generally more
occupied about them ; partly because their line of life
leads them more to think of domestic interests, partly
because, in general, they meet with more sympathy
at home. A man's family may not care much for his
discoveries, but they are sure to be gratified with
his increasing wealth and distinction. The life of a
student is divided into two parts, having scarcely
any point of contact, one passed in his closet, or
with literary associates, the other in the society of
his near relations ; whereas the active and the private
life of a professional man are connected in many ways.
Besides, literature being its own reward, its own de-
light, the student who requires recreation often seeks
it by varying his pursuit ; while the man of busi-
ness, being unused to such solitary pleasure, loves
more to unbend with his family, when fatigued with
the drudgery of the day. These observations chiefly
apply to the case in which curiosity is the ruling
passion, for if a man pursue literature chiefly as a
source of gain, he partakes of the nature of one who
is engaged in an ordinary profession.

Knowledge, it is said, puffeth up, and so it often

262 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

does, especially a smattering of knowledge ; and
Bacon's remark on Atheism is also applicable to
pride. " It is true," says he, " that a little philosophy
inclineth man's mind to Atheism, but depth in philo-
sophy bringeth men's minds about to Religion ; for
while the mind of man looketh upon second causes
scattered, it may sometimes rest in them, and go no
further : but when it beholdeth the chain of them
confederate and linked together, it must needs fly to
Providence and Deity." ^ In like manner, a little
philosophy may rouse the pride of man, but depth in
philosophy bringeth him back to humility ; for if he
go just so far as to be sensible of his superiority over
the mass, without advancing far enough to perceive
how little he knows as compared with what is to be
known, he will probably feel elated. Every thing de-
pends upon the way in which we institute the com-
parison, whether we compare our attainments with
what we have left behind, or with what remains be-
fore ; and he who is young in philosophy can hardly
avoid looking backward, for thus he becomes sensi-
ble of his advancement, while the novelty of his pro-
ficiency excites both astonishment and delight. Nor
can he easily escape the conclusion that what gives him
such gratification must really be something extraordi-
nary. Pride then is the rock which has proved fatal
to many who are called philosophers ; for rather than
think with the vulgar they have run into paradox and
infidelity. With persons of this stamp, the greatest
objection to any opinion is, that it is commonly re-
ceived ; and were unbelief to become general, they

^ Essays ; of Atheism.

KNOWLEDGE, OR CURIOSITY. 263

might take up religion. Modesty, on the other hand,
is the characteristic of real superiority, both as a cause
and an effect ; a cause, for the consciousness of our
ignorance is the first step to knowledge ; an effect,
for the more the mind expands, the more it becomes
sensible how much remains to be known.

Another sort of curiosity which may be just men-
tioned, is that which prompts us to discover and ex-
plore distant lands, or, at least, to visit countries which
have been long known to others, but not to us. Travel
is the first of amusements, and it may be no less in-
structive than amusing ; but curiosity is necessary
to urge us to undertake it, or to give it the full zest ;
for travel always requires an effort and the sacrifice
of our favourite ease. When this first effort is got
over, travel may be one of the greatest enjoyments in
life, or, at least, may dissipate care and sorrow ; for
it combines many elements of happiness, activity,
variety, novelty, and contrast, gratifies our desire of
knowledge, and our taste for the beauties of art and
nature. To some, love of travel may become a per-
fect passion composed of many elementary desires,
and to all who enjoy health, it might diversify and
enliven existence, if indolence could once be over-
come. How important to nurse the curiosity which
leads to a resource so rational, innocent, and lively !

It must be allowed that curiosity, like every other
passion, may lead us into danger and calamity. The
fall of man was owing to female curiosity ; and many
of the descendants of our first parents have been vic-
tims to a similar desire. How many travellers have
paid with their lives for their eagerness to explore
the interior of Africa ; and how many have brought

264 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

ruin on themselves by diving into secrets in which
they had no concern ! In the novel of Caleb Williams,
we have a highly wrought picture of the fatal effects
of curiosity, for all the misfortunes of the hero v/ere
owing to his irresistible desire to peep into the iron
chest.

We have already remarked that curiosity may
harden the heart to an extraordinary degree, in cases
where the gratification of the passion is at stake, as
we instanced in those physiologists who are in the
habit of making experiments upon living animals.
The first physiologist in France has obtained a sad
notoriety on this account. It would be rash to say
that experiments ought never to be made upon live
animals, but he who undertakes them without a de-
cided end, who prolongs them unnecessarily, and ex-
hibits them merely to gratify the vain curiosity of
by-standers, or to make a show of his own discoveries,
ought to be told that nothing is more detestable than
science leading to inhumanity. The more important
is anything, the more alarmed we are at its abuse,
for we cannot tell where this may end, and we dread
to lose what we had always thought a friend ; and,
therefore, the perverters of science, as well as the
perverters of religion, are worthy of all execration.'*

* We ought to hope that physiology may in time improve the
practice of medicine, but as yet how little has it done so ! It
would be difficult to say what practical benefit has been derived
even from that greatest of discoveries, the circulation of the blood.
It certainly produced no decided revolution in medicine, however
mu h it may have modified the various theories on that subject.
In anatomy, physiology, and surgery, the French have no supe-
riors ; but what shall we say of their physicians ! While other
sciences have advanced, as it were, in a straight line, medicine

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 265

Lastly, curiosity may degenerate into a petty in-
quisitiveness leading to gossip and scandal, and con-
stitute a mere busy body. Indeed, this form of the
desire often survives all others ; as we see in those
w^ho, having lost all taste for useful knowledge, con-
tinue to busy themselves in prying into their neigh-
bour's affairs. This sort of curiosity is more common
in villages and small towns, than in capitals, partly be-
cause it is there more easily gratified, partly because
those afford fewer objects of amusement. There is
far more gossiping in Edinburgh or Bath, than in
London, and more in London than in Paris, where
the population is more condensed, and where there
are fewer idle servants and retainers. Where each
house is occupied by one family only, the neighbours
may know something of what they do, and what
company they keep ; but where there are, perhaps,
a dozen families under the same roof, it is difficult to
learn anything about any of them. Besides, it is the
custom in London to keep many more servants than in
Paris, and these have often nothing better to do than
to seek out all the scandal of the neighbourhood.

Section Yll.— Desire of Continued Existence.

The last desire which we purpose to consider, is that
which is essential to all the others and to every en-
joyment. Continued Existence.

has rather revolved in a circle, returning periodically to the same
point. I say this not to dissuade any one from the study of phy-
siology, but only from vpantonly practising on living animals, for
the torture we inflict is certain, while the utility to be gained is
exceedingly remote and doubtful.

266 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Desire of life is of a simple and also a very abstract
nature; for it looks but to one object, and to that object
in the most general point of view, without reference
to the various states in which it may exist. It re-
gards not the various modifications of our being, but
that being itself in whatever condition it may be
found. So the fear which corresponds to the desire,
looks not to particular circumstances which may at-
tend or follow death, but to death in whatever form
it may occur. No doubt those circumstances may
diminish or increase our horror, but still there is a
dread totally independent of them, which arises on the
bare thought of dissolution.

It is evident that desire of life cannot be one of our
earliest desires, for in order to wish for the continuance
of anything, we must have some idea of what it is,
and also be able to conceive its loss. Now for a long
time, a child has no notion either of life or death ;
and therefore he can neither desire the one nor fear
the other.

A simple child

That lightly draws its breath.
And feels its life in every limb.
What should it know of death ?i

After a time the idea of death arises from witness-
ing it in animals, and with it comes a notion of life
by contrast ; and then when the child is told that he
also shall cease to be, he begins to conceive what is
meant, and feels a vague and transitory dread, followed
by a wish for existence. This is the way in which

1 Wordsworth.

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 267

the desire is first called forth, and it may long be
dormant for want of knowledge and even of ideas.

Afterwards, many causes contribute to increase the
desire of life. The first and most evident is the plea-
sure we feel in existence ,* for it is difficult to con-
ceive that we could heartily long for that which was
associated with no enjoyment. Whether or not the
consideration of this pleasure precede the primary
movement of desire, may, indeed, be a question for
metaphysicians, and is certainly one of curiosity ; but
be this as it may, we cannot doubt that thoughts of
pleasure strongly act upon it afterwards. And so in-
timate is the association between life and enjoyment,
the means and the end, that it is not wonderful that
the last should often be overlooked, and life be de-
sired for its own sake ; as is the case with other
things in general, and with riches in particular.
Wealth is desired first for its various uses, but after-
wards for itself; and in some instances, it is so much
loved that its uses are unheeded or forgotten. So
likewise we meet with persons who are so much at-
tached to life, that for the sake of it they would sacri-
fice almost everything which renders life a blessing;

" Et propter vitam vivendi perdere causam."

Thus desire of existence becomes a feeling distinct
from every other ; even from the general desire of
enjoyment out of which it may have arisen, and where-
by it is at least confirmed.

Though love of life for its own sake, depends so
much upon the happiness associated with it, yet far
from varying in proportion to our enjoyments, desire

268 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

of existence is often weakest in the young-, who are
full of delight and hope, and most intense in the old,
who have fewer interests present or in prospect.
Disease has frequently the same effect as age, and
causes us to cling to life with unwonted pertinacity.
These phenomena are readily accounted for on the
principle o{ privation, for when we fear to lose any-
thing, we always value it the more. Age and disease,
by bringing death more near, cause us to fear the loss
of life, and hence to prize the remains of it more
highly. While there is nothing to suggest the pro-
bability of death, we neither really fear it, nor posi-
tively desire life, as is the case with the hi^h-spirited,
the hopeful, and the thoughtless ; but when danger,
age, infirmities, low spirits, or a reflective turn, calls
up the king of terrors, the wish for existence, which
was formerly dormant, rises into full activity. Here
fear not only stimulates the desire as in other cases,
but it seems to do more, for it causes this to spring-
up. But for the former we never should have known
the latter.

Though a general resemblance runs through all
our desires, in their phenomena, causes, and conse-
quences, yet some are more alike than others. There
is probably no passion which so much resembles de-
sire of life as avarice. Avarice is wont to increase
with age, and so is desire of existence ; and as fear
is the grand cause or promoter of the one, so of the
other. Those who enjoy life most, are often prodigal
of it by running into dangers and excesses ; as they
who most enjoy riches, are apt to become spendthrifts :
while the old and infirm, who derive little pleasure

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 269

from life, frequently cling to it eagerly, as misers who
have no comforts are the most anxious for riches. The
general principle to be deduced from these facts is
this, that the intensity of our desires depends not
merely on the amount of enjoyment expected, but
also on the degree of fear of missing or losing the ob-
ject ; and according as one or other is most present
to the mind, so the passion will change its character.
In youth there is comparatively little foresight, and
consequently little apprehension, but the zest for en-
joyment is keen, while in age it is just the contrary ;
and, therefore, the passions of the former will be
roused by the prospect of pleasure, and those of the
latter will follow the impulse of fear. Where the
mind is naturally timid, or unusually reflective and
low-spirited, the same results will follow at whatever
period of our career ; and we shall witness youth
hoarding like age, or sighing for length of life. Fear
is either constitutional or the result of circumstances,
particularly of early education and subsequent ex-
perience of danger, and in general is promoted rather
than cured by reflection ; for danger, like other things,
swells into importance the more it is dwelt upon.
To remember, may be prudent ; but we must forget, to
become courageous.

Thus conscience* does make cowards of us all ;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.^

2 Conscience, reflection. ' Hamlet, Act iii.

270 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Desire of life is a feeling common to all men, cer-
tainly as lasting as any, and even apt to increase with
age, but it seems to be surpassed in intensity by other
desires. Not only can it be mastered by many other
passions, but it may even be extinguished, and re-
placed by a contrary wish. Desire of glory, or of
self- approbation, and their opposites, fear of dis-
grace, or of self-condemnation ; love, ambition, pa-
triotism, even covetousness and curiosity, can so far
conquer our love of life, as to make us rush into im-
minent danger. Nay, men have been led by them
to submit to certain death. If Regulus had chosen
to break his word, he might have remained at Rome
in safety ; and had Sir Thomas More and Lady Jane
Grey agreed to profess a change of religious opinion,
they would, probably, have escaped the scaffold.
Desire of posthumous fame, or fear of being humbled
and disgraced by submitting to the power of Csesar,
prompted Cato to die by his own hand. The dulce
€t decorum est pt^o patria mori, was a principle not
only taught, but practised by the ancient Romans.*

It may be said that, in very many cases, men do
not see the danger to which they expose themselves,
or else they would not be so bold, and this we have
already allowed. But that they do not see it, is ex-
actly because they are under the influence of excite-
ment, that is of some other passion, which blinds
their judgment and expels desire of life. This is
an instance of the principle oi' occupation ; for any
strong feeling may so engross the mind as to ex-

* Consider the Fabii, the Decii, &c. &c.

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 271

elude every other, and suspend the exercise of reason.
If the danger be such as is manifest to a disinterested
spectator, though not to the party concerned, it is
evident that passion alone makes the difference.
" The pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious
war," greatly fill the mind, and prevent it from dwell-
ing on danger; and fear of death, when it does recur,
is overcome by fear of ignominy. When danger is
distant, hopefulness and courage may be owing partly
to ignorance, partly to impetuosity of desire ; but
when it is near and palpable, they must be attributed
to the latter alone. Two men who have quarrelled,
and agreed to exchange shots within a few paces of
each other, must be aware of the danger; but revenge
or honour overcomes the wish for existence. How
can men be found to make up the forlorn hope ? In
this case, death is all but certain, and it must be
known to be so, yet in general there is no demur.
This fact is really extraordinary, and admits but of
one explanation, that desire of life is inferior in in-
tensity to others. The most unwholesome occupa-
tions are eagerly sought after, provided the pay be
high ; though it be well known that life will be
shortened.^ Indeed when we reflect upon the as-

5 The forest of Fontainebleau is full of sandy rocks, which are
mucli used for paving the roads in France. The men who are
employed in quarrying these stones and forming them into squares,
never live long, for they are constantly inhaling the dust; but as
they get good wages there is no want of hands. The same re-
mark applies to the trade of knife-grinders and many others,
St. Roch being the patron saint of stone-cutters, when these fall
into consumption, it is commonly said at Fontainebleau that they
are pris par St. Roch.

272 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

tonishing recklessness of man in hazarding that which
can never be recalled, we might sometimes almost
doubt whether he valued life at all, and though
ignorance and thoughtlessness may in part account
for the phenomenon, yet unless the wish for existence
were weaker than other active principles of our nature,
we could not solve the mystery. When men are ac-
tuated by any strong passion, we generally find them
thoughtful enough on that score, and ready to seize
every opportunity of securing their object. If then
desire of existence were really a powerful passion,
would life be so frequently hazarded, nay, almost
thrown away ?

But desire of life may not only be conquered by a
stronger passion, but it may be replaced by a con-
trary wish, and instead of loving we may come to
hate our existence. Bodily suffering and grief in
some form or other are the only real causes of the
phenomenon. This observation applies to the case
in which death is positively wished for, since to van-
quish the fear of death is one thing, really to desire
it another. Moreover the remark does not apply to
those instances where death is sought as a passage
to a higher state of existence, as we are told it was
by some of the disciples of Socrates ; and still is by
Indian widows, who burn themselves on the tombs
of their husbands. In the early ages of Christianity,
when zeal was warm and faith stedfast, the crown of
martyrdom was positively sought for by many, so that
edicts against voluntary martyrdom became neces-
sary. In such cases desire of life is far from being
extinguished, it only assumes another form. But he

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 273

who has long lain on a bed of sickness, and long en-
dured acute pain, becomes at last disgusted with life,
which affords him no enjoyment, and welcomes death
as a happy release from suffering.^

Nor is man always content to wait his natural end,
but sometimes terminates his career by an act of self-
destruction. This must be allowed to be one of the
most remarkable phenomena of human nature. That
men, often in the prime of their days, even in delight-
ful youth, possessing those faculties which render man
an image of the Deity, and with all this beautiful
and stirring world around them, should voluntarily
give up every thing, and madly rush to the tomb,
can hardly fail to strike a philosophic mind. How
can men thus fling away every present advantage,
and every hope in the future ; or how, in a word,
can they will their own ruin ?

The pressure of calamity can alone explain the
mystery. Desire of life may be extinguished by

^ Mental distress may have the same effect. Thus Constance,
in an agony of grief, exclaims : —

O amiable lovely death !

Come, grin on me ; and I vv^ill think thou smil'st,

And buss thee as thy wife ! Misery's love,

O, come to me ! King John, Act v. Scene 4.

Job asks, " Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery,
and life unto the bitter in soul; which long for death, but it
cometh not; and dig for it more than for hid treasures; which
rejoice exceedingly, and are glad, when they can find the grave ?"
eh. iii. 20. Again, " My soul chooseth strangling and death,
rather than my life. I loathe it ; I would not live alway : let
me alone; for my days are vanity." Ch. vii. 15.

T

274 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

acute or lasting misery of any kind, whether sudden
or unexpected reverses of fortune, loss of character,
disappointment in love, or in any violent passion,
constitutional melancholy leading on to madness, or
lastly, as is said, by ennui.^ Thus there are two sorts
of unhappiness which may lead to the same result,
the one violent and sudden, the other slow and
gradual ; the former insupportable from its present
acuteness, the other from its long continuance, which
increases every momentary pain by the remembrance
of all that is past. But the case of real madness ex-
cepted, suicide most frequently proceeds from the
pressure of some violent calamity, which for a time
renders life so wretched that the unfortunate indivi-
dual thinks he cannot get rid of it too soon. Could
he reflect, he might change his opinion ; but reflect
he cannot, for his mind is wholly occupied with grief.
This is, probably, the most emarkable instance that
can be brought forward of the effect of occupation ;
for the soul is so filled with the painful emotion, that
past and future, self and kindred, interest and duty,
are all alike forgotten.^

7 " Nay, Seneca adds, niceness and satiety ; Cogita quam diu
eademfaceres ; Mori velle non tantum Fortis, aut Miser, sed etiam
Fastidiosus potest. A man would die though he were neither
valiant nor miserable, only upon a weariness to do the same
thing so oft over and over." Bacon s Essays, Of Death. A few
years ago a young man killed himself at Versailles, and the cause
assigned by himself in writing was the tcedium vitce ! A young
man complaining of weariness of life !

^ Take among a thousand, the case of Nourrit, the French ac-
tor, who, in the prime of life, and with a large family to provide
for, killed himself in a fit of vexation, because he thought that his
talents had not been duly appreciated.

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 275

Indifference to life comes near to a positive wish
for its termination, and this also is produced by bodily
pain or by mental misery. It is worthy of remark,
however, that bodily pain seems never to be a cause
of suicide ; whether it be that grief is more engros-
sing and uninterrupted than uneasy sensation, or that
corporal suffering so lowers the tone of the mind, as
to render it incapable of vigorous desire of any kind.
Acute bodily pain rarely continues long without an
interval of ease, and ease is then a positive delight,
so that when the pain recurs, there is always hope
of its speedy termination ; whereas mental agony has
no remission.

From what has been above said, we should suppose
that characters of impetuous passion and keen sensi-
bility ought to be more liable to suicide, than slow,
thoughtful, and persevering natures ; for suicide may
sometimes be a deliberate act, but it is much more
frequently the result of sudden impulse. Agreeably
to this view, it is far more common among the young
and middle-aged than the old. This fact, at the same
time, serves to corroborate what has been above re-
marked, that desire of life is apt to increase with age ;
for this of course is directly opposed to self-destruc-
tion. Moral, and particularly religious principle, are
other counteracting causes ; and if these decline
among a people of hasty temper, we cannot be sur-
prised to find suicides multiply in an unwonted de-
gree.^

9 Every one must have been struck by the number of suicides
which annually take place in Paris. In the year 1826, there
were 511 by the official account ; and the number has probably

276 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

From the principle above stated, that desire of life
is apt to be overcome by many other passions, we may
derive one great practical application. This is the
inadequacy of capital punishments to prevent the
commission of crime. If mere love of existence be
frequently insufficient to restrain other passions, nei-
ther will it be a due check to the passions of the
malefactor. Conscience and religion may no doubt
lend their aid, but if these be once overcome, fear of
death will be powerless. This conclusion seems also
agreeable to experience, for the inefficacy of capital
punishments has long been a theme for remark and
wonder. Mr. Livingstone, framer of the new penal
code for Louisiana, has brought forward many exam-

increased since, for we read of them now more than ever. Out
of the above 511, there were 417 cases in which the causes of
the act are assigned. These were love, family distresses, pecuniary
embarrassments, and gaming. Under this last head there are 69
cases. We may remark, that it does not follow from this state-
ment, that these were the only instances in which gaming was the
cause of suicide ; for in nearly 100 the cause is unknown, and it
is impossible to say to what extent those pecuniary embarrass-
ments, &c. may have had their origin in gaming. It was formerly
thought that England exceeded all countries in the number
of suicides, but this was probably a mistake arising from the
greater publicity given to them through the coroner's inquest and
the press. If a coroner's jury were to sit upon every such case
in France, especially in Paris, how frightful would the array
appear ! The French are a hasty people, and there is probably
less religion in Paris than in any city in Europe, particularly
among the lower and middle ranks ; for whatever religion there
may be, it is almost confined to the upper. The churches are
pretty well attended by the rich and their servants, but are alto-
gether deserted by the working people. Nor do the morals of
the latter stand much higher than their religion.

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 277

pies to prove how little influence has the fear of death
upon hardened criminals. This, at least, should be a
reason for confining capital punishments to a few
flagrant cases, for would we take away life to no
purpose ?

On the consequences of love of existence, little need
be said. It is often made a ground of reproach, be-
cause it indicates fear, and is intimately associated
with cowardice ; and to this unquestionably it leads,
when it becomes excessive and overpowers all other
desires. And as nothing can be more unfavourable
to happiness than cowardice, so an over- weening love
of life which tends to it, must also be opposed to
felicity. Still, this is a feeling essential to our own
preservation, and a safeguard to that of others ; for
whatever its strength may be, to that extent it is a
motive to prevent us from injuring our neighbour,
and were it destroyed, the feelings of humanity would
commonly be extirpated also. One who did not re-
gard his own life, would be fit for the most daring
acts, whether for good or ill ; and most probably for
the latter, since he could hardly be supposed to have
much tenderness of soul. He would be a truly for-
midable person. No doubt he might be a hero, but
he would be more likely to prove a villain. For none
are so courageous as those who are indifferent to life ;
and such indifference generally proceeds from misery,
and vice, the parent of misery. This recklessness is
an element necessary to form a monster like unto
Fieschi ; and were it to become general, would be
dangerous to any society. Nowhere, probably, is
it more widely spread, than among the lowest popu-

278 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

lace of Paris, and nowhere, therefore, are there better
materials for revolt. The gamins de Paris are a very
peculiar race, some of them mere boys, all utterly un-
principled, reckless of their own lives, and indiffeient
to those of others, but delighting in the excitement
of conflict, and in the hopes of revolutionary triumph.
Such is the array ever ready to obey the word of those
ardent political leaders who abound in the French
metropolis.

Be it remembered, that the very same effects may
bfe produced by a firm and generous desire overcom-
ing the fear of death, or by indifference to life, the re-
sult of vice and misery. Therefore, the appearance
of courage, far from being a sure token of excellence,
may be a sign of the contrary. None show greater
symptoms of courage than the blood-thirsty rioters of
Paris. Duelling is defended as necessary to make
people behave themselves, but if we fear not to lose
our life, what becomes of this check ?

But not only the habits and temper of mind which
render men indifferent to their own existence, are
also at war with their humanity, but love of our own
life has a direct tendency to make us respect our
neighbour's. In general, what we value ourselves,
we suppose to be valued by others, and the feelings
which we best know we treat with most tenderness.
Accordingly, the wish for self-preservation warning
us that others wish alike, we cannot but sympathise
with them, and feel averse to the shedding of blood.
And this reluctance may extend itself, not only to our
fellow-creatures, but even to the animal creation ; for
to one who reflects, and is not rendered dull by cus-

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 279

torn, it must always appear awful to destroy that
work of Omnipotence, that first of all wonders, that
admirable contrivance and sublime mystery, which
we call by the name of Life.

Though desire of life be necessary to our own pre-
servation, and a safeguard to that of others, it is
about the least agreeable of the passions, because so
much mixed with fear. In this respect, again, it
bears a strong resemblance to avarice. The desire
of saving and the desire of living are not only useful
but absolutely essential, in a degree, and were they
eradicated, dreadful would be the consequences ;
and though they may err by excess, and even wholly
expel other and nobler desires, yet their absence would
be as fatal to man, as to the earth the want of rain,
which, though necessary to vegetation and beauty,
may sometimes flood our fields, and ruin the hopes of
the husbandman.

II. Hitherto we have considered desire of life as
having this world only in view, and as limited to the
extension of an existence which we know must come to
a close. But the wishes of man are not to be bounded
by the transitory scene before him. Neither death,
nor corruption, can restrain those eager hopes which
look beyond the grave to a life without termination ;
" where we shall renew our strength; where we
shall mount up with wings as eagles ; where we shall
run and not be weary ; we shall walk and not faint."
What a subject for contemplation is this ! what a
source of emotion ! and what interest and dignity is
added to our present life, if it be the preparation for
a better ! However valuable anything may be in

280 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

itself, it greatly rises in our estimation if it lead to
something more ; and, therefore, our mortal career
must assume a far higher importance, if it point to
immortality. Hence we are brought to entertain a
greater respect for our species, and more exalted no-
tions as to the dignity of human nature ; sentiments
not only exceedingly favourable to humanity, but
encouraging to every one who really aims at excel-
lence. The more noble any animal is, the less can
we bear to see it abused, as we are more shocked
with cruelty to a horse or elephant, than to a dog or
cat ; and therefore the notion of immortality which
ennobles our race is favourable to good treatment
from man to man. Though the soul were sup-
posed to perish with the body, philanthropists might
still wish to see the negro at liberty ; but how cold
and feeble would be their efforts as compared with
those of men warmed with religious zeal, who abhor
slavery, not only as inhuman, but as degrading to an
immortal Being, Accordingly, it is impossible to
deny that the abolition of the slave trade, and since,
of slavery itself in our colonies, has been owing chiefly
to the strenuous exertions of the friends of religion.

Having endeavoured, in another work, to trace the
connection between Religion and Politics, and having
shown that the former is peculiarly favourable to civil
liberty, and hence to the welfare of society ; ^° it here
remains to be seen what is the influence of religion
upon the temporal happiness of the individual. As
the former question belongs to political, so the latter
to moral science, and they ought to be considered

'° See Political Discourses, Dis. ii. on Civil Liberty.

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 281

apart in works dedicated to these subjects respec-
tively.

Whatever religion may have prevailed among any
portion of mankind, at any time or place, it has em-
braced at least two fundamental dogmas. These are
the belief in the existence of a Deity or Deities, i. e.
of a Being or Beings superior to man in power and
intelligence, and the belief that He takes some inte-
rest in the affairs of men, and exercises an influence
over them. In order that religion should be really a
living principle and have some effect upon practice,
these two dogmas are necessary ; for the existence of a
Deity, the Creator of the universe, would be a purely
speculative truth, were He not supposed to be its
governor. Even in that case, such a Being would
be justly considered as the noblest object of human
contemplation, and to trace His attributes from the
works we see would be one of the most elevatino" and
improving exercises of our reasoning faculties. The
discovery and conception of one all-wise and all-
powerful Creator of the universe, would of itself
prove how admirable a creature is man, how fitted
for the purest and highest intellectual joys, and
therefore how degraded he ought to appear in his
own eyes when given up to vice and sensuality.

Though such a Being might occupy a philosophic
mind, yet the belief in His existence could have no
direct influence on practice, were He supposed to
take no part in the government of human affairs. A
Deity or Deities of this nature, might be granted by
those who are the most opposed to religion ; as for
instance, by the poet Lucretius :

282 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

Oranis enim per se divAm natiira necesse est
Immortali sevo summa cum pace fruatiir,
Semota ab nostris rebus, sejunctaque longe.^^

The belief in a Providence then, is as essential to
practical religion, as the belief in a Deity to religion
of any kind.

Though these two fundamental dogmas are found
in every religion M^hich really has prevailed upon the
earth, yet they have been modified in a great variety
of w^ays. Sometimes the notions of God have been
as gross and narrow as the minds of the savages who
entertained them ; at other times, they have been
large and refined : here many deities have been wor-
shipped ; there one only has been adored. Among
some sects, temporal advantages have been chiefly
looked to from God, among others, a happy immor-
tality in a life to come. This in particular is the
article of faith which we here propose to consider, as
it influences the happiness of man in his present tran-
sitory state.

It cannot be the object of a M^ork such as this to
prove any of the great doctrines of religion ; but sup-
posing them true, or at least believed to be so, to
trace the moral consequences of such belief.

The w^ritings of moralists and poets have at all
times abounded with reflections on the miseries vi^hich
flesh is heir to, and allow^ing these to have been some-
v^^hat exaggerated, in order to strengthen an argument
or excite emotion, there w^ill still remain far too much
of truth. And though it be further allow^ed, that

11 De Rerum Natura, lib. i v. 58. ,

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 283

authors have not unfreqaently been men of a melan-
choly temperament, and, therefore, inclined to view
everything through a dark medium, yet after every
deduction, the sum of ill in the world must always
be thought considerable. Some ills peculiarly belong-
to certain conditions of life, others to certain, ages,
others again to sex, to original constitution of mind,
to bad education, corrupt systems of morals, or tyran-
nical, government. Evils there are the result of our
own ill conduct, as well as misfortunes for which we
are in no wise to blame. Some calamities can be
guarded against, while others cannot be prevented,
nor even foreseen. Many admit of a remedy, or at
least a palliative, and few are altogether incurable.
But if there be a sorrow common to the whole human
race, to every condition, sex, and age, except infancy
and early childhood, under every clime and every
government, if, moreover, it be a permanent sorrow,
capable of being forgotten for a moment, but always
liable to recur, and if the cause thereof can never be
removed, nor the grief itself be greatly mitigated by
philosophy, then, whatever may be the intensity of
such sorrow, on account of the universality and dura-
tion, it ought to be considered the first of human
evils. This is the painful feeling which arises from
the prospect of death. Men may try to get rid of
this feeling, and by means of occupation they may
succeed for a time, but it is only so long as they are
completely absorbed by something else, for at the
first vacant moment, and on the slightest cause, the
idea of our mortality is recalled. So prepared is the
qiind for this impression, that there is scarcely an in-

284 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

cident which may not call it up. Not only the death
of others, illness, and the changing countenances
around us, but every sparrow which falls, or insect
that is crushed, nay, every leaf which fades, or sun
that sets, suggests our own decay .^^

The loss of youth is of itself a severe sorrow. That
the spring of life is gradually creeping away from us
with all its delightful illusions, never to return again,
is a thought which strikes upon the heart like the knell
of a departed friend. What truth and pathos in these
simple Italian words !

Oh gioventil primavera della vita !
Oh primavera gioventil delV anno !

Who has not sighed over the loss of those halcyon
days, when life was new and everything amused ;
when we were the hope of our elders, and the object
of their fond regard, and, perhaps, were generally
admired, wherever we turned our steps ? To women,
especiallv, the loss of youth is severe, above all to
beautiful women, whose early life is perpetual tri-
umph and joy.

But if we thus grieve over departed youth, how
much more do we dread the approach of age and in-
firmities, with death to close the scene ! The period
of manhood may still be one of great enjoyment, and

12 And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever:, it may be a sound —
A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring —
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound,
Striking the electric chain wherewith we're darkly bound.

Childe Harold.

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 285

even age may have some compensation, but what can
reconcile us to the tomb ? Passion may make us for-
get or brave death, but misery alone can make us
seek it ; and the spectre so far from losing its menacing
aspect by being steadfastly gazed on, only becomes the
more hideous. In this case, forgetfulness, if possible,
is the best philosophy, and thoughtlessness is to be
preferred to deep reflection ; for no reasoning can
persuade us that what robs us of all enjoyment can
be other than the greatest evil. On the contrary, the
more we reflect, the more awful does the evil appear,
and, therefore, since it is inevitable, true wisdom
would teach us to think of it as little as possible.
But we cannot drive away the thought entirely, for
do what we will it returns. This is the wormwood
which casts a dash of bitterness even into the sweetest
cup. It is the amari aliquid which for ever is rising
up medio de fonte kporum, to sober the most joyous
spirits ; and though in the tumult of midnight mirth
and revelry it be forgotten, yet " morn's reflective
hour" brings it back again. The greatest advantage
of childhood is ignorance of death ; for without such
ignorance, how could there be that unconquerable
buoyancy, that perfect light-heartedness, which con-
stitute its peculiar charm 1 Sleep also has been cele-
brated for the same reason, particularly by a great
poet who represents us as

" Pleased for a while to heave unconscious breath,
Then wake to wrestle with the dread of death. "i^

13 Lara.

286 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

This dread may not amount to terror, but it is
always mournful and depressing.

" One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes;
/ Than which life nothing brighter nor blacker can bring.
For which joy has no balm, and affliction no sting." i*

What ought to be the gratitude of mankind to one
who should point out a cure for this universal sor-
row ? If those who have invented anything to ob-
viate some, partial inconvenience, or increase the
common comforts of life, are really worthy of praise,
what glory should be his who could point out a re-
medy for an ill felt by all mankind, by the intellectual
and reflective even more than the stupid and the
thoughtless ; on account of which we could almost
deprecate foresight, and long for a happy blindness ?
What avails our boasted reason if it cannot make us
happy ? nay, if it only show us more clearly the
magnitude of the coming ill ? and teach us that, in
this case, ignorance and thoughtlessness are better
than all philosophy ?

But where philosophy is powerless, religion comes
to our aid. The hopes of a life hereafter can alone
allay that universal sorrow which arises on the pros-
pect of death ; and, as this, we have seen, is the first
of human evils, so the belief in a futurity is the first
of all consolations. Philosophy may meet death with
dogged sullenness, and may even make a show of
courage to gain the applause of men, but nothing
but religion can really gild the tomb. If death be

1* Moore's Melodies.

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 287

annihilation, it must always be a cause of sorrow ;
but if only a passage to another life, it loses, or may
lose, nearly all its bitterness.

This then is the grand, the fundamental argument
in favour of a belief in immortality. And the argu-
ment appears to me of such weight, that were the
objections against religion magnified out of all due
proportion, they would still be as mere chaff in the
balance. Nothing can outweigh this one immense
advantage, that by means of religion a remedy is
found for the greatest of human evils. Some, no
doubt, do not avail themselves of the remedy, or even
scorn it, displeased with the necessary conditions ; as
the sick frequently reject the medicines that are best
for them ; but are these therefore worthless ? Is bark
of no use in ague because some dislike the taste ?
Indeed, so paramount does the above advantage ap-
pear to me, that I could be almost tempted to pursue
the argument no further ; convinced, that in com-
parison with this, every other consideration must
sink, and that the inconveniences which may attend
religion, deduct as little from its sum of good, as the
nibbling rats in a farm yard from the amount of those
stacks of corn which are to feed a populous neigh-
bourhood.

But as some readers might not be satisfied with so
summary a discussion on such a subject, I shall go
on to remark in the next place, that as religious hope
can alone reconcile us to our own death, so it is the
only real consolation for the loss of our relatives or
friends. Time may at last deaden us to such loss,
but what a period of sorrow must first be gone through,

288 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

if we are never to see them again ! And be it re-
membered, that this is one of the most general causes
of grief, for who ever lived long without having to
deplore the death of some one who was dear to him ?
This source of woe is so much in the nature of things,
that every one ought to expect it, but whenever the
blow falls, it is not felt the less. Shall we therefore
shut up all the avenues of the heart, as some philo-
sophers have recommended, and strive to entrench
ourselves behind a wall of insensibility ? In the first
place this is impossible, for we cannot help loving
somebody ; and if we could, we should be more to be
pitied than those who are liable to be deprived of the
object of their tenderness, for we should throw away
one of the brightest gems which adorn our mortal
crown. Shall we at once and for ever discard this
precious stone, because at some time or other it may
be broken or lost ?

The loss of those we love is, therefore, an event
general and unavoidable, and on that account, as well
as by reason of the intensity of the grief, it must be
considered as one of our principal evils. If we are
to meet again, we may still deplore the separation,
for who that love ever part without sorrow ? but if
we are severed for ever, what can save us from de-
spair ? Without religion, the condition of some per-
sons would be one of utter wretchedness. Some
there are, endued, perhaps, with unusual sensibility,
doomed to see one dear object drop off after another,
till at last they are left in the decline of life, childless
and forlorn. Without hope in a futurity, what pos-
sible consolation can we find for such sufferers ? The

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 289

remainder of existence, and possibly a long remainder,
must to them be a miserable blank, a melancholy
waste leading to a darksome abyss. Gloomy and
cheerless they must slowly approach the tomb, with-
out enjoyment, yet still clinging to this life for want
of faith in another. But let religious hope once
beam on these blighted souls, and the dark becomes
light, and despair gives place to serenity. Such have
I known with feelings peculiarly keen, who, amidst
the deepest afflictions, and enfeebled by bodily illness,
have maintained a wonderful cheerfulness, and de-
clared with unaffected simplicity, that they really
were happy.

Though religion be necessary to every thinking
being, yet there are two classes of persons to whom
it is peculiarly valuable. These are first the unfor-
tunate, unhappily too numerous a class ; and secondly
characters of a meditative and rather melancholy
turn, who see too clearly on how insecure a basis
rests the fabric of human prosperity. The latter above
all require something solid in futurity, for they can
blind themselves neither to the exceeding instability
of human affairs, nor to the fact that every day that
dawns brings them nearer to their end. Religious
hope is the only anchor on which such can venture
to rely, amidst the storms and shipwrecks of this
nether world.

Not only is religion the first of all consolations,
but it also affords the best of all pursuits ; and thus
it is fitted for active as well as contemplative felicity.
When our happiness hereafter is supposed in part to
depend upon our exertions here, a desire is created

u

290 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

which unites the advantages common to all our de-
sires with others peculiar to itself, and has few of
the inconveniences to which the rest are liable. The
object is of sufficient importance to occupy a rational
soul, and expel vacuity of mind with all its accom-
panying evils. He who is animated with the hope
of immortality, and whose actions are directed to
that end, has within him a source of interest even to
his dying day ; and though other desires should fade,
and other pleasures should cease, if warmed by re-
ligious zeal he will still enjoy life to the last. The
ordinary charities, even the ordinary courtesies of
life, acquire dignity and importance, when viewed as
parts of a scheme leading on to the joys of eternity.

All our other desires may terminate in disappoint-
ment or satiety ; for we may fail in obtaining our
object, or when obtained it may gratify us less than
we expected, or lastly we may tire of it speedily ;
but religious hope knows nothing of all this. Since
the prize is placed beyond the tomb, the race on
earth is endless, the interest never-failing, an inter-
est neither to be marred by misfortune nor damped
by repetition; and as this can be said of no pursuit
besides, therefore the religious career is preferable to
every other.

In common with every desire incident to human
nature, religious zeal is liable to two drawbacks ; it
is apt to be mixed with fear, and it may run into ex-
cess. That there is no desire without fear is an
universal axiom ; and that whatever interests man
may absorb him too much, is also incontrovertible.
Therefore it is no argument against religion in par-

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 291

ticular, that it is liable to fear and to excess, unless
it can be shown to be so in a peculiar degree.

It might be considered by some as a sufficient
answer to the first objection, to say, that the conduct
of men in general sufficiently proves that they are
not under the influence of religious fear. But as it
might be retorted, and with truth, that the reason
why many have no fear is, that they seldom seriously
think of a future life any more than they do of
death ; we must turn to those who really are religious.
Now I would ask, does experience show that these
persons are peculiarly victims to fear ? The contrary
is notorious. Religious persons are often grave, like
all men who are engaged in any serious undertaking,
and they are frequently averse to noisy amusements ;
but follow them home, watch them narrowly, and
endeavour to read their inmost soul, and they will be
found the most cheerful of human beings. If this be
so, hope must greatly preponderate over fear. We
speak of course of those who really are pious, and not
of hypocritical pretenders, of whom there are so many.

Besides, it must be borne in mind, that the fear
complained of is not vain but salutary, since it tends
to deter men from vicious actions. If it do not deter
them the fear cannot be very intense, and if it do,
then it is highly beneficial, and ceases when it has
done its part. In the former case men have little
reason to complain, and in the latter they ought to
be glad that they are alive to religious fear. We
might as well quarrel with conscience, because it
detracts from the enjoyments of the wicked, as with
holy dread, because it gives some uneasiness to those

292 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

whom it cannot cure. No one has a right to find
fault with a pain which has an useful tendency, and
of which he can get rid if he choose to amend his
life. The terrors of law may be very annoying to
thieves and murderers, but would we abolish the
criminal code to please such reprobates ?

But there is no extremity to which men will not
sometimes fly when they want to establish a point.
Thus I have somewhere seen an attempt to prove
the injurious effects of religion, from some rare and
extreme cases of terror met with in convents and
monasteries. In the utter seclusion of such retreats,
in the want of all ordinary interests and of every little
amusement, and in the absence of all discussion which
might show the worthlessness of many outward ob-
servances, it may occasionally happen that the ne-
glect of such rites, even though unintentional, shall
cause a real alarm in the mind of the ignorant wor-
shipper ; and this alarm may be so frequently re-
peated, as at last to poison his whole existence, or
even to impair his reason. But were these instances
far more common than they are, what would they
prove ? Nothing but this, that man was not made for
complete retirement and inactivity; that solitude and
concentration nurse a ruling passion, possibly even
to madness ; and that religion without knowledge
degenerates into mere superstition. The life led in
convents and monasteries is anomalous and artifi-
cial in the highest degree, and if we do wage war
with nature, she will be apt to take her revenge.
From the eifects of religious impressions under such
extraordinary circumstances, no deductions can be

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 293

drawn as to their influence in a natural state of
society, where ignorance is put to flight by discus-
sion, and numerous cares and amusements prevent us
from being wholly engrossed by any one passion.

Even in common life, distressing instances may be
found of victims to religious fear, among those na-
turally weak-minded or enfeebled by bodily illness,
innocent though they be, but especially among such
as once were dissolute characters. The last by a fit
of sickness and the near prospect of death, may be
roused to religious impressions in which fear shall
greatly predominate. To console and strengthen tRe
former should be the object of the religious minister;
to prevent the terrors of the latter, we should say
unto them, repent in time. And as the pious minis-
ter who speaks to the dying soul in the accents of
hope is like unto an angel of light, so the gloomy
enthusiast who aggravates his fears may be compared
to a spirit of darkness.

Do we find on the other hand, that the want of all
hope in futurity is compensated by the absence of
all fear ? In order to judge of this, we must con-
sider those only who are positively irreligious, as in
the former case we looked to none but such as were
really pious. Some from native thoughtlessness of
disposition, from stupidity, or from the constant pres-
sure of occupation, scarcely ever think of futurity,
and therefore these cannot help us to determine
whether the prospect of annihilation, or of a future
though uncertain state of being, be most agree-
able to the mind. We must look then to those who
really reflect and yet reject religion. Now I would

294 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

ask, do we find that such persons are more cheerful,
and seem upon the whole to enjoy life more than re-
ligious characters? I believe that very few will hazard
such an assertion. On the contrary, it has struck me
that thinking men without religious faith are apt in
the decline of life to become morose and melancholy,
and if they have had misfortunes, to be consumed with
bitterness of soul.

Besides the appeal here made to direct experience,
we may remark that it is contrary to the general
principles of human nature, to suppose that a great
and certain evil in prospect like annihilation, can
be preferable to an uncertain mixture of weal and
woe. Man is a hopeful being, sometimes to a won-
derful degree ; and as in the coming events of this
life he is wont to anticipate good rather than evil, so
in a future existence he hopes that his lot will be
cast among the happy.

Were the belief in a futurity totally unconnected
with fear, it would not have the same good effects.
Uncertainty and its consequence fear are grand pro-
moters of desire, so that if we felt sure of happiness
hereafter, we might long for it less; and if we had
no dread of punishment, we might almost cease to
wish for reward. And it is evident, that a futurity
without the possibility of punishment, could not have
the same salutary influence upon our conduct. In the
majority of cases such would probably be the result;
but in a few the effect might be different. Persons na-
turally indolent and desponding, or broken by misfor-
tunes, might be induced quite to throw up their interest
in the present world, and neglecting their affairs here.

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 295

to look only to their state hereafter. Instead of battling
with difficulties and overcoming them, they might
long for death as a relief from trouble, and the com-
mencement of everlasting felicity. They might even
be tempted to anticipate their natural end, like those
disciples of Socrates to whom we have already al-
luded.^^ But when our condition in another life is
supposed to depend upon our conduct in the present,
the desire of immortality is cherished where salutary,
and checked where it might be injurious.

Considering the immense importance of religion as
a source of happiness in our present state, it seems
to me impossible to assert, that on the whole there
has been an excess of religious zeal ; nor does it seem
probable that there will be an excess in future. The
cares of this life, the necessity of providing for our
daily wants, the numerous sources of amusement which

15 The character of Hamlet as drawn by Shakespeare is of the
kind here mentioned. He is represented as an exceedingly re-
fined and accomplished person, full of noble thoughts and as-
pirations, fond of contemplation, but irresolute in action, and far
too sensitive, desponding, and fastidious for struggling with the
difficulties of life : —

" The time is out of joint; Oh, cursed spite

That ever I was born to set it right !"
To such a character nothing can be more natural than the famous
soliloquy — " To be, or not to be."

" For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, &c.

********

But that the dread of something after death, —
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, — puzzles the will ;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have.
Than fly to others that we know not of?"

296 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

every where present themselves, political struggles,
even the pursuit of science, are all opposed to the
predominance of religious feeling. Indeed, to judge
from the complaints of divines in all times, it vi^ould
seem that we have to apprehend a deficiency rather
than an excess of piety. The v\^orld we live in presses
so close upon us, we are too apt to forget that the
temporal is as nothing compared with the eternal ; for
any limited time bears no proportion to infinity. As-
suredly there have been examples of excessive reli-
gious zeal, as of political fanaticism, and of every
other passion run wild, and probably there will al-
ways be such ; but those excesses, like the extrava-
gances of love or of liberty, only prove how interesting
the subject is, how important an element of happi-
ness ; and if we have been led to conclude that even
the most dangerous of our desires, such as ambition
and thirst for glory, produce much more good than
ill, we shall not hesitate to determine that the general
good effect of religion is but slightly affected by such
exceptions, which, like all extreme cases, strike us
much more than they deserve. The murder of
Henry IV. of France has done incalculable ill to the
cause, though it be but a single fact; so much are
the minds of men impressed by a solitary instance,
if it happen among the great, and be universally
known. On the other hand, the advantages of re-
ligion are appreciated by those who feel them or dis-
cover them by the eye of reason, but they cannot be
so palpably displayed as the acts of cruelty to which
it has occasionally led. And although, at times,
a religious madness may have seized even a whole

OF CONTINUED EXISTENCE. 297

community, yet the fit has soon passed by, and ano-
ther age has seen the same excesses renewed in the
name of civil liberty. The history of nations, like
the life of an individual, is a history of the passions,
and the decay of one would seem only the prepara-
tion for another. Thus the religious frenzy which
in the middle ages gave birth to the Crusades, and
strewed the East with bones, has, in modern times,
been succeeded by a political fury which shook every
throne in Christendom, and deluged Europe v^^ith
blood. If we be to judge of the passions by their
occasional excesses, we ought to condemn them all,
but if by their general effects, we must pronounce
them all to be necessary ; and if we do not abjure
liberty because it has engendered horrors, neither
shall we traduce religion because it may have done
the same. Their respective partizans endeavour to
palliate the evils to which each may have led, and so
far they may be allowed a quiet hearing ; but when
the one attacks the other, the latter has a right to
retort ; and if he can show that the same crimes are
committed under the banner of the former, he, at
least, ought to silence that adversary. Such is the
blindness of party, that it excuses or lauds the same
enormities in its own case, which it most condemns
in another ; and while attacking some form of in-
tolerance, leaves the spirit alive. " That spirit still
stalks abroad, while we are gibbeting the carcase, or
demolishing the tomb."^^ Every producer is against
restrictions on trade, except in his own case. If the

16 Burke.

298 ON SOME PARTICULAR DESIRES.

friends of liberty exclaim against the religious mur-
derers of the sixteenth century, the votaries of reli-
gion may point to the political assassins of the last
and present age. Omitting these mutual recrimina-
tions, the parties ought to unite to keep down the real
cause of the mischief, ungovernable passion in what-
ever form it may appear. And as Religion and Liberty
are the choicest spirits which the Deity has given to
man, so their revels are the most dangerous. Let us
then fondly cherish and preserve them, even from
their own excesses ; for, if he lose the one, man is a
degraded being ; if he reject the other, he lives with-
out Consolation, and dies without Hope.

PART III.

ON CERTAIN GENERAL PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

CHAPTER L— On Occupation.

IN the course of the preceding inquiry into the
nature and effects of the Passions, we have fre-
quently had occasion to point out, in a cursory man-
ner, particular applications of certain general prin-
ciples which have a mighty influence upon human
happiness. We must now examine these principles
separately, and bring them more into notice. This
will form the subject of the present division of our
inquiry.

The first which I shall mention, is the grand Prin-
ciple of Occupation. Let us see what this principle
really is.

The slightest acquaintance with our mental consti-
tution is sufficient to inform us that the mind of man,
in his waking hours, cannot be altogether vacant, but
must be taken up with something, whether sensation,
thought, or emotion. It is equally evident that the
capacity of the mind is limited, so that far from em-
bracing many things at once, it cannot exist in more
than one state at the same instant of time.

The immediate consequence of these first principles

.'300 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

is, that the more the mind is occupied with one thing,
the less can it be occupied with another ; and con-
versely, the less it is occupied with one thing, the
more must it be occupied with another.

Again, there is another principle to be taken along
with the foregoing, though it seems independent of
them ; that the longer the mind remains fixed in any
one state, the greater difficulty does it find in chang-
ing to a different state. In other words, the more
we indulge in any feeling or train of reflection, the
greater hold does it take upon the mind. These to-
gether are what we call the principles of occupation,
of immense importance to the metaphysician and
moralist, for by them a very great variety of pheno-
mena admit of a ready explanation, and on them the
happiness of men depends in an eminent degree.

Several particular applications of the above princi-
ples have been already made ; but now we must take
a general and connected view of their consequences.

Since we have seen that the mental phenomena
consist either in sensations, thoughts, or emotions, it
follows from the above principles that the more we
live in any one of these states, the less can we live in
another, that an excessive addiction to the senses
tends to prevent the due development of reason,
imagination, and affection, that reason itself may ex-
clude depth of feeling, and sensibility impede the
growth of the powers of reflection. No doubt, the
difference between men is very considerable, in
rapidity of conception, judgment, and feeling, as well
as in the facility of passing from one state to another.
Thus the mind of one man may embrace in sue-

ON OCCUPATION. 301

cession a great variety of phenomena, and no one
faculty or susceptibility perish from want of oppor-
tunity ; while another shall be so engrossed by his
favourite subject as to find time for nothing else.
Still, in every case it is true, that leisure is necessary
to the growth of our faculties and susceptibilities,
though from a natural quickness, time may go much
further with some than with others. A few remark-
able instances may be adduced of persons who have
had many pursuits, and yet excelled in all, such as
the admirable Crichton, Phenomenon Young, and the
celebrated Duke of Buckingham, who

" in the course of one revolving moon
Was chemist, statesman, fiddler and buffoon ; "

but the vast majority of mankind must neglect much
if they mean to be superior in any thing. Here we
see a rock on which men of ability not unfrequently
split. Their pride will not allow them to appear
ignorant upon any subject, and therefore they never
reach that eminence in one branch which otherwise
they might have attained.

How much sensations may occupy the capacity of
the mind, appears evidently in the case of bodily
suffering, which often renders men as incapable of in-
tellectual exertion as of emotion of any kind, whether
painful or pleasurable. A man labouring under an
attack of tic douleureux, or a violent fit of the gout,
can seldom follow any connected train of thought, or
be touched with joy or grief like other people. Some,
however, have more command over themselves than
others, and can in a degree banish the pain from their

302 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

mind by dwelling upon something else, as for in-
stance, Frederick the Great, who is said to have been
able to read continuously, while his body was afflicted
by the gout.^ But such instances are, perhaps, as
rare as the character of such a man. We cannot
doubt that the pain was alleviated by this act of at-
tention ; and so would uneasiness of any kind, for the
mind would no longer be filled by it ; and hence we
see that the grand, the only remedy for suffering,
whether mental or bodily, is occupation. We cannot
expel any thought or feeling directly, but we may in-
directly, by substituting another in its room ; and this
can only be done by sedulously clinging to something
which has no connection with our grief. Therefore
all attempts at condolence, however well intended, all
philosophical reasonings and consolations, produce a
bad effect ; for they serve to recall what we would
wish for ever to forget.

A principal reason why people labouring under
severe affliction avoid their friends and acquaintances,
seems to be, that they dread attempts at consolation,
by which the wound is kept constantly open. Were
it not for these attempts, the presence of a friend
would probably be agreeable ; one who would either
not speak at all, or else upon any subject rather than
the painful one. For the great object should be
gradually to occupy the mind with something else.
The opposite plan, however, is often adopted by those
whose intentions are good, but whose knowledge of
human nature is slight.

^ See Lord Dover's history of Frederick the Great, voL ii.

ON OCCUPATION. 303

" Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore,"^

was the answer of Bolingbroke to those who were en-
deavouring to console him for his banishment.

With respect to the intellectual faculties, and the
desires which direct and set them in motion, there
can be no doubt that a man may be so absorbed by
these, as to leave no time for cultivating the tender
or devotional feelings of his nature. He may not be
a bad man ; on the contrary, he may perform all his
moral duties with regularity, but he will not be very
susceptible of piety, friendship, or love. At least, the
more he is engaged with his main pursuit, the greater
must be his natural susceptibility to tenderness, if
still it live and flourish. For, with most men, affec-
tionate feelings require to be fostered by education as
much as the intellect or imagination, and as time is
necessary for the improvement of the latter, so like-
wise of the former.

But be it observed, that the above remark applies
not in any particular degree to pursuits purely in-
tellectual, having knowledge for their object, but
equally to those where the intellect is engaged in
quest of wealth or power. Curiosity is surely not
a more engrossing passion than covetousness or am-
bition, though it may lead to greater efforts of the
understanding and to habits of abstraction. In this
case, the intellect is more developed than in any
ordinary profession, and so far there should be less
room for the affections, were it not that the numerous

- Richard II. Act i.

304 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

cares and anxieties which men of the world experi-
ence, as much engage the mind to the exclusion of
the tender sentiments as the concentrated turn of the
philosopher.

Divines are constantly complaining that men are
too much addicted to the business and pleasures of
the world ; but why are they too much addicted ?
Have business and pleasure anything necessarily bad
in them ? No ; but they occupy the mind and ex-
clude the feelings of devotion.

Where ought we to expect the greatest develop-
ment of the intellect or of the social affections ? Not
among the very rich, because they are too much en-
gaged in a routine of company and costly amuse-
ments ; not among the poor, for they are too much
engrossed with the care of procuring a livelihood.

Why has one day in the week been wisely set
aside for rest from labour and for religious exercises ?
What good purpose is served by Saints' days or
other festivals, and what is the object of all holy
rites and ceremonies ? The object of all is the same ;
to afford leisure from worldly pursuits, and to fill up
that leisure with prayer and devout meditation. To
Protestants, the numerous fasts and ceremonies of
the Romish church appear senseless and contempti-
ble, but they answer one great end, for they make
religion an occupation. The zealous Catholic may
be so much taken up with these as to require no
other strong interest ; while the Protestant is left
more to himself, for divine service once a week en-
gages too little time and requires too liitle exertion
to be really much of a pursuit. Hatred of Popery

ON OCCUPATION. 305

was so strong in many of the early reformers, that
they not only warred with the substance, but also
smote at the shadow. Thus not content with assert-
ing the grand principle of free inquiry, and upsetting
the power of the priest, they also abolished many
rites and ceremonies which might fill the head and
warm the heart of the religious votary.

It is well known that a man in a violent passion is
incapable of sound reasoning. This is quite simple,
for where the mind is so filled with emotion, what
place can there be for the intellect ? So bewildered is
he, that he is commonly said to be mad ; and though
this be an extreme case, a similar result must follow,
though in a modified degree, when the passion is
somewhat less. The use of passion is to render us
decided, prompt, vigorous, and persevering in our
undertakings, and also to prevent the mind from wan-
dering, and so far it assists the understanding ; but
beyond a certain point it cannot fail to produce an
opposite effect. This consequence of our present
principle seems also confirmed by experience. The
same may be said of the imagination and of sensi-
bility, which, as we have seen, are absolutely neces-
sary to give us ideas on certain subjects, and furnish
materials for reason, though they may be so developed
as to leave little scope for the intellect.^

It follows directly from the principles of occupa-
tion, that the more extended is the range of our affec-
tions, the less intense will be any one in particular, and

•■' " La sensibilite," says Diderot, " est le caract^re de la
mediocrite de I'esprit."

X

306 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

vice versa. Thus the greater the numberof our friends,
the less are we likely to feel towards each. So Gay,

" Friendship, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame."

Love, the strongest of all affections, is never felt
but for one, though that one may change. The feel-
ing is far too powerful to admit of a divided object,
and is not only itself concentrated, but it tends to
reduce all other affections to insignificance. The at-
tachment of children to parents, of brothers, of friends,
of kinsmen, may withstand many rude attacks, but
sinks beneath the bolt of Cupid.

It is said by some one, that friendship, which, in
the world is scarcely a sentiment, is a passion in the
cloister. This seems very natural. In cloisters, the
mind being occupied neither by business, amusement,
family affection, nor love, there is ample scope for
friendship. College is a sort of cloister, for there is
neither domestic society nor society of women, and
accordingly there, if anywhere, are real friendships
formed. At a distance from home, from kindred, and
acquaintance, the heart feels its loneliness, and there-
fore embraces with ardour a new and soft impression.
Moreover, this impression is increased by the force
of novelty, as well as by the reflection that the ob-
ject is our own choice, whereas custom somewhat
deadens our feelings towards those whom we have
known from our infancy ; and they were friends with-
out our will.

Cities may be favourable to refinement of manners,
but they are adverse to the growth of strong affec-
tions, for while constant intercourse rubs down all

ON OCCUPATION. 307

outward roughness, acquaintance with many pre-
cludes deep feeling for any one. Besides, the variety of
amusements in a town tends to dissipate the mind, and
prevent impressions from being so profound and per-
manent as in the quiet retirement of the country.
No where are men and events so soon forgotten as
in Paris, that most amusing of capitals.

When a family is numerous, a parent cannot be
expected to feel so strongly for each of his children,
as when he has fewer ; or, if he make a favourite of
one, he will be apt to neglect the rest. In like man-
ner a tribe of brothers and sisters can hardly be very
affectionate. In the East, where polygamy prevails,
and where a monarch or a very rich man may count
his children by scores, he generally cares little for the
mass of them, but selects one on whom he lavishes
his kindness, while this one considers his brethren
rather as rivals than friends, and if he have the power,
cuts them off unmercifully.

This may serve to shew that the affection of parents
to children, of brothers and sisters, is not a mere in-
stinct, as has been often supposed. It arises in part
from the consciousness of the near relation in which
they stand to self, and so far we like our children as
we do our own houses, lands, and trees ; in part, from
early associations of pleasure. The helpless condi-
tion of an infant is a constant call upon the compas-
sion of every one who surrounds it, and compassion
is akin to love ; and the first smiles of the little inno-
cent, its quiet prattle and awakening intelligence, are
delightful and interesting to all who pay any atten-
tion to them. But the greater the number of children,

308 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

the less is the imagination of the parent struck with
his relation to any one in particular, for what is shared
with many seems no very close connection ; and where
there are several, he cannot attend to all. An Eastern
monarch, perhaps hardly sees the greater part of his
progeny, at least during their infancy, and conse-
quently he feels nothing for them ; so that if paternal
affection be at all instinctive, it is here at least over-
come. How much the love of parents towards their
offspring depends upon association and occupation,
is proved by the fact, that a nurse generally loves
her charge as she would her own infant, and does
it as much justice ; while parents become almost in-
different to a child reared at a distance from home.
It is also often seen that the more sickly the child the
more it is doted upon, partly because it creates love
through pity, partly because it is necessarily a greater
object of attention. If there be any latent affection
for another, occupation about the object is sure to
draw it out. Children, on the other hand, sent away
from home in their infancy, generally care little for
their parents, as those born in India of English resi-
dents, and soon shipped off for Great Britain. Thus,
without supposing any peculiar instinct, paternal
love may be accounted for on these general princi-
ples ; the universal liking which we have for what-
ever is related to self, general benevolence evinced
in pity for a helpless object, association, and occupa-
tion. Children are so closely related to self, that
they are fancied even to continue it, and therefore also
they are loved, as flattering our desire of perpetuity.
The importance of a leading desire, and hence of

ON OCCUPATION. 309

a leading' pursuit, on which we have dwelt so much,
is proved in two ways, first from direct experience,
and secondly, from the principle of occupation. Since
the mind of man must be engaged with something,
it is of the utmost moment with what it be taken up,
for if not filled with pleasurable thoughts and emo-
tions, it is sure to be over-borne by painful. Now,
our thoughts and emotions can have reference only
to the Past, the Present, or the Future. Whatever
the cause may be, the fact is certain, that the present
can seldom entirely occupy us for any great length
of time ; so that, do what we may, we constantly
find ourselves wandering to the future or to the
past. The present is but a moment, while the past is
comparatively extensive, and the future boundless.
Therefore in one or the other of these must our prin-
cipal employment be found. The past may be dwelt
upon for itself, and may amuse by remembrance, but,
as it is gone for ever, it is chiefly useful as affording
lessons for the future. Besides, recollections gene-
rally give rise to some melancholy, for they recall
joys for ever fled, and friends whom we can see no
more. The impressions produced are, no doubt, of a
mingled nature. Pleasure remembered is itself agree-
able; but by comparison with our present altered
state, it is converted into pain.

Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.*

On the other hand, pain recalled is disagreeable

4 Dante.

310 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

directly; but when compared with our present im-
proved condition, it gives rise to pleasure. Reflec-
tion on years gone by is itself, however, of a melan-
choly nature, whether years of joy or of woe ; for
thus we are made aware that our earthly career is
shortened, and that death is drawing near. So long
as life goes on nearly in the same routine, we are
scarcely sensible of the lapse of time, but when any
sudden and remarkable change takes place, we in-
stantly perceive that the past is really gone, and are
afflicted accordingly. This painful feeling may arise,
even though the event be itself of a joyful nature
A visit to a favoured spot which we have not seen
for years generally causes some melancholy, though
the place seem as beautiful as ever ; and even a
great and happy event, such as marriage, or some
high advancement, brings a dash of pain along with
it, for our life seems now cut in two, and the present
and future irrevocably severed from the past. We
bid adieu to it as a friend from whom we separate for
ever. And if even a fortunate occurrence often bring
some regret, how much more a calamitous ! We can-
not doubt that a part of the grief which we feel on
the death of friends arises from its forcibly suggest-
ing the lapse of time, and the certainty of our own
dissolution. There is but one reflection which can
mitigate this sorrow for the past, — reflection on works
performed.-'

5 Flow natural and how instructive is the speech of Arviragus
to Belarius !

" What should we speak of
When v/e are old as you ? When we shall hear

ON OCCUPATION. 311

Thus, the impressions of the past are necessarily
of a mixed nature, but rather inclining to melancholy,
while anticipations of the future may be more purely
delightful. Moreover, as the past is limited and un-
changeable, and so gives us nothing to do, it there-
fore less fills the mind, and being perfectly known to
us, it leaves no scope for the imagination ; whereas,
the future is a boundless and undiscovered country
to be improved by our own assiduity. Hence this is
the grand, the permanent object of human thought
and emotion. But emotion which looks forward must
be either desire or fear, one or other of which can
occupy the mind more than aught beside ; and as the
former prevails over the latter, so, in a great degree,
will be the sum of our happiness.

Our experience of different characters confirms the
above remarks, for are not the melancholy prone to
look back, the gay and cheerful forward ? This shows
that the past has some connection with melancholy,
the future with cheerfulness. The natural turn of
mind inclines to these diff^erent views, and these views
increasing the natural bent, they are dwelt upon ac-
cordingly.

The rain and wind beat dark December, how,
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing."
So Guiderius :

" Haply this life is best,
If quiet life be best ; sweeter to you,
That have a sharper known ; well corresponding
With your stiff age ; but, unto us, it is
A cell of ignorance."

Cymbeline, Act iii. Sc. 3.

312 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

From what has been said above, we may learn the
hollowness of the Epicurean maxim, " Let ns eat and
drink, for to-morrow we die ; " for the above principles
inform us that man cannot expel pain but by means
of some better occupation, that neither the present
nor the past can occupy him fully and agreeably, and
therefore that he cannot enjoy to the utmost what the
time being really affords, unless he have something
beyond on which desire may rest. In vain would
philosophers attempt to dissuade men from thinking
of the future, for in so doing they go contrary to
human nature ; but if they could succeed, ennui or
other ills would fill up the vacant mind.

It would be easy to multiply instances of the above
principles; but without entering more into detail,
enough has probably been said to prove their com-
prehensiveness, and to enable the reader to apply
them on fit occasions.

313

CHAPTER II.

ON ACTIVITY.

C~lLOSELY connected witli the above principle is
y that of Activity. If a leading desire be neces-
sary to occupy us fully and agreeably, so likew^ise is
activity ; and moreover it is only by means of activity
that a leading desire can agreeably fill the mind.
Now, a strong desire generally produces activity, but
not necessarily nor universally. He vi^ho has a stake
in the lottery may eagerly desire a prize, but he can
do nothing to obtain his object. The luckless travel-
ler who is mounted on a lazy mule, endeavours at
first to urge it to a quicker pace, but when the whip
is of no avail, he must at last give up the contest,
though he ardently wish to arrive at his journey's
end. So, we may long for fine weather, but as we
cannot change it, we remain inactive. A desire even
of this sort may engage and amuse the mind not a
little; but, not leading to action, it is too apt to ter-
minate in that uneasy restless state called impatience,
in which our eagerness for the future renders us dis-
contented with the present. Here the desire, having
no vent, feeds upon the mind too much, but when it
gives birth to action, the ultimate object is occasion-
ally lost sight of in the hurry and bustle of the pur-
suit. The former emotion may be compared to a
fire of charcoal that corrupts the air, the other to the
cheerful blaze which renews and purifies the atmos-
phere.

314 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

As there are two kinds of desire, the active and
the inactive, so are there two kinds of Hope. Having
already analysed this state of mind, and in part
shown how it acts as an element of human happiness,
it only remains to observe that much of the effect
commonly attributed to hope, is in reality due to the
activity which it sets in motion. Hope alone is sel-
dom sufficient agreeably to fill the mind, and when
too long deferred, as Solomon saith, " It maketh the
heart sick ; " but when it gives rise to activity, it
then is truly delightful. Activity, within certain
bounds, is not only agreeable in itself, but is neces-
sary to give a zest to all other enjoyments; while
the languor which attends its absence is not merely
itself unpleasant, but deadens the relish of every
passing amusement.

That activity is a real source of enjoyment is evi-
dent from the fact that the more active is any pur-
suit, the longer does it please ; and that too, whether
the end be great or small, frivolous or important. Ob-
jects the most insignificant may be followed up from
year to year with unabated ardour, provided the chase
be one of movement and difficulty. What proportion
between the toil and danger of a fox-hunt and the
petty prey in view ? Here, it is evident, the pur-
suit is almost every thing, and it must be very agree-
able, or it would not be undertaken for so very trifling
an object. A steeple-chase is a still more remarkable
instance, for here there appears hardly to be an ob-
ject at all. The same observation applies to most
kinds of sport. And be it remarked that in spite of
the frivolity of the end, these pursuits often please to

ON ACTIVITY. 315

the last, and are discontinued only when the bodily
powers are insufficient for such exertions. The old
sportsman who can no longer follow the game on
foot, is still carried to the field on a quiet pony, and
dismounts only to fire.

The above remark holds true of mental as well as
of bodily activity. The more abstruse is any branch
of inquiry, the longer does it interest ; as is seen in
mathematics, metaphysics, and the learned languages,
which may please during the whole of life. Nor
even here is the importance of the object by any
means essential. How frivolous many of the ques-
tions of the schoolmen ! how minute the disquisitions
of many studious grammarians! but entity and quid-
dity, Hebrew roots and Greek particles, have been
enough to fill up existence. Such, indeed, is the
natural respect for activity, that it can give dignity
to a pursuit, while the end has really none; for though
a fox-hunter or a verbal critic may not be a very
useful personage, he is always more thought of than
the indolent or the idle. In countries where hunting,
shooting, and fishing, are the common amusements
of the gentry, it rather goes against a man that he
is no sportsman, for he is thought to be wanting in
energy.

Amusements, on the other hand, comprising little
activity, where we are more spectators than doers,
speedily pall upon the mind. Such are shows and
sights of all kinds, plays, operas, pantomimes, ballets,
processions, sauntering, slow driving, and novel-
reading. Not so with cards and other games of skill
or hazard, which continue to interest to the latest

316 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

period of life, either, like chess and whist, from the
degree of thought they require, or from the rapid
succession of hopes and fears, which depend on the
uncertainty of gain or loss.

" And cards and counters are the toys of age,"

for they keep alive activity of mind, but require no
bodily exertion. Were a man really at a loss for
something to occupy and interest him, I would advise
him to study chess, for by this he might expel ennui
as well as by a more useful employment.

Certain though it be that activity is preferable to
inactivity, a life of exertion to one of total repose,
yet as the first step towards it is always an effort,
men are for ever in danger of falling into indolent
habits. To counteract this tendency, nature has not
only given to man desires towards various objects,
such as wealth, fame, power, &c., but has also at-
tached a pain to inactivity, often more intolerable
than the most laborious exertions. As some have
much stronger desires than others, while none are
totally free from them, so the feeling of languor,
from the want of something to do, varies much in in-
tensity, though common to the whole human race,
from childhood even to age. This is consequently
an universal goad, urging us to perform something,
whether good or ill. By long habit it may indeed
be blunted ; but woe to him who has thus succeeded,
for having lost this stimulus, his case is truly hopeless.
Some indolent pleasures may still flit across his mind,
but to the full thrill of life and vigour, he must for
ever bid adieu.

ON ACTIVITY. 317

It would seem that pain is the original cause of all
exertion. Do away with this stimulus, and you re-
duce mankind to the most degraded state. This is a
reason why the inhabitants of sunny climes are often
so far behind the natives of colder regions in every
species of improvement, moral, intellectual, and eco-
nomical. They have too few wants, or these are too
easily satisfied, to admit of strenuous exertion. For
we seldom pursue any thing ardently until we feel
the want thereof. Now what we call a want, is a
feeling of pain combined with a desire for its relief.
Thus hunger is a want, and but for it we never should
have thought of eating, or of making endeavours to
procure food. After we come to know various sorts
of food, and their effects upon our frame, we may
long for them on account of their pleasing taste, or
in order to support our body ; but in the first instance,
sustenance is sought for merely to drive away pain.
So we must feel an uneasiness in the absence of
mental or bodily exercise, or of amusement, before
we are led to bestir ourselves, though after we have
begun to move, unlooked for pleasures present them-
selves, and new desires arise. Hence we may conclude
that pain is the primum mobile of the human race.

We may distinguish three sorts of uneasiness
springing out of the mind itself, nearly connected, and
yet not quite the same ; one or other of which, rather
than the prospect of things external, seems to be the
principal incentive to great mental exertion ; at least,
in the commencement. These are the pain of mental
stagnation, the pain of conscious ignorance, and the
uneasiness which arises from reflecting on time and

318 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

faculties thrown away. Some minds seem to be
peculiarly sensitive on this last score, and such would
rather fail in any noble undertaking-, than never make
the attempt. In the former case their pride may be
wounded, but they escape the bitter reflection, that
but for indolence or despondency they might have done
something great. Here is the undying worm that
feeds upon the human heart. Though no one can in-
sure success, all may aim at it ; and if we fail from
want of talents, we may be humbled, but cannot feel
self-reproach.

It is now time to inquire what is the real nature of
that activity which is so important as an element of
human happiness.

Activity, as we have seen, always commences with
a desire, but it does not stop there. The original de-
sire first occupies the mind with the object, and causes
it to turn in all directions in search of means whereby
that object may be attained. Thus, thought is roused,
and as soon as reflection has pointed out the means,
these instantly become the object of another and se-
condary desire ; and if other means be still necessary,
these in their turn create desire, and so on through a
long chain of reasonings and emotions, until we reach
the principal end. Thus it appears at the outset
that activity consists in a succession of desires and
thoughts.

But if this train were to proceed slowly, the mind
would either be wearied by uniformity of thought,
or become languid from vacuity ; and hence we see
that rapidity of succession is essential to activity.
So far, the principle of activity differs not from that

ON ACTIVITY. 319

of change, and therefore it would seem to be compre-
hended under the latter, and might be defined as a
rapid change of thought and feeling. But this is
not all. A man sitting in his easy chair after dinner,
may have many schemes and desires idly flitting
through his brain in rapid course, but not forming
one connected chain ; and though he be amused by
this variety, he cannot be said to be active. It is
necessary for this purpose that the thought spring
from the desire, as an effect from its cause. There-
fore mental activity may be defined to consist in a
rapid succession of desires, and thoughts the result of
those desires, all proceeding from 072e original desire.

But what shall we say of bodily activity ? here, as
before, there must be a primary desire to set us in
motion, and as, ere the destined object be attained,
many previous steps must be taken, each of these in
its turn must be the object of a secondary desire.
We are bent upon reaching some particular spot,
and therefore we will the motion of our limbs in order
to arrive there, and however slight and transitory each
separate feeling may be, still without a particular de-
sire, no one step can be taken. We have here then
a long succession of desires, called in this case vo-
litions, and consequent to them a corresponding series
of bodily movements. These bodily movements are
insignificant in themselves, and did they not affect
our minds, they could not even be known to us, nor
give us either pain or pleasure. It is only through
our sensations that they are to us of any importance.
Each motion of our limbs is followed by a change
in the mind, and as this is the immediate consequence

320 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

of a change in the state of our body, it is truly and
properly a sensation. Therefore in bodily activity
the mental series of phenomena consists in desires
and sensations, the latter being the result of the former
through the intervention of our material structure.
Consequently, the vi^hole of the pleasure derived from
activity of body, depends upon a rapid succession
of desii^es, and sensations the result of those desires ;
all proceeding from one original desire.

There is something very mysterious in the opera-
tion of desire upon thought. It is certain that mvq
can directly will neither the presence nor the ab-
sence of any idea ; for, to w^ill any idea, we must
know what it is, and if so, it is already present, and
therefore cannot be an object of desire ; and to wish
for its absence supposes it to be still there. Never-
theless, desire has a mighty influence upon our
thoughts, by fixing the mind and preventing it from
wandering to other subjects than the one we wish to
investigate ; for if we dwell long upon any point, a
long train of connected ideas will not fail to arise, till
we reach discoveries which we never could have an-
ticipated. Thus it is that desire is the stimulus
and guide of reflection. The above consideration
may help us to discover what is the real difference
between desire and will. This oft debated question
does not fall within the range of our present inquiry,
but as we have come upon it unawares, I shall
state as briefly as possible my ideas upon the subject.
When are we said to will any thing? Then and
then only when we know for a certainty beforehand
that we can perform what we wish. Thus, we will

ON ACTIVITY. 321

the motion of our limbs because we are assured that
they will move at our pleasure, but we only desire a
change in our thoughts and feelings, because we can-
not be certain that such a change will ensue. We
may turn to other pursuits, we may take up a book,
or go out to walk, but we do not feel confident of
success in expelling the ideas that haunt us. Nay,
the very wish to expel them often has a contrary
effect, for it serves to suggest what otherwise might
have been forgotten ; and the stronger the wish the
more does it tend to recall. So, the desire to re-
member any thing, say a name, does not always en-
able us to do so ; nay, a very strong desire often
prevents us from remembering ; while the thing may
recur at a moment when we were conscious of no
effort. Therefore it would appear that Volition is
desire combined with the undoubted belief that the
object is in our power, and terminating in an out-
ivard action. Thus the Will operates directly only
on the body, though by means of outward move-
ments we may hope to change the current of our
thoughts and emotions, and frequently do succeed.

Rapid change, independent of our desires or voli-
tions, is itself a cause of pleasure; but, other things
being equal, the more the change originates in self,
the greater is the excitement. Quick carriage travel-
ling is certainly very agreeable ; but the enjoyment
is much enhanced if we hold the reins ourselves, and
onward urge the steeds. For the same reason, quick
riding is more animating than being driven, or even
than quick driving ; for, in the former case, the horse
and its movements seem more intimately connected

y

322 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

with self. Whilst we are carried on horseback at a
rapid pace, we almost fancy ourselves a part of the
animal, and his movements our own. It is our will
that urges him, and the close contiguity and simul-
taneous motion serve to keep up the delusion that we
are the chief actors. But were it possible to run on
foot, without great fatigue, as fast as we can ride, I
doubt not the pleasure would be still greater. This
is probably one of the chief enjoyments of birds,
especially of swallows and others, which can take
great flights without exhaustion. Who can doubt,
that the lark, as he wings his upward course, feels
a thrill of delight ?

" Hail to thee, blithe Spirit,

The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest."

At all events, walking is in general a far more lively
exercise than riding at a walking pace, and beyond
all comparison more so than being driven at the same
rate. Here the rapidity is the same ; but as in one
case it depends entirely upon ourselves, in the others
not, the feeling produced is very diflPerent. Travelling
by water is in general far less animating than by land.
This is owing, in part no doubt, to the much less
variety of objects which water presents, for nothing
can well be more monotonous than a wide expanse of
sea and sky. But the fact seems also to depend in part
upon the above principles. On board a boat we feel
much less active than in a carriage going at the same
rate, for though we do not drive we still may see the
horses, and these being moving animals, we actually

ON ACTIVITY. ' 3-23

catch from them by sympathy some feeling of exer-
tion. And this is confirmed by the reflection, that
when we cannot see the horses we are more inclined
to ennui than when we can. No doubt, this is partly
owing to the different view of the country, but not
entirely. Even when we cannot see the horses, the
knowledge that they are there has somewhat of the
same effect ; whereas we can have no sympathy with
the powers of steam and wind. Besides, we are by
no means so conscious of our motion by water as by
land, and we may be going very fast without being
at all aware of it, partly from the want of contiguous
objects whereby to measure our progress, partly from
the very smooth and regular nature of the movement.
Even when there are contiguous objects, the latter
cause prevents us from being fully sensible of our
locomotion, as in the well known case of sailing along
a shore, when the shore seems to recede rather than
we to advance. Whatever may be the rapidity of
motion, if it be perfectly uniform and without a
standard of comparison, it becomes completely in-
sensible, as that of the globe which we inhabit.
This phenomenon may be observed on a small scale,
when water is drawn out of a barrel. When the
bung is taken out, and the water allowed to flow into
a bucket, if the fluid be very clear and the motion
quite regular, it appears like a curved rod of solid
glass. In Paris, which is supplied with water by
means of carts, this phenomenon may be seen daily,
and it really has a very curious appearance.

The rapidity of steam travelling, great as it is, is
not enough to render it exciting, whether by land or

324 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

water. Besides the disagreeable heat, smoke, smell,
and sparks, which may be somewhat remedied, there
are two circumstances essentially connected with this
mode of conveyance that must for ever prevent it
from greatly rousing the mind. First, it is exceed-
ingly uniform ; and secondly, it precludes the possi-
bility of our fancying that we have aught to do.
Carried along in a steamer, or in the train of a loco-
motive, we are like passive instruments in the hands
of a superior power.

These examples may suffice to prove the accuracy
of the analysis above given of activity, and to show
that the pleasure connected with it varies as these
two elements :

1. The rapidity of the change.

2. The greater or less dependance upon ourselves ;
that is, upon our desires or volitions.

325

CHAPTER 111.

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY, NOVELTY, CONTRAST,
AND PRIVATION.

THE above chapter leads us on to consider the
g-reat principle of Change or Variety. This is
one of the most comprehensive principles in nature,
for its influence pervades the whole world of spirit,
as well as that of matter, whether organized or un-
organized. Without change, the air we breathe, and
the waters which we drink, would soon become cor-
rupt and noxious, engendering maladies destructive
to animal life ; and without the tempests which rouse
the face of the deep, the ocean itself, now so con-
ducive to health, would soon become a stagnant pool,
spreading pestilence afar. Deprived of movement,
our lakes and rivers would sleep in dismal swamps,
and if any plants or animals should still survive,
nothing but reeds and reptiles could spring from
such pollution. If we ceased to move our limbs we
should at last lose all power over them, and our frame
would be a prey to disease ; and did we not exercise
our minds in various ways, our faculties would be
impaired or lost. In a word, change is necessary to
maintain the purity of the material universe, and
health both of mind and body.

Men in general seem aware of the great importance
of this principle, for they appeal to it on all occasions.
Is your health out of order ? you are recommended to

326 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

try change of air ; are your spirits depressed 1 you
are advised to try change of scene. In .short, it is an
universal panacea, w^hen nothing more definite can
be hit upon.

But the effects of change upon our sensibilities are
here to be particularly noticed ; and these will best
be understood when we know the effects of uni-
formity. Uniformity is opposed to change in its
nature and in its consequences. When the same
objects have been presented to the senses, or the
same ideas of any kind have been suggested for a
long time without interruption, one or other of two
effects seldom fails to ensue. Either we pay less and
less attention to what is going on around us, till at
last we become quite insensible on that score, and
no more perceive what is present than if we were far
away ; or else we fall a victim to a painful feeling of
a peculiar nature. This feeling is more allied to
ennui than to any other of which we are conscious ;
but the two are not identical. The one arises from
vacuity, the other from constant repetition of the
same thing ; and though both be disagreeable, still
the uneasiness is different. Should a traveller be
obliged to pass a rainy day in a remote country inn,
he may be devoured with ennui, and on hearing a
strolling minstrel he will at first listen gladly to his
strain ; but if the same air be repeated again and
again, he will fly from this second annoyance, though
it be to meet the first. The fatigue of mind which
results from repetition, may be compared to the
fatigue of body which follows on the long continu-
ance of the same muscular movements, and neither

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 327

the one nor the other is at all a proof of vacuity.
On the contrary, bodily fatigue arises from too great
exertion, and leaves the mind in a state very different
from ennui ; and mental fatigue is felt when we have
been completely engaged by any subject, and have
been so absorbed that we cannot expel it from our
thoughts. It is the sameness alone that tires us, for
if w^e can change the subject the mind becomes in-
vigorated and ready for enjoyment, w^hereas, from an
attack of ennui, the spirits recover but slowly. The
remedy for the one is variety, for the other, occupation.

If we escape the feeling of fatigue arising from
excessive sameness, it is only by becoming insensible
to the objects vt^hich press upon us, and allowing our
thoughts to wander to other and more interesting
topics. In this state, the same words may be uttered,
and the same vibrations fall upon the ear, the same
colours may be present, and the same rays strike the
eye, but they cease to make any impression, whether
of pain or pleasure. So far as they are concerned
the mind is without feeling, and no more cares for
what is around than the dead who slumber in their
sepulchres. •

Such being the general effects of uniformity, it
follows that a life of great monotony must have a
strong tendency either to fatigue the mind, or else to
blunt sensibilities of every sort. The first effect is
unquestionably bad, and so, one would think, is the
second, were it not that some persons are constantly
at war with strong feeling. It is certain that deep
sensibility exposes to pains more acute, as well as
pleasures more lively, and therefore it may be main-

328 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

tained that the one counterbalances the other. But
this argument pushed to its legitimate conclusion
' would prove that it were as well not to feel at all, or
better, if our pains be supposed to outweigh our plea-
sures, and consequently that life is an evil. If this
conclusion be denied, where are w^e to fix the limits,
and say, so far sensibility is good, but it must not
go beyond ?

Were we even to allow that here, as in other
things, there is a certain medium which cannot be
passed with advantage, yet as no one can point
out exactly where it lies, we would wish to know
which is the better extreme. Ought we to endeavour
to deaden or keep alive our sensibilities ? The
simple statement of the case seems enough to settle
the question, for would we quit the noble nature of
man for that of brutes, or rather of stocks and stones ?

Excess in any good is in general better than a
deficiency, because more easily remedied ; and we
can better restrain any too strong propensity than
instil it where wanting. There is more hope of
the youth who shows some intemperate ardour, than
of him who is eager for nothing ; and even the
orgies of liberty are more promising than the still-
ness of despotism. Too fiery a steed is more valued
than one that is lazy. In like manner, too strong
sensibilities are preferable to the opposite extreme,
for we can cure the one more readily than the other.
Take the case of Humanity and the feelings which
enter into Conscience. Is it better to feel too deeply
for our fellow-creatures or too little ; to have a con-
science over sensitive or dull ? Had these feelings

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 329

never been deficient, the history of the world would
not have been a history of crime. So long as they
are lively, guilt cannot go far ; but when the heart is
hardened and the conscience seared, where shall we
look for a check ? If we turn to desire of reputation,
this would not long survive the decay of the above
feelings, for if we felt not self-condemned, we should
care little for the disapprobation of others ; and then
even the Law would lose great part of its terrors.
Freed from dread of shame, we might indeed fear
bodily pain, and loss of life, of freedom, or of fortune,
though it is evident that in these cases also we can be
acted upon only through our feelings ; and were we
reckless of all things, we should be utterly ungovern-
able.

Though a temperament of acute sensibility suffers
a greater feeling of pain as well as of pleasure, yet
upon the whole, nothing appears less desirable than the
joyless life of those who scarcely feel at all. Religion
and philosophy can do much for the cure of all ills,
and the ills themselves not unfrequently have some
compensation. Even in deep grief, there is often a
melancholy pleasure, a luxury peculiar to woe. Men
frequently cling to their grief as they do to a beloved
object, and avoid all scenes of amusement which
might serve to drive it from their thoughts. Remorse
is perhaps the only wound which has no balm.^ Who
are they whose lives appear the least enviable ? not
such as have had sorrows deeply felt, but those who
seem to have no interest in existence, and who have

1 See note B,

330 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

lost all relish for enjoyment. Without a pursuit,
or without a facility for amusement, life becomes a
tiresome repetition of indifferent acts. We some-
times meet with persons willing to confess that they
have no enjoyments but eating and sleeping; if this
last can be called one. Unmarried people in easy
circumstances, are the most apt as they advance in
years to lapse into this joyless state, without cares,
but without delights ; for they have no necessity for
exertion, and no object for their affections. If they
possess a taste for the pleasures of the imagination
and the intellect, still more if they have cultivated
piety betimes, they can fill up life with joy and
dignity; otherwise cards, the table, and the bottle
will be their sole resource.

Something of the same sort may be said of those
who are constantly toiling at some business which
requires no mental exertion, and admits of no variety.
Custom wears off what at first was disagreeable, and
then they go on in a routine which is mostly devoid
either of pain or pleasure, but proceeds with the
regularity of clock-work, and almost without feeling
of any kind. Still, this occupation becomes in time
necessary, for no sooner is it interrupted, than a want
of employment is felt, and the man is roused from a
state of indifference to one of positive suffering. If
he have a wife and children, his sensibilities become
so blunted by this uniform life, that he derives but
little pleasure from their intercourse.

And here I may remark, that among all the rocks on
which affection can split, the one chiefly to be avoided
is uniformity. Its deadening influence is probably

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 331

to be feared even more than long absence, or other
powerful causes : whereas change is not only animat-
ing in itself, but it increases our feeling for objects in
themselves familiar. The influence of change is often
quite magical, for it has been seen to convert the
dullest being into a new creature, full of warmth and
energy. Variety being so pleasing, whoever has
partaken of it along with us becomes agreeable by
association, and hence the companions of our travels
and adventures of all kinds are looked upon with pe-
culiar favour. Affections are lulled asleep by the
quiet monotony of home, but they awake amid the
vicissitudes of travel ; like a fire that smoulders in
repose, but when stirred, bursts into flame.

Since variety is the great enlivener, it prolongs
and renews our youth, whereas uninterrupted unifor-
mity brings on premature age. Who would not sigh
" o'er feeling's dull decay," and wish to recall the
time when

" meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth and every pleasant thing to us did seem

Apparel'd in celestial light !
The glory and the freshness of a dream !" ^

and how shall we succeed in our wish except by
means of variety. But variety not only renews our
youth, but it seems to prolong our existence. Time,
like space, cannot be accurately measured without
the aid of intervening and prominent objects, on which
the eye or mind may rest; and when these are wanting,
the distance seems always less. Thus distance by

^ Wordsworth.

332 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

water always appears less than by land, and an ob-
ject seen over a flat and open country seems nearer
than if the district were variegated by hill and wood.
The effect is still more remarkable when the space
between is quite lost to the eye, as by means of a
deep hollow, or a projecting crag, which conceals an
extent of ground. Thus, a mountain top, descried
from the bottom of a valley, always appears less ele-
vated than when viewed from the opposite hills ; for
in the former case, the space between the base and
summit is seen but imperfectly. So it is with Time.
When we look back upon the whole of our past life,
or upon any part of it, the time appears long or short
according to the force and variety of the impressions
which we have experienced ; and when there is nothing
to mark a period, it is reduced to a point. Thus in
sleep without dreaming, the moment we awake ap-
pears to follow immediately that of our falling asleep,
and were it not for clocks and other outward indica-
tions, we could have no idea of the time elapsed.
Our own mind tells us nothing. This is an extreme
case, but the same holds true in a less deo-ree in other
instances, as in sleep interrupted and dreamy, and
even in our waking hours when passed in an uniform
manner. And be it remarked, that force alone, with-
out variety, does not well mark the time ; for a
man absorbed by some one passion or keen pursuit
allows hours to pass by unnoticed, and on looking
back, he is astonished how short they appear. Those
whose lives are spent in an exceedingly uniform man-
ner, and who have not by nature more than ordinary
sensibility, soon come to confound not only days or

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 333

months, but even years; for to them they are all
alike : and therefore, when past, they seem to have
fled as a vision. Such a life is in truth but one long
day.^

On the other hand, a life or period of vicissitude
appears on the retrospect extremely long, on account
of the variety of impressions. Thus a month spent
in travelling over a new and interesting country is
as an age, and the first weeks w^e ever spend in any
place always seem the longest. So it is with, the
whole of our career. Judging by the multitude of
their recollections, some seem to themselves to have
lived more at thirty than others at forty or fifty ; and
if we count existence not by the duration of mere
animal life, but by the length of time during which
we have really felt, the former might be said to be
the older. The dormouse may live longer than
many other animals, but as half its time is passed in
sleep, its sensitive existence may be shorter ; and so
it is with one man who dozes away his hours while
another is wide awake. That bright ornament of
her sex and of human nature, M™^. Roland, informs
us in her memoirs, that, owing to sensibilities natu-
rally comprehensive and lively, she had always found
an interest in existence even amid the rudest shocks,
and had filled her years with such a variety of im-
pressions, that, estimating life by feeling, although
under forty, she had lived prodigiously.^

4 This very expression I once heard from a person in Paris,
whose business condemned her to an exceedingly monotonous life.
" Ma vie," said she mournfully, " n'est qu'un long jour."

5 See note C.

334 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

From the above we may perceive the opposite ef-
fects of past and present variety. Present variety,
serving to rouse our feelings, renews our mental
youth ; while past variety, by lengthening our days,
gives us the notion of age ; for when we have done
and felt a great deal we fancy ourselves to be old.
But this fancy is of little consequence, provided it do
not affect our present sensibilities, and make us feel
as well as think ourselves aged. And even if it
should do so to a small extent, the pleasure we ex-
perience from variety when present, and from recol-
lections of the varied and busy past, would reduce
comparatively to nothing this really trifling incon-
venience.

But change itself, pushed beyond a certain point,
produces contrary effects, and may become as fa-
tiguing as uniformity. The constant call upon our
attention becomes in the end painful, so that at last
we attend to nothing. Thus, travelling over a new
and interesting country is most animating ; but if the
towns be numerous, and many objects to visit in
each, we at last become fatigued, and on arriving at
any place are rejoiced to be told that there is nothing
to see. Nearly for the same reason a sublime spec-
tacle tires us much sooner than a pretty one. We
feel called upon to look and admire, and the attention
required for this becoming painful, we are glad not to
look any longer. And the more we are prompted by
others to admire, the less are we inclined to do so ;
for in this case we seem to be under restraint, and
feel rebellious accordingly. We are told that we
ought to admire, and therefore we do not. But this
is an instance of the principle of Liberty.

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 335.

To return to that of Change, we see that after long-
wandering and variety, people are glad of repose, and
even of monotony. No doubt, it may be said, that
here an uniform life is itself a change. Accordingly,
these persons generally soon tire of uniformity, and
betake themselves to wandering again. The diffi-
culty which men experience in weaning themselves
from this sort of life, in spite of the unavoidable ex-
ertions, in spite of annoyances, and even dangers, is
a proof how congenial it is to human nature. No-
thing can well be conceived more perilous than tra-
velling in Africa ; but scarcely any one ever went
there on a journey of discovery who did not wish to
return. Thus Park, Clapperton, Lander, and many
others, who escaped on a first occasion, went back
and perished miserably. The greatest triumph of
civilization is the having withdrawn men from a
varied and wandering life, and induced them quietly
to settle, and the victory is not complete, for in
every country some are still found who prefer the
privations of wandering to all the comforts of mono-
tony. A gipsy propensity still clings to the heart of
man.

Another reason why change may at last become
tiresome is, that as we see more and more, less re-
mains to be seen that is new. Thus there will be
change without novelty.

The human heart is made up of opposing princi-
ciples ; so that if love of variety, love of liberty in
all our thoughts and actions, and lastly love of inde-
pendence be inherent in our nature, there is also
another principle directly opposed to these, and which
I beg leave to call the Principle of the Anchor. By

336 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

this I mean the tendency to seek for something fixed
or settled in life. This principle and those before
mentioned are constantly at war, and are relatively
of different force in different individuals, and in the
same individual at different periods of life ; the one
generally gaining and the others losing strength the
more we advance in years, so that in the end, the
principle of the Anchor commonly gains the day.
Thus we see that those who with respect to the sex
were always seeking for variety, at last settle down
with one, and in spite of their aversion to dependance
and restraint, cling to wife, to children, and submit
to ties which circumscribe their liberty. So, those
most given to wandering generally look forward to
some home where they may finally rest. Through
the voyage of life we often look out for the port.
The tendency which men have to marriage and to a '
fixed profession, are the most striking instances of
the above principle ; for these may well be called
the Anchors of Life. The choice of a wife and the
choice of a profession depend upon individual taste ;
but desire of settling is perpetually urging us to
select some one or other.

2. Though to multiply particular instances of the
great principle of variety would be an unnecessary
and endless task, yet it may not be amiss to bring
forward a few of the most remarkable. Let us take
the case of professions. It must at first appear singu-
lar, but it is nevertheless true, that some of those
professions which are most palpably disagreeable
create, when followed up, the most enthusiasm. The
reason appears to be that such professions offer more

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 337

variety, and consequently more excitement than
otbers, so that when once the evils are got over, or,
at least are deadened by custom, the usual effect of
variety is felt. The two most striking instances in
point, are the sea and physic. To a dispassionate
observer, these professions appear pregnant with every
thing odious and disgusting. To be cooped up in a
ship, to be subjected to the most galling slavery, to
be constantly exposed to danger in various forms, to
feed upon salt beef ^ and biscuit, to be totally cut off
from the society of women, presents such a picture of
wretchedness, that one is at a loss to conceive how
any can choose such a profession. The same may
be said of physic. What more depressing, what
more disgusting, than this profession in the eyes of a
cool spectator ! Some, nay all, must expect occasion-
ally to witness scenes which lower, horrify, or revolt;
but a medical man in the exercise of his calling sees
nothing else. Misery in all its forms, every thing
most disagreeable to the senses and most harrowing
to the feelings must be for ever before him. What
then can render sailors, physicians, and surgeons, so
enthusiastic in their special pursuits ? Nothing but
the variety and vicissitude which attend them. The
life of a sailor is one of perpetual change and the
most animating contrasts. There is a wildness about
it which captivates the imagination far more than
any regulated pursuit :

" Ours the wildlife in tumult still to range,
From toil to rest, and joy in every change."

6 Mahogany , as sailors call it, on account of its hardness.

z

338 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

Hence boys are so much taken with it ; for many
who have changed afterwards, felt a first love for the
sea.

Though the profession of physic has not the vicis-
situdes of the sea, it still offers a great variety of in-
terest. Of all the numerous cases which come imder
the notice of a medical practitioner, no two are
exactly alike. He has also the opportunity of wit-
nessing a great variety of moral character. Since
every day brings its change in the bodily or mental
state of the patient, there is always something new
to be observed, as well as something new to be done.
What a field for interest is this !

It would be tedious to take a survey of all the pro-
fessions, but I believe we shall find upon examination,
that the degree of enthusiasm which they excite de-
pends not upon the degree in which they are free
from annoyances, but upon the variety and excite-
ment which attend them respectively. Soldiers are,
I think, less wrapt up in their calling than sailors,
and lawyers than physicians. No profession seems
to offer less variety and excitement than that of a
lecturer in an university, and a clergyman, especially
of an established church, and in a country situation.
For there is a great difference in this respect between
country and town. In town, where good preaching
is known and highly appreciated, and where many
clergymen of the same persuasion are assembled,
there will naturally be some emulation; whereas in
the country, where the unchanging audience is chiefly
composed of rustics, and where the minister has no
rivals or competitors for fame, there is neither stimulus

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 339

nor variety. Accordingly, country clergymen are but
too apt to fall into a state of indolence. It is well
known that those of the church of England are not
always very attentive to the daily parochial duties of
visiting, exhorting, and consoling; and if the Scottish
clergy leave less to desire in this respect, still we
must allow that mental activity is not their usual
characteristic. Unquestionably there are bright ex-
ceptions. A man naturally enthusiastic, as well as
deeply impressed with the importance of religion and
his ministerial duties, may, no doubt, make an inte-
rest to himself, of no ordinary intensity, in a very
unpromising situation, among a few ignorant parish-
ioners ; but he creates the interest for himself, out of
his own ardent mind, rather than finds it ready made.
Such instances must therefore be rare. Put him in
any situation, and such a man will find scope for ac-
tivity ; but out of the mass of clergymen belonging
to the established churches of England and Scotland,
how few are really enthusiastic ! The church has the
fewest annoyances or hardships, but it has also the
least variety and excitement ; and in a country situa-
tion, both the annoyances on the one hand, and the
excitements on the other, are reduced to the lowest
possible degree. Life is passed in an easy unvaried
routine.

The case of a professorship in an university is some-
what similar to that of the church. When once the
lectures are composed, and the first novelty is over,
the duties often become a mere routine ; possessing,
perhaps, less of variety than any other learned occu-
pation. That which is gone through one year, must

340 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

be gone through the next, and so on for ever. What
variety there may be, is of the least agreeable kind.
In a country parish, some interest in his flock is likely
to be felt by the clergyman who has long been among
them ; but the interest of a professor in his pupils is
perpetually broken by the succession of new faces
from year to year. On the other hand, his occupa-
tion is remarkably free from annoyance or hardship,
and like the clergyman, he enjoys the satisfaction of
holding forth without interruption, and being listened
to probably with respect.

As we might suppose from what has been above
said, are not professors very apt to slumber in their
chairs? certainly, enthusiasm is not their general cha-
racteristic.^

If the opinion of Bacon be correct, that occasional
excess, of course within certain limits, is better both
for body and mind than perpetual moderation, what,
we may ask, is the essential circumstance connected
with excess, which can be supposed to render it salu-
tary ? Excess, it is clear, is a change, a great change,
and therefore its effects may be classed under that
principle. We know that a complete change of diet
can have a most powerful influence upon the frame,
whether for good or ill, according as it is employed ;
and that a few glasses of wine, to one not used to it,
can alter the whole color of the mind, and even the

7 It was probably with a view to avoid the routine into which
old professors are apt to fall, that, according to the will of the
founder, the chair of political economy at Oxford can be held
but for five years.

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 341

force of body, giving strength to the weak, courage to
the timid, and hope to the desponding.

But not only is it good to change our food from
time to time, but it is safer to partake of a variety of
dishes at the same meal, than to eat voraciously of
one. The reason why it is a good rule to dine upon
one or two things, is that thus temperance is secured,
for we soon get tired of an only dish ; whereas both
the palate is tickled and the digestion facilitated by
variety, and therefore we devour twice as much.
When we hear of people falling victims to indi-
gestion, it is generally from excess in one favourite
sort of food, as our Henry I., who died of eating
lampreys.

How refreshing is solitude after the bustle of com-
pany ! and how enlivening is society after a long-
solitude ! and why ? each is a great change. Soli-
tude and society each in its turn is essential to health
of mind. Without the one we become thoughtless
and frivolous, and are either fatigued by a con-
stant bustle, or fall into ennui from the want of a
regular pursuit;*' without the other, we are wont to
lapse into melancholy.^ Miss Martineau objects to
the mode of life in America, that every thing is done
in public, for as she judiciously observes, no one who
does not spend some hours of the day alone, makes
the best possible use of his existence. It is the mis-
fortune of kings and other very great people that

8 " Dans le monde, depuis qu'il est monde, on se plaint qu'on
s'ennuie." — Massillon.

9 " Be not solitary, be not idle." — Burton's Anatom.y of Me-
lancholy.) concluding words.

342 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

they are seldom left to themselves, to reap the delight
and benefit of silent contemplation.

People may dispute for ever on the respective ad-
vantages and disadvantages of a town or a country
life, but this is pretty certain, that nothing is so
desirable as a change from the one to the other.
After being immured in a great city during the
dreary months of winter, the sight of nature clad in
her summer garb is perfectly enchanting ; but when
we live always in the country, we become used to it
by degrees, and the change is too slow to strike. In
like manner, when roads are wet, and days are dark
and cold, the change to the bustle of town is anima-
ting in the extreme ; but had we passed our summer
in the city, we should not thus feel. Country and
city have each peculiar interests, but in order to en-
joy them to the full, we must take to them alter-
nately.

As affording easy recreation a city has peculiar ad-
vantages, and therefore it is well adapted for studious
and literary men. The amusements of the country
are such as require bodily activity, often in a great
degree, and to this literary men are commonly but
little addicted, and it requires more time than they
can spare. Hunting, shooting, long rides and walks,
are rather incompatible with study, and without
these there is nothing. In a large city, on the con-
trary, such as London or Paris, the mind can be
amused by means of the moving scene without great
bodily activity, and with little waste of time. This
moving scene is precisely what is wanted in the
country, and which we can replace only by more

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 343

strenuous exercise. The object of both is the same,
to give a rapid succession of ideas without the trouble
of thinking, for that is properly recreation. An hour
spent in walking through a crowded metropolis may
change the current of ideas more than thrice the
time in the stillness and silence of the country. For
there can be no recreation, when we leave not our
studies as well as our closets behind, but are oc-
cupied in solving problems rather than with the
scene before us. Exercise out of doors is the best of
all recreations, for it is good both for body and
mind ; but to be constantly pursued, or to produce
the full benefit, it must be attended with amusement ;
and this the city affords without the trouble of a
search.

Though a simple air be often exquisitely beautiful,
it tires the sooner from its simplicity ; but how
charming is the return when for a while we had
almost lost it amidst a maze of variations !

" With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running."^"

And how delightful is the poem from which these
lines are taken, from the boundless diversity of ob-
jects which it brings before us !

We might bring forward numberless other illus-
trations of the great principle of variety ; such as
the pleasure derived from the alternation of day and
night, from the change of seasons, the variety of
climates, and the consequent diversity of productions

io L' Allegro.

344 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

in the same or in different countries ; but as probably
enough has been said to fix the attention of the
reader, it is unnecessary, and might be tiresome, to
swell the catalogue of instances.

3. Though variety be calculated to do us so much
good, yet as it comes not uncalled, nor without some
degree of effort, therefore routine is too apt to prevail
over it, just as activity is conquered by love of re-
pose. To move or to change our course of life, is
always difficult; to do nothjng, or to do the same
thing, is always easy. Consequently, there is a per-
petual tendency to rest and to routine, and since
these are in the end prejudicial, for the one roots out
our virtues, and both undermine our enjoyments,
therefore we ought to wage a constant war against
them.

A familiar instance of both these tendencies may
be derived from the well known fact, that for centu-
ries past, in civilized countries, and among persons
in easy circumstances, the hours of rising and of
going to bed have gradually become later and later.
To get up of a morning is always an effort, for we
pass from rfest to action, from a continuance in the
same state to one very different. For the same rea-
sons it is also an effort to go to bed, greater if seated
in our room, less if we have been walking out.
Therefore all people have a tendency to put off the
time for bed, but sedentary people especially, and
this is another cause why they cannot rise very early.
Few habits are more difficult to acquire than that of
early rising, where no necessity compels, the change
being so violent from the long-continued and com-

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 345

plete repose of the night to all the activity of day. ^^
This example may suffice to show that the law of
vis inerticE is not confined to matter. And since the
habit is so difficult of acquirement, we see how im-
portant it is that it should be early taught at schools
and colleges, ^i^

4. The most simple idea of change is that of a
mccession of phenomena in time. This is common
both to change in mind, and to change in matter, or
motion ; but the latter is more complicated, for it
comprehends succession in time and in space. As
for variety, it seems to imply something more, namely,
that the phenomena are different or dissimilar from
each other. Thus there may be change without va-
riety, as when a man repeats the same motion of
his limbs over and over again, or allows the same
train of ideas to pass through his head without any
alteration. Even in this case, each separate pheno-
menon is different from that immediately before it,
though the whole train may be similar to the one
preceding. When the successive trains of thought
or of motion are different, then there is properly

" I remember hearing that a young man was once expelled
from Cambridge, for obstinately refusing to get up for morning
chapel. Frederick the Great, wishing to get up every morning at
four o'clock, began by obliging his attendant to throw cold water
on his face in order to rouse him ; and thenceforward he perse-
vered in the habit of early rising all his life.

^2 People the most fond of novelty may still be much given to
routine, like the French, who, as Chateaubriand says, are Routi-
niers a la fois et Novateurs. My own experience agrees with
this remark.

346 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

variety, which therefore is more powerful than simple
change.

II. Novelty. It is evident that novelty is only a
species of change ; but since, as a species, it has quali-
ties peculiar to itself, it is necessary to mention what
they are. In its strict sense, novelty implies a change
to something which we have never experienced ; and
on that account, its effect upon our sensibilities is far
greater than simple change, and even than variety,
which signifies only that a train of phenomena is dis-
similar from that which immediately preceded. But
the term is not always employed in this strict sense,
for after a long interval, we are wont to say of some-
thing formerly known, that it is now quite a novelty,
that it is, as it were, New.

That first impressions can never be renewed, is a
fact in human nature which cannot be disputed, but
which admits of no full explanation. It would be easy
to give a mere verbal account of this, as of many other
phenomena, and to say that the nerves are softened
or blunted by use ; that the animal spirits fly off on
once being excited, and cannot again be fixed, and
so forth : but this is mere jargon, and it is better to
avow our ignorance, than to shroud it in a veil of
darkness. One thing, however, is certain, that part
of the effect of novelty depends upon the emotion of
wonder which attends upon what is new, for the new
is generally unexpected. At least, the less the ex-
pectation, the greater is the effect produced. When
we have long looked forward to any thing, and es-
pecially when we have made sure of it beforehand,
the reality seems less new, for anticipation is as a

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 347

foretaste which damps our relish of the banquet, and
in this case, there can be no surprise. Still, novelty
has a charm of its own, independent of the pleasure
of wonder, as when an eldest son succeeds to his pa-
ternal acres, or an heir apparent to his father's crown.
In these instances, there cannot be wonder, for in the
usual course of nature the succession could be reck-
oned upon, but the new position is delightful. There-
fore the pleasure peculiar to novelty is not entirely
owing to surprise.

Whatever the explanation may be, the fact itself
is interesting and important. Poets, in all ages, have
sung the charms of first love, as something which
never could come again, and in such a case, poets are,
probably, the best judges.

" New hopes may rise, and days may come

Of milder, calmer, beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream." ^3

A second marriage, especially to a woman, is a
very different thing from a first; and so is a first
birth to the mother, who feels an exultation and joy
that never can return. She seems to herself a creature
of a more dignified order, and she treads the earth
with a new step, for " a man is born into the world."
And if such be her delight at viewing her first babe,
what must be that of the author, at the sight of his
first work ? Sweeter than sweetest music, or the sound
" of far off torrents charming the dull night," fall the
notes of new praise on his ear. He may afterwards

J 3 Moore.

348 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

rise into reputation, he may become known in his own
country, perhaps over all Europe, or even throughout
the world ; but never can he forget the hour when
his heart first beat to fame. What an event is the
first success in public, on the stage, in the pulpit, at
the bar, or in the senate ! what can equal the triumph
of a maiden speech ? So the first gains, though small,
are dearer than thousands afterwards.

If youth be preferable to age, it is chiefly owing
to novelty. This it is which constitutes the principal
delight of infancy, of boyhood, and of youth, and
gives those periods a peculiar character. With no-
velty are of course associated inexperience, ignorance,
rashness, and presumption, which belong to early life,
and lead it into numberless errors ; but youth, with
all its faults, has more the stamp of divinity. Its
very illusions are glorious, for is it not glorious to
think men better than they are, and to dream of fu-
ture years when the reign of liberty shall commence,
and chase before it ignorance, vice, and want ?^*

But novelty sharpens the edge of pain as well as
of pleasure. A first disappointment, and a first grief,
are felt more deeply than far greater disasters after-
wards. First crossings in love, the first quarrel of

1* When seated on the top of Fiesole, enjoying the magnificent
view, Forsyth says; " My poetical emotions were soon interrupted
by an old peasant, who sat down at the same resting-place, and
thus addressed his companion, Che bell' occhiata, guardiamo un
•po la nostra Firenze. Quanta e bella ! quanta cattiva .' — Ah
gigi! quante ville ! quante vigne ! quanti paderi ! ma non v'e
nulla di nostra. Those notes of exclamation end in a selfishness
peculiar to age." " Remarks," &c, on Italy.

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 349

friends, first losses in trade, the first lapse into vice,
wound like a barbed and poisoned dart. Who ever
mourned the loss of a second child as of a first?
Nay, parents have been known to grieve more for the
death of an infant, than afterwards for a full-grown
child ; as if the suckling of a day were more precious
than the youth of twenty. At first, to quit home
for school, is indeed a severe trial ; the second time,
comparatively nothing. So, when the decaying beauty
first sees some grey hairs, she is struck at once to the
heart ; but when they become numerous, she cares
much less about them.

We have already had occasion to observe, that
variety has the effect of lengthening apparent time
and distance ; and the same may be said of novelty.
Thus, a road first travelled over seems longer than
ever afterwards, though the number and variety of
objects be the same. For, though they be the same
in themselves, they have not the same effect upon us,
since all things strike us more at first, and many are
then remarked which are totally unnoticed after-
wards ; so that, judging by the number and force of
our impressions, we fancy the way to be longer on the
former occasion.

III. Contrast. In one sense, Contrast is nothing
but a striking variety, that is, a change to something
very different from what immediately preceded ; and
so far the observations above made on variety also
apply here, but with a double force. The term,
however, is frequently used when there is no succes-
sion of phenomena in time, and consequently no
change properly so called ; as when we say of a

350 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

picture, that it presents a fine contrast of light and
shade. In this case, the whole picture is supposed
to be before the eye at the same instant of time, and
the impression is simultaneous ; so that, in such in-
stances, contrast is mere dissimilarity, the reverse of
similarity or sameness. But in whichever sense the
word be used, great dissimilarity, with or without
change, has a powerful effect on our sensibilities. This
is a necessary consequence of what has been said in
the former part of the chapter ; but as contrast has
some peculiar features, it may not be amiss to dwell
on it a little longer.

It may be said with truth that much of the enjoy-
ment of life depends upon a happy mixture of Series
and Contrast. Without the one, our time is not suffi-
ciently filled up, and therefore we fall into ennui ;
without the other, our sensibilities are deadened, or
our minds fatigued by uniformity. Series or conti-
nuity in one line is agreeable to a certain extent, and
is even necessary to render every subject interesting,
for unless we continue, nothing makes a deep im-
pression, and nothing can be completed. Persever-
ance, which is so much lauded, and which indeed does
wonders, is nothing but a steady desire leading to a
continuous line of action. Without continuity, love,
friendship, and family affection, would be merely a
passing whim. In smaller matters also we may re-
mark a pleasure from continuance. Thus, we are
certainly the better pleased with the character of
Falstaff" because we meet with him in one play after
another, for we have time to become thoroughly ac-
quainted with him, and feel for him as an old friend.

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 351

The same may be said of the part of Sir Harry
Wildair, in Farquhar's two celebrated comedies. We
welcome the husband of Angelica, whom we had
known in his bachelor days.

Of the palpable results of continuity it is unneces-
sary to say much, because they are palpable ; so I
shall content myself with one instance. The noblest
temple now existing in the world, if it be not superior
to any that ever existed, St. Peter's at Rome, is, with
all its embellishments, inward as well as outward, the
result of efforts continued during three centuries.

Many instances of the effect of contrast, in either
sense of the word, may be found in common life. It
is a principle practically acted upon by all epicures,
cooks, and skilful housewives, who take good care
to oppose boiled to roast, sweet to salt, and drest
dishes to plain, knowing that the one is more agree-
able after the other. But contrast is also a grand
source of beauty. It is well known that a concert
entirely made up of the most beautiful music is not
the most effective, and that some inferior pieces must
be inserted to relieve the uniformity and set off the
rest to advantage. What a marvellous effect is some-
times produced by the contrast of light and shade in
a picture ! and how tame is the one without the
other ! The same may be said of scenery. There
are countries where all is so rich that we are almost
surfeited, and where a dreary moor or barren rock
w^ould give relief. The admirers of picturesque
scenery have probably little reason to complain of the
desolation of some parts of Scotland, which serves only
to enhance the beauty of the rest. A bare or a heathy

352 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS,

mountain may in itself be less pleasing than a green,
but it contrasts better with the verdure of the vale
below. Gordon Castle would be fine in any situation ;
but when seen after travelling over the dreary plains
of Aberdeenshire, it seems an enchanted palace. That
English traveller who was so appalled at the bleak-
ness of Drymen Moor, that he turned round his
horses' heads and drove back with all speed to the
south, knew not that a little perseverance would have
brought to view the lake of Menteith, and the vale
of Aberfoyle, rendered more lovely by contrast.
Switzerland is a country of contrasts ; rich valleys
being opposed to bare peaks, green pastures to eternal
snows, corn fields, and even vineyards lying close to
masses of ice. In many parts of America there is
too much uniformity from the enormous quantity of
wood, but when the wide Savannah bursts upon
the view, how refreshing must be the contrast !
Every one has been struck with the peculiar beauty
of trees in the midst of a town, with the squares in
London, the Tuileries and Boulevards in Paris, and
this charm of the rus in urbe is owing to the same
principle.

But if contrast be a source of beauty, so likewise
is similarity, and the best effects are produced by a
happy mixture of the two. How imposing is a body
of soldiers in uniform I but how much more striking
is some contrast of uniforms, or a mixture of horse
and foot ! Regularity in buildings is certainly a source
of beauty, but it may be carried too far, as for
instance, in the new town of Edinburgh, which in
itself is tame from uniformity, though it pleases as

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 353

opposed to the old. Other towns entirely modern
and regular are insipid in the last degree. London
is a much cleaner and more convenient city than
Paris, but it is far less striking to the eye, from the
lowness of the houses, the prevalence of brick, and
also from the want of contrast. Thus, its very ex-
cellencies are opposed to beauty.

The due disposition of colours, and hence the art
of dress, depends, in great measure, on a proper
union of contrast and similarity. In France, where
dress is almost reduced to a science, it is well known
what colours go well or ill together ; and the general
principle seems to be that those which suit are either
very different or else mere shades of the same. Thus
black, or purple, or deep blue, and scarlet form a very
pleasing mixture, as well as black and white, blue
and yellow, brown and pink, lastly, lilac and green ;
whereas, yellow and green, or blue and green are de-
cidedly disagreeable. In the former case the colours
are strongly opposed, while in the latter they are too
much alike without being quite the same. But a
dark and a light shade of the same colour are never
amiss, for here there is similarity as well as contrast ;
though the shades ought not to approach too much,
unless they become identical. A French eligante
will rummage half the shops in the town in search of
a ribbon, or waist-band, that may exactly match her
gown.

Why are the English, a grave, regular, and busy
people, exceedingly fond of broad humour, and even
of low buffoonery, the French less so, while they
can listen with the greatest patience to the lengthy

A A

354 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

speeches of their tragedies, which tire an Englishman
to death ? The reason may be, that each is a con-
trast to the prevailing humour of sedateness or of
volatility. The mania of the English for traveUing
seems also to take its rise from their usual regularity,
which at last renders contrast necessary ; while the
French, who court little varieties, less need such a
violent change.

In a former chapter we have shown how much the
passion of love is indebted to contrast, while friend-
ship owes more to similarity ; and we might proceed
to point out how useful is contrast in the constitution
of our own minds, in the characters who surround us,
and also in the body politick ; but we pretend not to
exhaust the subject, only to throw out hints for the
reader's own meditation. We shall therefore proceed
to another and kindred principle.

IV. Privation. Though the principle of Priva-
tion be not quite the same as that of variety, yet as
they are closely connected and even in part coincide,
it seemed advisable to treat of them in one chapter.
And having already in the course of this inquiry,
brought forward many instances of the principle, we
shall now be the more brief.

The principle is simply this : that the actual loss
or privation of any element of happiness, or even the
fear of such loss or privation, causes us to value it
more highly, and to enjoy it more on the return.
And the reason why we value it more is, that the
pain we feel at the loss or merely at the fear of loss,
makes us sensible how necessary the object is to our
happiness. For, when well at ease, we are but too

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 3.55

apt to forget the sources of our felicity. And that
we should value that highly which we find to be
conducive to our happiness is an ultimate fact in hu-
man nature. So far the effects of privation are dis-
tinct from those of variety. But when we inquire
why after losing an object vfe enjoy it more on the
return, this can be accounted for only on the latter
principle ; for after actual privation the return is a de-
cided change, and fear of loss is almost the same as
the reality. A man who greatly feared to lose a be*
loved friend is almost as much rejoiced at his re-
covery, as if he had believed him dead.

It is evident from the above that privation is not an
ultimate principle, but is comprehended under another
more general. Nevertheless, as a proximate principle,
it is of great importance in practice, for as Bacon has
observed, the principia media are often more fruitful
and applicable than the principia generalissima.

It follows directly from the above principle that
some pain enhances, and, may be, is essential to plea-
sure. Could we get rid of every sort of uneasiness,
and vary our enjoyments in every conceivable way,
still it is probable that at last they would become
quite insipid from the absence of a sufficient contrast,
which pain alone can supply. Pleasure in all its
forms would probably not be enough without an in-
gredient of a totally different nature, for we see that
those who pursue enjoyment with the most ardour,
and who can vary it in every way, never fail to tire of
it if obtained with too much ease, that is, without some
pain. This then is the true salt which seasons every
dish. The truth is a consequence of the general

356 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

principle of variety, and more particularly of that of
privation, and is also agreeable to experience.

After dwelling so long on variety, we need add
little under the present head. We shall therefore
confine ourselves to a very few illustrations.

Nothing is more generally recommended by mora-
lists, parents, and guardians, than temperance, and
this is voluntary privation in a limited degree. With-
out temperance, our minds as well as our bodies are
prematurely worn out, and we become old in feelings
and constitution before we have numbered half our
days, palsied in sensibility as well as limb, spectres
who seem to live for no purpose but to warn and
terrify others. Abstinence is more powerful and often
more practicable than temperance, because, after a
temporary but total denial the return is a greater
change than after partial fruition ; and because a
partial enjoyment creates a hankering for more. If
then, an indulgence be bad, endeavour to get rid of
it at once, rather than by slow degrees. Total absti-
nence is more powerful than partial, for who does
not relish a feast the better for a long fast ? Often a
few mouth fuls can blunt the edge of appetite, as
knowing epicures can tell. A long fast is also a
sovereign remedy for many bodily ills, especially for
derangement of stomach and the other digestive or-
gans. How refreshed is the mind by getting rid of
a subject entirely, and how improved in force does it
return to the favourite theme ! After the privations of
school, home is indeed delightful ; and after the hard-
ships of the sea, every haven is happy.

The pleasures peculiar to winter depend very much

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 357

OR privation ; for if we felt no cold without, should
we care for the warmth within ? One who has been
long exposed to the inclemencies of the weather, is so
much pleased with a cheerful fire and a smoking-
dinner, that he is content to bask in the heat, and
asks for no other amusement than to watch the
changing embers. He feels an inward contentment,
which excludes even a touch of ennui, and puts him
in good humour with every one that surrounds him.
■ And here we may remark, that summer, with all
its enchantments, seems more to favour ennui than
the dreary season of winter. Winter may be cold and
uncomfortable, but summer is apt to be listless. This
difterence seems in part to depend upon the presence
or absence of privation peculiar to these seasons, for
privation not only enhances pleasure, but it serves to
occupy the mind. To keep one's self warm in very
cold weather, is quite an important affair, requiring
many shifts and expedients. Moreover, force is re-
quired to resist the attacks of cold, and force is op-
posed to listlessness. Besides all this, the long days
and the fine weather in summer render greater exer-
tions possible, especially in the open air, and knowing
them to be possible, therefore we feel a want of them.
If any definite desire arise out of this want, activity
of course ensues, otherwise we are conscious of indo-
lence, and instantly fall into ennui. In proof of this,
where the climate is so hot, as scarcely to admit of
exercise during the day, exercise is neither thought
of nor missed. There, the object is to keep one's self
cool, and even this may become an occupation.
It would be vain to deny that the rich have im-

358 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

mense advantages over the poor, but the principal
drawback to their enjoyments arises from very abun-
dance. They are constantly striving to do away with
all privations, to level all difficulties, and to smooth
the path of life as we have our highways ; but such,
alas ! is the fatality attached to man, that with all
his efforts he cannot get rid of uneasiness. In vain
does he put on armour and betake himself to a tower
of strength, fortified by every art ; for a foe that
ever watches an opportunity, must find some un-
guarded spot. Were there nothing to fear without,
there would still be an enemy within ; and were there
peace abroad, there would be sedition at home. When
a man has nothing substantial to annoy him, he raises
an airy spirit and fights with it as a reality. If we
must have some uneasiness, it is better on the whole
that it assume a palpable form ; as an open enemy is
preferable to one in ambuscade. Some degree of
hardship and privation is therefore certainly a good,
for this is the true magician that lays the phantoms
of the brain. In combating with real evils, the mind
exerts force and feels a pride in the victory ; but in
warring with spectres, it knows its weakness, and is
conscious only of humility. In these combats alone,
while defeat is disgraceful, conquest brings no
triumph.

But however wholesome privation may be for the
mind as well as for the body, yet, always implying
some uneasiness, it is seldom a welcome visitor. To
the mass of mankind who are employed in labour, it
is, alas ! but too well known, and therefore to recom-
mend it to them, would be only a mockery. By the

ON CHANGE OR VARIETY. 359

rich, however, it ought to be considered as a neces-
sary whet to the numerous sources of enjoyment which
fortune has placed within their reach. And let them
not turn away from this useful but rough remedy,
like children from a bitter dose, for they will find
that the subsequent good far more than compensates
the evil. Besides, the consciousness of privations
and hardships undergone is attended with a secret
satisfaction, unknown to the pampered sons of ease
and luxury.

There is another grand principle of happiness,
which it may be necessary here to mention, though
after what has been said elsewhere, I do not intend
to dilate on it in this place. This is Liberty, so dear
to every human heart. Liberty in every form is not
only eminently delightful in itself, but is also essen-
tial to many other sources of enjoyment ; in particular,
to activity and variety, those powerful causes of hap-
piness to the individual. Nor is liberty of less import-
ance to man, as member of a political society, for
without liberty there can be no security for good
government. But, as this subject has been already
treated at large, I shall content myself on the present
occasion w^ith referring to a former work ; for, though
civil liberty be there more particularly dwelt upon,
yet the nature of liberty in general, and its influence
upon the happiness of the individual, have also been
pointed out.^^

15 See Political Discourses, Dis. on Civil Liberty, in particular
chap. i. and iv.

360

CHAPTER IV.

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION.

OPPOSED to the principle of Variety, is that of
Repetition. Custom and repetition mean the
same thing, but the latter term is precise and clear,
whereas the former is often confounded with habit,
which is properly one of its effects. On this account,
the phrase, principle of repetition, seems to me to be
preferable. But whichever term we may adopt, the
principle is highly important, and its effects are so
complicated, that they appear to me to have never
been thoroughly understood. It is hoped then, that
the reader will not refuse his attention, should it even
be more called upon, than in the course of the pre-
ceding pages.

The effects of repetition are two-fold, primary or
original, and secondary or derivative. Of the former
kind we may enumerate three distinct effects. First,
repetition gives d, facility in performing all bodily and
mental exercises, even those which at first were very
difficult. This effect of repetition is so well known,
that it is unnecessary to dwell upon it, or to bring
forward many particular instances ; but it may not
be amiss to mention one of the most remarkable. To
the uninitiated, nothing is more surprising or puzzling
than feats of jugglery and sleight of hand, whereby

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 361

the most difficult and complicated movements are per-
formed with unerring dexterity, and even our senses
are deceived, so that trusting to them alone we should
be forced to believe in a miracle. This deception
must depend, in great measure, upon the excessive
rapidity with which the changes are effected ; a rapi-
dity too great to be followed by the eye of the spec-
tator, and to be acquired only by constant repetition.
For it is well known that very quick motion com-
pletely baffles the senses, as in the case of a cannon-
ball ; and that even when the object is not quite in-
visible, no motion is seen, as is evinced by a wheel
revolving with great rapidity. Sleight of hand is fri-
volous, and may be criminal in its object, as when
practised by thieves and pickpockets ; but the art it-
self is interesting, as showing the power of repetition,
and deserves more general attention than hitherto it
has received.

Secondly. Frequent repetition gives a tendency to
repeat the same thing again, a tendency so great as in
many cases scarcely to be resisted. One circumstance,
in particular, which renders resistance difficult, in the
case of bodily movements, is, that after a time we
become scarcely if at all aware of them ; and the
extraordinary phsenomenon is presented of voluntary
actions performed almost without volition. Almost,
I say, for probably there is some volition, though it
is so fleeting and makes so little impression that we
forget it the instant afterwards. With respect to
mental changes, though we cannot be insensible to
these, for that would be a manifest contradiction,
yet after long custom, thoughts enter as if by stealth,

362 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

and over-power the mind before they are much at-
tended to. However strong may be our wish to pre-
vent the recurrence of such thoughts, it is difficult
to resist so insidious a tendency. They may be com-
pared to the predatory Arabs, who give no warning
to their foes, but are ever ready for attack. It is this
tendency which is properly called habit.

Thirdly. Repetition tends to deaden all our sen-
sibilities, whether of pain or of pleasure. In certain
cases, particularly when long continued, it gives rise
to a peculiar feeling of mental or bodily fatigue, as
we have seen in the preceding chapter in tracing the
effects of uniformity.

Such are the primary effects of Custom or Repeti-
tion. But in addition to these, there are other and
secondary effects upon our sensibilities, that are pro-
duced by means of three things which arise out of
repetition, and which either favour or counteract those
primary consequences. These are Remembrance,
Comparison, and Facility, the effects of which it now
remains to investigate.

When we view an object which formerly was a
source of pleasure, in addition to the gratification
which we experience from the actual presence of
that object, we recollect the satisfaction which it af-
forded us on one or more occasions. And the recol-
lection of pleasure being itself pleasing, whatever
was so connected with our past enjoyments as to sug-
gest them to us afterwards, becomes thus a source of
delight. It is this agreeable remembrance which
constitutes the pleasure of custom. For, if there be
pleasures of novelty, so likewise of custom, which as

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 363

we now see, arise not from it immediately, but from
remembrance, the result of repetition.

When the object which serves to recall former
pleasure is an animated being, particularly of our
own kind, since in this way he becomes a source of
gratification, we are naturally inclined to love him for
this reason alone. But this inclination will be much
strengthened if we know that our past pleasure was
intentional on his part. Thus does the pleasure of
custom, that is, an agreeable remembrance, tend to
create affection. Again, it is natural to suppose that
the recollection of many pleasures should have a
greater effect than the remembrance only of a few.
In this way is explained that love or friendship which
arises out of long acquaintance.

What is true of pleasure, applies to pain. As
there are pleasures of remembrance of which some
give rise to love, so are there pains of remembrance
of which some create hatred.

The effect of custom in deadening our sensibilities
is thus, as we see, counteracted, in a greater or less
degree, by the remembrance that springs from repe-
tition.

But if the effects of custom be weakened by re-
trospection, so likewise by anticipation, which arises
directly from the former. There is a well known
tendency in the mind to believe that what has been
will continue to be ; so that if we have experienced
any pleasure or pain for a long while, we are inclined
to think that we shall for some time to come. And
the longer has been our past experience, the firmer
is our conviction for the future. It is evident that

364 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

this anticipation must serve to increase the present
pleasure or pain, and so to counteract the primary
effect of custom.

We have now to take notice of a fact w^hich seems
to be indisputable, that the more intense the original
pleasure or pain, the sooner is it diminished by re-
petition. This seems to be an ultimate fact, not to
be traced any further. But, although v^^e cannot as-
sign any cause for the primary effect, yet when the
pleasure or pain has already begun to be diminished,
vv^e can point out a secondary cause which accele-
rates the decline. This is the principle of Comparison.
When a pleasure at first lively has been somewhat
deadened by repetition, we can scarcely help com-
paring its present dullness with its former vivacity,
as also with the hope we had formed that such viva-
city would last ; for we are prone to imagine that
what pleased us greatly at first, will do so on another
occasion. This double comparison with the past
reality, and with the expectations then created, is all
to the disadvantage of the present, and engenders a
feeling of disappointment, which weakens, if it do not
destroy, whatever pleasure is left. And the greater
the pleasure at first, and therefore the hope for the
future, the more room will there be for disappoint-
ment, and it will also be more sure and speedy ;
seeing that repetition will the sooner produce its
effect. This is the reason why violent love not un-
frequently passes into deadly hate. With respect to
pain, the case is similar. When we compare a past
and intense pain with the same now deadened by
custom, we feel a certain satisfaction at the improve-

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. SGr^

merit in our condition, and this must diminish the
uneasiness, or even cause the balance to fall on the
side of pleasure.

So far comparison y<2z;oMr,9 the primary tendency of
custom, and enables it more surely and speedily to
destroy both our pains and pleasures ; whereas,
simple remembrance has just the contrary effect.

But, when the original pleasure was weak, repeti-
tion has less effect upon it, and therefore the present
enjoyment, increased by a crowd of recollections and
consequent anticipations, is more likely to exceed the
primitive, and afford a favourable comparison. This
is a reason why marriages begun with a small but
real affection frequently turn out well. In like man-
ner, a pain at first trifling may by continuance be-
come intolerable, being increased by accumulated
recollections, and the disagreeable comparison hence
drawn between our present and our past condition.
In these cases the effect of comparison is exactly the
reverse of the former, for now it counteracts the pri-
mary tendency of custom. When therefore the plea-
sure or pain was at first intense, comparison assists
the deadening influence of repetition ; but when it
was originally weak, comparison, like recollection, is
opposed to that influence.

We have seen that Facility is a primary effect of
repetition. In order therefore to complete our theory
of custom, it is necessary to state how facility effects
our feelings.

When we enter upon any new undertaking or
new mode of life, or associate with new people, we
generally experience some embarrassment from our

366 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

ignorance and awkwardness. Every thing is so
strange that we know not well what to do, nor could
we readily perform our part though we had studied it
theoretically. And as this condition is not without
uneasiness, the charms of novelty are thereby some-
what impaired. As, by degrees, we get more accus-
tomed to persons or things around us, not only is
this strangeness removed, but a positive pleasure
arises from the ease we now feel as contrasted with
our previous embarrassment. But, after long custom
this contrast is forgotten, and the facility may become
so great as scarcely to touch our feelings ; for where
there is perfect ease there can be no uncertainty, and
therefore neither hope, nor fear, nor surprise at any
success. Thus facility at first counter-balances, and
afterwards assists the primary and deadening influ-
ence of custom.

When first we visit a city containing many in-
teresting objects, we are apt to be bewildered, and
not unfrequently spend most of our time on that
which is least worth notice. The pleasure of novelty
is thus somewhat diminished. But, on a second
visit we know at once where to go, and what is
likely to please us most, and this knowledge and
facility frequently render the second more agreeable
than the first visit. Besides, on the return we are
less liable to disappointment, for we are aware what
to expect. Lastly, after repeated returns, our sensi-
bilities become blunted, and the very facility we ex-
perience contributes to this effect.

2. Having now traced the effects of repetition, se-
condary as well as primary, we shall draw some

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 367

practical applications from the foregoing theory, and
conclude with a few general reflections on the good
and evil of custom.

Since the immediate tendency of repetition is to
deaden both our pains and pleasures, the grand
problem to be solved is how to encourage this ten-
dency in the one case and counteract it in the other.
With this view we must attend to those circumstances
arising out of repetition, which, as we have seen,
modify its primary consequences.

It is evident, in the first place, from what has been
above stated, that the more intense is any enjoyment
the less frequently ought it to be repeated ; for, the
keener the edge of pleasure, the sooner is it blunted by
repetition ; and the more rapid the change, the more
unfavourable is the comparison formed between the
present and the past. When the past is as yesterday,
remembrance is of course lively, and therefore a fall-
ing oif is the more observed and felt. In this case,
the secondary effects of custom coinciding with the
primary, we have a double reason against too fre-
quent repetition. And be it observed, that breaks or
interruptions are here the less to be regretted, since
we can live so long on the remembrance of a vivid
delight. Thus the principle of privation comes to
our aid to prevent our enjoyments being diminished
or destroyed by custom. Carefully to withdraw our
"pleasures froin the dominion of custom, especially
those more intense, is then our first maxim, and one
of vital importance.

To bring our pains under the dominion of custom
may at first seem an absurd attempt ; for it may be

368 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

said, would any one seek to continue pain in order to
subdue it by repetition? Would not this be to embrace
as means the very end to be avoided ? assuredly : but
as there are many pains which we cannot entirely
avoid, these may be much deadened by repetition,
if allowed to exert all its influence. How then can
this be done? simply by withdrawing those causes
which weaken the effects of repetition ; remembrance
of the past, and its consequence, dread of the future.

Hence the great importance of not dwelling upon
past pains : but with respect to pleasure, we must
adopt a system just the reverse. We have already
seen that the most obvious method of neutralizing the
deadening influence of repetition, is at once to break
the custom by change, especially by privation. But
it follows from what has been above stated, that the
influence of repetition may be also opposed by allow-
ing our thoughts to dwell upon past pleasures, which
will naturally give rise to pleasing anticipations of
the future. We ought also as much as possible to
encourage or discourage comparison, according as it
is to the advantage or disadvantage of the present.
When the pleasure has been of slow growth, we can
dwell upon it with perfect satisfaction ; but when it
was intense at first, the pleasure of recollection is
apt to be impaired by comparison with our actual
state ; and though it may not be in our power quite
to separate the one from the other, we ought always
to make the attempt, for at least, we can in part
succeed.

But it may be asked, how can we prevent ourselves
from dwelling upon past pains? To this there is a ready

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 369

answer, by occupation, and by that alone. We cannot
drive away directly any idea that haunts us ; nay, the
more we attempt to will it away, the more pertina-
ciously it remains ; but we can enter upon some pur-
suit, or seek some amusement that may give a new
turn to our thoughts. In short, carefully to withdraw
our pleasures from the dominion of custom, and to
allow our pains to be subdued by it, is oui second and
complete maxim. To cherish pleasure, especially of
the keener sort, employ change, privation, or even long
abstinence ; to heighten moderate joys, remembrance ;
to expel pain, occupation : such is the general rule.

It has been remarked by Rochefoucauld that " the
grace of novelty and long custom, opposite though they
be, alike prevent us from perceiving the faults of our
friends."^ But custom, which renders us insensible
to the faults of our friends, ought also to deaden us
to their merits, according to the general principle.
And assuredly it has such a tendency ; but there is this
difference, that we try to forget the faults, while we
cherish the remembrance of the merits. In the former
case, then, custom produces its proper eifect, while in
the latter it is counteracted more or less by remem-
brance. Here we have a practical exemplification of
the principles above stated.

If the maxim of Rochefoucauld be true of friends,
it is so likewise of those who are bound together by a
closer tie of affectioA. Custom, continual inter-
course, renders daily companions insensible to each

1 La grace de la nouveaute et la longue habitude, quelque op-
posees qu'elles soient, nous emp^chent egalement de sentir les
defauts de nos amis,

B B

370 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

other's faults, or, at least, very much deadens the pain
which they at first occasioned. No doubt continual
intercourse has a tendency to produce a like insensi-
bility to good qualities : but this may be counteracted
by separation and temporary absence which break the
custom, as also by the pleasures of remembrance
which grow out of that intercourse.

Custom may thus be productive of much good or
evil in love. To secure the good eflfects, we must
forget the faults of her we love, and carefully re-
member the virtues, favours, and graces : to guard
against the bad effects, nothing is so powerful as se-
paration. Absence, or separation at a distance, is
the most effectual remedy of all ; but it must not be
too prolonged.

We sooner become deadened by custom to bodily
than mental qualities, as we see in the case of married
people, who are wont to become wonderfully insen-
sible to each other's beauty or deformity, especially
to the latter, when there is affection.

In addition to the above, we may remark that inti-
macy has a strong tendency to produce a similarity
of minds. This similarity is sometimes supposed to
extend even to the body ; for there are persons who
assert that married people come in time to be like
each other. But without supposing any real change
of features, similarity in bodily habits and in manner
would have nearly the same effect, and such a re-
semblance almost unavoidably arises from continual
intercourse. Man is an imitative animal, and always
catches something of the outward habits, the feelings,
or the opinions of those with whom he associates,

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 371

according to the principle of sympathy. The most
striking and general instance that can be given is
national character, or a certain resemblance which
pervades a whole people, arising from mutual inter-
course during the whole of life, and communicated
from age to age. In like manner, married people
who live on good terms, are generally found to ap-^
proximate in their tastes and opinions, in a greater
or less degree. If people really like each other, they
of course feel a desire to assimilate as much as pos*
sible, and this desire must assist the natural tendency
to imitation. The wish itself might do much, but
when aided by the general bent, it can create a most
remarkable similarity ; and this is the grand founda-
tion for a strong and lasting affection. However
great may be the attainments of another, however
high his intellectual and moral qualities, if his opi-
nions and feelings, his likings and dislikes do not
resemble our own, there cannot be permanent love.
Great is the pleasure we experience on finding an in-
dividual whose opinions, and still more whose tastes,
harmonize with our own ; and pleasure caused by
another is the true bond of attachment.^ From the
above, it follows that the most salutary effect of
custom is the similarity which it tends to create be-
tween those who live together, and whose happiness
greatly depends upon mutual regard, for we can bear
to be indifferent to strangers, but it is wretched not to
like our own. " I dwell among mine own people,"

2 We may remark that all outward marks of regard, such as
kissing and shaking hands, are emblematical of mental union.

372 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

was the answer of the Shunammite to the prophet,
to signify that she wanted nothing. It is this simila-
rity, the result of custom, which justifies the assertion
of the poet,

" Quod superest, consuetude concinnat amorem."^

It is the want of similarity in character, proceeding
from want of intercourse, as much as the difference
of language, which separates the nations of the globe.
The difTerence in opinions and tastes makes their res-
pective inhabitants feel a mutual estrangement, often
a repugnance, which philosophy can hardly cure ; and
though there should not be aversion, there seldom is
much cordiality. Frequent intercourse alone can
wear down the points of difference, and produce a
more general agreement, either between nations or in-
dividuals. Thus we see that much more uniformity
of character prevails among the French than among
the English, for the former cannot live without con-
stant society, while the latter are more retired. This
is the reason why England abounds so much in
originals.

We shall now bring forward a case formerly men-
tioned, not of very common occurrence, but certainly

3 Lucretius, Lib. iv.

The lines immediately preceding-, along with useful advice to
the fair sex, hold out an encouragement to those less gifted with
personal charms :

Nee divinitus interdum, venerisque sagittis,
Deteriore fit ut forma muliercula ametur.
Nam facit ipsa suis interdum femina factis,
Morigerisque modis, et munde corpore culto,
Ut facile insuescat secum vir degere vitam.

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 373

not out of nature, which may serve more fully to ex-
emplify the foregoing principles. A passion, at first
exceedingly ardent, having been weakened or even
totally subdued on a closer intimacy, a new feeling
springs up after a lapse of time, small at the com-
mencement, but gradually ripening into a real though
calm affection. Here we have an example of the two
effects of custom at different periods. But the ori-
ginal passion being supposed very strong, a long time
must intervene between its decay and the growth of
a new affection ; for the remembrance of its former
intensity, and of the glowing expectations then formed,
must establish a comparison dreadfully to the disad-
vantage of the present. When the vivacity of the
recalled feelings has been effectually dulled by time,
then and then only can we look for a renewed regard.
Great and manifold are the pleasures of recollec-
tion. But recollections are of two sorts, real and
imaginary, the former being the remembrance of facts
which we ourselves have witnessed, the latter merely
a fancied recalling of events long gone by, known to
us by tradition or history. The incidents of our
own past life may be either pleasing or painful, and
so may the events of history; but, in the latter case,
there is generally an interest attached to them which
turns the balance decidedly on the side of pleasure.
We may weep over the ruins of Carthage and the
loss of liberty in Greece or Rome, we may deplore
the fate of Cato and Brutus and the triumph of their
unprincipled foes, but on the whole we are agreeably
moved. The interest is one of humanity, but not pe-
culiar to ourselves, and therefore we are neither in-

374 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

different nor over-anxious. And here we may remark
that ancient history is in general more interesting
than modern, except it be the history of the period
very near to our own times. Besides the particular
nature of the events connected with the variety of
ancient governments and the greater liberty that pre-
vailed in Greece and Rome than in Europe till of
late years, there are general reasons why old or else
nearly contemporaneous times should be more inter-
esting than the intervening period. The difference
in manners, customs, and religion, gives a peculiar
character to antiquity, and forms a striking contrast
with what we see, especially when the history is pe-
rused in the original authors, who mention many
curious particulars, passed over by later writers.
When Tacitus for instance tells us casually that
Agrippina, on visiting Tiberius, found him offering a
sacrifice to his father, who is not rapidly transported
back to pagan Rome, to a scene very different from
the present? Moreover this difference of customs,
joined to the remoteness of the period, allows more
scope for the imagination than an era similar and
nearer to our own. The present is the time of reality,
the past and the future of fancy, because these are
imperfectly known, and the more distant and pecu-
liar the epoch the less can we know it intimately.
Fancy is a child that droops in confinement, but
sports with vigour at large, and like other children,
loves play more than accurate knowledge. But when
the history touches on our own times, another sort of
interest arises, which comes home to every bosom, for
what is near must affect us in some way. On the

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 375

otlier hand, the middle period of history being neither
sufficiently remote nor sufficiently near, it loses an in-
terest of fancy without gaining one of reality.

To the pleasures of imaginary recollection must be
attributed that peculiar favour which attends the
members of ancient families and time-honoured dy-
nasties. These individuals suggest to others a train
of pleasing though fanciful recollections, and hence
are looked upon with complacency. Something of
the same favour or prestige, as the French call it, is
attached even to inanimate objects, such as old build-
ings, and for the same reason. From this it appears
that the feelings in favour of those who can boast of
a long line of ancestry are founded on a fixed prin-
ciple of human nature. Accordingly, we find that in
every country, and in every age, even under demo-
cratical governments, in spite of the reasonings of phi-
losophers and the ridicule of satirists,** respect has
been paid to ancient families. If ever there were a
country w^here this feeling might be supposed extinct
it is the United States of America, but there, as else-
where, an old family is held in honour. The senti-
ment, as we see, is derived from imagination rather
than from reason, though it may not be at variance
with the latter.

3. Were it not for our firm conviction, that every
general principle of our nature has, on the whole,
a beneficial tendency, it might fairly be questioned
whether custom produce more good or evil. Cer-
tainly custom is, as Shakspeare calls it, "a monster"

^ Stemmata quidfaciunt ? says Juvenal, but in vain.

376 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

with two faces, like the countenance of Fanus, on one
side lit with a smile, on the other darkened with a
scowl. Facility, which is one primary effect of repe-
tition, must certainly be considered a good, both be-
cause it is agreeable, at least to a certain extent, and
because it is necessary to encourage us in any un-
dertaking. Since no one can strive for ever with
difficulties without being at last cast down, none
would persevere in an arduous course were it not for
increasing facility. This facility is the true reward
of constancy in any pursuit, in any mental or bodily
exercise, and it sometimes becomes so great as to sur-
prise the individual himself as well as others, though
less observed by him, because acquired so gradually.
When we consider the power which some possess of
speaking in public, for hours together, without being
ever at a loss, or the wonderful rapidity with which
some authors write, we shall be able to form an idea
of the mental facility that may be gained by custom.
In this respect none surpass the Italian Improvisator!,
who, on the spur of the moment, on a subject selected
by others, compose long poems, sometimes even a
tragedy, and sustain each of the parts.

In the case of habit, or a tendency to repeat, which
is another primary effect of custom, the good is alloyed
with evil, for habit is a useful servant, but a dreadful
master. In the performance of any action, in the in-
dulgence of any train of thought, there ought always
to be two considerations ; are these thoughts and ac-
tions good for the present, and would we wish them
to be repeated ; for, not a deed do we perform, not
an idea do we entertain, which is not thereby encou-

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 377

raged. Thus, things in themselves apparently of no
moment, rise into real importance, for nothing is tri-
vial which is apt to occur very frequently. We ought
therefore to refrain from many things for no other
reason than that they may grow into a habit. As
compared with our past, and possibly with our future
life, the present is but a point, and therefore it may
not seem of so much consequence how we fill this
up : but the present is father to the future, and often
rules it with an iron sway. If we wish to amend our
life, or merely to get rid of some foolish, unwhole-
some, or unpleasant practice, mental or bodily, the
present is the time, for the victory is easier now than
ever it will be afterwards, since each instance of repe-
tition serves to strengthen the tendency. Is not this
a convincing argument against procrastination ?

The third effect of custom, the deadening of our
sensibilities, presents a still more puzzling mixture of
good and evil. But there is one consideration which
tends to prove that repetition has a more powerful
influence in deadening our pains than our pleasures.
In discussing the maxim of Rochefoucauld as to the
effect of custom in blinding us to the faults of our
friends, we observed that frequent intercourse would
render us as insensible to their merits as to their de-
fects, were it not that we cherish the remembrance of
the one, and try to forget the other. Now this obser-
vation may be applied to our pleasures and pains
generally. It is our interest to recall the former, and
to consign the latter to oblivion, and therefore we
attempt so to do, and in part succeed. We know,
indeed, from experience, how soon hardships are for-

378 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

gotten where they cannot be traced to the agency of
a human being, especially to intentional agency,
which rouses the malevolent passions, long to rankle
in the breast.

" latet alta mente repostum
Judicium Paridis, spreteeque injuria formse."

We also know from experience how prodigious is
the power of custom in reconciling us to discomforts
and privations, so as almost to make people think
that we can become accustomed to anything, how-
ever disagreeable at first. No doubt, repetition also
deadens our enjoyments ; but the difference is, that in
the one case we allow it to produce its whole effect,
or at least have an interest in doing so, while in the
other, our interest being contrary, we endeavour, or
ought to endeavour to counteract it as much as pos-
sible. And to do so becomes even a necessity, for
the bodily uneasiness, or the mental satiety, that waits
upon too much repetition, being at last insupportable,
we are forced to fly to change, to temperance, or pri-
vation. Still, custom is the grand leveller ; and cer-
tainly tends to produce a greater equality between the
enjoyments of different ranks of society than we could
at first suppose, diminishing the advantages of the
rich, as well as the evils of the poor.

Custom has a no less powerful influence on the
body than on the mind. We can enumerate at least
three distinct effects, two upon the muscular fibre,
one upon the nervous system ; for it facilitates and
strengthens muscular movement, but diminishes ner-
vous agency. Every one has felt a stiffness in his

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 379

body or limbs on performing some continuous or vio-
lent action for the first time or after a long interval,
and every one also knows that it soon goes off on re-
petition. Now, the stiffness at first was as much a
proof of difficulty and effort, as its subsequent absence
of facility. That custom strengthens our muscular
movements admits of a palpable proof in the evident
enlargement of the parts. Thus the arms of the black-
smith who wields the massy hammer, and the legs of
the pedestrian and opera dancer, are thicker than
those of other people. We always find that the de-
velopment of the muscles in the different species of
animals corresponds with the frequent movement, and
that if any cause prevent that movement, the muscles
become smaller, or are even quite obliterated. Birds
which make much use of the wing have enormous
pectoral muscles, but when they become domesticated
and cease to fly, those moving powers diminish. Thus
the wild duck and pheasant have much more flesh
on the breast than the tame duck or common chicken.
Quadrupeds, in general, have more flesh on the back
and less on the breast than birds, agreeably to the
nature of their movements ; and in carnivorous quad-
rupeds, which make much use of the lower jaw,
the temporal muscles are immense. Man has muscles
for moving the outward ear, but, as in the civilized
state he never makes use of them, they gradually
fall away to nothing ; whereas some savage nations
are said to retain the power by keeping it up from
their infancy.

In these two ways do we explain the power of
custom in enabling men, or other animals, to perform

380 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

such bodily feats as at first would have been impos-
sible. To consider what may be done, we must look
to the achievements of pedestrians, which are some-
times truly astonishing, as those of Captain Barclay/
or to the rapidity of a race-horse, such as Eclipse,
which could gallop a mile in a minute. The muscles
becoming enlarged, there is, of course, more power,
and though they were not enlarged, the greater fa-
cility of movement would render less effort necessary,
and therefore there would be less fatigue.

The third effect of custom on the body is diminu-
tion of nervous agency. The most remarkable in-
stance that can be given of this influence, is the fact,
that some of the most powerful medicines lose their
effect on repetition, except they be given in a con-
stantly increasing quantity. This is particularly the
case with those drugs which produce no sensible al-
teration on the tissues of the body, no palpable change
of structure, and consequently are supposed to act
directly on the nervous system. Such are opium and
the whole family of narcotics. To these, it is well
known, the body may be so accustomed as at length
to receive with impunity what would kill any ordi-
nary man. It seems impossible to bring forward a
stronger instance of the power of custom.

Under this head must be classed the influence of
custom in hardening the body, and enabling it to re-
sist cold and other causes which otherwise would be

5 Captain Barclay walked 1000 miles in one thousand succes-
sive hours. This feat has since been even surpassed ; for R.
Cootes walked 1250 miles in the same time.

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 381

injurious. It is probably through the nerves that
custom thus acts on the frame, for we can trace no
palpable change ; and its effects are known to all.
It is, however, a curious question, and by no means
of easy solution, how far this influence extends. It
appears to me that considerable mistake prevails
upon this subject, as if custom could harden the body
to really unhealthy practices. There is a wide differ-
ence between practices radically unhealthy, and those
which become so only by being entered upon sud-
denly. Frequent exposure to the open air in all
seasons, frequent ablutions in cold water, frequent
exercise, are really all healthy practices, and if not
begun too hastily, tend greatly to strengthen the frame.
But, to suppose that we can be enured by custom
to drink cold water when we are hot, to sleep when
over-heated on the damp ground or on cold stones, to
sit or stand all day in wet clothes, to lie in damp
beds, &c. seems to be a decided error. No doubt, a
strong person may do such things once and again
with impunity, but it will probably be found that re-
petition, so far from neutralizing their effects, only
renders them the more certain, that each instance of
repetition by impairing, though silently, the vigour
of the constitution, renders it less fit to resist the evil
tendency than if it were new to such practices. Does
experience prove that the body can be enured by
custom to such doings ? In Scotland and elsewhere,
where the country people are exposed from their
earliest years to damp and cold, do we not find that
in the decline of life they are peculiarly subject to
rheumatism, and at all ages are more liable to fevers

382 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

than the rich ? In war, do common soldiers better
stand fatigue, or are they less prone to disease than
their officers ? Is it not certain that Europeans, newly
arrived in India, can go through much more than
the natives who have always been accustomed to a
hot relaxing climate? and that natives of northern
Europe, recently come to Italy, are less affected by
the scirocco than Italians themselves, or foreigners
long settled in the country ? Heat, in particular,
seems to work by degrees, and the longer it continues
is resisted with the more difficulty. The same may
be said of cold, which we can easily withstand for a
short time, even in an intense degree, but are sure to
suffer from its duration. We never bear cold so well
as after being thoroughly but not over heated, as by
means of a good fire, moderate exercise, or even a
warm bath, not by violent efforts, which always lead
to a reaction ; and it is a well known fact, that Eng-
lishmen, on returning from India, feel the cold of the
first winter less than the rest of their countrymen.
In like manner, it seems to me that a warm summer,
instead of rendering us more delicate, enables us the
better to withstand the cold of the ensuing winter.
The reason probably is, that heat gives a stimulus to
the circulation, which effect continues long after the
cause has ceased. From these facts it would appear
that whatever tends to invigorate the frame, enables
us to resist any outward evil, in spite of the shock
of change, better than if the sudden transition had
been avoided by a long continuance of the depressing
causes. Let us then remember, that though repeti-
tion in many cases fortifies the constitution, yet in
others it can weaken and undermine.

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 383

Nam leviter quamvis, quod crebro tunditur ictu,
Vincitur id longo spatio tamen, atque labascit.
Nonne vides, etiam guttas in saxa cadenteis
Humoris longo in spatio pertundere saxa?^

I cannot conclude this Chapter and the first Book
of our Inquiry, without dwelling a little longer on
the necessity of resisting the baneful effects of custom.
If it be true universally, that a concealed is more to
be dreaded than an open foe, then is custom highly
dangerous, for it is an insidious enemy. When we
see our opponents face to face, we know with whom
we have to cope, and can prepare ourselves accord-
ingly ; but who can guard against antagonists, whose
presence is not even suspected, while with secret
charms they lull us into repose, and disarm us with-
out an effort ? Custom is like those drugs which
deaden the sense of pain, but instead of curing dis-
ease, only conceal its ravages until they become irre-
parable ; or like the basilisk that stupifies, before it
seizes its prey. We ought, therefore, to be ever on
the alert to discover this lurking foe, before our better
feelings be deadened, and evil habit establish its sway ;
for sensibilities once destroyed cannot well be revived,
and habit becomes at last as strong as nature.^

There are two emotions in particular to which I
would draw the reader's attention, because they are

^ Lucretius, lib. iv.

7 How much is hardness of heart dwelt upon both in the Old
and New Testament as the worst and most hopeless of conditions !
Pharaoh hardened his heart, and would not let the children of
Israel go ; and the Jews are constantly upbraided for their insen-
sibility by Moses, the Prophets, and our Saviour.

384 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

intimately connected, the one with charity to men,
the other with piety to God, and are both peculiarly
liable to be subdued by custom. These are Pity and
Wonder. I might also dwell on the extraordinary
and injurious effect of custom upon our moral senti-
ments, and the tendency which it has to free the
veteran in sin from the best restraint upon vice, self-
disapprobation, were it not that everything relating
to Conscience belongs to the second Book of this In-
quiry, and must not be anticipated. After this sug-
gestion, I shall confine myself on the present occasion
to the two emotions above mentioned.

Pity was evidently given to prompt us to relieve
the miseries of our fellow-creatures, and restrain us
from injuring them or other animals. While directly
opposed to resentment, it is also one of the most
powerful antagonists to self-regarding interest in all
its shapes and varieties. In order to see what would
follow from the absence or dullness of this principle,
we have only to consult the history of those tyrants
who have acquired a dreadful notoriety. Had their
hearts not been hardened to pity, how could they
have committed such cruelties ? Probably, their first
cruelties were perpetrated not without reluctance,
but by each repetition they were prepared for ano-
ther. When Nero poisoned Britannicus, we" can sup-
pose that he suffered more than when he put Seneca
to death, or committed any subsequent enormity.

But we need not resort to such monstrous instances
in order to show how custom can harden the heart to
compassion, that most amiable of emotions ; for the
experience of every day attests the fact, and shows its

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 385

deplorable consequences. Animals in a tame state,
depend for their good treatment upon our pity as
well as our interest, and how easily is a habit ac-
quired of harshness and cruelty towards them ! In-
deed, some people become so accustomed to abuse
them as not to be aware that they are doing so, and
they would be quite astonished at being accused of
hard-heartedness. This is a case where custom rules
supreme, because horses and many other animals
utter no piercing cries by which we can be forcibly
awakened to a knowledge of their distress. In the
instance of butchers, insensibility to the sufferings of
animals is carried to the utmost extent of which our
nature is susceptible, and, though, in a certain degree,
hardness may be required in that trade, yet it is often
carried so far as to be the cause of unnecessary tor-
ture to those helpless creatures.^

When we live with those who are constantly com-
plaining of the state of their health, whether such
complaints be well-founded or not, we cease to feel
for them as at first, while strangers, who see them
but rarely, are moved with pity, and are astonished

^ For some striking instances of the insensibility of butchers,
see Dr. Chalmer's Sketches of Moral and Mental Philosophy, and
note in particular the anecdote of the retired butcher, who amused
himself occasionally by killing- a lamb. Though he had retired
from business, yet, in his own words, " he just sticket a lamb
now and then for his diversion," Ch. vi. p. 264. There is ano-
ther anecdote of a wretch, who used at times to do his work upon
the animal by halves, because " he just wanted to see how it
would carry on." No one, not previously hardened by custom,
could have indulged such a horrible curiosity.

C €

386 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

at our insensibility. Must we not then suppose, that
a class of men who are always hearing complaints
and witnessing disease and pain, will often become
hard as iron ? A certain degree of insensibility may
be necessary for medical men, more especially for
surgeons, but still the eft'ect is deplorable on many
accounts, for though the rich may command attention,
the poor must frequently suffer from indifference,
negligence, or simply from harshness of manner.
How difKcult must it be to secure proper care in hos-
pitals, where the patients being poor, and even at-
tended gratuitously, their complaints are the less
listened to without doors or within, and where phy-
sicians, surgeons, apothecaries, and nurses, are not
only hardened by custom, but wink at each other's
omissions ! It is the glory of Catholicism to have re-
placed those unfeeling creatures that elsewhere wait
upon the sick, by an order whose charity is warmed
by religious zeal. The life of a sister of charity may
be looked upon as the brightest specimen of practi-
cal Christianity.

Were a man set down in this world at once, with
his mind in a state of maturity, he would probably be
overwhelmed with astonishment at the various objects
around him ; but his greatest subject of wonder would
be the general insensibility to all the marvels of crea-
tion. He might however suppose, that men had in
time found out the explanation of these phenomena,
and that wonder had ceased upon further knowledge.
But what would be his surprise to find, that very
little is known, and that those who know the least,
are often the least struck with surrounding objects.

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 387

He might next beg-in to suspect that he was unlike
the rest of mankind, or that he alone was awake
while they were in a trance ; until by a little experi-
ence, he had been able to discover that the faculties
of others were similar to his own, but that those had
grown by degrees, while his sprang up at once ; that
in the one case, objects had become familiar before
they could be appreciated, while in the other they
struck upon the mature mind with all the force of
novelty. In short, his surprise would lessen when
he knew the power of Custom.

Of all the effects of custom, none is more to be
lamented than its tendency to render us insensible to
the instances of design which everywhere crowd
around us. It is certain that every department of na-
ture abounds with proofs of the existence of an intel-
ligent First Cause, and that not a sun can rise or set
without showing forth his wisdom and omnipotence.
But man, insensible man, has witnessed these proofs
so often and so early, that he allows them to pass un-
noticed, or regards them with a vacant stare, and
thinks, because he has always seen them, that they
never could have been otherwise. If asked why he
believes that the sun will rise to-morrow, he will pro-
bably laugh at the enquirer's folly, or should he
deign to answer, he will say that it has always done
so. He is so used to the regular return of the sea-
sons, that he thinks not of the admirable contrivance
evinced by this regularity, nor reflects that a derange-
ment of the system, were it but for a day, might blast
all the fruits of the earth and destroy mankind by
famine. Thus custom or experience, which is our

388 PRINCIPLES OF HAPPINESS.

safest guide in practice, deadens curiosity and won-
der, and so prevents us from investigating the proxi-
mate causes of tbings, or from looking beyond these
to one great and intelligent cause. Man, in the pre-
sent vrorld, is like one introduced into an enchanted
palace, having his senses stupified by a sleeping
draught. He marks not the glories which every-
where surround him, and treads unconsciously over
the most precious objects, regardless of the mind
that planned, or the hand that raised, such a fair and
well-furnished edifice.

Though the case above put be imaginary, for no
one can arrive at maturity with a mind still new to
everything, yet none can become familiar with all
the phenomena of nature before the faculties come to
perfection. When the young man of twenty first at-
tends a lecture on anatomy, he is as new to the sub-
ject as our imaginary being to all things, for the out-
ward form of man tells nothing of the marvels within.
On witnessing, with a mind still fresh, the admirable
formation of the various organs, and their perfect
adaptation to each other, who has not been impressed
with the first great truth of religion, and felt his
heart swell with emotions of reverence and of grati-
tude ? Our novice, we may suppose, is examining
the structure of the hand, particularly the compli-
cated arrangement of its bones and muscles, the latter
perforated exactly in the proper places to allow the
tendons to pass on to the extremities and move the
farther digits ; when the existence of a Deity comes
upon him with a force which defies all scepticism.
But when, in course of time, our ingenuous youth

ON CUSTOM OR REPETITION. 389

has become a hackneyed practitioner, forgetting his
first and true impressions, he may pass over all these
wonders as if they were nothing remarkable. Nay,
from constantly dwelhng on the material structure,
he may at last come to imagine that there is nothing
else in the universe, that matter arranged itself with-
out the aid of mind, or that mind is merely a modifi-
cation of matter. Thus a science which best of all
proves the being of a God, becomes through cus-
tom a source of irreligion. Is it not then our in-
terest and our duty to arrest the growth of the mon-
ster before it swallow up all that is most precious,
our tender sympathies, our piety, our temporal joys,
our hopes of a blessed immortality ? Other foes may
be levelled at a blow, but custom for ever revives,
and wearies us out by repetition, till we yield our
necks to the yoke, and casting down our eyes to the
dust, pursue the weary round, unconscious of the
glories of the firmament and the beauties of surround-
ing earth.

NOTES.

Note A, p. 165.

George Dandin. C'est ainsi que vous satisfaites aux engage-
mens de la foi que vous m'avez donnee publiquement ?

Angelique. Moi ? Je vous ne I'ai point donnee de bon coeur,
et vous me I'avez arrachee, M'avez vous avant le mariage, de-
raande mon consentement, et si je voulois bien de vous ? Vous
n'avez consulte pour cela que mon pere et ma mere ; ce sont eux,
proprement, qui vous ont epouse ; et c'est poiirquoi vous ferez
bien de vous plaindre toujours a eux des torts que Ton pourra
vous faire. Pour moi, qui ne vous ai point dit de vous marier
avec moi, et que vous avez prise sans consulter mes sentimens,
je pretends n'etre point obligee a me soumettre en esclave a vos
volontes ; et je veux jouir, s'il vous plait, de quelque nombre de
beaux jours que m'offre la jeunesse, prendre les douces libertes
que I'age me permet, voir un peu le beau monde, et gouter le
plaisir de m'ou'ir dire des douceurs.

Note B, p. 329.

The following beautiful passage on the pleasures of melancholy
was written by Mme. Roland, at the age of seventeen. " Aimable
et douce melancolie, ma fidele compagne, ne m'abandonne
jamais entierement ! Je te dois mes plaisirs, je connois tons tes
charmes : le voile dont tu caches tes agremens les fait mecon-
niitre au vulgaire : tu les reserves pour tes favoris : que je sois
toujours de ce nombre ! les biens que tu leur dispenses ne causent
point de soucis, n'entrainent pas de remords. Si quelquefois
tu t'eloignes un peu, que ce soit dans ces seuls momens oil,
rasserables autour de nos foyers, dans la saison regoureuse,
I'esprit aiguillonne par les folatres enfans des jeux fait diversion
a tes douceurs avec quelques amis : mais reviens promptement
charmer la solitude et ravir nos coeurs." Memoirs of Mme.
Roland.

Note C, p. 333.

The following are the words of Mme. Roland : " Avec cette
sensibilite qui rend les impressions si profondes et qui fait 6tre
frappe de tant de choses, lesquelles passent comme des ombres
devant le vulgaire, I'existence ne languit jamais: aussi j'ai
reflechi la mienne de bonne heure, sans I'avoir encore trouvee a
charge, meme au milieu des plus rudes epreuves : et n'ayant point
atteint quarante ans, j'ai prodigieusement vecu, si Ton compte la
vie par le sentiment qui marque tous les instans de sa duree."

GYSGYDGYSaYSGYSGYDCYS

i/iFv i/vV* lAfVj a/vVt J'STa i/lAl JvVj

BOOK II.

ON ETHICS, OR MORALS PROPERLY SO CALLED.

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BOOK II.

ON ETHICS, OR MORALS PROPERLY SO CALLED.

PART I.

On Speculative Morality, or the Theory of Moral Sentiment.

E

CHAPTER I.— Introduction.

.THICS, or Morals properly so called, is the
' science which treats of human duty. In the
general introduction to Moral Science prefixed to the
present Inquiry, we pointed out the relation which
Ethics bears to other departments of human know-
ledge, and mentioned the first and leading division of
this science, into speculative morality, or the theory
of moral sentiment, and practical morality, or the
rule of action. All those sciences which we called
the mixed mental, or moral, are partly speculative,
partly practical, and the one division so naturally
runs into the other, that they are seldom kept quite
separate ; for in treating of the thoughts, emotions,
and actions of men as they are^ we are constantly led
to consider how they ought to be. Still it appears to
me certain, that the confusion which has hitherto
been so much remarked in systems of Ethics, and the
diversity of opinions on the subject, may be traced,
in a great degree, to an imperfect apprehension of

394 INTRODUCTION.

this grand and primary difference. Verbal disputes
have also been very frequent, but if w^e avoid these^
and state the question properly at the outset, we have
reason to hope that the subject may be elucidated^
seeing that it is one which not only lies within the
compass of the human understanding, but is open to
the reflection and experience of every man. Every
one has not time or opportunity for watching and
calculating the motions of the heavenly bodies, or
analyzing the various substances that compose the
earth ; but all may know something of what passes
within them when they approve or disapprove of ac-
tions or characters, and may judge when praise or
blame ought to be awarded. It has been said that a
question well put is half solved, and if this be true
generally, it applies with double force to the present
subject, which has certainly been obscured from want
of a proper statement at the opening of the investiga-
tion. If we succeed in this respect, we shall proba-
bly find that disputes as to the existence or non-ex-
istence of a moral sense, the prevalence of reason or
of sentiment in morals, of sympathy or of utility, and
other similar questions will be easily set at rest. In
treating of speculative morality, we shall first consider
the nature of the moral sentiments ; and secondly,
the causes from which they spring : and in discussing
practical morals, we shall in the first place determine
the purpose which these sentiments seem to serve in
the economy of human life, or the effects which they
are meant to produce ; and afterwards the occasions
on which they ought to arise in order to fulfil that
purpose.

395

CHAPTER IL

ON THE NATURE OF THE MORAL SENTIMENTS.

T TOWEVER great may be the scepticism of some
JLIL men on all subjects, or on that of morals in
particular, it is impossible to deny the existence of
certain sentiments of approbation and disapprobation,
considered merely as mental phenomena, and without
any reference to their causes or their consequences.
Disputes may arise on the real nature of these senti-
ments, on their origin, and on their effects; but these
very disputes suppose that there is something real
at the bottom of the controversy. Some may assert
that the sentiments are simple, unsusceptible of ana-
lysis, others that they are compound ; those may
maintain that they are original instincts, common to
the human race and uniform in all men, like the
feelings of hunger and thirst ; these that they are gra-
dually acquired by experience of the consequences of
actions, or caught from others, and may be modified
or totally changed by custom and education. Most
men suppose that the sentiments in question are
of the utmost importance to human life and happi-
ness, while a few have endeavoured to prove that
they are irrational and useless, a mere artifice of
crafty politicians. But amidst all this diversity of
opinions, the reality of such sentiments has not been
called in question. Here then we can take our stand

396 ON THE NATURE OF

on secure ground, and. begin by enquiring what may
be the true nature of these mental phenomena.

When certain actions and certain dispositions are
presented to our view, we feel within us a sentiment
of approbation ; when other actions and dispositions
are brought before us we are conscious of disappro-
bation. Now the question is, what is the nature of
these sentiments?

There seem to be only three opinions which either
have been or can be formed upon this subject. Some
may suppose the above sentiments to be merely de-
cisions of the Judgment as to the tendency of actions
or dispositions ; others may consider them simply as
feelings or emotions no more connected with reason
than the emotions of beauty or sublimity; while a
third class may think that in such sentiments reason
and feeling are united. In this as in all metaphy-
sical questions, our ultimate reference must be made
to the experience of what passes within us when we
approve or disapprove the conduct of ourselves or
others. Let us see then what says that experience.
When we receive any benefit or token of kindness
from another, we naturally feel an emotion of good-
will towards the individual ; and when on the other
hand we experience any injury or affront, we as
readily swell with indignation. In these cases the
existence of feeling whether of love or hatred cannot
be disputed. But if the benefit or injury in no wise
concern ourselves what will be our state of mind ?
When we hear for instance of some signal act of
virtue, as of a man who at the hazard of his life leaps
into the waves to save a drowning fellow creature, or

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 397

when we listen to a tale of cruelty and injustice, are
we then totally unmoved ? Is that good or ill feel-
ing so ready to arise in our own case, now totally
dead ? Do we sit coldly by, and in saying that the
one has acted well the other ill, do we feel no more
emotion than when we pronounce such an one a good
or bad mathematician, or when we call sugar whole-
some and hemlock poisonous? Each man's experi-
ence will prove to him the contrary. Every one is
conscious of some inward emotion on hearing of these
opposite actions, and the words he uses and his tone
of voice declare the same to the by-standers. When
he applies to particular cases those terms of appro-
bation or disapprobation with which all languages
abound, he gives them a peculiar emphasis that marks
the feeling within, and is readily understood by
others. The emotion may not be so strong as when
our own interests are at stake, but it is nevertheless
real, and in some cases even intense, as when we
execrate the memory of tyrants who have enslaved
and preyed upon mankind. Where, we may ask,
would be the interest of tragedies and all tragic
stories, did we not long for the success of the good
and sigh for the discomfiture of the wicked ? or why
should orators heap epithet upon epithet and exhaust
all the energy of language in praising or blaming indi-
viduals, did they not hope to kindle a flame in the
breasts of their attentive auditors ? We may there-
fore rest assured, that emotion of some kind or other
is at least a part of moral approbation or disappro-
bation, though it may not constitute the whole. Nor
will it be difficult to discover the nature of that emo-

398 ON THE NATURE OF

tion. It seems to be exactly of the same kind as that
which we experience when a benefit or injury is con-
ferred upon ourselves, and is therefore some form of
love or hatred, of good or ill-will. We cannot hear
of any remarkable act of virtue or of vice without
contemplating its author with some degree of satisfac-
tion or dissatisfaction, and without at least a temporary
wish of good or evil towards him. This then is one
essential element of moral sentiment.

Already we perceive the radical error of those who
consider moral sentiment as a mere decision of the
judgment. But has judgment no part in this state of
mind ? Are those sentiments with which we look up-
on virtue and vice in all respects the same as the love
or hatred we bear to our friends or foes ? When we
approve or condemn any one, do we mean nothing
more than that we like or dislike him ? Surely every
person must perceive that there is a real difference in
the cases, and though he may not quite know where-
in it lies, he in general sees very well that moral ap-
probation is not mere love, nor moral disapprobation
mere hatred, and that the numerous set of terms ex-
pressive of praise and blame mean something more
than simple regard or enmity. What more then do
they mean ? As it is not emotion, it must be either
thought or sensation, for under one or other of these
heads, we have seen that all the mental phenomena
are comprehended. And as the nature of the case
excludes the latter, we must conclude that thought
of some kind forms a part of moral sentiment. Now
thoughts are of two sorts, simple and relative, the
former being the bare perception or the conception

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 399

of an object, the latter the consciousness of a relation
between two or more objects. But in expressing love
or hatred towards any one as well as in approving or
condemning any action or character, we of course must
have a perception or a conception of the being loved
or hated in the one case, of the act or disposition, in
the other, and therefore, here there can be no ground
of distinction between mere emotion and sentiment.
There remains then only relative thoughts to establish
a difference between them, and these are the province
of reason. Therefore moral approbation or disappro-
bation is distinguished from mere love or hatred by
the presence of a judgment as to the nature or ten-
dency of actions and characters, and the union of these
two constitutes moral sentiment.

To confirm this reasoning, we may appeal to the
experience of each individual, for in examining his
own state of mind when he applauds or condemns
any action or character, is he not conscious of form-
ing an opinion, as to the nature or tendency of such
action or character, as well as of ah emotion ? At
times, the judgment may be so rapid as almost to es-
cape observation, as when the nature of the action
admits of no doubt, and is really self-evident; and
at other times the emotion may be so intense as to
make us inattentive to the previous reasoning ; but
however instantaneous, or however quickly forgotten,
a relation of cause and effect has certainly been per-
ceived between some mental quality and its conse-
quences. The more practised our judgment becomes,
the more accustomed to see at once the nature and
tendency of actions and dispositions, the less will the

400 ON THE NATURE OF

rational process be manifest to ourselves, for in this
as in other things, practice makes perfect, but deadens
our consciousness. In common cases we decide at
once without any hesitation or conflict of opposite
views, and therefore the emotion seems to arise im-
mediately, and agreeably to the nature of emotion,
engrosses the mind more than the cool dictates of
the understanding.

This view of the case is, moreover, corroborated
by the universal sense of mankind in all ages and
countries, as expressed in speech or in writing ; for
in a matter of this nature, it is impossible to think
that all men have been in error. It is often said that
there is no disputing about taste, but no one ventures
to assert that there is no disputing about right or
wrong. Indeed, history, biography, pleadings in
courts of justice, and common conversation, all abound
in discussions as to the merit and demerit of indivi-
duals, and various are the opinions formed concerning
them, and the sentiments expressed in accordance
with those opinions. Some take up the defence of a
character while others run him down, and in so doing
they endeavour to analyse his actions, to trace the
motives and disposition connected with them, so as
to make them accord with their views, and influence
the sentiments of others, and they always labour to
inform the judgment as the medium through which
they may create a good or a bad feeling. In order
to work upon their readers or hearers, they do not
think it enough to express their mere regard or dislike,
but they consider themselves bound to assign the
reasons for the one or the other, and address them-

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 401

selves to the understanding before they can hope to
rouse any emotion, whether of love or hatred. In
such cases the part that reason occupies in moral sen-
timent is quite apparent, and if it be not equally so
in all, it is only because the case is often so clear
that we make up our mind at once, and therefore are
scarcely conscious of an act of judgment.

To avoid verbal controversies, I may remark, that
some persons who in the main will agree in the above
views, may nevertheless, be unwilling to give the
name of moral sentiment to any thing but the final
feeling which belongs to moral approbation and dis-
approbation. With these I shall not pretend to dis-
pute, provided they allow that a judgment imme-
diately precedes the feeling, and is intimately con-
nected with it ; though in common language the word
sentiment generally implies more than mere emotion,
and seems well adapted to express a state of mind
compounded of a judgment and a feeling, uniting the
coolness of the one with the warmth of the other.

Here it is necessary to call to mind a distinction
already alluded to in the first Book of this Inquiry,
but which peculiarly applies to our present subject.
We remarked that there are three states of mind,
Love or Affection, Admiration, and Esteem, not un-
frequently confounded, and passing gradually the one
into the other, while, nevertheless, they are really
different. Love is simply an Emotion ; Admiration
and Esteem both imply an exercise of Judgment,
combined with a degree of emotion ; but in the for-
mer compound, feeling is more prominent than in the
latter. Thus Admiration is a state of transition be-

D D

402 ON THE NATURE OF

tweeri Love and Esteem, being neither so warm as
the one nor so cool as the oth.er. Now, as Esteem is
only another term for moral approbation, it becomes
necessary to attend to this distinction in all ethical en-
quiries, for if we confound Esteem with Love, or with
Admiration, we shall be led into serious error.^
Though the two latter do not constitute moral senti-
ment, they have an immense influence upon it, and
we shall afterwards see that they sometimes pervert
it altogether. The proper object of Love is the
agreeable ; of Admiration, the great ; of Esteem, the
good or virtuous ; but when our affections are too
much engaged by agreeable qualities, or our imagi-
nation captivated by splendid talents, we are apt to
dignify vice by the name of Virtue.

If the analysis above given be correct, it follows
that Ethics belong neither to Reason alone nor to
Feeling alone, but that these two go hand in hand in
all moral decisions, and therefore must be attended to
by all moral philosophers. And if we allow that our
sentiments of approbation and disapprobation are
real, and that in most cases they arise immediately on
contemplating certain actions and characters, we can-
not dispute the existence of a Moral Sense, for this
means nothing more than a ready susceptibility to

1 It appears to me that some of the principal mistakes of
Hume in his moral writings, particularly in the third Book of his
Treatise of Human Nature, arise from his not distinguishing
between the three states of mind above mentioned. Though the
Treatise of Human nature was afterwards disowned by its author
as a juvenile performance, yet it is considered by some, as by
Stewart and Mackintosh, the best of his philosophical works.

THE MORAL SEiNTIMENTS. 403

such sentiments ; and we might as well deny that a
man capable of reasoning has reason, as that one sus-
ceptible of moral Sentiments has a moral sense. In
both cases the terms are merely general expressions
comprehending many particular phenomena, and there
can no more be Reason without particular reasonings
than there can be a Moral Sense without individual
sentiments of approbation and disapprobation. The
same may be said of Conscience, which is another term
for the Moral Sense when applied to our own character
and actions. As no one doubts the existence of consci-
ence, so no one ought to doubt the existence of a Moral
Sense applicable to others as well as to self. And as
the latter is merly a general term for all our moral
Sentiments, so Conscience is a common expression for
innumerable particular instances of self-approval or
disapproval. In a v^^ord, if a man arrived at years of
discretion immediately approve or disapprove certain
actions or dispositions, then has he a Moral Sense,
and if the actions or disposition be his own, then he
has a Conscience.^ But such is the influence of ab-
stract terms, and of figurative language on philoso-
phy, that conscience has been raised into a sort of

2 The phrase moral sense seems to have been derived by ana-
logy from the five ordinary senses, and it might imply that the
moral Sentiments arise as immediately on fit occasions, as the
sensations of touch, sight, hearing, smell, and taste, on the pre-
sence of their proper objects. As expressive of a mere fact, the
rapid application of our moral sentiments to particular cases, the
phrase must be considered a happy one ; though it has often been
supposed to imply a theory as to the origin of those Sentiments.
The reader will observe that it is here used only to express a fact
obvious to common experience.

404 ON THE NATURE OF

independent being, a monitor or supreme judge, dis-
tinct as it were from the mind itself, or from any par-
ticular state of it, and issuing its mandates like a
monarch from an earthly throne. One would think
that the slightest observation might suffice to show
that these are mere figures of speech, and that con-
science can have no existence distinct from the indi-
vidual sentiments of which it is composed. And if
these sentiments be in general a sure guide, what more
can we require ? Would we treat Conscience like an
eastern potentate, who must be approached as a di-
vinity, and addressed by swelling titles in order to
secure respect ? In philosophy at least, simplicity
and truth ought always to be our first care.

A good deal has been said by Butler, and other
moralists, on what they call the Natural Supremacy
of Conscience. Now what are we to understand by
this ? If the word supreme be taken in any sense
similar to the usual, and be employed to express a
fact, then it is evident that conscience is 7iot su-
preme, for its mandates are very often disobeyed, nay
by long practice of vice, they may be nearly silenced.
But if it be meant merely that conscience ought to be
supreme, or in more simple language that a man ought
never to act against his conscience, this indeed is a
truth, but it is one which nobody calls in question.
Certainly it is no discovery in morals. It is only an
allowed truth expressed in pompous language.

Though I have said that in the case of a man ar-
rived at years of discretion, the moral sentiments
generally arise immediately, on the proper occasions ;
yet, the question remains entire, how do these sen-

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 405

timents at first spring up ? The existence of a Moral
Sense as above explained, seems to me as indisputable
as the existence of Memory or Reason, but we have
yet to know whether that faculty be original or de-
rived, instinctive or acquired, and how far, and by
what causes, it may be changed or modified. This
will form the subject of the following chapter.

406

CHAPTER III.

ON THE CAUSES OF THE MORAL SENTIMENTS.

Section I. — On the Origin of the Moral Sentiments.

rt^HE question to be discussed in the present Sec-
JL tion may be thus stated : whether our moral
sentiments be original and instinctive ; or be derived
from other known principles of human nature, and
gradually acquired.

It may be thought by some that this question was
put beyond dispute when we allowed that, in the
case of an individual arrived at years of discretion,
the moral sentiments generally arise immediately, on
their proper occasions ; or, in other words, that the
moral sense is for the most part quick and suscep-
tible. But how little we are justified in concluding
that the moral sense is an original faculty because,
in our mature state, it acts with great rapidity, will
be manifest from the following analogy. Nothing
can appear more instantaneous than our perceptions
by the eye, of the magnitude, figure, and distances of
objects when not too remote ; but yet it is now well
known that these perceptions are not instinctive, but
acquired, and that, in truth, we learn to see. This
great discovery had been anticipated by Berkeley in his
New Theory of Vision, from reasoning a priori, and
was confirmed by direct experience on persons born
blind and afterwards gifted with sight ; in particular

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 407

by an operation on a lad performed by the celebrated
Cheselden. It was then proved that a person with
his visual organs in a perfectly sound state would
have no notion, prior to experience, of the magnitude,
figure, or distance of objects, but would see all things
close to his eje ; as seems to be the case with young
children, who are long of stretching out their hands
far enough to lay hold on anything. The sense of
touch is thus shown to be necessary to teach us how
to see ; nor is it till after repeated associations be-
tween touch and sight, that the latter at once sug-
gests to us the proper form and position of objects.
Between this and our present case the analogy is
perfect; for as the instantaneous vision of any one
above infancy is no proof that the faculty is instinc-
tive, so the quickness of the moral sense in the ma-
ture mind does not show that it is original.

Having dismissed the above argument in favour
of the originality of our moral sentiments, which
meets us at the threshold of our inquiry, we may re-
mark, that the analysis given in the previous Chapter
leads us to a proof of the contrary. Since we have
seen that those sentiments are not simple, but made
up of a judgment and a feeling, it seems natural to
infer, that the compound is derived from the elements,
and that reason and a susceptibility to emotion must
have preceded the moral sense. But in ojder to see
this more clearly, let us consider the particular nature
of the emotion connected with moral sentiment.

We have remarked, that the emotion in question
is a modification of the general passion of love or
hatred ; and consequently, in order to trace the origin

408 ON THE CAUSES OF

of our moral sentiments, we must trace the origin of
those passions. The general cause of love or hatred
is some pleasure or pain which we receive from a
voluntary agent, whether by intention or otherwise ;
for though this makes a great difference in the degree
of passion excited, it is not essential to its existence.
As we often love persons who have never done us
any favour or shewn us any marked attention, so we
frequently dislike those who have neither meant to
injure nor slight us. To rouse our good or ill-will
towards them, it is enough that they have caused us
pleasure or pain ; and though the feeling may be
afterwards modified by reflecting that the pleasure
or pain was unintentional, the emotion being once
roused, it is not so easily subdued. Now there are
two ways in which men may please or displease us,
directly, or indirectly, either by their actions which
immediately affect ourselves, or by their conduct to-
wards others with whom we have a sympathy. As,
in genera], we feel everything more keenly which
immediately touches ourselves, so the corresponding
passions are more lively ; unless dear friends be con-
cerned, whose happiness and misery are almost as
our own. Indeed, so intense is our love or our hatred
towards any one who has benefited or injured our-
selves or friends, that the emotion often perverts our
reason, and overpowers the moral sentiments. We
always make allowance for the keenness of this feel-
ing when we listen to the sentiments of others in their
own case, and regard them little, because they are
warped by passion. It is not, therefore, in the love
or hatred arising from causes peculiar to ourselves

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 409

or friends that we can look for the origin of moral
sentiment, or the sense of right and wrong. Besides,
we are constantly approving or disapproving of ac-
tions and characters in which we have no private
interest whatsoever, and can praise or blame the con-
duct of persons living in distant parts of the world,
or who died long before we were born. What
is there in the actions of Cato or of Caesar that can
possibly affect the interests of any man now existing?
but who does not approve the one and condemn the
other ? Can any Englishman say that he feels to
have been benefited by Washington 1 but does any
deny that he was the most virtuous of men ? There-
fore our moral sentiments are independent of private
benefit or injury ; and to discover whence they spring,
we must look for some principle of general applica-
tion. Such is the principle of sympathy. Man is
framed to " rejoice with those that do rejoice, and
weep with those that weep," whether the objects of
his sympathy be acquaintances or strangers, country-
men or foreigners, living or dead. And feeling, as he
does by reflexion, the happiness and misery of others
as if they were his own, he naturall}^ loves or hates
those who have been a cause of benefit or injury to
their fellow-creatures.

But we approve or condemn not only those who
benefit or injure others, but also those who benefit or
injure themselves. Here the good or evil being con-
fined to the individual in question, it is, if possible,
still more clear than in the former case, that private
interest has nothing to do with that love or hatred
which gives rise to moral approbation or disapproba-

410 ON THE CAUSES OF

tion. We are told of some person, perhaps long since
dead, or now living in some distant part of the world,
and no way connected with us, who has brought upon
himself many and great calamities. On hearing of
these calamities our first feeling may be pity ; but
when we reflect that they are his own doing, our
emotion changes into indignation, which soon termi-
nates in moral disapproval. Here is an example
where sympathy produces two totally different effects.
In the first instance, and while dwelling only on the
misfortunes of a fellow-creature, without any refer-
ence to the cause, we are grieved on his account, and
hence wish to relieve his sufferings ; but afterwards,
when we consider that he might have avoided them
had he pleased, the pain which we still feel rouses
indignation against the author of those ills which
become our own by sympathy. It is evident that in
this case it is reason, or reflection on causes and
circumstances, that changes the first movement of
pity, which is akin to love, into an emotion diametric
cally opposite, and leads us on to a sentiment of moral
disapprobation; for if we heard any one expressing
pity for the object, we should be apt to say, pity him
not, for it is all his own fault ; or, he has only himself
to blame. ^

1 Even when we attach no blame to the sufferer, or have no
private enmity or envy, pity does not always arise on witnessing
the calamities of others. Sometimes another emotion springs up
instantaneously, and so engrosses the mind as completely to expel
the tender feelings. Thus, the sight of a beggar covered with
sores may excite so strong a disgust as not only to exclude pity,
but even to rouse our anger against the wretched object, who by

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 411

Since general sympathy is not so acute as our
selfish feelings, or our private sympathy, therefore
in this case reason can be the more attended to.
Now without reason it is often impossible to know
whether a benefit or injury has, or has not been
caused, and especially whether it was intentional, or
could have been avoided; and consequently reason
comes in as the guide of general sympathy, check-
ing or encouraging it according to circumstances.
Without sympathy, reason might indeed point out
the tendency of actions and dispositions, and show
that some were useful, others injurious to men ; but
what should we care for that, if our private in-
terests were not affected ? We might indeed call
some actions beneficial, others hurtful ; but as we
could feel no more in the one case than in the other,
we should neither approve nor disapprove. Impas-
sive spectators of the conduct of all placed beyond
our narrow circle, we might employ our intellect
in speculating upon their actions ; but we should

placing himself in our way has given us such uneasiness. So,
folly, though an undoubted evil, and often free from all moral tur-
pitude, rouses contempt more frequently than pity. This is an
interesting subject ; but were we to pursue it further, it might lead
us too far from our main inquiry. The reason why many, the
proud especially, so much dislike to be pitied is, that pity supposes
inferiority, and though certainly very different from contempt, yet
the causes which excite the two are nearly allied. Nay, it would
seem that the same causes may in some create pity, in others
contempt, according to the nature of the mind they act upon. In
contempt there is a mixture of pride, and consequently the proud
are prone to that emotion. Hence one evil of pride, that it often
leads us to despise, where we ought to pity, and if possible relieve
our fellow-creatures.

412 ON THE CAUSES OF

be quite indifferent as to whether they were bad or
good, and totally unconscious of moral sentiment.
On the other hand, were sympathy left to itself, it
would be as capricious as our other emotions; and
when expressed in words, could signify nothing more
than our likings or our dislikes, which no one con-
siders as a sufficient guide in life. We may allow a
man to say that he likes or dislikes another without
assigning any reason ; but we always think him bound
to tell why he approves or disapproves. Without
the corrector, Reason, sympathy would run wild, and
instead of one uniform code of morals, we should
have the varying whims of individuals ; but when
the two are united, the natural feelings of our nature
receive a proper direction. In short, take away sym-
pathy, and man has no feeling for his fellow-crea-
tures ; banish reason, and feeling has no guide ; and
in either case, there are no morals. Thus it appears
that our moral sentiments are derived from Sympathy
and Reason.

Having arrived at the above conclusion by reason-
ing from the constituent elements of moral sentiment
as traced in the preceding chapter, we must now
pursue a different course, and by consulting direct
experience as to those dispositions of mind which we
approve or disapprove, we shall either confirm or in-
validate the previous theory. Let us then consider
the nature of those mental qualities which meet with
our applause or condemnation.

The mental qualities which call up moral appro-
bation are usually denominated virtues, and these are
commonly divided into virtues relating to others, and

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 413

those which regard self. Numerous are the modifi-
cations which these qualities assume, and great the
variety of terms used in consequence ; but those of
the first class may be all included under two general
heads, Justice, and active Benevolence ; while those
of the second may be summed up under Temperance,
Constancy, Courage, and Fortitude, or active and
passive courage.

To begin with justice ; it is evident that this virtue
is absolutely essential not only to the well-being, but
to the very existence of man in society ,• for without
it there would be universal war between the aggressor
and the aggrieved, as long as society lasted, till at
length man would fly from his fellows, and prefer so-
litude in the woods to perpetual conflict or perpetual
fear. The whole body of laws, civil as well as cri-
minal, is instituted for the maintenance of justice ; for
it is not only the most indispensable of virtues, but
the only one that can be brought within definite rules.
Where jtistice is insufficient, there active benevolence
steps in ; and surely it is unnecessary to prove that
benevolence conduces to the happiness of our fellow-
creatures. And here I may remark, that justice is but
a modification of benevolence. The object of both is
the same, the well-being of mankind ; though the
means employed may be different. Justice is long-
sighted, and often causes partial evil in order to
secure a greater good ; as when it condemns a cri-
minal to death or some other punishment. To the
individual the evil is not the less real because he is a
criminal, nay, in a religious point of view it is greater,
because he is less prepared to die, and meet his final

414 ON THE CAUSES OF

judgment. But when we are told that his doom is
necessary to deter others from similar enormities ;
though we may still pity the sufferer, we acknow-
ledge the justice of his sentence. Simple benevolence,
on the other hand, is not of so calculating a nature,
but looks to a more immediate good ; and were we
to trust to it alone, we should often approve acts in
reality injurious to society. One man for instance is
over-burthened with riches, and makes a very bad
use of them, while another is in the utmost want :
what then more natural or apparently more agreeable
to benevolence than to take a little from the former,
which might never be missed, and give it to the latter ?
Here, however, justice interferes, and informs us, that
whatever good we might do in this or other such in-
stances, it would be prodigiously overbalanced by the
bad effect of an example, which would certainly be
followed in cases very different, and at the least
would create a general feeling of insecurity. There-
fore benevolence must resign itself to see the bad
man rich and the good poor, unless it can relieve him
out of its own store.

It has been thought by some that justice depends
upon the institution of property ; but these reverse
the order of things, for in reality property depends
upon justice ; though the idea of the one is quite
as natural to man, and as inevitable, as that of the
other. This it is well to show, were it only to
silence those enthusiasts, who every now and then
appear, and attempt to raise a clamour against the
institution of property, as if it were a mere artifice of
crafty politicians for preserving an inequality of con-

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 415

ditions, though injurious to the happiness of the
species. But long before the existence of a regularly
organized society, or the rise of government and laws,
the notions of justice, and thence of property, were
known to uncultivated man. The Savage who had
cut down a tree, and employed his labour in forming
it into a canoe, or into implements for war or chase,
would certainly regard this canoe or these implements
as his own, and would feel exceedingly indignant
against any one who should dispute his right of pos-
session. Nor can we doubt that his brother savages,
not personally interested, would join in his indigna-
tion, would pronounce his cause to be just, the other's
unjust, and would say that the former had a right to
the exclusive use of the object. Thus the notion of
property arises as naturally and as necessarily in the
mind of man as that of justice ; but without a pre-
vious idea of the latter he never could have known
the former. Here is a piece of wood formed into a
canoe or implements, by the labour and skill of one
man. So long as he continues undisturbed in using
these objects, the idea of property may never arise in
his mind ; whence then his indignation, and more es-
pecially that of disinterested spectators, when ano-
ther endeavours to seize them ? The notion of pro-
perty does then certainly suggest itself; but what
does this imply ? It does not suppose merely that
the individual in question has fashioned the objects
solely by his own labour, and that hitherto he has
used them to the exclusion of all others. These con-
siderations indeed, will suggest themselves to the
party himself as well as to the by-standers, but still

416 ON THE CAUSES OF

there is here no notion of property. By this is meant
that one man has a right of exclusive enjoyment.
But before such a sentence can be pronounced either
mentally or in words, it is clear that some idea of
inght must previously have been formed, or in other
terms an idea of just and unjust. The notion of pro-
perty is complex, embracing- an idea of right as well
as of exclusive use ; and without a previous notion
of the elements, how could we have conceived the
compound ?

An attack upon property is only one way in which
justice may be violated, for it may be equally so by
an assault upon the person, or a libel upon the repu-
tation of an individual, and even, in some cases, by
robbing him of the affections of others. Therefore,
it gives a very imperfect idea of the object of civil
government to say, as some have said, that it was in-
stituted for the safety of property ; but it is more
correct to affirm, that it was established for the main-
tenance of justice in general. No doubt there are
other and secondary objects which government may
keep in view; but the observance of justice is the
grand and paramount end for which it was first ap-
pointed, and ever afterwards submitted to. And the
reason why this virtue was singled out from all the
rest, to be especially protected by government, is not
only that it is the most indispensable, but also the
only one that can be reduced to definite rules. And
even here rules very often fail, for never yet has there
been framed a code of laws which could comprehend
all possible cases, without leaving a certain latitude to
those who were bound to apply them. In England,

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 417

the whole of common law consists in the precedents
of judges ; and even where a code has been formed,
the glosses of lawyers have soon exceeded the test.

When we turn to the virtues which regard self,
who does not see that Temperance is necessary to
maintain our health of body as well as our health of
mind, both of which are impaired and prematurely
worn out by excesses ? Constancy again is essential
to success in any of our own undertakings, as well
as to the happiness of those around us, who are tor-
mented by our levity and indecision, the hopes of one
day being blasted by the next. And as to Courage,
this is not only useful for self-defence, and for main-
taining that presence of mind which on all occasions
is the best preservative against danger, but it is also
indispensable to our peace of mind ; for nothing is so
lamentable as a state of continual fear. No doubt,
courage may lead us into peril as well as guard us
against it ; but then it changes its appellation, and
instead of being applauded, is condemned under the
name of rashness. Fortitude, on the other hand, or
passive courage, enables us to support, and in so
doing lessens all the ills of life ; for fortitude occupies
and rouses the mind, and prevents it being totally
absorbed and broken by calamity.

If there be any virtues not comprehended under
the above, let us pass them in review, and say whe-
ther we can find one which is useless to ourselves
or others. But this task has been so thoroughly
performed by Hume, in his Inquiry concerning the
Principles of Morals, that it is unnecessary to go
through it here. Indeed, the very idea of a virtue

i^ E

4^8 ON THE CAUSES OF ^

that is useless, or a vice that is harmless, seems an
evident absurdity, such as no one of ordinary sense,
uncorrupted by sophistical reasoning-, could ever seri-
ously entertain. What should we think of a moral
quality highly laudable, but utterly useless, or one
perfectly harmless, but worthy of all condemnation ?
We might almost as well call white black, or sweet
bitter, so evident is the contradiction.

From the view above taken of the leading qualities
that command our moral approbation, from the more
elaborate induction of Hume, and also from attending
to the simple dictates of common sense, it will pro-
bably then be allowed that all the virtues are useful
and all the vices injurious, either to the individual
himself or those with whom he is connected.

Having arrived at this conclusion, that Utility is
an essential element of those mental qualities which
meet with our moral approbation, does it not seem
natural to conclude that the view of this utility is a
source of moral sentiment? Is it possible to con-
ceive that all men in all ages have applauded useful
dispositions, without thinking of their utility ? Strange
as it may appear, moralists there have been who
maintained this very unpromising proposition ; who
allowed all the virtues to be useful, but denied that
we therefore approve them. This I must be per-
mitted to call an extraordinary instance of philoso-
phical perverseness. What should we think of a man
who could deny that Washington acted from patriot-
ism, or that Howard was moved by benevolence ?
He might say that, no doubt, appearances were to that
eifect, but appearances are highly deceitful ; and

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 419

since no one could dive into the breasts of those per-
sons, it was possible that self- regarding interest lay
at the bottom of all, which by a happy chance took
a direction useful to the public. This might be said ;
but who, I would ask, could listen for a moment to
such reasoning ? What then shall we say of those
philosophers who pretend that men generally, if not
universally, by word, deed, look, and gesture, express
their approbation of useful qualities, and their dis-
approbation of injurious, without having utility in
view ? Like the sceptic just mentioned, they might
indeed say, that appearances were certainly against
their opinion, but that these not being decisive, the
minds of men must be laid open before they could be
convinced to the contrary. As far as those minds can
be laid open, they undoubtedly are by means of
words, tones, looks, and actions, for in praising any
one, or assigning a reason for doing him any service,
are we not wont to dwell on the good he has done to
his family, his friends, his countrymen, or all man-
kind, on the happiness he has diifused around him ?
And in loading another with obloquy, or expressing
our unwillingness to assist him, do we not dilate on
the evil he has brought on himself or others ? There-
fore the experience of every day proves, that in ap-
proving or disapproving, we really have an eye to
utility.

Were any one to dispute with us concerning the
claims of Howard to our warmest approbation, how
should we attempt to answer him, but by showing
the great good he had done, or at least had attempted
to do, and the numerous labours and hardships he

420 ON THE CAUSES OF

had undergone in pursuit of his benevolent purpose
of improving the condition of prisoners ? Can any
form of speech give us a higher idea of the inimita-
ble excellence of our Saviour than these simple words,
that he went about doing good ? His whole life was
spent in relieving suffering, and do we not approve
his character in consequence ? When the first Cosmo
de' Medici returned from banishment, was he not
greeted enthusiastically by his countrymen, and called
the father of his country ? and why ? because he had
been its benefactor.^ On the other hand, do not our
hearts swell with righteous indignation on reading
of the miseries brought upon the great and good by
those sanguinary tyrants who first ruled the Roman
empire ? and why were they called tyrants, if not for
their inhumanity ? Again, when we consider an
individual who has fallen into great misfortunes,
solely by his own misconduct, by imprudence, rash-
ness, or presumption, as Crassus, the first in riches,
and third in influence, at Rome, who afterwards
perished miserably in Mesopotamia ; do we not blame
him for ruining himself and others ? Finally, if it
be granted that utility is an element common to all
those mental qualities which we morally approve, it
is impossible to evade the inference that the percep-
tion of that utility is at least one cause of moral sen-
timent.

Here I may remark, that many may have been de-

2 " E da ciascuno volontariamente fu salutato il benefattore
del popolo e Padre della patria."

MachiaveUi Istor. Fior. Lib. iv.

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 421

terred from adopting this conclusion by supposing
that it is thereby asserted that we can never approve
or disapprove v^^ithout a clear view of utility. But
this is by no means maintained, but only that utility
is an original source of moral sentiment, a cause that
serves to account for the first growth of such senti-
ment among men, and which is never long forgotten,
though it may not be constantly in mind. What
those causes are which afterwards did upon us, and
enable moral sentiments to arise with a promptitude
that almost precludes reflexion, we shall see in the
following Section ; but those causes are subsequent
and secondary, not original and primary. As a man
having a grand object before him may be so engaged
with the necessary details and preliminaries as to
lose sight of his end for a while, but always turns to
it again as to a fixed beacon, so, amid the bustle of
the world, men may forget utility, but they are still
within the sphere of its attraction. Not more surely
does the needle point to the pole, than the mind to
that moral loadstone.

From the above facts and reasonings, it may now
be considered as proved that a view of utility is cer-
tainly one source of moral sentiment. But it may
still be asked, why does utility affect us? Where
our own interests are at stake, our attachment to the
useful can be easily understood ; but we have seen
that we approve and disapprove in innumerable in-
stances where we are no way personally concerned.
In such cases, utility can influence our moral senti-
ments only through our general sympathy with the
happiness or misery of our fellow-creatures. Without

422 ON THE CAUSES OF

that sympathy, we might still discern the utility, but
it could not influence our feelings, and therefore could
not excite any moral sentiment, which necessarily
comprises some emotion. We might say that such
an action or disposition was useful or injurious, but
we should neither praise the one nor blame the other,
nor pronounce it meritorious or culpable, virtuous or
vicious. Where our own interests were affected by
certain actions, we should still feel gratitude for be-
nefit and indignation for injury, but we should not
say that such actions were morally right or wrong ;
or, if we used the same words, neither ourselves nor
any one else would understand anything more by
them than that we had received pleasure or pain from
some one, and felt grateful or angry in consequence.
In short, without the principle of sympathy, which
binds us to all mankind, we should still indeed feel love
for our private friends and hatred for our enemies; but
neither love nor hatred for the benefactors or scourges
of mankind, and therefore we should neither approve
the one nor condemn the other. Now, in order to
discern utility, reason is required, in a greater or less
degree. In many cases, plain common sense is suf-
ficient to determine the nature of actions, as when a
man, without provocation, murders his neighbour and
seizes on his goods. The injurious tendency of such
deeds no sane man can mistake ; but other cases are
more complicated, as the one mentioned formerly
where a poor, needy, and in general a good man pur-
loins some of the superfluous wealth of his worthless
fellow-citizen. Here, first impressions are not suf-
ficient, but distant consequences must be taken into

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 423

account, and ^opposite inconveniences balanced, be-
fore we can safely decide for or against the utility
of such practices. But when men by reasoning
have made up their minds thereupon, the decision is
chronicled, and becomes a general rule to be referred
to on future occasions, and prevent the necessity of
constantly debating the subject.

Other cases being still less clear, they require a
greater exercise of reason, and therefore, as we might
suppose, the decision is not so uniform. All nations
have perceived that the intercourse between the sexes
must be put under some restraints and regulations,
but these have not always been the same, for in some
countries polygamy is permitted, in others not ; here
marriage may be broken, there it is indissoluble ; and
as the variety in practice, so is the variety in moral
sentiment. Other similar cases have been mentioned
in the general introduction ; as well as the great acts
of suicide and tyrannicide, which have been alternately
approved and condemned. In such instances it is
impossible to account for the difference of sentiment,
otherwise than by the difference of opinion as to the
utility of this or that practice, and opinion is the re-
sult of reason.

We have now consulted our experience of those
mental qualities which men approve or disapprove,
in order to discover the origin of moral sentiments,
and by so doing have arrived at the same conclu-
sion which we previously came to, by a deduction
from the nature of these sentiments as known to us
by analysis. Both these methods of inquiry having
shown us that moral sentiment springs from Sympathy

424 ON THE CAUSES OF

guided by Reason, the proof must be considered com-
plete, for besides the separate proof which each mode
of investigation affords, the one corroborates the other,
and the whole swells by accumulation.

The general uniformity, and the occasional diversity
of moral sentiment, are readily accounted for on the fore-
going theory, when we consider that the useful or in-
jurious tendency of most actions is obvious to common
sense, while that of a few only is doubtful, and must be
traced by deeper reflections, which may not always
lead to the same result. But that diversity can by
no means be accounted for on the supposition that
moral sentiment is instinctive, for then like other in-
stincts it ought to be always the same ; as the instinct
of bees, or of beavers, that leads them to form hexa-
gonal cells, or to construct their curious habitations,
always upon one pattern. Here is a marked distinc-
tion between the instinctive and the acquired, that
the one is ever uniform, while the other admits of
variety. Desire of pleasure and fear of pain, love or
hatred, regard or dislike, towards those who please
or displease us, a sense of uneasiness in the absence
of food or drink, are instinctive feelings, which arise
uniformly in all men ; but all are not gratified or
hurt exactly by the same objects, or in the same way,
nor do all like the same kinds of food. Thougb some
things seem originally pleasant or unpleasant to all,
as sweet or bitter to children ; yet other tastes are
acquired, and what at first was disagreeable may in
time be highly relished. Here custom, opportunity,
and association may do a great deal, but they cannot
change our instincts, make us seek pain or avoid

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 425

pleasure, hate those who please us, or love such as
we find disagreeable. Sympathy with the weal and
woe of others, which lies at the bottom of morals, is
also an instinct of nature ; and so we may call that
degree of common sense that belongs to all sane men,
and which sees instinctively the consequences of cer-
tain actions. So far then there is a perfect uniformity
among mankind ; but when cultivated reason is ne-
cessary to trace less palpable effects, then as in other
instances of acquired faculties or talents, we meet with
a considerable diversity, and according to the differ-
ence of views is the variety of moral sentiment.

Were moral sentiment instinctive, and hence uni-
form and infallible, what, we may ask, would be the
object of those treatises and discourses on practical
morality which every where abound ? Many of those
works, and many oral harangues, public as well as
private, profess not only to enforce, but also to teach
morality. For instance, in that well known work,
The Internal Excellence of Christianity, by Soame
Jenyns, the author endeavours to show that many
mental qualities which were highly approved of by
the pagans, are no virtues at all, and ought not to be
commended ; while others overlooked or despised by
them are really worthy of applause. It would be
beside my purpose to enquire how far he has made
out his point ; for all I have to ask is, whether this and
other works professing to enlighten men as to their
practical duties, bear upon them an evident stamp of
absurdity ? It will be allowed that the Christian re-
ligion enforces morality by a higher sanction ; but
is it utterly false, and even ridiculous to suppose, that

426 ON THE CAUSES OF

it taught a purer code ? Such, however, is the conclu-
sion we must come to, if it be asserted that we have
within us an instinct which can never err. All the
writings and all the conversations of practical mo-
ralists, nay, all the lessons of our Saviour, must be con-
sidered as throw^n away, so far as they profess to en-
lighten and not merely to exhort. But should it be said
that any instinct, and conscience among the rest, might
be reformed by a divine instructor, I would limit my-
self to mortals, and inquire whether all who pretend
to teach us our duty, must be considered as presump-
tuous fools ? for such they must be if they profess to
teach what every one cannot but know. Unless this
be affirmed, I must suppose that moral doctors may
have been men of sense, and may have done some
good in pointing out the right way ; and conse-
quently that conscience or the moral sense is not in-
stinctive and uniform, nor an infallible monitor and
guide.

It is now time to observe that the above facts and
reasonings prove only that utility, as discerned by
reason and felt by sympathy, is one source of moral
sentiment. But if it were the sole source it would
follow, not only that utility is an element common to
all mental qualities which we morally approve, but
also that we morally approve all useful qualities, and
that too in proportion to their utility. Is this then
the case ? In order to determine the point let us con-
sult experience.

It will generally be allowed that the two principles
of self-love and social are necessary to the welfare
of man in the present life; for without the one he

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS, 427

would be selfish even to savageness, without the
other, generous even to folly. But were we obliged
to make a choice between them, and say which is
the most indispeusable, we should be obliged to pro-
nounce in favour of self-love, for this is absolutely
essential to the existence and preservation of man,
while the other is necessary only to his well-being.
Were benevolence banished from the world, we might
still have a system of laws, which by appealing to
self-interest alone, as all penal laws now do, could
restrain the more heinous offences against life and
property ; and education might perhaps be so spread,
and general intelligence so improved, that every man
should see that it was contrary to his interest to in-
jure any one. This, I say, is conceivable, and at any
rate the world would go on, though certainly much
worse than before : but what would become of man-
kind were they wholly given up to benevolence, to
the exclusion of self-regard ? On this supposition,
every one would be consulting for others, nobody for
self; but as it is perfectly evident that no one can
know his own wants so well as the individual himself,
and no one else can be ever at hand to relieve them,
people would die off from neglect until the race was
extinct. What may be the case in a higher state of
being, where the wants of man may not be so impe-
rious as in the present, it would be presumptuous to
say ; but in a life such as this, surrounded every mo-
ment with danger, and requiring support continually,
nothing but an ever-present and ever- wakeful regard
to his own interest can maintain the existence of man.
Thus it evidently appears that self-love is a more

428 ON THE CAUSES OF

useful principle than benevolence. If then our moral
sentiments be in proportion to utility, it should follow
that in general we ought to approve actions where
self-interest is the motive more than those which
spring from the principle of benevolence. But far
from this, there are innumerable acts which every one
must allow to be highly useful to the individual, but
which are never applauded at all. Who would think
of approving a man for eating when he wanted food,
for taking wholesome exercise, or resting when he
was weary, though these be most useful doings ?
Would it be thought great praise to say of a man that
in every action of his life lie had a steady regard to
his own advancement, though thus he were likely to
succeed ? Besides, even in the case of those mental
qualities and those actions having a reference to self
which are generally allowed to be praiseworthy or vir-
tuous, and are certainly most useful, our moral appro-
bation is often weak.

Of all the virtues there is certainly none more
essential to happiness than prudence or discretion.
That no talents however brilliant, no qualities how-
ever agreeable, no temper however generous, can
make up for the want of this common-place virtue,
is evident from the memorable instance of the oTeat
Sheridan, who in spite of all these advantages, by
which he had charmed and astonished his country-
men, and acquired the friendship of the high and
mighty, lived long as a mendicant, and ended his days
in wretchedness. Prudence must then be considered
the most indispensable of qualities ; but it is never
warmly commended, and some have even denied that

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 429

it was»at all a virtue.' But this, as has been well ob-
served by Mackintosh, is an assertion contradicted by
every man's feelings ; though the degree of approba-
tion w^hich we bestow on prudence is assuredly much
fainter than that which we confer on charity. One
who in all his dealings is guided by discretion may be
approved as a prudent man; but he who embraces
difficulty and danger in order to save his country, or
succour his fellow-creatures in general, is hailed as a
patriot and hero, is blest by his contemporaries, and
admired by all posterity.

These instances may suffice to show that moral
approbation is not in proportion to utility ; and if so,
this cannot be the only source of moral sentiment.
Nor does the theory above given necessarily suppose
that it is, but only that it is one source ; and therefore
that theory is not disproved, but merely shown to be
incomplete. It remains then to be seen what other
principle lies at the bottom of moral sentiment.

No fact in human nature appears more indisputable
than our admiration for what is rare and great, and
if great, therefore rare. We have before remarked
that Admiration seems to occupy a middle place be-
tween Love and Esteem, combining the warmth of

-'' " The object of moral approbation, according to Hutcheson,
is general benevolence ; and he carries this generous error so far
as to deny that prudence, as long as it regards ourselves, can be
morally approved ; — an assertion contradicted by every man's
feelings, and to which we owe the dissertation on the nature of
virtue, which Butler annexed to his analogy.'' Mackintosh ;
Dissertation on the progress of Ethical Philosophy, Art. Hutche-
son.

430 ON THE CAUSES OF

the one with something of the cool judgment of the
other. In one respect, however, admiration differs
materially from both, for it comprehends an emotion
of Wonder at something new, rare, or unexpected.
This appears to form an essential element of that
compound state of mind, which, when excited by a
being like ourselves, also embraces love, as well as a
decision of the judgment as to the excellence of the
object. The union of these three constitutes admi-
ration for beauty, talents, or high moral worth. But
when the term is applied to inanimate objects, the
feelings must of course be somewhat different, for
here proper Love is impossible ; though the emotion
is as nearly allied to it as the nature of the case can
admit ; while Wonder is still the same.

Now, whatever is unexpected excites our wonder,
and whatever is unexpected is rare, relatively if not
absolutely. Therefore Rarity is the proper source of
wonder, and Greatness so far as rare ; and hence both
tend to rouse admiration, of which wonder is one ele-
ment.

That the value we put upon things depends very
much on their rarity, nobody will deny. So much
indeed is this the case, that an object even of the
most trifling utility, or beauty, may be highly prized
and highly paid for, if it be known to be scarce.
Gold and silver certainly possess many excellent
qualities, particularly indestructibility by ordinary
causes, such as corrode or liquify other metals ; but
will any one pretend that we should admire them as
much as we do, were they as abundant as iron ?
Nay, one of their great advantages as money, depends

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 431

upon their scarcity, for were they as plentiful as other
metals, they would be far too bulky for a circulating
medium. As it is, gold has an advantage in this
particular, which in certain countries is paid for ac-
cordingly. In France, where silver is the standard,
and paper money almost unknown, the bulk and
weight of the money is a real inconvenience.

Though gold and silver really possess useful quali-
ties, can we say as much of those numerous trinkets
and gewgaws which in civilized society are so highly
valued? The art of imitation is now carried so
far that mock precious stones and even diamonds
can be fabricated almost if not quite as beautiful as
the real ; but when we know them to be mock we
do not so much admire them. Many of those pro-
ductions which are brought from India or China are
really no better than our own, and in beauty of draw-
ing are certainly very inferior, but they come from a
distance and are rare, and therefore are more es-
teemed. The exchangeable value, in money or com-
modities, of any object of wealth which cannot be
increased by human labour, depends upon scarcity
alone ; and the amount which people are willing to
give in exchange for such an object, maybe considered
as a material measure of their mental appreciation.

Nor is our admiration of the rare confined to things
inanimate, but is still more warmly felt for the
mental and bodily qualities of living objects, par-
ticularly of our fellow-creatures. It is certainly ne-
cessary that those qualities should imply some in-
trinsic excellence of utility or of beauty, for otherwise
they could not affect us at all, or would rouse an op-

43-3 OX THE CAUSES OF

posite feeliDg'. Possessing then utility or beauty, our
admiration of such qualities varies with their rarity.
We may no^y see what that principle is, A^hich,
along with the principle of utility, determines our
moral sentiments. This is nothino- else than a ten-
dency to Wonder, and hence to Admiration, on the
view or conception of rare moral qualities, rare in
their nature or onlv in deo-ree. Nothino; can excite
this admiration which is not intrinsically useful or
beautiful, but the admiration is not in proportion to
the utility, though it may be to the beauty, which
varies according as it is felt. Hence it is neither
prudence, nor frugality, nor temperance, nor even
justice, which we most warmly admire, though these
virtues be inferior to none in utility; but extraordi-
nary acts of benevolence, whether in the form of
patriotism or of general philanthropy, acts which sup-
pose uncommon self-sacrifice or self-denial. Who,
for instance, can read the life of Cato of Utica, with-
out the most unbounded admiration for a man di-
rected by the perpetual wish of doing good to his
country and all around him, and who in pursuit of
that object could submit to any hardship, brave any
dano;er, and resist to the last the mio-hty Caesar ? In
modern days, the life of Washington, and even the
life of La Fayette, are not unworthy to be compared
with that of Cato ; for though La Fayette was gifted
with less talent, yet his virtue was as remarkable ;
since he lived in times as difficult, and resisted every
allurement, whether from prince or people, that
seemed contrary to his country's good. And who,
not biassed by party, can refrain from warmly admir-

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 433

ing characters such as these ? or would think of com-
paring them with individuals of common prudence
and honesty, who have never gone out of their way
to do much good to any one, and have never passed
through temptation's fiery ordeal.

It is evident from the above, that admiration of
what is rare contributes to the formation of moral
sentiment. Now the only element of admiration which
differs essentially from those formerly mentioned as
arising from the view of utility, is the emotion of
Wonder. Therefore wonder at what is rare, is the
feeling which communicates a peculiar warmth to our
moral sentiments, which always comprise a judgment
as to the tendency of actions, and a feeling of love or
hatred, of good or ill-will towards the actor.

It is owing then to the emotion of wonder that those
sentiments, though based upon utility, do not vary ac-
cordingly. But wonder springs from Rarity: and,
consequently, this must be considered a new founda-
tion of moral sentiment. Upon the whole, moral sen-
timent springs from Utility and Rarity, the former
being discovered by reason and felt by sympathy ;
the latter acting through wonder ; and, consequently,
Reason, Sympathy, and a Susceptibility to Wox-
DER, are the three mental principles in which moral
sentiment originates.

The following observations tend to corroborate this
conclusion. In the first place, the very words used
familiarly in writing and in conversation, prove how
much our moral sentiments depend upon raritv, for
when we wish to express our warm commendation of
a character, or impress others in his favour, we talk

F F

434 ON THE CAUSES OF

of his uncommon generosity, his rare devotedness,
his w^ecr^wzp/e^ benevolence, his e.vtraor dinar y patrio-
tism, his singular energy and courage. Every one of
these terms conveys the same idea, rarity, and im-
plies the highest praise we can bestow.

But in order to prove that rarity is essential to the
growth of moral sentiment, we shall proceed to show
that if all those acts now called virtuous, were prac-
tised universally, the ideas both of virtue and vice,
of right and wrong, of merit and demerit, would be
totally unknown. The same would be the case were
men altogether mischievous. Suppose a state of so-
ciety like the golden age of the poets, in which all
the necessaries, and even the luxuries of life, were
supplied spontaneously in unlimited abundance, and
where, consequently, property and crimes against
property, were unheard of; and likewise, suppose
that no man ever felt tempted to injure the person,
defame the character, or steal away the affections of
any one. Here then injustice being unknown, how
could there be formed a notion of the contrary ? The
idea of the one, as necessarily implies the possibility
of the other, as the notion of a solid, the existence of a
liquid or a vapour. The same holds true of all the
other virtues.* Were men always grateful for bene-

■* Hume saw verjf well that the virtue of justice is entirely de-
pendent on the mingled condition of human life, as determined
partly by outward circumstances, partly by the constitution of
the mind itself ; and therefore it is the more singular that he did
not perceive that the same holds true of all the other virtues.
See " Inquiry concerning the Principles of Morals." Sect. Of
Justice.

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 435

fits conferred, active and upright in their public ca-
pacity, charitable in their private conduct, temperate
in pleasure, persevering in their endeavours, coura-
geous in the presence of danger, and patient under
suifering, how could they have learnt the meaning of
such terms as ingratitude, corruption, hard-hearted-
ness, intemperance, fickleness, cowardice, and forget-
fulness ? Take again the opposite supposition, that all
men were incurably given up to those vices, and could
they conceive anything else ? These terms and the
corresponding sentiments are adapted to a state of
mingled good and evil, where subsistence is obtained
not without labour and difficulty, and where conse-
quently many are tempted to seize upon it without toil,
and where all are moved by various and conflicting in-
clinations, some tending to the happiness, others to
the misery of the species. Were there no such dis-
positions and acts as we now call vicious, it is evident
that there could not be any sentiment of moral disap-
probation among mankind ; and if there were no moral
disapprobation, there could be no moral approbation,
for how could we applaud that which we never had
known, and therefore could not fancy, otherwise ? In
like manner, were there no such dispositions and acts
as we now call virtuous, there could not be among men
any sentiment of moral approbation ; and were there
no moral approbation, there could be no moral dis-
approbation, for in order to condemn we must have
learnt to applaud. But since the " thread of our life
is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together," this con-
trasting with that, we are conscious of the difference,
and approve the one and find fault with the other ac-

436 ON THE CAUSES OF

cordingly ; and the fewer the good threads, the more
highly do we prize them. Thus it appears, that rarity
is essential to the growth of moral sentiment.

In the second Part of this Book, when treating of
Practical Morality, we shall arrive at the same con-
clusion in a different way, and each proof being in-
dependent, the one will corroborate the other. In
the mean time, enough has probably been said to put
this question in a tolerably clear point of view. But
it may be that some will call Rarity a very poor foun-
dation for moral sentiment ; and so, in truth, it would
be, were it to stand alone ; but when duly combined
with Utility, so far from being poor or unsafe, it is a
broad and solid basis. For we shall find, in the se-
cond Part of this Book, that the eifect produced upon
us by rarity is perfectly agreeable to the most far-
sighted views as to the real purpose of moral senti-
ment ; and though this eifect be not first owing to
reason, it is strictly conformable to that faculty, and
may be strengthened by it on subsequent reflection.
This much, however, must be allowed, that since the
emotion of wonder, which springs from rarity, is of
an exciting nature and warms the whole soul, and
since it is roused not only by rare moral qualities,
but also by rare talents, or even beauty, it may some-
times so captivate the affections as to overpower the
judgment, and thus pervert, not merely stimulate,
moral sentiment. Admiration for what is rare is, there-
fore, a copious source of fallacy and danger, when-
ever it escapes from the salutary guidance of utility ;
and if, without the one, moral sentiment would be
null, or at best weak, cold, and powerless in practice,

THE MORAL SENTIMENTS. 437

without the other it would have no good basis, but
would be variable, whimsical, and depraved. But
observations on the causes which may pervert our
sense of right and wrong belong properly to the fol-
lowing Section. Having, in the present, traced the
origin of moral sentiment, we have next to inquire
what are the secondary causes by which it is subse-
quently propagated, strengthened, modified, or per-
verted.

Section II. — On the Secondary Causes of Moral

Sentiment.

*

Though the causes stated in the preceding Section
are sufficient to account for the origin of moral sen-
timent, yet, in order to explain all the phenomena
connected with it, we must have recourse to other
and secondary causes, which subsequently come into
operation. These causes are various, but most, if
not all of them may be comprehended under five ge-
neral heads ; 1. Education; 2. The Presence in the
Mind of some Strong Passion or Emotion ; 3. Com-
plexity of Action ; 4. Local and Temporary Utility ;
5. The Formation of General Rules.

I. Education.

1 . The first and most important of these secondary
causes is education, or early custom. This engenders
habits not only of acting, but even of thinking and
feeling; in other words, creates a tendency to the
repetition of certain thoughts, feelings, and actions ;
and herein lies the whole efficacy of education.

438 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

Now the influence of education depends upon two
grand principles of human nature, Association, and
the imitative principle, or the principle of Example.^
This is sometimes called sympathy, but the latter
term having been employed in the preceding Section
in a more restricted sense, I shall continue to use
it as before, to signify the principle by which we
participate in the weal and woe of others. In reality,
this is but one form of the more general principle of
imitation, by which we catch not only the feelings,
but also the opinions, and even the outward ways of
those with whom we associate. Mirth begets mirth ;
laughter, laughter ; sorrow, sorrow; languor, languor;
courage, courage; fear, fear; despondency, despon-
dency; applause, applause ; disfavour, disfavour ; and
the opinions and actions of one man have also a
manifest influence upon those of another. This prin-
ciple, as might be supposed, acts with the greatest
force when large bodies of men are brought together,
as in an army, a meeting for political or religious
purposes, or even in a theatre or other place of public
amusement. Those sudden emotions of courage, and
those no less sudden fears, which determine victory
or defeat ; the rapid and tumultuous movements of
large popular assemblies ; the bursts of applause
which gladden, or the groans and hisses which dis-
may an actor, are all propagated like wild-fire on the
principle of imitation. Nay, the communication of
opinion has sometimes been almost as rapid as that

5 It may be observed that the term imitation does not here ne-
cessarily imply intention.

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 439

of emotion. This has been particularly seen in re-
volutionary times, when some great changes have
unsettled the minds of men, and prepared them for
further changes. Without the principle in question,
it would be utterly impossible to account for those
sudden and simultaneous conversions from one poli-
tical creed to another, by which nearly a whole
people has been affected ; for we cannot imagine that
reason could operate thus quickly and universally.
Never, perhaps, was there witnessed so sudden and
general a change of opinion as during the French
Revolution. Let us attend to the celebrated author
of the Vindicise Gallicse, whose object was to defend
that great event against the attacks of Burke, by no
means to run it down. " Doctrines were universally
received in May, which, in January, would have been
deemed treasonable, and which, in March, were de-
rided as the visions of a few deluded fanatics."^ Will
any one say that this change was brought about by
mature reflection rather than by imitation ?

This principle, which is of such importance in war
and civil politics, which determines the victory or the
defeat of armies as if by magic, and precipitates re-
volution by inflaming the minds of men, is for ever
at work in private life, though it may be silently and
imperceptibly. In the child, however, the principle
is so strong that every one must have remarked it ;
for he acts

"As if his whole vocation

Were endless imitation."

6 Vindici'de Gallicse, p. 38. See also my Disquisition on Go-
vernment, p. 3, 4.

440 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

Can we then suppose that in morals alone this prin-
ciple has no influence? On the contrary, that influence
is felt and acknowledged by every one, for it is uni-
versally allowed that morals are better taught by ex-
ample than precept. Nor does the example of others
influence our actions alone, or our practical morality,
but it extends to our moral sentiments. When the child
listens to those around him who are relating some
act of virtue or of vice, does he not mark the words
employed, as well as the emphasis, the tone, the ges-
ture, and the expression of countenance with which
those words are accompanied ? The terms of approba-
tion and disapprobation are not usually pronounced
with an indifferent accent or air, but with the signs
of some emotion ; and this, being readily communicated
to the youthful mind, becomes his first lesson in mo-
rality. He feels a sentiment in some degree corres-
ponding to that of his elders, who here are really his
instructors, though they may not be aware of the moral
education they are giving; and when similar occasions
arise, his mind is prepared for similar sentiments.
Thus, example, and especially early example, is at
least one way in which moral sentiment is communi-
cated.

The effect of example is greatly assisted by ano-
ther principle, that of association. When two states of
mind have frequently occurred together, the presence
of the one is apt instantly to call up the other without
any effort on our part, and even in spite of our will.
This principle being now so well understood, it is un-
necessary to dwell upon it here ; but I may remark,
that since any thought or conception suggests any

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 441

other thought or conception, or even any emotion,
with which the first was formerly united, we thus by
means of our thoughts can really influence our feelings.
When these are once roused we cannot subdue them
directly, for the more we dwell upon them, the more
do they gather strength, but we can turn to some sub-
ject which may change the current of our thoughts,
and so prevent the recurrence of the emotion. In like
manner, if we wish to encourage any feelings, we
must pursue some train of reading, thought, or action,
which may serve to bring them to mind.

According to this principle of association, when the
youthful mind has once caught its moral sentiments
by example, and has been conscious of approbation
and disapprobation, these sentiments are apt to spring
up as before, when similar circumstances present them-
selves ; till by frequent repetition, a habit is formed
of deciding and feeling on moral subjects with the ut-
most promptitude, and accuracy. This then is the
principle which accounts for the great rapidity of our
moral sense, and obviates the necessity of supposing,
either that in every case we weigh the utility of ac-
tions, or else that moral sentiment has no foundation
in utility. By attempting to prove too much, we often
endanger the proof of what is really true ; and thus
it would happen in the present instance, were we to
maintain that in every case of moral praise or blame
we have a distinct eye to utility; for this outwork
being easily overthrown, it might be inferred that the
whole structure was baseless. But by means of the
two principles of example and association, we can show
how moral sentiment may be taught and propagated

442 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

among men, particularly among the rising generation ;
and why it arises so surely and instantaneously; pro-
vided it already exist, for these principles by no means
account for its origin. xA.s no man can communicate
knowledge before he possess it himself, so no one
could conduce to the spreading of moral sentiment
were he not conscious of it in his own bosom, and
though he also may have derived it from others, yet in
the first instance it could not have been so acquired.
In short, moral sentiment must have originated some-
where before it could be spread by example and asso-
ciation ; and the foregoing theory shows what that ori-
gin was, without supposing that on all occasions we
look to the fountain head. It would be as erroneous
to assert that we never approve or blame without a
distinct view of all the consequences of actions, as it
would be to deny that we ever regard them at all ;
for both these propositions are utterly opposed to ex-
perience, as well as contrary to reason ; since on the
one supposition, moral decisions would be far too slow
and tame, on the other, judgment, so important in other
subjects, would in this be of no avail. Can we think
that here, where his happiness is so much at stake,
and where promptitude in word and deed is so ne-
cessary, man is left solely to reason? or can we be-
lieve that he here throws it entirely aside, and placing
virtue on a par with beauty, becomes the mere crea-
ture of feeling.

These two principles will also explain why some
vicious practices and false sentiments have long
prevailed in certain ages and among certain nations ;
for howsoever those sentiments may have arisen,
whether from erroneous views of utility, or from real

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 443

but temporary utility, they might be continued from
example and association down to more enlightened
times, and after the circumstances that gave them
birth had passed away. It is well known how much
men hold to their customs, and that these may long
survive the occasions whence they sprang. The peo-
ple of Paris cannot certainly be thought very reli-
gious, but they observe with so much regularity the
various holidays of their church, that they might well
pass for good catholics. Though Lent be not kept
very strictly, and fasting be much gone out ; yet the
carnival which originated in that abstinence, and was
a sort of compensation for it, is still duly celebrated ;
and the fat ox parades the streets as in the olden
time. In like manner, many usages of a vicious na-
ture and false sentiments corresponding, may from
the force of custom long outlive their original causes,
and even defy the better reason and the better feelings
of a purer age. Long after the Romans had been
civilized by the science, the arts, and the superior
humanity of the Greeks, they continued to delight in
the horrid butcheries of the Amphitheatre, and could
look upon the dying gladiator without either pity or
remorse : and even now when Christianity has so
much humanized mankind, the Spaniards, nay, Span-
ish women, can behold their sanguinary bull-fights
without compunction, and even despise those who
give any sign of feeling. Here we have a signal in-
stance of perverted sentiment, for can any perversion
be greater than to look with contempt on those who
are not so hard hearted as ourselves.^

7 See note (A).

444 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES.

In ancient times, when slavery was common, the
slave, though of the same colour, was looked upon as
almost a different being from the free- man, as we may
learn from Aristotle himself, and was subject to a
difterent code of morality. Thus, at Rome, if a
master were killed in his own house, all his slaves
were to be put to death. To us, this seems horrible ;
but the law would not have allowed the practice,
had it been repugnant to the moral sentiments of
the Romans. During the battle of Philippi, the
virtuous Brutus caused his slave-prisoners to be mas-
sacred in cold blood ; and what is more, his biogra-
pher Plutarch expresses no blame on the occasion.^
In countries where negro slavery still unfortunately
exists, the injurious treatment of slaves is in general
regarded by masters with wonderful indifference ; and
atrocious indeed must be the act that can rouse
their indignation. The slave trade is still so recent
even with us, that it is not always looked upon with
the full horror it deserves ; but one hundred years
hence, will it be credited that there were Englishmen
in the nineteenth century who could defend this dia-
bolical traffic? From such instances as these we
may learn the force of example and association in
modifying the sentiments of men for the better or for
the worse, and hence the importance of education,
especially of moral education, which owes its efficacy
mainly to those principles.

II. Passion, or Strong Emotion.

2. The next secondary cause which we have to

s See Plutarch in Brut.

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 445

consider is the presence in the mind of some violent
passion, or strong emotion of any kind ; whether it
arise entirely from the action before us, or have been
previously roused. Since nothing blinds the judg-
ment and misdirects our actions more than violent
passion, we cannot be surprised that it should also
pervert our moral sentiments. Now emotion may be
excited by causes which affect our interest directly,
and even by those which affect it indirectly, or not
at all. When our own interests are immediately
concerned, it is difficult to look on any action with a
coolness sufficient to form an unprejudiced judgment,
and award a due degree of praise or blame. If
the action be decidedly hostile and injurious to us,
our indignation often swells beyond all bounds, and
we heap every term of reproach upon our enemy ;
and if the act be advantageous and friendly, our
heart over-flows with love and gratitude, and our
lips teem with praise. To the impartial observer, the
act may in reality appear virtuous or the contrary,
but he is far from approving or disapproving with
the same warmth as the party affected ; and he
readily accounts for that warmth from the private
injury or benefit, which mingles individual wrath or
kindness with the general sentiment of morality.
But sometimes passion is so strong as not merely to
exaggerate, but utterly to pervert that sentiment,
and change for the moment our notions of right and
wrong ; as when a measure of public utility deeply
wounds our private interest, and when right cannot
be done without a particular injury. In this case,
our feelings may so far get the better of us, as en-

446 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

tirely to obscure our mental vision and corrupt our
moral sense, and we may pour forth volleys of abuse,
where the highest applause is truly merited. Those
who would abolish slavery ought surely to be praised
and admired for their benevolent exertions in the
cause ; but in the United States of America, they
are deeply execrated by many, pursued as criminals,
and sometimes even put to death. In a land of
equality, and where the law has given equal rights
to free blacks, no injustice can be greater than that
universally practised in America, where no man of
colour is allowed to exercise those rights ; but this
flagrant violation of morality is covered by the pas-
sions of the whites. In such cases as these, where
the offenders are many, and where one encourages
another, conscience may be quite lulled to sleep ;
but in general, and when the passion is confined to
one or a few, the sense of right and wrong returns
after a short interval, and tells us that we have been
unjust. Thus passion may be compared to the morn-
ing mist, which for a while deranges our ideas of
distance, and magnifies objects to the eye, but impairs
not the faculty of vision ; for this is as accurate as
ever, when the sun has risen, and the mist vanishes
away.

Even when an action does not particularly affect
our interests, and in itself is not calculated to rouse
any strong emotion, it may be unduly approved or dis-
approved, if it proceed from one already known as our
friend or our enemy. If we love or hate any one, we
cannot help looking upon him with some degree of
favour or disfavour, and are naturally inclined to put

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 447

a good or bad construction upon all his actions, to
see virtue or vice, merit or demerit, where in truth
there is little or none. In this case then, a previous
feeling for or against a person, so predisposes the
mind as in some degree to warp its moral sentiments
whenever that individual is concerned, and prepares
it to approve or disapprove beyond measure, even in
cases where no private interest is at stake ; but should
a new benefit or injury be now added to the old,
the feeling will be apt to swell into an emotion so
violent, particularly in the case of injury, as quite
to overpower the mind and derange its views of mo-
rality.

In the above instances, it is private benefit or in-
jury, private aifection or dislike, that prevents us
from judging and feeling as we in strictness ought,
and as the impartial really do. Nor can we be sur-
prised at this when we consider the nature of moral
sentiment. For as this comprises some degree of
love or hatred towards those who seem to have acted
right or wrong ; our private feelings of gratitude
or anger, of friendship or enmity, must mingle with
the general feeling, and increase or diminish its
intensity according as they go along with or against
it ; and it must be as difficult to like for a vir-
tuous act, a person whom we formerly hated, as to
dislike for a vicious deed, one whom we already
love.

But it is not private feeling alone that perverts
our moral sentiments. There is another emotion
which is not confined to a few, and is not necessarily
connected with any private interest or affection, but,

448 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

arising from general causes remote from self, has a
far wider and more important influence on the moral
nature of man. This is Admiration for the rare and
great, which has already been mentioned, but must
now be more fully considered.

We have already seen that admiration is a com-
pound state of mind, allied to love as well as to
esteem, but differing essentially from both by com-
prising an emotion of wonder. It has also been
shewn that rarity, the source of wonder, is necessary
to the formation of moral sentiment : but since there
may be rare talents, or rare beauty, as well as rare
worth ; and as those excite wonder and admiration
as well as this, our feeling for the former may be so
warm, as greatly to modify that sentiment. Praise
and blame may now no longer be awarded according
to the utility of actions, duly combined with their
rarity, but according to rarity chiefly or alone ; and
thus the marvellous will be lauded as if it were the
good. When the imagination and affections are
strongly excited, calm reason cannot be heard, and
modest worth appears but a tame affair ; and nothing
is more exciting than wonder produced by what is
extraordnary.

Of all the causes which may pervert our moral
sentiments, this is the most general as well as the
most insidious and dangerous. For, since some degree
of wonder is not only allowable, but necessary to
communicate warmth to those sentiments, we may
not always distinguish between the wonder arising
from rare talents and that from rare worth, and are
constantly in danger of morally approving what we

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 449

ought only to admire ; or of not disapproving, what
otherwise we should certainly condemn. Hence, in
particular, the favour shewn to conquerors, those de-
stroyers of mankind. In reading or hearing of the
achievements of Alexander, Csesar, Frederick, or
Napoleon, who can help admiring not only their rare
sagacity, but also a variety of qualities which belong
not to pure intellect, but to the active powers of man ;
such as steadiness of purpose and unwearied perse-
verance combined with quickness in deciding and
executing, undaunted courage united with patience
in adversity, and buoyancy under every misfortune.
Qualities such as these, and in such perfection, every
one must admire, and some of them are worthy not
only of admiration, but even of moral approbation,
provided they be well employed ; but in the brilliancy
that surrounds them we are apt to lose sight of the
material question, whether they have been used or
abused. As there are particular instances of good,
which tend to blind us to the bad consequences of
infringing a general rule, so there are general rules
which blind us to particular instances of evil. Thus,
courage, perseverance, &c. being in general useful
qualities, are commended accordingly, and, it may
be, even in cases where they are decidedly injurious,
provided their effects be great and wonderful ; for
though a common malefactor may show great courage
and perseverance, we admire not him as we do a
mighty conqueror, who has laid waste a whole country
with fire and sword. But the case of general rules
belongs to another head, and should not have been
mentioned here, were it not that in the present in-

G G

450 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

stance it combines with the effects of wonder to warp
our moral sentiments ; for every one must allow that
conquerors meet with a very modified disapprobation,
if they be disapproved at all. V/hen national vanity
is gratified by conquest, moral disapproval may be
quite swallowed up in admiration. What Greek, at
least what Macedonian, found fault with Alexander
for over-running the East ; what Roman with Csesar,
so long as he fought only with barbarians ; or what
Frenchman with Napoleon, so long as he was victo-
rious ? One indeed, and only one, did accuse Csesar
before the Senate, for having made war with the Ger-
mans, and slaughtered great multitudes of a people
with whom the Romans were at peace ; but this was
the virtuous Cato, and his voice was drowned amid
the shouts and laughter of his countrymen.
III. Complexity of Actions.
The third cause of variation in moral sentiment, is
the complexity of actions, together with the fallibi-
lity of human reason. Having already alluded to this
cause in the former section, we need not dwell long
upon it here. Suffice it to remark, that since there
are many actions and even mental qualities which
produce both good and evil, and since the good may
strike some minds more, the evil others, those will
naturally approve where these will condemn. As a
striking and important instance, I may mention the
opposite qualities of pride and humility, which com-
bine with so many emotions, influence so many ac-
tions, and give a turn to the whole character. It
would be foreign to our present purpose to balance
the advantages and disadvantages of these different

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 451

states of mind, for this belongs to practical morality ;
and all we have now to remark, is the fact of the
varying sentiments of mankind upon this subject.
It is generally admitted, that in nothing do heathen
and Christian morality differ so much, as in the en-
couragement given to these rival qualities ; for the
one system is favourable to pride, while the other
preaches humility. The Scriptures assure us, that
" God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the
humble," and, in truth, they every where abound
with encomiums on lowliness of spirit. It is on this
fundamental difference that the author of the Internal
Evidence of Christianity founds one of his leading
arguments for the divine origin of the religion ; for
he considers that the excellence, together with the
newness of this moral system, proves its sacred
origin.^"

Not only are the consequences of actions sometimes
very complicated and puzzling from the mixture of
good and evil, but the intention which gave rise to
them is frequently doubtful, and can never certainly
be known. Therefore in addition to the possible
diversity of views as to consequences, there may
also be a difference of opinion as to the probable
state of mind in which the action originated ; and
on this the merit depends. It is easy to see that
the union of these two sources of error must create a
considerable uncertainty in the judgment, and hence

^^ See Soame Jenyns on the Internal Evidence of Christianity.
The arguments of this author have been adopted by Paley in his
Evidences.

452 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

in the moral sentiment, of so fallible a creature as
man.

IV. Local and Temporary Utility.

4. Local and temporary utility is the fourth cause
which modifies moral sentiment. This cause is nearly
allied to the last, though in the former case the dif-
ference lay not in the nature of the action, but only
in the views of the spectators, while here some local
and temporary circumstances are supposed to vary its
real utility. Owing to such partial circumstances,
some actions and some mental qualities may be more
particularly approved or disapproved among certain
nations, or at certain times ; or even some quality gene-
rally esteemed a virtue may be deemed a vice, or a
vice a virtue.

The republic of Rome, and many other ancient re-
publics, arose from small beginnings, in the midst of
hostile nations, all jealous of a rising state, and in some
cases surrounded by barbarians, to whom plunder was
the strongest of inducements, and war itself a sport.
In such circumstances, the constant necessity for self-
defence made valour the most indispensable of quali-
ties, and military excellence in general more valuable
than civil merit. It cannot therefore surprise us that
valour should here have been highly commended, or at
least, that cowardice should have been branded with
the deepest ignominy. Among the Romans, the word
for valour was the same as that for virtue. War,
which at first was necessary for self-defence, soon be-
came a national taste, and conquest a national object,
and therefore the qualities connected with it were still
as much prized as ever. Military valour, which at

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 453

first had been encouraged, and rationally encouraged,
as the only safe-guard from bondage and destructiouj
was afterwards immoderately stimulated for the con-
quest and plunder of the world. He who could have
witnessed, unmoved, the spectacle of a Roman tri-
umph, must either have been wonderfully wise, or
wonderfully insensible.

The permission and even the praise of suicide pro-
bably took its origin in this extravagant admiration
for valour. The act by which a man gives up the
present life with all its joys and hopes, was supposed
to prove no ordinary courage and resolution ; such as
qn other occasions might have saved his country, or
conquered a valuable province. This frame of mind
being considered eminently useful, it was applauded
wherever it was shown, and therefore in the case of
self-slaughter ; for great, it was thought, must be the
courage which could triumph over the love of life as
well as the fear of death.

The same causes which made valour peculiarly
necessary rendered patriotism indispensable ; for as
standing armies were long unknown, and when known
became fatal to the republics, each citizen was bound
to take up arms to defend his country, or increase its
sway. Now, as some strong motive is required to
induce civilians to quit their ordinary occupations,
whether of business or pleasure, and start to arms
with alacrity, therefore love of country was fostered
by law and opinion, and patriotism became a leading
virtue. Moreover, as republics, particularly demo-
cratic republics, are peculiarly exposed to one danger,
internal tyranny from the over-grown power of an in-

454 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

dividual, therefore tyrannicide was not only allowed
by opinion, but lauded to the skies. In France, the
statue of Napoleon is yearly crowned with flowers ;
but the tyrant-killer, not the tyrant, was worshipped at
Athens and Rome. Talking of Csesar, "jure csesus
creditur," says even Tacitus, writing in an age of
despotism. Though Brutus was the private friend of
Csesar, he absolved by opinion for the share he took
in his death ; and even Timoleon, who slew his own
brother, was applauded by the majority."

The most violent attempt, perhaps ever made, to
change the moral sentiments of men, is that recorded
of Lycurgus, who is said to have encouraged theft
under certain circumstances, especially if undetected.
If war were a principal concern in all the republics
of antiquity, at Sparta it was almost the sole busi-
ness of the citizens, for all common labour was done
by the Helots. The severe treatment of these last
showed the Spartans what they might themsel ves ex-
pect were they reduced to subjection by any neigh-
bouring state ; so they submitted to the discipline of
Lycurgus as a safeguard from such a calamity. To
encourage watchfulness on the one hand, a spirit of
stratagem on the other, qualities so useful in war,
the Spartan lawgiver may have thought fit to en-
courage ingenious pilfering. And as gold and silver
were banished from the territory of the republic, and
with them all costly manufactured articles, containing
much value in little bulk, there could have been no-
thing very precious to steal, of any moderate dimen-
sions.

11 See note(B ')

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 455

After the Fall of the Roman Empire, Europe was
long a scene of confusion, war, rapine, and devasta-
tion. Gradually, however, affairs grew a little better,
kingdoms became established, and some degree of
order prevailed ; though power was still too dis-
seminated, the central authority too weak, and law
often a dead letter. Under such circumstances arose
chivalry and knight-errantry, the most ingenious,
noble, captivating, poetically fanciful, and beautiful
invention that ever was hit upon, as a remedy for a
very imperfect state of society.

O gran bonta de' cavalieri antiqui !
Eran rivali, eran di fe diversi,
E si sentian degli aspri colpi iniqui
Per tutta la persona anche dolersi ;
E pur, per selve oscure e calli obliqui
Insieme van senza sospetto aversi.^^

Such was the temper of mind which chivalry
sought to instil into its true knights, a temper of ge-
nerosity, forgiveness, self-sacrifice, and above all, de-
votion to the fair, itself a most humanizing principle,
and well calculated to tame hearts which otherwise
might have been as hard as the steel wherein they
were clad. But, change the circumstances, and chi-
valry no longer appears a powerful element of civili-
zation, a glory, a light in the world ; but its forms
are laughed at, its principles attacked, and its prac-
tices deemed those of a lunatic. It was easy for
Cervantes to turn knight-errantry into ridicule, be-
cause it was no longer useful ; but had he lived a

'2 Orlando Furioso, Canto i.

456 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

century or two earlier, he would have admired it as
much as any one ; for the sentiments of his mock
hero are often truly dignified.

Upon the same principle of local and temporary
utility it is easy to account for the prevalence in cer-
tain situations of some horrid practices, such as the
exposure of children, and the abandonment of the old
and infirm. Among savage nations, where subsistence
is highly precarious, it may sometimes have been
thought as well to put children to death as to let
them starve, and where there was not food for all,
better that the old and useless should perish than
the young and active. We are much more astonished
to find that the custom of exposing ill-made children
prevailed among the civilized nations of antiquity ;
but the practice probably arose from a cause before
mentioned, their eager solicitude about war, for, v^ith
this object in view, a child was not vv^orth the rearing,
unless he could become a soldier.^^

V. General Rules.

The last cause to be here mentioned as influencing
moral sentiment is the formation of general rules, and
the use of general terms. Since hardly anything of
importance can be done well without some general

13 Even at the present day, temporary utility may be allowed as
an excuse for what otherwise would be murder ; as when, after a
shipwreck, the boats being overladen with people, some are
thrown over-board in order to save the remainder. See the late
account of the loss of the William Brown, (spring of 1841) and
the dreadful tragedy that followed, as well as the lenient opinion
expressed thereupon, especially in the letter of the English Con-
sul at Havre.

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 457

rule which may sum up our own experience or that
of others in a comprehensive formula, to serve as a
guide in particular cases, and obviate the necessity
of a long and tedious inquiry on every occasion, we
cannot be surprised that this necessity should have
been felt also in morals. The first appearances of
actions are often so deceitful, so contrary to the ul-
timate result, and some are really so complicated
with good and evil, that without general rules, the
fruit of long experience, we should often be at a
loss what to think ; and while some would pronounce
at random, or on the first impression, others would
hesitate too long, till all warmth of feeling was gone,
or the time for decision was passed. But by means
of general rules, the wisdom of ages is preserved and
condensed for the use of coming generations, the ec-
centricity or slowness of individual minds is corrected,
and accuracy, uniformity, strength, and promptitude
communicated to moral sentiment.

The influence of general rules upon our moral sen-
timents may be traced to two causes, reason and as-
sociation. By the first, we are led to adopt general
rules and disapprove of their infringement, because
we perceive that they are highly beneficial to society;
by the second we are acted upon without being aware
of its power. It seems impossible to deny that part
of the odium which attaches to the breaking of a
law depends upon reasoning from utility ; for we
often hear people work themselves and others into a
fit of indignation by dwelling on the evils of a single
example of disobedience, and the danger of its be-
coming contagious. Therefore it is not merely the

-1=;^

ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

immediate effects of the act in question which are
present to the mind, and call up moral resentment,
but also the more remote consequences which flow
from the infringement of a rule. The legislator looks
to this last consideration alone, and even the moralist
does not neglect it : for if an act be such in itself as
not greatly to rouse his indignation, he frequently in-
creases it by the reflection, were such deeds to become
ofeneral, there would be no livino; in the world. Ex-
pressions of this sort are in the mouths of every one,
and they fully prove that we see the necessity of ge-
neral rules, and disapprove those who break them
accordingly.

But if it be allowed that our attachment to general
rules arises partly from reason, which shows us their
utility, and leads us to approve or disapprove on that
account, more than we otherwise should ; it must
also be confessed that our attachment is far too warm
and lively to be the offspring of reason alone. Some
other principle more rapid in its operation, and more
nearly allied to feeling-, must therefore be taken into
account. vSuch is the principle of association. Upon
hearingr any signal instance of charity, justice, or
fortitude, the facts of this case in particular are not
the only elements which call forth our applause.
The similarity of this instance of charity, justice, or
fortitude, to many other instances wbich we have
heard or read of, instantly suggests, if not those very
cases, with all their peculiar circumstances, at least,
the warmth of approbation with which they were
accompanied in our minds ; and this being- closely
allied to the actual state of our feeling's, as arising

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 459

from the case before us, the one emotion greatly
heightens the other. Nay, the very words, charity,
justice, fortitude, have so long and so frequently been
associated in our minds with moral praise, that they
never can be applied in a particular case, without sug-
gesting that praise to our minds, and swelling the
present by long remembered approbation.

Though general rules of morality be not only use-
ful, but absolutely indispensable, we must not sup-
pose that they are altogether free from danger or
inconvenience, or that they never lead to fallacy in
theory or errors in practice. When the use of gene-
ral rules and general terms has once been fairly esta-
blished, men gradually become accustomed to rest in
them alone, and seldom examine the foundation on
which they stand. Proximate rules, as well as
proximate principles, are no doubt highly advan-
tageous, the one in practice, the other in speculation,
for the latter serve to mark our progress in know-
ledge, and lead us on to ultimate principles, while
the former serve as a compendious guide, and obviate
the necessity of constantly referring to fundamental
rules. But a similar danger attends both. As the
discovery of proximate causes may sometimes lead
men to rest therein, forgetting the first cause of all,^*

1* It is true that a little philosophy inclineth man's mind to
Atheism, but depth in philosophy bringeth men's minds about to
Religion ; for while the mind of man looketh upon second causes
scattered, it may sometimes rest in them, and go no further. But
when it beholdeth the chain of them confederate and linked toge-
ther, it must needs fly to Providence and Deity. Bacon's Es-
savs, " Of Atheism."

460 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

so the use of proximate rules of morality often pre-
vents men from looking beyond them to their original
source. Thus, by degrees, those common rules come
to be considered as the real basis of morality, and in
speaking for or against any line of conduct, it is
thought a sufficient reason to say, that it is just or un-
just, temperate or intemperate, virtuous or vicious,
right or wrong. With this observation, people are
in general satisfied, and rarely push inquiry any fur-
ther, by asking, why it is virtuous or vicious, or what
is the fundamental difference between the two. Nor
can it be supposed that this question can be often
put in the hurry and bustle of the world, for there is
no time for deep reflection, and men must make up
their minds and act without delay. Nay, many come
at last to have almost a superstitious veneration for
these general rules, and would think it as unbecom-
ing to look very narrowly into them, as a good Ca-
tholic to pry into the mysteries of faith.

We have before remarked, that mankind have an
amazing tendency to substitute the means for the end,
and from constant association to transfer at least a
part of their affection from the one to the other.
Upon this principle depends the respect, nay, the
veneration paid to general rules of morality, which
in truth are only means to an end, the improvement
and happiness of the species, here and hereafter. It
is thus that virtue in general, or any one virtue in
particular, comes to be loved for its own sake ; and
we are told by moralists that it ought to be so loved.
Nor do I find fault with the advice, considered as a
practical maxim, however singular it may seem to a

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 461

reflecting mind to love a mere abstraction, for such is
justice, charity, temperance, or still more virtue in
general, as distinct from an individual agent, and an
individual action. Strictly speaking, nothing but a
living being, capable of thought and feeling, can be
the object of love, and it is only by an extension of
the term that we can apply it to inanimate nature, or
to generalities created by the mind itself.

To love virtue for its own sake, may well be con-
sidered excellent practical advice ; for since general
rules are necessary, not only to enlighten our own
conscience and guide our sentiments in regard to
others, but also to govern our conduct and strengthen
us against temptation, it is desirable that those rules
should be invested with becoming sanctity. All I
would ask is, that our veneration for them should not
be so great, our faith in their excellence so implicit,
as to make us forget that they are the work of fal-
lible mortals, and therefore, may sometimes err ; that
after all, they are but proximate rules, and conse-
quently may require to be compared from time to
time with some fundamental rule, to see if they be
duly grounded. To instil into the minds of citizens
a due respect for the government and laws of their
ancestors, of which time has proved the utility, may
be highly salutary ; but would we wish this respect
to degenerate into a superstitious awe that dare not
even improve ? Surely it is as absurd to deny that
we ought ever to mount up to the first principles of
government, as to assert that on every occasion we
are bound to bring them forward. As, in the lapse
of time, and amid the changes which inevitably at-

462 ON THE SECONDARY CAUSES

tend it, a political constitution may have become cor-
rupt, or require some reform to suit it to the altered
circumstances, so among the corruptions of the world,
moral rules may sometimes deviate from their origi-
nal purity, and in order to restore their beauty, must
be washed in the fountain-head. The virtue of this
fountain is equal to that of the stream which cleansed
the Syrian leper.

It appears then that the use of general rules and
general terms may lead to fallacy in theory as well
as to error in practice, by hiding from our view the
real foundations of morality, and preventing us from
recurring to these as the ultimate rule of action.
Thus one general term is explained by a second,
virtuous by what is right, right by what is virtuous,
or either by that which is our duty, which we ought
to do, or which lays us under a moral obligation ; all
meaning the same thing, and the one being as well
or as little understood as the other. And it will be
easy to show that general rules do sometimes pervert
our moral sentiments, and lead to errors in practice.

We have seen that the influence of general rules
upon our moral sentiments may be traced to two
causes, reason and association, but principally to the
latter. So far as reason operates, that influence is
beneficial, but so far as it depends upon association,
though generally, it is not always, salutary. For,
while there are certain qualities of mind bearing
upon actions, which are almost invariably useful,
such as justice, temperance, and fortitude, there are
others of a mixed character, which generally, but not
invariably lead to good. Such are active courage

OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 4G3

and perseverance. It will be allowed that these
qualities are commonly beneficial either to the indi-
vidual possessed of them, or to others with whom he
is connected, and that the very words are expressive
of commendation. Hence, whenever we meet with
these qualities, we are already prepared to applaud,
from the force of association, arising from numberless
cases where courage or perseverance, and praise have
gone together. But, it is certain, that quite as much
courage and perseverance may be shown in a bad
cause as in a good, in destroying as in benefiting
mankind, in conquering as in civilizing the world ;
and therefore, if here we follow our general rule, we
may applaud where we ought to condemn. And
that we sometimes do so is certain, partly from this
cause, partly from that formerly mentioned, our won-
der, and hence our admiration, at the rare and great,
even at the great and bad. I have heard assassins
lauded, at least political assassins ; such as Alibeau,
and others, who fired at the king of the French, be-
cause they showed great courage, and a rare indiffer-
ence to life ; and many of my readers may recollect that
even the murderer Thurtell was raised into a sort of
hero, on account of the determined and daring nature
of his villany. In such instances, the general rule
which tells us to approve, weakens, or overcomes the
moral detestation which would otherwise arise from a
view of the particular case, where courage and per-
severance are made the instruments of crime.

Having now gone through the five secondary causes
which influence moral sentiment, we may sum up the
result in a very few words. The first cause, which

464 ON MORAL SENTIMENT.

is education, or early custom, propagates moral sen-
timent, first among the rising generation, and hence
among men of all ages ; rouses it immediately on the
proper occasions, directs it well generally, but per-
verts occasionally. Passion or strong emotion ge-
nerally distorts, and sometimes quite perverts our
sentiments, whether the emotion be peculiar to one
or common to many : complexity of actions bewilders
the judgment, and hence causes a variety in senti-
ment : local and temporary utility modifies the same
in a greater or less degree, and sometimes may
change it entirely ; and general rules give it ac-
curacy, uniformity, strength and promptitude in most
cases, but pervert it in a few.

PART IT.

ON PRACTICAL MORALITY, OR THE RULE OF ACTION.

CHAPTER I. — Argument of this Part.

IN the preceding Part of this Book, having discussed
the nature and causes of moral sentiment, in the
present we have to consider what are the reasons
which justify us in encouraging such sentiment, and
what is the rule which we can rationally follow in
awarding approbation or disapprobation. We have
also to treat of the proper object of these sentiments,
the circumstances which ought to modify praise and
blame, and the motives to the practice of virtue.

In order to enlist the reason and feelings of man-
kind on the side of practical morality, it is not enough
to discover the nature and causes of moral sentiment ;
for this nature and these causes being allowed, it
may still be asked, why am I bound to favour such
sentiment in myself and others ? Can I find a guide
to tell me when to approve and when to disapprove?
or do I require no direction ? What is meant by
saying that I ought to act so and so, that it is my duty
so to do, or that 1 am morally obliged? Lastly, are
there any motives which reason can deem sufficient
to lead me to the practice of virtue I To answer
these questions is the object of the following Part.

H H

466

CHAPTER II.

ON THE FINAL CAUSE OH PURPOSE OF MORAL
SENTIMENT.

THE more we dive into nature, whether material
or immaterial, organic or inorganic, the more
are we convinced of the fact, that nothing has been
made in vain. So far as our knowledge extends, we
see everywhere proofs of design : no branch of know-
ledge is improved without adding to those proofs ;
innumerable phenomena which at first seemed insig-
nificant, have since been shown to have an useful
tendency ; and hence we are warranted in concluding
in other cases that there is a purpose, even where it .
has not been discovered. Indeed this inference is so
natural to the human mind, that we cannot well be-
lieve anything to be absolutely useless, but are irre-
sistibly led to think that it was made for something,
and are constantly trying to find out what that object
may be. If an anatomist perceive an unknown organ
in some newly discovered animal, does he not in-
stantly begin to speculate on its functions ? Does he
ever imagine that it was there for no purpose ? Can
we then suppose that the mind, so much more excel-
lent than the body, affords less proof of design ?

When we consider the universality and general
uniformity of moral sentiment among mankind in dif-
ferent ages and nations, it is impossible not to believe
that we were made susceptible of such sentiment for

PURPOSE OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 467

some wise and useful purpose. Nor can this belief
be at all affected by the consideration whether moral
sentiment be originally implanted in us, as some
assert, or be necessarily derived from other known
principles of our nature, as we have seen reason to
conclude. In either case, the universality and general
uniformity must be admitted, and these are all that
is important for our present argument. Reasoning,
theuj from the analogy of nature, there is a strong
probability in favour of the utility of moral senti-
ment, previous to all inquiry into its particular pur-
pose, and, in the want of more definite evidence, that
presumption ought to decide us to cultivate such sen-
timent in ourselves and others. But in the present
case we are at no loss to discover what is the final
cause.

In order to perceive the final cause or design of
moral approbation and disapprobation, it is necessary
to attend to three indisputable facts.

1. That all dispositions and actions are not the
same in their tendency.

2. That men are susceptible of pleasure from self-
approbation or from the approbation of others, and
of pain from disapprobation.

3. That dispositions and actions are more or less
subject to the will.

Unless these three facts be admitted, the purpose
of moral sentiment is a perfect mystery ; but if they
be granted, then all is clear.

Were we to suppose that there was no real differ-
ence between dispositions or actions, but that the
tendency of all was the same, then we could not

468 ON THE FINAL CAUSE OR

understand why we should wish to encourage or
discourage one more than another. Again, were
we unsusceptible of pleasure or pain, joy or grief,
from acting well or ill, or were we indifferent to the
praise or blame of others, then approbation or disap-
probation could create no motive to conduct, and
therefore they would be quite thrown away. Lastly,
were dispositions and actions in no degree voluntary,
the pleasure or pain of approval or disapproval would
serve no purpose, since they could not change action
or disposition. But supposing all the three facts, as
above stated, to be true, then we see at once that
some dispositions and actions may reasonably be en-
couraged in preference to others, that the suscepti-
bility of men to praise and blame creates in them a
motive to change their dispositions and actions, while
the dependence of these on the will allows that motive
to be effectual. What those actions are which we
ought to encourage or discourage, and what is the
proper object of moral approbation, will be seen more
particularly afterwards ; but for the present it is
enough to know, as common sense informs us, that
we should promote all that is useful and check all
that is injurious, either to the agent himself, or to
those with whom he is connected.

This seems the proper place to consider an objec-
tion, raised by some who think themselves philoso-
phers, against all expression of praise or blame, as
applied to human actions. And this objection, it is
the more natural to advert to at the present time,
when a system has been industriously propagated,
and is even said to have spread its roots widely if not

PURPOSE OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 4G9

deeply in some parts of England, founded upon the
irresponsibility of man, and the notion that approba-
tion and disapprobation are alike senseless and unjust.
This system, which attacks audaciously all the pre-
vious opinions and feelings of mankind, on morals,
politics, and religion, owes its origin to an enthusiast
of unwearied perseverance, and probably unfeigned
philanthropy, but of shallow judgment, with a head
impervious to argument. The individual in question,
apparently with the best intentions, has constructed a
scheme the most monstrous the world ever saw, if we
can call that a scheme which consists in destroying all
that men in every age have considered useful and
venerable, and levelling the barrier which separates
man from the brute. To such a system I should not
have thought it worth while to draw the reader's at-
tention, had not this immoral miracle seduced the
minds of some, while its fundamental dogma has been
advocated by others, who might not be inclined to
adopt the whole of the plan.

We are told that man is entirely the creature of
circumstances, and not a free agent; that therefore
he is not responsible for his actions, and consequently
that all praise or blame bestowed upon him on ac-
count of those actions is utterly senseless and unjust.
Now the fundamental assertion that man is entirely
the creature of circumstances, that is of outward cir-
cumstances, is contradicted by the widest experience.
Let any one attend to the families with whom he is
best acquainted ; let him mark the characters of chil-
dren, brought up as far as can be traced, exactly under
the same circumstances, and then let him say whether

470 ON THE FINAL CAUSE OR

there be not frequently a prodigious difference be-
tween them. I might rest the decision of the contro-
versy on this experience alone, convinced that no one
can have much observed human nature as manifested
in early life without being struck with the diversity of
dispositions as shown from the earliest age, and under
similiar treatment. But, be this as it may, the conse-
quences drawn from the above opinion are altogether
fallacious. Nay, let it be granted that man is entirely
the creature of circumstances, and the argument in fa-
vour of the utility of moral sentiment will be doubly
strong. In truth, it is only because man is swayed by
circumstances, more or less, that moral approbation
can serve any useful purpose, and the more he is
governed by the former, the more influential is the
latter. This will appear from the following consi-
derations.

Were man in no degree the creature of circum-
stances, all attempts to modify his disposition, in other
words, all moral education would be utterly thrown
away ; for education proceeds upon the supposition
that by a change of circumstances, we can change
the character. But were this supposition unfounded,
man would leave this world as he entered it, according
to the original impress which he had received from the
hand of his Maker. In such a case, not only all moral
education, in the popular sense of the word, but all ex-
pression of praise or blame would be useless ; for they
could not alter the primary tendency to good or evil.
Reverse the case, and then the utility of moral appro-
bation will appear ; because by means of it we in
reality change the circumstances, and hence may mo-

PURPOSE OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 471

dify the disposition. Therefore the more man is acted
upon by circumstances, the more powerful is educa-
tion, and the greater the efficacy of moral praise and
blame. Hence the fundamental axiom of the system
above alluded to, so far from proving the uselessness
of moral sentiment, proves on the contrary, that it is
even more important than commonly supposed.

Assuredly this is not the place for entering upon
the oft debated question of liberty and necessity ; but
I may remark that it is exactly because the Will is
not free from the agency of causes, outward as well
as inward, that man becomes amenable to moral
sentiment. Did the will differ from every thing else
in nature by being left entirely to itself, unconnected
with other objects, and uninfluenced by them, then,
all laws, all sanctions, all rewards and punishments
would be nugatory. These take for granted that
the will, like other things, is exposed to the agency
of causes, which may turn it this way or that, and so
direct our actions. Unquestionably we are conscious
of an inward power of originating changes and re-
sisting the influence of outward causes, but we cannot
specify how far this power extends. We must sup-
pose that change accompanied with proofs of design
originated not in matter, but in the mind of the Deity ;
and the Creator has conferred upon man some portion
of his own power of commencing a series of changes ;
though this capability be limited by many proximate
causes as well as by his over-ruling providence.
It is exactly this two-fold nature of man which ex-
plains not only the utility of moral sentiment, but
also its conformity to our notions of justice. Were

47-2 ON THE FINAL CAUSE OR

man entirely the creature of circumstances, then
moral approbation and disapprobation would be
doubly useful, but it might seem too generous or too
severe to praise or blame any one for what he could
not help ; and if man were in no degree ruled by
circumstances, but were the originator of all his
thoughts, feelings, and actions, though in this case
it might seem just to commend or condemn, yet we
should praise or blame in vain. Unite the two cha-
racters, and both the utility and justice of moral sen-
timent are apparent. Indeed, the universal sense of
man, in all ages, proves that he considers himself
justly responsible to two tribunals; first to his own
conscience, and then to the sentiments of others.
This conviction is far too strong and too general to
be the result of any passing circumstances or of any
particular system of education ; nor can it be shaken
by any arguments, were they even more reasonable
than they seem, drawn from the unfathomable depths
of the human mind, or the abyss of liberty and ne-
cessity.

It would be vain to deny the efficacy of moral
approbation and disapprobation as an incentive to
virtue and a check to vice. The law of the State
takes cognizance only of such crimes as can be ex-
actly defined, for otherwise reward or punishment
would depend on the good pleasure of the Judge,
not of the legislator, in other words of him who ap-
plies the law to a particular case, not of him who
frames a general regulation without respect of per-
sons. Rules of this sort, so arbitrary in their nature,
would often lead to the most odious partiality, and

PURPOSE OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 473

constantly to the dread or suspicion of it, and in the
end would be worse than none. Not to mention that
many acts would lose their whole value were they
supposed to be performed merely from the fear of
legal punishment, such as all acts of gratitude to man
or piety to God, where the outward deed is as nothing
compared with the state of mind whence it springs.

Since the Law soon fails, something of more general
application is necessary to keep us in the path of
duty ; some incentive or check for ever present, and
adapted to every variety of circumstances. Such is
moral approbation and disapprobation, first as felt by
self, then as felt and openly expressed by others, in
word, look, or gesture. The law of the State is itself
founded upon these sentiments, and but for them it
never could have existed, or been executed had it
existed. Nay at this hour, whenever a law becomes
obnoxious to popular sentiment, it is as a dead letter,
unless some few happen to be more powerful than
the many, and can enforce it by means of fear.

That incentive or check which a man feels within
him, in other words his conscience, is the least erring
of monitors, because no one can know so well as a
man himself what he has done, or felt, or why he has
so done. True, we have seen that even conscience
may be perverted or lulled to an untimely sleep ; but
so may the public conscience, and this latter must
always be comparatively uninformed if not as to out-
ward acts, at least as to the state of mind in which
they took their origin. This state of mind can of
course be open to none so fully as to the individual.
Many too are the acts that may completely escape

474 ON THE FINAL CAUSE OR

detection, and many more may be perpetrated in hopes
of such escape ; but who can fly from remorse ?
Next to the Deity, then^ conscience is the most en-
lightened as well as wakeful judge. " Whither shall
I go from thy spirit?" saith the psalmist, " or whither
shall I flee from thy presence ? If I ascend up into
heaven thou art there ; if I make my bed in hell be-
hold thou art there ; if I take the wings of the morn-
ing and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even
there shall thy hand lead me and thy right hand shall
hold me. If I say, surely the darkness shall cover
me, even the night shall be light about me. Yea,
the darkness hideth not from thee."^ In a modified
degree these words might be applied to conscience.

The greatest hindrance to conscience is self-deceit.
It is evident that in some men this goes a great way
indeed, while in a less degree it exists in almost all.
The feeling of self-complacency is so agreeable, and
of self-dissatisfaction so disagreeable, that it is no
wonder if we direct our mind more to the sources of
the one than of the other, and dwell upon our ex-
cellencies more than on our defects. If the pain
of remorse do not lead us to change our conduct,
in other words, if it do not fulfil its purpose, it
will prompt us to make a violent effort to drive the
subject from our thoughts, and in this we may suc-
ceed for a time, if not for ever. And since, according
to the nature of man, feelings are deadened by cus-
tom, especially painful feelings, as has been else-
where shown, remorse, if it return, and return in

^ Psalm cxxxix.

PURPOSE OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 475

vain, gradually loses its force, and at last may die
away altogether. But this process will be marvel-
lously facilitated, if we can persuade ourselves, or be
persuaded by others that we are really not so much
in the wrong. In other words, if we can blind our judg-
ment, as we have here an interest in doing, we shall
cease to be self-condemned, and shall stifle the worm
that gnaweth inwardly. Here then is the use of the
expressed sentiments of others ; for by them the
errors and partiality of private judgment may be duly
corrected. When every one is against a man, he
tries in vain to lay a flattering unction to his soul,
for do what he will, he is made to know and feel that
he is to blame. Not only does the opinion of others
enlighten his understanding, and thence reach his
feelings, but the uneasiness that he feels from re-
buke, directly rouses his own remorse, for the one
is associated with the other. Admirable, truly ad-
mirable, is this divine arrangement, by which the fail-
ings and weaknesses of each man's best conductor, are
relieved by the assistance of all the rest of the species.
If such be the inestimable advantage of a free,
unbiassed, and disinterested expression of public
sentiment ; what should be our feelings towards those
who abuse so precious a power, and from private ends
award praise or blame where they know them to be
unmerited ? Such are flatterers and slanderers, both
the pests of society, though the former appear amiable,
the latter hateful. But the amiability of flattery is
like the gaze of the basilisk, which captivates only to
destroy. Flattery may be called the sleeping draught
of conscience, and, like other narcotics, it kills by

476 ON THE FINAL CAUSE OR

soothing. When a man suspects that he has acted
amiss, and begins to be self-iipbraided, how plea-
santly does flattery whisper in his ear that he is too
scrupulous and sensitive, that he feels too much for
others, too little for himself, that in truth he is over-
conscientious, and had he acted accordingly, would
have shown a culpable weakness ! Language like
this is such balm to a mind torn by remorse, that
the giver of the balm may well be looked upon with
pleasure, with favour, and with love.

When a man has long been used to flattery, es-
pecially when he never hears any thing else, that
self-deceit to which all are naturally prone may at
last become so confirmed, that he shall know not
when he does wrong. This of course is the most
hopeless of all conditions, for without a consciousness
of wrong how can there be any improvement ! It has
always been allowed that flattery is the most dan-
gerous enemy to princes, the temptation to it being
so great, and the evil consequences inevitable. With-
out that self-deceit, which is fostered and strengthened
by flattery, it would be difficult to account for the
monstrous and oft repeated cruelties which have been
perpetrated by sanguinary ruffians dignified by the
name of King or Emperor. It is probable that in
many cases they were totally unconscious of their
own wickedness. Nor need we have recourse to
Tiberius, Caligula, Nero, or Domitian, or their wor-
thy followers and imitators, in order to see the evil
effects of flattery. The same, though on a smaller
scale, and happily restrained by law from the last ex-
cesses, may be witnessed in private life, Avhere many

PURPOSE OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 477

a domestic Nero, nursed by doting parents, and sur-
rounded from infancy by a crowd of obsequious de-
pendants, afterwards rules his little circle with a rod
of iron, without even being aware that he is a tyrant.
With all their imperfections, the public schools of
England have at least this grand advantage, that they
withdraw the sons of the aristocracy from the spoiling
influence of home, from all its menials and syco-
phants ; and place them in a society where their rank
and wealth are comparatively disregarded, and where
they may find themselves no better, if not worse than
other people.

If the expression of moral sentiment be so necessary
in private life, it is no less important in public. What
is called public opinion is not a mere judgment as to
the expediency or inexpediency of any proposed mea-
sures, but it also supposes a sentiment of praise or
blame towards the actors. On the susceptibility of
man to this praise or blame is founded the power of
the press, that palladium of a free constitution. With-
out such susceptibility, nothing but fear of resistance
could arrest the arm of authority, and abuse may go
far before such resistance need be dreaded. But
with feelings alive to good and bad repute, no one
in a high station could go on with a system of
tyranny, where men might freely speak and freely
write, for conscience would be awakened, and re-
morse and shame would rend his bosom. Therefore,
the first object of despots, or of those who wish to be
so, is to chain the expression of sentiment, and by so
doing, to prevent even its mental existence in many
who take their opinions and catch their sentiments

478 ON THE FINAL CAUSE OR

from others. Who but must admire this effectual but
peaceful contrivance of the Author of nature, whereby
a check to misrule has been set in the breast of the
governor, and the spring that moves it in the hands of
the governed ! or, who can feel tamely towards those
who would mar so beautiful a design ? If indeed,
amid the strife of parties and the rage of contending
factions, this power of the press be abused, and un-
merited praise and obloquy heaped upon public cha-
racters, we ought to deprecate such writing, and
apply an antidote as far as possible ; but when we
can do no more, we must put up with the partial evil
for the sake of the general good, remembering that
we are but men/

The above reflections will probably be thought
sufficient to show the purpose of moral sentiment,
which purpose may be supposed to have been in the
mind of the Deity, when he rendered man suscep-
tible of such sentiment, and thus became a final
cause. The study of final causes must be highly
agreeable to every well constituted mind, as it tends
to enlarge the proofs of the wisdom and goodness of
the Deity, a truth so improving and so consolatory to
the human race : improving from the contemplation
of superior excellence ; consolatory, from the belief
in a superintending Providence which even here
orders all for the best, and will complete the scheme
hereafter. Whenever final causes appear, they will
of course be viewed with interest, but no where with
so much pleasure as in the structure and operations

1 See Note C \

PURPOSE OF MORAL SENTIMENT. 479

of the human mind, that master-piece of Nature's
work, that brightest emanation of the Deity !

There remains but one point to be considered
under this head, namely, whether a perception of the
utility of moral sentiment at all tend to its forma-
tion. Of course moral sentiment must be supposed
already to exist before any such consideration could
act as a secondary cause to strengthen or direct it,
for did it not exist how could we estimate its utility?
But moral approbation having sprung from its own
original causes, and proving highly salutary in the
commerce of mankind, may not this good effect react
upon men's minds as a cause, inducing them to cherish
more and more a remedy so admirably adapted to
most of the disorders of life? If it be rash to say
that this reflexion always, or even generally, enters
into the minds of men when they approve or dis-
approve, it would be no less hazardous to deny that
it ever comes into view. In the course of ages, this
idea must surely have sometimes suggested itself,
and whenever it did, it would necessarily add to the
force of moral sentiment. But whatever may have
actually been the case in time past, it is certainly
desirable that this consideration should be attended
to in time to come. The former is a speculative
question, and belongs to speculative morality; but the
latter is altogether practical. By pointing out the
great results which are obtained by means of moral
sentiment, we may naturally hope to rouse and warm
it, when it becomes languid and cold through the
deadening influence of custom, the power of bad
example, the sophistry of flatterers, and the snares of
self-deceit.

480

CHAPTER III.

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

IN commencing an inquiry into the real nature of
Virtue, a subject which has occupied philosophers
in all ages, it is peculiarly necessary to guard against
verbal disputes. Let it be understood then that the
question here to be discussed is not what may be the
meaning of the word virtue as now used, or as it has
formerly been used in our language, and still less
what may be meant by the similar word in other
languages, as by the virtus of the Latins, the vertu
of the French, or the virtii of the modern Italians.
Inquiries such as these may not be utterly useless ;
but they belong to the grammarian, not to the moral
philosopher. The real question which we have to
treat is, what may be the nature of that which gene-
rally does and always ought to command our moral
approbation as above explained, whether that quality
be called by the name of virtue, or by any other.
Undoubtedly this word, as at present employed among
us, is commonly taken in that sense, though it would
be rash to affirm that it is so always. As applied to
woman, for instance, the term is used in a much
more limited signification, and instead of comprehend-
ing every branch of morality, is restricted to one.
Among the Romans, virtus was synonymous with va-
lour, and with the modern Italians, virtii has sunk
into taste.

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 481

Dismissing these verbal differences, we have now
to inquire on what occasions moral approbation ought
to arise in order to fulfil the purpose mentioned in
the preceding Chapter ; in other words, what is the
quality of actions on account of which we are jus-
tified in approving them. And as the word virtuous
is commonly applied in our language to actions which
we actually approve, and, as may be supposed, justly,
we here take it in that sense. In short, our object is
to determine the characteristic quality or qualities of
Virtue, and hence of Vice, for if we know the one^ we
know the other.

In the former part of this Book we found that a
perception of utility is essential to the first growth of
moral sentiment ; meaning by utility, a tendency to
good, that is to the happiness of man. This specula-
tive question, we think, has been sufficiently proved;
but whether it have or not, is little to our present pur-
pose, which is to inquire not how moral sentiment
originated, but how it must be applied in order to
secure the end for which it was first designed, and
which alone can satisfy our reason. Whether moral
sentiment did spring from the perception of utility or
not, surely it is desirable that the former should con-
form to the latter as much as possible. This propo-
sition is so evident, that one is almost at a loss to
understand how it could ever have been doubted.
Most of the disputes on this subject seem at bottom
to be verbal, and depend upon different senses affixed
to the word utility. If that word be understood in
its most comprehensive sense, as including all that
in any way, directly or indirectly, immediately or

I I

482 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

remotely, tends not merely to the apparent and out-
ward, but to the real and inward happiness of the
species, then to argue against utility as a sound
foundation of morals, is in fact to argue against the
advantage of happiness. What reasoning could we
address to a man who should deny that happiness is
desirable ? Every word that we might use would
be only the same idea clothed in another garb. All
reasoning begins from some first principle, self-evi-
dent or granted, by means of which we may prove
something else ; and if we had no primary axioms,
we could no more advance one step in reasoning, than
we could move a weight without a support for our
machine. Not only is happiness desirable here and
hereafter, but, rightly understood, that is comprehen-
sively, nothing else is of real consequence to man.
On this subject, where reason fails for want of a more
simple principle from which to argue, it may be per-
mitted to call in the aid of authority. Let us listen
to the venerable and philosophic author of the Ana-
logy of Religion. " It is manifest that nothing can be
of consequence to mankind or any creature, but hap-
piness. This then is all which any person can, in
strictness of speaking, be said to have a right to. We
can, therefore, owe no man anything, but onlj^ to
further and promote his happiness, according to our
abilities. And, therefore, a disposition and endeavour
to do good to all with whom we have to do, in the
degree and manner which the different relations we
stand in to them require, is a discharge of all the
obligations we are under to them."^ These are the

1 Butler's Sermons: Love of our Neighbour, Serm. 2.

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 483

words of a divine and a philosopher ; and they corres-
pond with those of a philosophizing poet who exclaims,

Oh happiness ! our being's end and aim,
Good, pleasure, ease, content, whate'er thy name !
That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh,
For which we bear to live, or dare to die.^

In a matter of this sort, which, if not self-evident,
admits of no proof, all we can do is to state the mean-
ing of the term, to prevent any dispute about words,
and if then men be not agreed, they cannot converse
together, since they appeal to different principles as
the basis of their reasoning. Let it then be borne
in mind, that under the term happiness, we include
every species of enjoyment which man has ever felt
or even conceived, whether springing directly from
outward objects, or from the workings of his own
mind. All enjoyments are good in themselves, but
as some are incompatible with others, and as the
smaller often prevent the greater, the former from
their consequences are properly considered an evil.
Take, for instance, the gratifications of the senses.
Within certain limits these are universally considered
as good, but beyond those limits they are generally
and justly looked upon as evil, not only because they
injure our health or impair our fortune, but also be-
cause they engender a state of mind unfavourable to
more durable if not more intense happiness. For, it
is a fact proved by the most ample experience, that
an over-indulgence in sensual pleasures tends both
to impair the intellect, and to deaden our sensibility

Pope's Essay on Man.

484 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

to the generous, charitable, tender, and pious emo-
tions, and thus narrows the range of our felicity.
And as from their consequences, certain pleasures
are bad beyond a certain degree, so we can easily
conceive that others, for the same reason, may be bad
in any degree. These evil effects of pleasure may be
often seen in children, who, when left to themselves,
seem calm and happy, but after they have been vio-
lently excited, frequently lose their good humour.

What has been here said of happiness, must also
be applied to utility, or the tendency to happiness.
Unless, under the term utility, we comprehend a ten-
dency to every conceivable kind of enjoyment of
which mankind is susceptible, whether near or dis-
tant, connected or unconnected with sense and out-
ward objects, and unless we suppose, that upon a
view of all the consequences, the result, on the
whole, and not merely on first appearances, is in
favour of real mental happiness, the rule of utility
cannot for an instant be maintained. Unfortunately,
the term utility is commonly used in a much less ex-
tensive sense, to signify a gross and more palpable
usefulness, such as can be seen and measured, or else
which serves only the present purpose. It would, on
this account, be desirable to employ another word in
philosophical treatises on morals, did such an one
occur in the English language ; but as this is not the
case, we must put up with what we have, for were
we to coin one, it could only be made intelligible by
being translated into the vernacular tongue. All then
that can be done is to retain the word, but fix its
meaning as distinctly as possible.

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 485

Moral systems founded on utility may err in two
ways.

1. They may be short-sighted.

2. They may be narrow.

Under the first head must be classed all those
errors which arise from looking- too mucli to the
immediate, too little to the remote consequences of
actions ; under the second, such as spring from an
imperfect conception of human nature, and its nu-
merous sensibilities. Thus, were we to regard only
immediate consequences, it might often appear highly
useful to take from the property of one to give to
another, as from the rich, the luxurious, the miserly,
or the worthless, to feed the indigent and upright.
But when we reflect on the power of example in
weakening the respect for an useful general rule,
the probability that this example would be followed
in other and more doubtful cases, the general feeling
of insecurity that would certainly prevail, the conse-
quent check to industry and decline in individual as
well as in national wealth, and the distress and
poverty of many that must ensue, we see an amount
of future evil out of all proportion with the present
good. Secondly, taking an imperfect view of human
nature, were we to suppose that man is solely or
chiefly a sensual being, we should with the followers
of Epicurus consider as useful whatever tends to the
gratification of our appetites ; and were we to look
upon him as entirely a selfish creature, we should
deem nothing useful but what directly tends to self-
indulgence ; forgetting the pleasures of sympathy,
love, friendship, and charity, which affect us indi-

486 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

rectly through others, but make up so great a part
of human happiness. Again, did man appear merely
a mercantile animal, nothing but wealth would be
thought useful ; or did he seem only a philosopher,
utility would mean the road to knowledge. In the
language of merchants, a good man means a rich,
and in that of scholars, it signifies a learned. But
man existed before either commerce or learning, and
he has desires and pleasures distinct from either.

It must be allowed that utilitarian moralists seem
in general to have laid too much stress on the sen-
sual and self-regarding pleasures, and too little on the
purely mental and social ; but whatever may have
been the case with the masters, the disciples have
assuredly shown that tendency. The notion of plea-
sure, considered as the chief good, as entertained
by Epicurus, was no doubt too limited, but as-
suredly it was very different from that of his fol-
lowers. The same observation applies to Bentham
and his school, at the present day. It may well be
doubted, whether that philosopher himself had ade-
quate conceptions on this subject; but in regard to
his sect there can be no question. Indeed, it must
be granted that the doctrine of utility is easily mis-
understood and perverted from its original purity,
thus leading to error in theory, and laxity in prac-
tice. The word usually conveying a much more
limited sense than when it is used philosophically, it
is difficult at all times to bear in mind the extended
and somewhat new signification ; and even those who
begin by allowing the wider meaning, are too apt to
lose sight of it in the course of their inquiries. For

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 487

the word utility being commonly associated with only
certain kinds of usefulness, it becomes difficult to ex-
tend that association to other cases. This would be
a good reason for changing the word, could we find
another to express our meaning, without the neces-
sity of translating to make it understood, for then it
could serve no purpose. Until such a term be found,
we must be content to talk of utility, comprehensive
utility, as a rational foundation of morals. Put were
we to take it in a narrower sense, better, a thousand
times better the untutored sense of mankind, than a
system which would deify selfishness and sensuality.-^
Systems of vulgar utility are the more dangerous
on this account, that they contain a portion of truth,
but not the whole truth ; for were they utterly un-
founded, the common sense of mankind would revolt
against them. As it is, they are apt to win upon the
unwary, because they recommend pleasure, which is
always an agreeable theme ; whereas comprehensive
utility is often opposed to immediate gratification,
allows only a very moderate indulgence in certain
pleasures, and even prohibits some altogether.

3 Mr. Whewell has mentioned the word Eudemonism, derived
from the Greek kv^aijiovLa, happiness, as applicable to that sys-
tem which makes morality to depend on the production of hap-
piness. See preface to Mackintosh's Dissertation. I am willing
to accept the term, and would be called an Eudemonist rather
than an Utilitarian. The word agrees well with the term Eude-
monology, which I have already proposed to express the general
Science of Human Happiness : while Ethics may be called
Deontology, or the Science of Duty, which is one grand road to
happiness.

488 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

Still further to illustrate our meaning, we may take
some of the principal virtues.

First, with respect to the social virtues, gratitude,
generosity, liberality, public spirit, and charity, which
all suppose benevolence, the utility of these depends
not merely on their tendency to promote the welfare
of others, but also on their delightful influence on the
mind of him who possesses such noble qualities. What-
ever be the lot of one who feels these generous senti-
ments, he cannot be altogether unhappy, for he has
within his bosom a well-spring of enjoyment copious
and never-failing. Such is the inward and real
happiness which flows from the presence, as well as
the exercise of the benevolent feelings, that, it has
been somewhere said, if a man were to be tho-
roughly and actively benevolent for a few months
only, he would continue so all the rest of his life.
These feelings are truly their own reward, for they
bear happiness along with them from their own na-
ture.

Secondly, of the self- regarding virtues, temperance
in sensual indulgences is useful, not only because it
maintains our bodily health, but also because it pre-
serves health of mind, or a mental state open and free
to enjoy whatever may present itself, whether ad-
dressed to the intellect, the affections, or the imagi-
nation : courage again is useful, as a defence against
danger, personal or public ; and likewise as expelling
fear, and as animating and delightful in itself. It is
also intimately connected with generosity and mercy,
whilst fear is allied to cruelty. The utility of forti-
tude is seen not only in lessening present evil, but

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 489

also in preparing the mind to bear up courageously
against future evils. Lastly, prudence promotes hap-
piness, not only by warding off calamity, but also by
preventing anxieties which are almost as bad as the
event.

Our system of comprehensive utility being now
sufficiently explained, it will probably be allowed
that utility, or a tendency to produce happiness is
an essential element of virtue ; or, in other words, a
characteristic of those dispositions or actions which
ought to meet with our approbation. But, is it the
only element ?

In treating of speculative morality, we saw that
although we approve only of useful dispositions and
actions, and disapprove of the contrary, yet that our
approbation is not in proportion to utility ; for the
most necessary are approved scarcely, if at all. In
general, acts wdiich spring from self-regarding in-
terest are esteemed less virtuous than those which
arise from a social feeling, while many of the former,
however useful, are not deemed virtuous at all ;
though the principle of self-love be more necessary
to man than benevolence. Such, then, being the
fact, we have now to inquire whether it can be justi-
fied by reason.

We have seen that moral sentiment springs from
Utility combined with Rarity. But, it will be asked,
is mere rarity a rational ground of approbation ? To
this we answer, that mere rarity is not : but, that in
estimating human dispositions and actions, rarity with
utility is a sure guide ; for an action at once useful
and rare, cannot be but virtuous. To perceive this

490 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

let us consider what is necessarily implied by rarity.
If a disposition or action be allowed to be decidedly
useful either to the agent or to others, and yet rare,
there must of course be some powerful impediment
to prevent its more frequent occurrence ; for a man
is naturally inclined to benefit himself, and even his
neighbour, when nothing hinders. In a word, if such
an action be rare, there must be difficulty. If the
difficulty arise from outward and invincible obstacles,
since in this case no action can follow, none can be
expected ; but if the obstacles may be overcome,
then the fault lies in the mind which does not deter-
mine to vanquish them. Ultimately, then, the diffi-
culty lies in the existence of opposing mental prin-
ciples. Suppose, for instance, that the action is of a
purely benevolent nature, and requires not only con-
siderable exertion of mind as well as body, but also
a pecuniary sacrifice, then the opposing principles
are, love of ease, and love of riches. Again, if a
man receive an intentional injury, or affront, which
wounds him deeply and rouses his anger ; before he
can forgive the offender, he must conquer the ten-
dency to retaliation, so deeply implanted in our na-
ture. Or, if any one give up a favourite pleasure,
knowing that it would ultimately injure him, he must
overcome his desire of immediate gratification, which
may be very urgent. In these and similar cases, the
difficulty lies in subduing some natural propensity,
and the greater the difficulty the more rare must be
the success. Rarity, then, supposes difficulty ; and
to master this, force of mind is required. Now every
pne will allow that the instances just given, are in-

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 491

stances of virtue, and what do we see in them? first,
we see an useful purpose, and secondly, an exertion
of force to overcome difficulty and secure that purpose.
Therefore, we conclude that force of mind exerted
FOR AN USEFUL PURPOSE is the essential character of
virtue.

If these be the essential elements of virtue, the
degree of it must depend not merely on the utility of
an action, but also on the force of mind exerted to
overcome difficulty, which force of mind can be mea-
sured only by the degree of self-denial or self-sacri-
fice that may be manifested. Now as we have seen
that, generally speaking, the social virtues are more
highly thought of than the self-regarding, it will be
asked, does this fact agree with the above character
of virtue ? Perfectly ; for the principle of self-love
being naturally much stronger than that of benevo-
lence, there is no difficulty whatsoever in following
the former, except where a present gratification must
be sacrificed for future good ; and even in this case,
the obstacles are not so great as when self- regarding
interest must be quite given up for the sake of others.
Therefore, agreeably to the above character of virtue,
actions of the first description are not virtuous at all,
nor are they usually deemed so, however useful they
may be, while those of the second are virtuous, and
are commonly thought so, though not in the same
degree as the third class. An act of ordinary self-
interest, implying no sacrifice, is never esteemed a
virtue, and a temperate and prudent conduct is
thought less praiseworthy than patriotic and benevo-
lent actions.

492 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

Let us see why force of mind is required, and how
it acts in different cases. And, first, as to the self-
regarding virtues.

When we labour under any grievous pain, mental
or bodily, force of mind is necessary in order to alle-
viate the suffering to which we are naturally prone
to give way ; and force withdraws the mind from
dwelling on the pain, by fixing the attention on some-
thing else. This is the virtue of Fortitude.

Again, when some favourite pleasure lies within
our reach, we are naturally prompted to enjoy it ;
but if we refrain, knowing that it will be ultimately
injurious, force must be exerted to conquer a darling
and pressing propensity. This is the virtue of Pru-
dence or of Temperance, and here force acts as a
curb.

Lastly, in order to insure success in any great
undertaking, force of mind must be employed to con-
quer indolence and fear, which beset us all at times,
and are ready to gain the mastery should we yield
ever so little. Here we have the virtues of Courage
and Perseverance where force acts as a spur.

In the case of the social virtues, greater force is
required, whether as a curb or a spur, to restrain or
to urge ; for many self-regarding desires, utterly op-
posed to the social, must here be overcome. Open
acts of injustice, or flagrant breaches of humanity,
may indeed be restrained by fear of law, or of infamy
and its consequences ; but this cannot check many
underhand practices at variance with kindly feelings,
much less can it urge to deeds of positive beneficence.
Besides, where the above motives act, or even may

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 493

act, the virtue is esteemed less than where they
utterly fail. Thus, no one considers it a signal in-
stance of virtue to refrain from stealing the purse, or
filching the good name of a neighbour, because
self-regarding motives may suffice for that ; but every
one lauds the man who, in time of need, endangers
his life to save his fellow-creatures. When the
chevalier Bayard repaired in haste to his native
town of Grenoble where the plague had broken out,
what but a benevolent motive could have urged him
to such a step ? and when scorning personal danger,
he did all he could for the sick, was not this con-
summate virtue ?

From all this it clearly appears, that it is the
union of force with an useful purpose which con-
stitutes virtue. The purpose must be useful, other-
wise, instead of virtue, there is either folly or vice ;
and there must be force, or there is no merit, though
there may be both innocence and wisdom.

By an useful purpose must be meant one which
appears so to the individual in question. True, he
may be deceived as to its real utility ; but if he have
employed all suitable means of acquiring informa-
tion, there may be error of judgment, but there is
no want of virtue. If he have not employed all
suitable means, he has shown a want of that force of
mind required to study all the bearings of a ques-
tion, and make him pause before he adopt a line of
conduct ; and therefore he is morally deficient.

The purpose being supposed useful, the degree of
virtue varies with the degree of force displayed.
From this it follows that the greater the temptation.

494 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

the greater the virtue of resisting ; and the less the
temptation, the greater the vice of yielding.

Here we see the difference between Law and Morals.
Since law aims at nothing beyond the prevention of
palpable acts of injustice, it seeks to reform the mind
no more than is necessary for that purpose, and if
successful in the former object, cares little about the
latter. Therefore the rewards and punishments of
law are not always in proportion to moral merit and
demerit. Thus, in morals, the greater the tempta-
tion, the less the vice of yielding ; but in law, the
greater the temptation, the more severe the punish-
ment, in order the more effectually to check the out-
ward action. What proportion between the moral
crime of a man who robs from sheer necessity to keep
himself and family from starving, and that of the
rich and dexterous swindler who lives upon his wits ?
But law makes no difference between the two. This
disproportion, however, between legal punishment
and moral disapprobation cannot exceed certain
limits ; for at last the moral sentiments of mankind
will revolt against the law, and render it inopera-
tive. In a commercial country like England, where
paper-money is in general use, the temptation to
forgery being great, and the injury from it tremen-
dous, it was thought advisable to punish that crime
with death, till at length the disinclination to pro-
secute rendered the law a dead letter.

In judging of the merit of two actions, we compare
the force displayed, and the utility of purpose, in the
one case, with the same circumstances in the other
case. And in this we may again remark the differ-

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 495

ence between law and moral sentiment, that the one
looks more to the amount of direct utility, the other
to the force displayed. The following instance will
render this pretty clear. Suppose two persons who
endanger their lives, the one for his country, the other
to save only two or three individuals ; which would
be more highly rewarded by law 1 and which is the
more virtuous ? The former, we may suppose, is a
general, who has risked his life for the defence of his
native land ; the latter a private and obscure indivi-
dual, who, though an indifferent -swimmer, has leapt
into the water to save some people from drowning.
The first of these may receive the substantial rewards
of Marlborough or of Wellington, while the second
shall have none ; but is he the less virtuous ? On
the contrary, his virtue is more remarkable, not only
because various self-regarding motives assist the one,
such as desire of glory, fear of shame, and even
the hope of more palpable reward, but also because
the smallness of the object for which the other ex-
poses his life proves a rare force of benevolence. The
man who could perform this last action would cer-
tainly expose his life in battle in time of need ; but
he who could be brave in the field, when stimulated
by example, and excited by the noise and bustle of
war, might not be capable of an humble and unwit-
nessed act of self-devotedness.

However, self-devotedness, like everything else,
may be carried too far. Thus, were a man who knew
nothing of swimming to rush into the water to rescue
one drowning individual, though some might praise,
others would think that the risk was too great for the

496 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

object, that the man failed in what he owed to his
own family and friends, and that such an act showed
as much indifference to his own existence as regard
for that of others, an indifference which implied either
misery or folly.*

We must not confound virtue with innocence, nor
yet with simple goodness. One who has indulged
in no vice, but, at the same time, has never been
exposed to temptation, is innocent ; but he who over-
comes it is alone virtuous. So, a man may be called
good, without much pretensions to virtue, if, either
from the outward circumstances in which he is placed,
or from the original turn of his character, he has little
temptation to evil. Thus, the same outward conduct
may require much more virtue in one man than in
another. We do make allowances for differences in
outward circumstances, but as we cannot read the
mind within, we are obliged to suppose that all men
are nearly alike, accessible to the same temptations,
and requiring the same strength to master them,
though in reality they differ considerably in sensibi-
lity and passion, and require accordingly more or less
force to preserve their rectitude. Nor is it to be de-

4 Plutarch, in the beginning of his Life of Pelopidas, tells us,
that one day Cato the elder, hearing some people highly praise
a man who showed an unbounded temerity in warlike actions,
observed, that there was a wide difference between respecting
virtue and despising life ; a saying, as Plutarch remarks, full of
wisdom and truth. He then tells a story of a soldier greatly ad-
mired for his bravery, while labouring under a secret disease, who,
when cured, became much more cautious. This soldier was in
the army of Antigonus.

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 497

sired that any difference should be made in our moral
estimate of men on account of original differences of
character ; for, in that case, instead of endeavouring
to curb his evil propensities, every one vy^ould plead
native passion as an excuse for vicious conduct. But
the case of the Deity shows very clearly the proper
distinction between goodness and virtue. We say
that the Almighty is good, but we never style him
virtuous. Why so ? Because virtue always supposes
the existence, or at least the possibility 9f temptation
to the contrary, that is, to vice, and consequently im-
plies the exercise of mental force to resist such temp-
tation ; whereas we cannot suppose the Deity to be
ever tempted to evil. We therefore call him good,
not virtuous. Virtue belongs only to fallible beings
neither wholly good nor wholly bad.

In Mackintosh's " Dissertation on the Progress of
Ethical Philosophy," an opinion occurs apparently
opposed to the above conception of virtue, and there-
fore deserving some consideration. He says, " It was
excellently observed by Aristotle, that a man is not
commended as temperate so long as it costs him efforts
of self-denial to persevere in the practice of tempe-
rance, but only when he prefers that virtue for its
own sake. He is not meek, nor brave, as long as the
most vigorous self-command is necessary to bridle his
anger or his fear."^ To this I answer, that when a
man has at last formed a habit of temperance, meek-
ness, or bravery, and practises them without effort,
his vii tue is indeed perfected ; but this habit could

5 Dissertation : General Remarks, p. 376.
K K

498 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

not have been acquired without a long probation and
repeated efforts of self-denial, and therein lies his
merit. His conduct supposes a victory over self,
either by a past or a present struggle ; and if the
struggle be now^ over, the victory is complete, and
therefore the virtue greater.

Those who are born Avith strong tendencies to in-
temperance, anger, or fear, have certainly more merit
in conquering such tendencies than they who by
nature are ^either very intemperate, wrathful, nor
timorous ; but as we cannot read the mind, nor well
distinguish natural from acquired propensities, and
as, moreover, it would be highly dangerous to allow
that native passion was an excuse for crime, (for every
one would make that excuse,) therefore we must put
all men on a level, and consider their virtue similar
where outward circumstances are the same.

I may remark that the view here given of virtue,
is in perfect conformity with the Scriptures, which
represent this life as a state of warfare and proba-
tion, which necessarily demand mental force. We
are also told in the epistle to the Romans,^ that
" love is the fulfilling of the law," whereby the
superiority of the social to the self-regarding virtues
is pointed out. In the gospel, the whole of moral
duty is summed up in this comprehensive maxim,
" that we should love our neighbour as ourselves,"
a consummation, as every one will allow, of the ut-
most difficulty, but towards which we may approxi-
mate. We are not told to love virtue or other such
abstractions /br their own sake, but our neighbour.

6 Chap. xiii. 10.

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 499

But, it may now be asked, what is that mental
force which constitutes an essential element of virtue ?
The phrase, it may be thought, is not sufficiently
precise ; can we then translate it into more definite
language ?

By mental force we mean then ajirm desire. This
firm desire is exercised in two ways ; first, in re-
straining us from doing something ; secondly, in im-
pelling us to do something. Thus, it acts alternately
as a curb and as a sipu7\

Accordingly, virtue may be defined to consist in
an infiexihle desire or will to pursue our own ulti-
mate good, and that of others, whatever self-denial or
self-sacrijice may he required.

This is the most correct definition of virtue, for it
really consists in these two elements, a purpose use-
ful on the whole, and an inflexible will in pursuing
it ; while the criterion or test of this firmness of pur-
pose is the degree of self-denial that may be mani-
fested. For, as it is not in our power directly to
know that will, we can judge of it only by the sacri-
fices that appear to be made.

Hence we may frame another definition of virtue
not so accurate, but more popular, and better adapted
for ordinary application, and may say that virtue con-
sists in self-denial or self-sacrijice with a view to an
ultimate and greater good either to ourselves or
others. This definition, it is evident, is not so exact
as the former, because it makes virtue to consist not
in the mental state itself, as in strictness it ought,
but in the test or criterion by which alone that state
can be divined. In practice, however, it will pro-
bably be found more useful, for this very reason, that

500 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

it holds to signs or effects which are better known
than the causes whence they spring.

Should the word good in the above definition be
thought not sufficiently definite, it may be replaced
by that of happiness.

If such be the proper definition of virtue, then vice
consists in its opposite, or in the want of that inflex-
ible will to pursue what is ultimately good for our-
selves and others, in spite of present inconvenience
or present temptation. This want or deficiency may
or may not be accompanied W\t\\ positive malevo-
lence or ill-will ; and therefore malevolence is not
essential to vice, though it may be an aggravation
thereof. By far the greater part of the misery caused
by vice, arises not from positive ill-will, whether in
the form of anger, resentment, or revenge, but from
the want of a sufficient desire for our own ultimate
advantage, or for the good of others ; in other words,
from too great indifference to our permanent interest,
or .to the welfare of our neighbour. In most cases
w^here this welfare is sacrificed, it is not with a view
to unhappiness, but in spite of it ; for if the guilty
person could obtain his selfish end without injuring
another, he would generally be better pleased.

Nor is resentment always blameable. On the con-
trary, it may be highly moral, as in moral indignation
against a criminal, or in the milder form of moral dis-
approbation, which always comprises some ill-will
towards a vicious person. As, to love virtue, is in
truth to love the virtuous, for the first is a mere
abstraction which cannot be the object of a real af-
fection ; so, to hate vice, is properly to hate the

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 501

vicious. The one feeling is quite as essential to
morals as the other, and both are eminently useful,
as we have seen in the preceding chapter. Thus, as
there may be abundance of vice without any male-
volence, so there may be malevolence without vice ;
and, therefore, mere hatred or ill-will is no charac-
teristic.^

The view here given of virtue, not only perfectly
agrees with all that commonly goes under that name
among us, as well as with all which is morally ap-
proved of by mankind in general, under whatsoever
name ; but it alone affords a rational ground of ap-
probation. Since, at bottom, " nothing can be of
consequence to mankind or any creature, but happi-
ness," as Bishop Butler has well observed, therefore,
whatever tends to happiness ought to be promoted.

'^ Rochefoucauld has said, " La faiblesse est plus opposee a la
vertu, que le vice." This maxim is somewhat ambiguous; but in
the main it seems to coincide with the above view, which makes
vice to consist in the weakness of good principles of conduct,
not in positive ill-will, which is blameable only when it supposes
that weakness. Dislike to a vicious individual, implies not in-
difference to mankind in general, but just the contrary.

I may here remark an inconsistency which Butler has fallen
into in his otherwise excellent Sermon on Resentment ; for while
he is forced to allow that resentment may be justifiable, and that
it serves highly useful purposes, he condemns all exercise thereof.
But if the feeling be justifiable, surely we are justified in showing
it by look, gesture, word, or deed. What consummate self-com-
mand, not to say hypocrisy, would it require to subdue all these
outward indications, any one of which may wound the guilty ?
And, if we could subdue them, would not the final cause or pur-
pose of resentment be thus baffled ? for it was intended as a
check to crime.

502 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

Consequently, utility, or a tendency to happiness, is
a rational ground of preferring one disposition or one
action to another, and of encouraging it by all means
in our power, in particular, by moral approbation
expressed by look, gesture, word, or deed. But how
shall this approbation be applied to useful actions, so
as to secure the greatest amount of benefit ?

At first sight, it might appear, that the more use-
ful the action the more we ought to approve ; but on
more mature reflection, this rule will be found falla-
cious. When men wish any one to pursue a line of
conduct to which he is naturally prone, they seldom
think it necessary to urge him by additional motives,
but leave him to his own strong tendency, reserving
their arguments and counsels for other cases where
his inclination may be at variance with their own. In
short, they do not take pains for no purpose, nor by
intermeddling unnecessarily weaken their influence
where it may be really required. It is on this prin-
ciple that the mode in which moral approbation is
applied to dispositions and actions, as above stated,
may be rationally justified. Where the natural ten-
dency of man to any actions is strong, these are never
highly commended, however useful they may be ;
but where natural inclination is weak, any useful act
proceeding therefrom meets with our warm approval.
Thus, actions springing from self-love,'' are in gene-
ral less praised than those which arise from benevo-
lence, and while self-indulgence is at best only inno-

'' It is perhaps hardly necessary to rem hid the reader, that the
term self-love, as used throughout this work, inohides the whole
assemblage of the self-regarding desires. It is convenient to have

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 503

cent, self-command is called virtue. This is all
perfectly rational, for why should we encourage self-
love, at least, immediate self-love, which is generally
quite strong enough ; and why should we not en-
courage benevolence, which is rarely if ever too
strong ? To strengthen what is apt to be weak, not
that which is already powerful, is surely agreeable
to common sense.

If all men had by nature those firm desires which
are conducive to their own happiness, and to that of
others, there would evidently be no occasion for moral
sentiment, and for terms of approbation or disappro-
bation. And as in that case, such sentiment and such
terms could serve no purpose, we may fairly infer
that they would not have existed ; for nothing has
been made in vain. The terms, no doubt, are framed
by man, but the sentiments come from nature. Terms
of approbation are as much a proof of our mixed na-
ture as terms of disapprobation ; for the one supposes
the possibility of the other, and both are exactly
adapted to a state where good and ill exist together,
and to none else. Suppose man altogether good, and
he has no occasion for encouragement or discourage-
ment ; suppose him utterly bad, and he could not be
deterred from evil, or prompted to the contrary, by
moral approval or disapproval. And, as on either of
these suppositions, moral praise and blame would
have been quite thrown away, we may presume that
they would have been unknown, and vice or virtue
never heard of.

a general term to comprehend all these, and self-love is the only
one we possess. But it must not be confounded with the amour-
propre of the French, which is a modification of pride.

504 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

We may now remark that the conclusion here ar-
rived at by reasoning from the final cause or purpose
of moral sentiment, perfectly coincides with the one
formerly drawn from reflecting on the influence of
rarity, or the want of it, on the human mind. It was
shown that if acts, now called virtuous, were to be-
come as common as those which a man now performs
every day for his own pleasure and convenience, they
would cease to be applauded or styled virtuous ; and
in like manner, that if vice were universally prac-
tised, it would no longer be so called, or at least,
that the word would no longer express condemnation.
Thus, moral sentiment, moral terms of praise and
blame, the ideas of virtue and vice, belong essentially
to an imperfect being like man, neither altogether
good nor altogether bad, and to no other being what-
soever. A conclusion which has been arrived at by
two different ways, quite independent of each other,
can hardly fail to be well founded.

Moreover, this conclusion follows immediately from
the nature of virtue, as determined from experience
and reason, and above explained ; for if virtue sup-
pose the existence of temptations to evil, as well as
the conquest over them, it necessarily implies a mixed
state of good and ill, and is inconsistent with any
other.

I may also remark that the view here given of virtue,
perfectly agrees with our theory as to the origin
of moral sentiment. This we traced to two causes, the
utility and rarity of dispositions or actions ; while
virtue is said to consist in utility of purpose, com-
bined with an inflexible desire or will to overcome

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 505

all difficulty that may stand in the way of that pur-
pose. But such firmness of purpose is of course very
rare in the highest degree, and rare even in a lesser
degree ; and therefore in a virtuous action there is
necessarily both utility and rarity.

These two causes suffice to account for the origin
of moral sentiment, but they do not at first seem
enough to justify our approbation ; for we have just
seen that the mere utility of an action is not an ade-
quate reason for approving it, and still less is mere
rarity. But when we consider that rarity supposes
difficulty, and that difficulty implies the natural weak-
ness of certain mental principles of action, then we
conceive that we are justified in approving an useful
and rare action, because by so doing we assist those
principles by a new sanction, and so lessen the diffi-
culty. For sentiments of approbation and disappro^
bation felt and expressed, may be properly considered
as a force in reserve to be brought forward in time of
need, where other forces fail, but not to be lavished
without necessity. Thus, though neither utility alone,
nor rarity alone is a rational ground of approval, nor
even the two together at first sight, yet, as the two
necessarily imply both utility and a difficulty over-
come, or in other words, both utility and an exer-
cise of mental force, which are rational grounds of
approval, therefore moral sentiment based on utility
and rarity must be allowed to be well founded.^

To be derived from reason is one thing, to be con-
formable thereto, another. Thus, when we say, that

8 See pp. 489, 490.

506 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

moral sentiment springs from the view of utility and
rarity, we allow that it does not arise solely from
reason ; but now we perceive that when it springs
as here stated, it is in perfect agreement with that
faculty.

Towards the conclusion of the last chapter, we re-
marked that although moral sentiment must exist be-
fore men could perceive its useful tendency, yet, sup-
posing it already arisen, this perception might act as
a secondary cause of its diffusion and regulation. In
like manner, though rarity by its immediate influence
on the mind, and without the aid of calculation, makes
us praise some actions much more than others, which
may be equally useful ; yet when we come to see why
it should be so, this knowledge may become a secon-
dary cause leading to the same effect. So, the un-
easiness of hunger first gives rise to the desire of food,
but the knowledge afterwards acquired, that food is
necessary to sustain our bodies, affords an additional
motive for eating. Surely men must soon have per-
ceived that it was foolish to praise actions however
useful, which every one without such praise is strongly
prompted to perform, and wise to magnify those to
which each is less inclined. Whenever this idea
occurs, it must teach us, before we approve, to con-
sider not merely the utility of actions, but also the
mental obstacles that are commonly opposed to their
performance.

Having now laid the foundations of morals, or fixed
that fundamental rule which is to be consulted on all
doubtful occasions, in order to determine the degree
of virtue or moral merit, and regulate our sentiments

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 507

accordingly, we shall be able to define certain words
of constant use in ethical science, as well as in daily
life. Such are, right, wrong, ought, and ought not,
duty, and moral obligation, which all refer to the
same thing. Right and wrofig, ought and ought not,
have two different significations, a proximate and an
ultimate, which in the main coincide. In general
they signify agreement or disagreement with a gene-
ral rule ; but, in the first instance, and in the usual
commerce of mankind, they mean agreement or dis-
agreement with a proximate rule of morality, such as
the rules of justice and temperance. Ultimately, how-
ever, they imply conformity or non-conformity with
the fundamental rule of morality, as here described.
These significations in the main coincide, for proxi-
mate rules of morality are based upon the funda-
mental, and have been formed gradually in the course
of ages by means of our common faculties, and for
daily application, since the fundamental rule is too
general for constant use. As the latter is of such a
nature as best to secure the general well-being of
mankind, so right and wrong must mean at bottom
what is agreeable or contrary to the same, though
more immediately they refer only to a proximate rule,
which is supposed to be based on the fundamental.
Therefore the above words do not mean merely use-
ful or injurious in the common acceptation of these
terms, but conformity or non conformity with a ge-
neral rule, whether proximate or ultimate, which is
conceived to agree with a far-sighted and comprehen-
sive view of the real happiness of man.

When we consider that nothing is of any real con-

508 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

sequence to mankind but happiness, it seems evident,
that to the question, Why ought I, or ought I not to
do so and so, or Why is it right or wrong, no satis-
factory answer can be given which may not ulti-
mately be resolved into a tendency to happiness or
misery. But it is quite a different thing to affirm,
that the v^^ords, as commonly used, directly refer to
happiness. Were a person to determine within him-
self never to approve or disapprove of any action,
without a distinct view of its beneficial or injurious
consequences, there can be no doubt that he would
fall into the grossest errors; for this simple reason,
that these consequences are far too numerous and
too latent to be seen at once by any individual, how-
ever clear-sighted, and if not seen at once, the occa-
sion for acting is gone. Therefore proximate rules
are absolutely necessary to give rapidity to our moral
judgment ; and as these have been formed in the long
course of ages by the universal concurrence of man-
kind, and from the widest experience, they are more
to be relied on than the decisions of any individual,
however talented. It has been well said, that there
is one more to be trusted than the deepest philo-
sopher, and that is all mankind. In questions of
morals and real life, at least, the universal sense of
men, as expressed in proximate rules of conduct, is,
in general, a far surer guide than the calculations of
any moralist, drawn from the application of a very
general rule to each pa;rticular case, without the aid
of intermediate principles. These intermediate prin-
ciples may not always be well-founded, and may be
misapplied, and, therefore, the fundamental rule must

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 509

be occasionally consulted in order to reform them ;
but so long as they do exist, right, in the popular
sense will mean conformity to those rules, and right,
in a philosophical sense, will signify conformity to
that fundamental rule which comprehends them all.
This sense of the word right, is as applicable to
politics as to morals. In the common use of the term,
it does not refer directly to happiness nor yet to vulgar
utilit}^ ; but signifies conformity to a general and es-
tablished rule or law of the land. Thus we say that
the House of Commons has a right to refuse the
supplies, as well as to propose all money bills ; that
the House of Lords has the right of rejecting, but not
of modifying them ; that the King has the right of
veto ; and the three powers together the right of
legislation. In all these cases, right means con-
formity to that assemblage of important laws, which
together compose the constitution. So when we say
that ten pound householders have a right to vote for
members of parliament, we mean that they can do so
without violating the law of election ; though before
the Reform bill they had no such right, because the
law was different. The same holds true in every
other case. No doubt, these rules or laws are sup-
posed to be framed with a view to general utility,
and in a philosophical sense they are right only so
far as they are truly agreeable to the same. But, in
a popular, that is in the common sense, they refer
directly to the law, not to its utility. If the law be
really useful, then the popular and philosophical
sense in the main coincide ; but if it be injurious,
then there is division between the two, and what is

510 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

legally right may not be so morally. Still, so long
as the law exists, it may be our duty to obey it, for,
no government could subsist if men were considered
justified in disobeying laws because they could not
see their utility ; since the example thus shown
by the sincere, would be followed by the insincere
who happened to dislike the law from private mo-
tives. Occasions, indeed, may occur, where resis-
tance to the law is not only blameless, but praise-
worthy, as where it has been passed without the
forms required by a primary law of the constitu-
tion, and is therefore no law at all, or where it is
notoriously unjust. Thus, resistance to the ordi-
nances of Charles X. of France, was right, because
those ordinances were at variance with the funda-
mental constitution of the monarchy. In Ireland,
the payment of tithes was resisted from a general be-
lief in the injustice of that tax. Wherever, in short,
law is notoriously opposed to the fundamental rule
of utility, resistance to power may become a moral
duty ; for law is binding only on that ground.

It is scarcely necessary to remark, that as law does
not pretend to regulate everything, but only to check
palpable acts of injustice, many acts, which are not
wrong legally, may be so morally. Thus, when a
certain Duke said that he had a right to turn out
those tenants who would not vote for his candidate,
in a legal sense he spoke correctly, though in so
acting he committed a glaring immorality. The law
does not prevent a man from dismissing every person
on his estate and converting it into a waste, but in so
doino' would he be blameless ?

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 511

The analogy of politics may shew iis the import-
ance of proximate rules of morality. As no man is
so absurd as to pretend that the general rule of utility
is sufficient to replace all less general rules of law
and government, so none should imagine that the
fundamental rule of virtue can stand in stead of less
comprehensive principles. Were we to attempt to
determine the moral merit of actions, with no other
rule than their greater or less tendency to happiness,
combined with the force displayed, we should often
be sadly at a loss from the difficulty of knowing the
real tendency, and our decisions would probably be
as fluctuating and contradictory as those of judges
left to administer justice without the aid of law.

It must be allowed, however, that men are rather
too fond of forming intermediate rules to save them-
selves the trouble of constantly referring to first prin-
ciples. Thus, the dogma of the sovereignty of the
people has been raised by some into a principle on
which all government ought to be founded. Unless
it be supposed that such sovereignty is favourable
to good government in the first instance, and ulti-
mately to the national happiness, the principle rests
on no basis ; and if it be supposed, it ought first to
be proved. That the sovereignty of all, nominally
of the high and learned as well as of the low and
ignorant, but really of the latter who form the im-
mense majority, is the best possible government, is
surely a principle by no means self-evident, and if
not self-evident, it is too pregnant with consequences
to be received without irresistible proof.

Some again make liberty a natural right; but it

5i2 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

cannot be absolute liberty, for the unlimited liberty
of one in a society would be the utter servitude of
all others. Therefore the degree of liberty that can
be permitted, or in other words, that is right, must
be determined by general utility. Self-defence may
more properly be called a right, for it is clearly for
the common advantage that every man should de-
fend his life in time of need.

Since proximate rules, whether in morals or in
politics, are our common guides in life, it is not sur-
prising that men should become greatly attached to
them from association, and that sometimes they
should honour them even more than the end which
they are meant to serve. We have before remarked,
that the substitution of the means for the end is one
of the most general tendencies of human nature. In
the case of morals, this tendency has gone so far as
to make some men suppose that, come what may, a
general rule ought never to be broken. Hence the
maxim Fiat Justitia, ruat Ccelum, a maxim which
would be most mischievous were it not absurd. , To
suppose that justice and general destruction can ever
be connected, is ridiculous ; but if they could, which
ought we to sacrifice, an abstraction or a reality ?
or which is the greater evil, apparent inconsistency
in theory, or ruin in practice ? or which is preferable,
the means, or the end to be obtained by those means ?
It is evident that the latter are valuable, so far as
they tend to the former, and no farther, so that when
the two are opposed, we cannot doubt which to sa-
crifice.

Another opinion must here be noticed. Some there

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 513

are who maintain, that no action deserves to be called
virtuous unless it proceed from seyise of duty? In
order to know what to think of this opinion, it is, ne-
cessary to determine what is meant by sense of duty,
for the phrase is by no means clear. Since all actions
proceed from motives, if sense of duty be a principle
of action, it must comprehend some motive ; and
since a motive is nothing but a desire leading to ac-
tion, therefore sense of duty must contain some de-
sire, social or self-regarding. If then it be supposed
that sense of duty contains some one peculiar desire,
which alone is a source of virtue, let it be pointed
out. Does it belong to the social or to the self-
regarding class? If to the former, then no action is
virtuous which springs not from some form of bene-
volence ; if to the latter, then none is virtuous which
proceeds not from some modification of self-love. But
both these opinions are not only refuted in the pre-
sent work,^° but are contrary to the common sense of
mankind. Of the four cardinal virtues, Prudence,
Temperance, Fortitude, and Justice, three relate to
self, and spring from self-regarding motives ; one re-
lates to others. Shall we say that the motive involved
in sense of duty is a regard to the general but proxi-
mate rules of morality ? This seems to be at least
the immediate principle of action. We have seen
that we become greatly attached to these rules from
association, so as at last to love them, as it were, for

9 Dr. Chalmers professes this opinion in his Sketches of Moral
and Mental Philosophy, Ch. V.

^^ See in particular Chap. IV. of this Part.

L L

514 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

their own sake. Therefore, to observe the rules, be-
comes a strong desire and a permanent motive to ac-
tion. But these rules are really valuable only on
account of the end for vrhich they were intended, the
happiness of ourselves and others. Is it not then
absurd to say, that such actions alone are virtuous
which proceed from sense of duty, that is, from a re-
gard to the proximate rules of morality ; while those
are void of merit which spring directly from benevo-
lence, and tend to the ultimate object of all rules,
the happiness of the species ?

But the ultimate motive comprised in sense of duty,
appears to be desire of self- approbation, the appro-
bation of conscience. According to this view of the
above opinion, no actions deserve to be called vir-
tuous, but those which spring from the desire of
self-approbation. Hence it would follow, that an
action arising from pure benevolence, and requiring
the greatest sacrifice of time, ease, and private grati-
fication, cannot be virtuous ! Such an opinion, when
once understood, is already refuted. Assuredly no
action can be virtuous which is disapproved by the
conscience of the actor ; but it is quite another thing
to assert that none can be virtuous unless performed
with a direct view to self-approval. Self-satisfaction
never fails to accompany or follow virtuous deeds,
and is in truth one of their principal rewards; but it
need not be a motive to their performance, still less
the only motive. In truth, men must have been vir-
tuous before they felt that inward satisfaction which
flows from being so ; and, therefore, virtue is anterior
to self-approbation, and independent of sense of

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 515

dut}^ as the moving principle. This comes in after-
wards as an useful auxiliary, but cannot supersede
those primary principles from which virtue took its
origin. Unless certain acts, especially those pro-
ceeding from benevolent motives, had previously been
virtuous, the sense of duty never could have been
felt; and in that case, it could neither engender a
motive, nor produce an action. ^^

I cannot conclude this Chapter without referring
to the opinions of a celebrated divine, whose work
on moral philosophy is so highly thought, of as even
to be made a text book in one of our universities.
By considering the opinions of that author on virtue
and moral obligation, I hope to remove any doubts
that may still remain as to the accuracy of the view
here given.

I have said that moral obligation, duty, right, all
mean the same thing ; that we are morally obliged,
that it is our duty, that it is right, to act agreeably
to a general rule of morality, supposing that rule to
be framed so as to conduce to the general well-being.
These words, in the first instance, mean conformity
with a rule, but the ultimate reason for maintaining
the rule, is, that it is necessary to human happiness.
Beyond this we cannot go, and it is absurd to ask
for any reason beyond, for the desirability of happi-

II Hume has said, " In short, it may be established as an un-
doubted maxim, that no action can be virtuous or morally good,
unless there be in human nature some motive to produce it, dis-
tinct from the sense of its morality." See " A Treatise of
Human Nature," Book III. Part II. Sect. 1, where this maxim is
proved.

516 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

ness is self-evident. Were any one to turn round
and ask, Why am I obliged to act agreeably to the
general happiness ? the question would be purely
personal and particular, not implying any doubt whe-
ther general happiness were a good, but simply mean-
ing, what motives have /to pursue the same, in cases
where private and public interest seem to clash. The
enquirer must allow his own ultimate happiness to be
a real good, and if he be a man of common sense and
common feeling, he must confess that the general
happiness is so too, as well as all rules that tend to-
wards it, though he may doubt whether it be for his
private interest always to observe them. He does
not call in question the foundation of morals as here
laid down, but allowing that foundation to be sound,
hesitates, whether a moral conduct towards others be
invariably for his own advantage. The proper answer
to his question will then be, to point out the motives
to the practice of virtue, as will be done in a subse-
quent Chapter. In the mean time, if his own heart
do not inform him that to do good to others is his
true interest, he may be told that the purpose of
moral sentiment and of moral rules is to amend that
heart, to encourage benevolence, and assist it by other
motives different from benevolence, but coinciding
with it in tendency. In short, the purpose of morals
is to render each man's private interest the same as
the general, and that in two ways ; first, by the direct
operation of the sanction of praise and blame ; se-
condly, by the influence of that sanction in encourag-
ing a benevolent disposition, whereby the good of
others becomes a man's own happiness.

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 517

However rational the above account of the foun-
dation of morals may seem, it would not have satis-
fied Paley ; " Why am I obliged to keep my word ?"
asks he, " Because it is right, says one — Because it
is agreeable to the fitness of things, says another. —
Because it is conformable to reason and nature, says
a third. — Because it is conformable to truth, says a
fourth. — Because it promotes the public good, says
a fifth. — Because it is required by the will of God,
concludes a sixth." He then goes on to observe,
First, " that all these accounts ultimately coincide,
for all express or imply tendency to the general hap-
piness as the reason why I am obliged to keep my
word:" Secondly, " that these answers all leave the
matter short ; for the inquirer may turn round upon
his teacher with a second question, in which he will
expect to be satisfied, namely, Why am I obliged
to do what is right; to act agreeably to the fitness of
things ; to conform to reason, nature, or truth ; to
promote the public good, or to obey the will of
God ?"

If the account which I have above given be cor-
rect, the question, why am I obliged to promote the
public good? is absurd, if by it be expressed a doubt
as to whether the public good be desirable in the
eyes of a man of common sense and common feel-
ing; and if it imply no doubt on this point, it can
mean only, what motives have /to pursue the public
good, where it seems at variance with my own 1
This is certainly a rational question ; but it is no-
thing to the present purpose, which is to determine
not what /, an individual, may deem a sufficient mo-

518 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

tive for giving up any private gratification ; but
wiiat all men of common sense and feeling would
pronounce to be a self-evident reason for acting, a
reason vi^hich always tends to create a motive, and
always would actually create one, did no private rea-
son and private motive interfere. Every one would
pursue the public good if he could do so without any
injury or any inconvenience to himself, and if so, the
public good must appear to us desirable on its own
account. It is then a self-evident good, and it does
not cease to be thought so even by those who sacrifice
it to their own supposed advantage. But, to see
what errors men fall into when they attempt to de-
duce first principles from something else, we have
only to follow Paley in his endeavour to answer the
above question, Why am I obliged to keep my
word ? which has been resolved into. Why am I
obliged to promote the public good ? "A man,"
says he, " is said to be obliged when he is ur^ged by
a violent motive resulting from the command of
another y Having given this definition of obliged j
he thence draws his final answer to the question.
Why am I obliged to keep my word ? " Because I am
urged to do so by a violent motive, (namely, the ex-
pectation of being after this life rewarded, if I do,
or punished for it, if I do not,) resulting from the
command of another (namely of God)."

From this account it would follow, that all pagans
or unbelievers, whether of the ancient or modern
world, all who either have no faith in another life,
or no settled belief in a future state of rewards and
punishments, are not obliged to keep their word ;

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 519

a conclusion so monstrous as to prove irresistibly the
absurdity of the premises. ^^

Would Paley or any other contend that it is not a
man's Duty to keep his word, independently of all
consideration of reward and punishment in a future
state ? And if it be his duty, then he is morally
obliged, for these words mean the same thing. Paley
goes on to observe that " moral obligation is like all
other obligations, and obligation is nothing more than
an inducement of sufficient strength ; and resulting,
in some way, from the command of another." But
moral obligation is not like all other obligations ; the
latter arising from any view of interest, the former
from a view of the ultimate good, whether of ourselves
or others. Any strong motive may induce us to per-
form an action, but nothing but the ultimate good of
ourselves or others can oblige us morally. Even to the
idea of an ordinary obligation, command seems not
necessary, and assuredly not to moral obligation, for
unless an action were previously moral, a command
could not make it so. The command merely acknow-
ledges the obligation, and may add to it an additional
sanction ; but instead of constituting the duty, sup-
poses it already to exist. The revealed Will of God
does not make that moral which was not so before,
but supposing morality to have an independent exist-

i'* Mr. Whewell has well observed ; " If Paley had stated his
question in the simpler form ; Why ought I to keep my word ?
he would have had before him a problem more to the purpose
of moral philosophy, and one to which his answer would have
been palpably inapplicable." Preface to Mackintosh's Disser-
tation.

520 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

ence, and that men can see it by the light of nature,
though that light may be obscured, Revelation sheds
a lustre where wanting, and enforces the practice of
virtue by a religious sanction. Did morality entirely
depend upon the command, then we could not judge
whether a professed revelation were agreeable to mo-
rality or not, and therefore there could be no internal
evidence of its credibility. An action in itself inno-
cent, may indeed assume a moral nature, when com-
manded by one whom it is our Duty to obey ; but
then the command supposes the duty of obedience
already to exist. This, in the first instance, must
depend upon circumstances quite independent of com-
mand, for command is no reason. When an officer
orders a soldier to march, to march becomes the
soldier's duty, only because it was previously his duty
to obey. So it is the duty of a son, in general, to
obey a father, and therefore the particular injunctions
of the latter, so far as innocent, ought to be attended
to. In like manner, positive institutions of religion,
such as the Sabbath, may become duties, if com-
manded by God, whom we are previously bound to
obey.

Pursuing the same line of argument, Paley re-
marks, that " there is always understood to be a dif-
ference between an act of Prudence and an act of
Duty." He then inquires wherein that difference con-
sists, and determines that " the difference, and the
only difference, is this : That in the one case we con-
sider what we shall gain or lose in the present world;
in the other case, we consider also what we shall gain
or lose in the world to come." But, the truth is, that

ON THE NATURE OF VUITUE. 521

Prudence is a duty ; tliough, since it looks entirely to
self, a failure in Prudence is not esteemed so great a
vice as a failure in veracity or honesty, which regard
others. However, a very imprudent man is always
thought morally culpable.

Paley's definition of virtue corresponds to his ac-
count of moral obligation, and the one is as faulty as
the other. " Virtue is," says he, " the doing good to
mankind, in obedience to the will of God, and for the
sake of everlasting happiness. According to which
definition," he continues, " the good of mankind is the
subject ; the will of God the rule ; and everlasting hap-
piness the motive, of human virtue."

Now it may be remarked in the first place, that
what he calls the "subject" and the " rule," are not
two things, but one ; for he himself observes a little
further on, that the only way by which we can know
what is the will of God, is by considering what is
good for man. Again, it would seem that the phrase
" in obedience to the will of God," meant that a wish
to obey God was the proper motive of virtue, were it
not that the last clause assigns everlasting happiness
as that motive. Assuredly the expectation of future
reward or punishment is a great additional sanction
to morality, but to aflBrm that it is absolutely essential
to virtue, and the only moral motive, to the exclusion
even of Benevolence, is at variance with common
sense. According to this view, no ancient pagan
could have been virtuous, not only unless he believed
in a future state of rewards and punishments, but also
unless those actions which we are wont to approve
and admire, proceeded from a hope in futurity.

522 ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE.

Cato has ever been esteemed a model of virtue ;
but, according to Paley, improperly, if he did not
firmly believe in a future state ; and if moreover the
desire of everlasting happiness were not his ruling
motive. Though Paley in general gives proofs, if not
of metaphysical acuteness, at least of sound judg-
ment, yet in the present instance he has made a
statement as opposed to the notions of mankind as'
the finest system that evpr was spun by crazy theorist.
It may be safely affirmed that even the belief of
Berkeley in the non-existence of matter, is not more at
variance with common sense than the above definition
of virtue ; and common sense is a far surer guide in
morality than in metaphysics. Virtue is not confined
to one motive, but admits of many ; though were we
to pronounce one in particular more moral than
another, it would certainly be Benevolence, rather
than any form of self-love. But according to the
definition of Paley, if Benevolence be the motive,
there is no virtue.

The belief in a future state, and in rewards and
punishments, has certainly a great and beneficial in-
fluence on the conduct of men in the present life ;
but it is quite a different thing to maintain that the
essence of virtue lies in the desire of happiness here-
after. This desire encourages good deeds, both di-
rectly and indirectly ; first, as it actually looks to the
reward, secondly, as it promotes the disposition of
mind necessary to receive that reward. The Scrip-
tures do certainly hold out the prospect of future
happiness, but in order to obtain it we must love God
and our neighbour; and therefore we are prompted

ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. 523

to cultivate Piety and Benevolence. Nor let any one
say that these are natural gifts, v\^hich can neither be
lost nor improved, for the contrary is notorious. The
rewards and punishments of futurity are, therefore,
doubly valuable, for they not only act as immediate
dissuasives to vice, but they induce us to cultivate a
virtuous disposition, which is its own reward, and a
blessing to all within its influence.

524

CHAPTER IV.

ON THE PROPER OBJECT OF MORAL APPROBATION.

HAVING fixed, in the preceding chapter, the
essential characters of virtue, we shall not be
at a loss to determine the proper object of moral ap-
probation. In considering any human action, two
things demand our attention, the outward effects pro-
duced, and the causes whence they spring. The
former, because they are outward, _may be traced with
comparative ease, at least the immediate effects ; but
the latter, being inward, can be known with certainty
only to the individual himself. Still, those effects
are valuable as signs from which we may infer the
cause with more or less probability. Since, then, a
human action consists of two parts, one seated in the
mind of the agent, the other without that mind, the
first question is, which of these two is the proper
object of moral approbation ?

What is an outward action without reference to its
cause ? It is a series of changes which may be pro-
nounced advantageous, harmless, or hurtful to man,
like the actions of the lower animals, or the move-
ments in inanimate matter, but which cannot be
either approved or disapproved, because in them-
selves they are not endued with reason and feeling.
None but beings like ourselves, rational and sensi-
tive, can rouse approbation or disapprobation, as we
know by experience, and as we might infer with-

MORAL APPROBATION. 525

out direct experience, supposing ourselves first to be
acquainted with the final cause of moral sentiment.
If the purpose of such sentiment be to encourage
beneficial and discourage hurtful actions, then it can
fulfil its purpose only when applied to creatures sen-
sitive and rational ; for none other can feel pleasure
or pain on account of praise or blame, and can direct
their conduct so as to secure the one and avoid the
other. Hence it is evident that the outward part of
an action cannot be the proper object of moral appro-
bation.

In order to determine this object, we must there-
fore have recourse to the inward part of an action or
the state of mind in which it originates. Now there
are various circumstances connected wath this mental
state, which are sometimes made the objects of praise
and blame, properly or improperly, and which there-
fore demand our attention. These are the Motive,
the Intention, the Disposition. Which then of the
three is the proper object of moral sentiment ?

With regard to motives, it follows from the whole
of the preceding inquiry, that no motive or class of
motives can be called universally bad. We have
every reason to believe that no desire, and therefore
no motive has been given in vain, but that all are
subservient to some useful purpose. That man would
indeed be foolish and presumptuous, who should wish
to annihilate any of the self- regarding desires, be-
cause they sometimes, nay, frequently lead to ill. If
any desire might be considered as an exception, it
would certainly be that which looks directly not to
the good of self but to the evil of others. But we
have seen that ill-will is not only necessary at times

526 ON THE PROPER OBJECT

for self-protection, and therefore allowable, but that
it is even essential to morality, since it forms an
element of moral indignation, and even of moral dis-
approbation. If we be virtuous, we must dislike the
vicious. And if even malevolence may be justified
by the circumstances, surely no other desire can be
universally blameable.

Nor can any motive be called invariably good.
Of the self-regarding desires and motives, any one
may be abused and may injure not only others but
even ourselves, as every person v^^ill allow. And
even benevolence is not universally good, for ill-
judged benevolence may do much harm, and if that
harm could have been foreseen by ordinary reflection,
the individual is not praiseworthy. In such a case
we accuse him either of folly or weakness, of folly,
if the consequences were not perceived, of weakness,
if perceived, and yet not avoided. Therefore a bene-
volent motive is not sufficient for virtue ; and though
from its general tendency we may be allowed in
popular language to call it good, we must remember
that the term is merely relative. Since the tendency
of no motive is invariably good or bad, and since
two actions proceeding from the same motive, may
be very different in character, the one praiseworthy
or innocent, the other blameable, it follows that the
motive alone cannot be the proper object of moral
approbation. It may, indeed, serve along with other
circumstances to fix the real nature of the action and
so to regulate our sentiments, but it is not alone
sufficient.

Dismissing the Motive, what shall we say of the

OF MORAL APPROBATION. 527

Intention ? Before we can determine whether this
be the proper object of moral approbation, we must
know what it really is.

Whatever the motive to any action may be, many
acts are generally required before the ultimate end
can be attained, and each of these as subservient to
the end, must itself be an object of volition, or in
other words must be intendexl. If the motive be
desire of wealth, how many preliminary steps must be
taken, how much labour must be undergone, how
many changes must be willed before the desired for-
tune can be made ! Thus an intention is nothing-
more than a secondary desire arising from a primary;
and if a primary desire or motive be not the proper
object of moral approbation ; neither can a secondary.
Assuredly, in estimating the morality of actions, inten-
tion is a circumstance of great importance ; but, that
it is not alone enough to determine their character,
will appear from the following considerations. First,
in two actions universally allowed to be morally dif-
ferent, the intention may be the same. Thus, when
one man murders another in order to get his purse,
we look upon the agent with horror ; but when the
judge condemns the criminal to be executed, we
think that he has done his duty, though the death of
a fellow- creature is intended in this case as much as
in the other. Again, when we hear of a person who,
by charity towards the poor and generosity towards
his friends, shows his intention to do good, we are
strongly inclined to praise him; but when we are
told that he scatters his bounty carelessly and pro-
miscuously, without reflection or discrimination, our

528 ON THE PROPER OBJECT

sentiments are greatly modified ; and should we be
further informed that he does not pay his debts, and
that the means of his liberality are really withdrawn
from others, our praise would be turned into blame.
From these instances, it appears that intention alone,
whether of good or evil, is not sufficient to determine
the character of actions.

Secondly, though no action can be praiseworthy in
which the good was not willed or intended, yet many
actions may be highly culpable where the evil pro-
duced by them was not at all intentional. Heedless-
ness and indifference to others, may be quite as
destructive and quite as criminal as the direct inten-
tion of evil. For instance, Fieschi in letting off his in-
fernal machine meant to kill the king only, or at most
the king and his sons, and probably he would rather
not have killed any one else, but as he must have
known that many would certainly fall, he was quite
as culpable as if he had willed their death. Such
hard-hearted indifference to the miseries of fellow-
creatures who had done him no sort of injury, is
considered by every one as the very climax of guilt.
Again, suppose a man engaged in shooting game
along with many others, the guns being loaded with
ball ; if he fire right and left, without caring whether
he wound or kill his companions, he may become a
murderer. Should he actually see another between
himself and the game, and fire notwithstanding, and
shoot him, he ought to be considered a worse man
than if he had killed him from enmity ; for enmity
is occasional, and generally limited to a few, whereas
such an action would prove an habitual indifference

OF MORAL APPROBATION. 529

to mankind in general. And if an action where the
evil was unintentional may be so highly culpable,
then intention cannot be the proper object of moral
sentiment.

Since neither the outward action, nor yet the
motive alone, nor the nature of the intention, nor
even its existence, can determine the character of the
deed, and present a fit object for moral approbation,
to what shall we have recourse ? We must have
recourse to the general state of mind as evinced by
all these circumstajices taken together; in other words,
to the Disposition. Disposition signifies a mental
habit or tendency to such and such thoughts and
feelings rather than to others, and, like all habits,
it is created or at least strengthened by custom or
repetition. It is not a transient phenomenon which
may rarely recur, but a permanent bias which in-
fluences the whole conduct ; and therefore, to modify
that becomes the grand object of moral discipline.
" Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it are
the issues of life," says Solomon; and by heart can
be meant nothing but the moral disposition. If we
change this, we change every thing, outward as well
as inward, for it is the fountain of all. And how
are we to change it but by education, that is, by early
custom, and by the application of moral sentiment,
whereby the habit maybe formed, more easily in youth
than in advanced life, but still possibly at any age.
For by frequent custom a habit is generated, that is,
a tendency to repetition, which in morals is called
disposition ; and therefore every good performed or
evil omitted is advantageous, not only,in the present,

M M

530 ON THE PROPER OBJECT

but also because it'leads to similar acts or similar
omissions in future. In short, disposition is a per-
manent thing, is the source of all actions, and can
be modified by praise or blame, and therefore it is
the proper object of moral sentiment. When we talk
of a virtuous action, we really mean an action that
implies a virtuous disposition.

The intellectual character, on the contrary, is not
a proper object of moral approbation ; first, because
it is not immediately nor invariably connected with
action ; for though the intellect may have remotely
a great influence on conduct, yet the connection is not
necessary ; and secondly, because the reason is much
less subject to the will than the moral disposition.
How far the latter may be changed by the exertions
of others co-operating with our own is a question
which admits not of an absolute solution ; but it is
certain that it may be greatly modified, especially in
early life. Should any think that the disposition of
the adult admits of little alteration from voluntary
endeavours, yet it must be allowed that the minds
of the young are more pliant, and therefore praise
and blame will have a direct effect upon them, as
well as an indirect through their parents and guar-
dians ; for however bad some parents may be, how-
ever pernicious their example, they seldom preach
immorality to their offspring.

We shall now bring forward some instances to prove^
that in the general estimation of mankind, the moral
merit or demerit of an action depends entirely upon
the disposition evinced, and not upon the amount of
good or evil that may actually be produced.

OF MORAL APPROBATION. 531

The most general fact under this head is the dif-
ferent sentiments which men entertain in reference
to political offenders and to private criminals. What
proportion between the evil resulting from rebellion,
and that from a common robbery or murder ? Were
we to judge by the amount of misery produced,
which ought to be considered more criminal, a man
like Thurtell, who assassinated one individual, or
Frost, or Barbes, who spread alarm throughout
populous districts, and caused the death of many ?
In Paris, during the insurrection of May, 1839, a hun-
dred persons were killed and many more wounded ;
but does any one feel towards the ringleader Barbes
as towards a common murderer ?

But the strongest case in point is that of con-
querors. Who would compare the limited evil pro-
duced by an ordinary malefactor with the wholesale
destruction and dismay which attend the conqueror's
march ? Terror spread far and wide, provinces ra-
vaged, towns sacked, the inhabitants driven from
their homes to die of cold and want, twenty thou-
sand men in the prime of life cut off in a few hours,
others tortured by wounds or rendered cripples for
life, such are the unvarying characters of conquest.
But while we deplore the effects, do we detest their
author as we do a common ruffian? Ai^e Caesar,
Alexander, and Napoleon, put on a level with high-
waymen and cut-throats ? And if not, ought they to
be so ? That they are not so considered by men in
general is certain ; though a few moralists have said
and written, that they and others such ought to be
esteemed no better, nay, much worse than vulgar

532 ON THE PROPER OBJECT

and inglorious villains, because they were so much
more mischievous. Whose opinion are we then to
consider correct, the opinion of mankind in general,
or that of a few moralists? Such is the question.

Since morality is the business of all, and comes
home to the thoughts and feelings of every individual,
unlike astronomy and chemistry, which are the pe-
culiar province of a few, the presumption certainly
is, that here the many are right. ^^ But this general
presumption in favour of the common sense of man-
kind may be overcome by particular arguments.

We have already had occasion to mention two cir-
cumstances which tend to modify the sentiments of
mankind with respect to conquerors, the greatness
and rarity of their achievements, which excite won-
der, and the influence of general rules whereby
qualities generally useful are admired, even when
abused. Both of these circumstances produce their
effect independently of reason, the one modifying our
opinions through our emotions, the other through
our conceptions as influenced by association. When
courage and perseverance have long been associated
with the idea of good, and hence with praise, it be-
comes very difficult to break that association, even
when the result is evil. These two circumstances

1* " The general opinion of mankind has some authority in all
cases; but in this of morals 'tis perfectly infallible." Hume's
Treatise of Human Nature, Book iii. part ii. sect. ix. Again,
sect, xi: " The practice of the world goes farther in teaching us
the degrees of our duty than the most subtle philosophy that
was ever yet invented." Unless the opinion in question be nearly
universal, this statement maybe thought too strong.

OF MORAL APPROBATION. 533

may account for the favour shown to conquerors, but
they do not Justift/ that favour ; for a cause is not a
moral reason. Makmg, then, every allowance for
the influence of those circumstances, and granting
that men are far too indulgent, nay, foolishly partial
to conquerors, still the question remains, are they
altogether in the wrong ? and ought we to consider
Alexander and Napoleon only as scoundrels on a
great scale ?

Taking the above individuals as a specimen of
conquerors in general, I may ask what are the actions
which persons chiefly dwell upon, who wish to pro-
duce an unfavourable impression with respect to
such characters ? Do they dilate upon the mur-
derous battles of Issus and Arbela, of Austerlitz,
Jena and Wagram, and on the slaughtered thousands
sacrificed to the conqueror s ambition ? Do they bring
before our eyes the devastation of countries, the ruin
of cities, the agonies of the dying, the wailing of
widows and orphans ? Do they paint the young, the
brave, the hopeful, the joy and support of age, the
light of mothers' eyes, all laid low in an hour, that
one may rise to glory ? Finally, do they represent
France groaning under the merciless conscription,
and drained of its ablest citizens, most of them to re-
turn no more, subdued by the frosts of Russia, if not
by the sword of the enemy ? Are these the themes
on which they love to dwell, who would wish to run
down Alexander and Napoleon ? By no means.
These may, indeed, be mentioned, but what they
chiefly insist on is one or two particular instances of
injury, such as, in the one case, the assassination of

534 ON THE PROPER OBJECT

Parmenion, the murder of Clitus, and of Callis-
thenes ; in the other, the execution of the Duke of
Enghien, and the supposed destruction of some sick
prisoners in Syria. Instances such as these are
thought to argue greater moral depravity than all
the massacres of war put together.

And do they really argue greater moral depravity ?
and why ? Are the sentiments of mankind in this
case correct ? and if so, on what principle ?

One thing, at all events, is evident from the senti-
ments displayed in such cases, namely, that in the
general estimation of mankind, the moral merit or
demerit of an action depends not upon the amount of
evil that may actually be produced, but on the mental
disposition from which it is supposed to spring. That
the fact is so, cannot be denied, though some would
wish it otherwise. But the general sense of mankind
is of great weight in morals, and this, as we per-
ceive, confirms the doctrine above laid down, that
disposition is the proper object of moral approbation.
And if the reasons above given in support of that
doctrine be sound, then they justify the general
opinion of mankind in this particular : for we have
said that disposition is the proper object of moral
approbation, because it is a permanent thing, be-
cause it is the source of all actions, and because it
can be modified by praise or blame. Finally, there-
fore, the general sense of mankind in making a dis-
tinction between political offenders or conquerors,
and common malefactors, may be defended on this
principle, that the disposition evinced, not the amount
of good or evil actually produced, is the proper ob-

OF MORAL APPROBATION. 535

ject of moral approbation ; and that in spite of the
greater immediate misery resulting from political
crimes, a worse disposition may be shown by a single
act of atrocity than by turbulence at home, or a spirit
of aggression abroad.

In the case of political offenders, many circum-
stances may concur to diminish the guilt. Rebellion
is certainly an extreme remedy for the ills of the
political body ; but unless we maintain that men
ought to submit to every tyranny, we must allow that
rebellion may be justifiable ; and as no one can say
exactly when obedience to authority ceases to be
a duty, and as different but equally conscientious
opinions may be formed upon that point, some may
think they ought to resist, while others think they
ought still to obey. Therefore, the political offender,
however misguided, may be animated by a patriotic
motive, and may consider the evils of rebellion as
trifling, when compared with the end in view. Be-
tween the disposition evinced by a man of this sort,
and by a common malefactor, the difference is wide
indeed.

Various circumstances may also concur to diminish
the guilt of conquerors. First, there may have been
some positive provocation on the part of the enemy,
or at least, a well-grounded suspicion of hostile in-
tentions, and in this case, conquest becomes only the
means of self-defence. Secondly, along with per-
sonal ambition, there may be the wish to benefit one's
native country by extending its sway ; or the people
themselves may be urgent for war ; or it may even
be thought necessary to maintain peace at home; or

536 ON THE PROPER OBJECT

there may be some supposed right of dominion over
the neighbouring state; or, lastly, there may be a wish
not only to conquer, but also to civilize surround-
ing tribes, and improve their form of government.
To propagate their ideas and institutions by war,
was a favourite object, or at least, a pretext with the
French republicans. Now what may be the pre-
dominating motive in the breast of the conqueror, no
one can tell for certain, and, therefore, it is always
possible that he may be moved by some of those
views which are not altogether unjustifiable. For this
reason, conquest, however destructive, does not prove
so bad a disposition in the conqueror as many other
acts, of which the immediate evil consequences are
comparatively very limited.

But, the reasonableness of the common sentiment
which condemns the ordinary criminal much more
than the rebel or the conqueror will fully appear, if
we trace the consequences, ultimate as well as im-
mediate. In the first place, the evils of insurrection
and of war are not always without compensation ;
for the former is sometimes necessary to overthrow a
tyrannical government, and introduce a new and better
order of things, as a storm is required to agitate and
purify the atmosphere. Though the thunderbolt blasts
where it strikes, the rest of nature is invigorated and
refreshed. Even foreign war, destructive as it is in
itself, may ultimately lead to good. Thus the Romans
did not merely subdue, but they did also civilize and
finally pacify many countries, which previously were
sunk in barbarism or torn by inward convulsions ;
and by maintaining universal peace they favoured

OF MORAL APPROBATION. 537

universal prosperity. Though England cannot be
justified for first attacking India, yet it must be
allowed that the British sway is on the whole a
blessing to that country, for it tends to civilize the
people, puts a stop to many horrid practices, and
prevents wars between the native princes. ^^

Secondly, however destructive rebellion and foreign
war may be, they are, from the nature of things, par-
tial and occasional evils, as compared with ordinary
crimes, were these not prevented by morals and
legislation. It is seldom that rebellion offers suffi-
cient chances of success to induce any one to run
the great risk that attends it, and when there are
fair chances of success, the probability is that there
is some good reason for resistance. In like manner,
the spirit of conquest is checked by fear of effectual
opposition on the part not only of the country menaced,
but also of its neighbours, who, thinking themselves
endangered, may make common cause with the in-
vaded, and drive the invaders back upon their own
territory. Thus Napoleon, after having over-run
Europe, was doomed to see France conquered in its
turn, and the standards of the Allies planted in the
streets of Paris. The risk then as well as the diffi-
culty attending conquest and rebellion are too great
to allow of either becoming a frequent occurrence.
But if ordinary crimes against person and property
were not prevented by moral sentiment and by law,
they would be committed in all places and at all

1^ The abominable society of the Thugs, for instance, was sup-
pressed by the British Government.

538 OF MORAL APPROBATION.

times, for the temptation to them is perpetual and
the perpetration easy. The only check to them is
morality and law, whereas political offences are pre-
vented by utter impossibility or the fear of effectual
opposition.

Since, then, from the nature of the case, political
offences and political aggression cannot be of very
frequent occurrence, it is reasonable that moral senti-
ment should be most strongly directed against other
crimes, which but for that sentiment would become
frequent every where, and by this frequency would
produce an amount of ill incomparably greater than
the partial and passing evils of rebellion and war,
terrible though they be. In short, the disposition
evinced by the ordinary criminal is far more danger-
ous to society, and to private happiness, than that of
the political agitator or the ambitious warrior; for
were the first to become common, it would reduce
mankind to solitude and barbarism, and if not branded
with ignominy, it would become common. Therefore,
here, the general sentiments of mankind are in per-
fect agreement with the most far-sighted views of
utility. Wars and revolutions may be compared to
earthquakes or eruptions, which overthrow in a day a
flourishing city or bury it under heaps of cinders,
but are rare and partial visitors ; while vulgar crimes
are like the common fevers of every country, which
work more slowly, but incessantly spread their
ravages.

539

CHAPTER V.

ON THE MOTIVES TO THE PRACTICE OF VIRTUE.

THE only question that now remains to be dis-
cussed, in order to complete our system of
Ethics, is, what are the motives to practice, which
may be drawn from the foregoing theory of moral
sentiment, and from the nature of virtue as here
described.

If the above principles be correct, no doubt can be
entertained whether it be for our interest to practise
the self- regarding virtues ; for unless they conduced
to our real interest, they neither would, nor ought
to, have been called virtues. A tendency to the ulti-
mate o;ood of the individual is one of their essential
characters, and without it they would never have
been approved, nor ought to have been approved by
mankind. All virtue, as we have seen, supposes a
sacrifice, but sacrifice without a compensation is con-
trary to reason ; and, therefore, if the sacrifice be re-
quired by the moral sentiment of men in general, we
may infer that it is followed by a due compensation,
unless we maintain that men, in all countries, and in
all ages, have on this point been irrational. So far
as the self-regarding virtues are concerned, this ge-
neral consideration might suffice ; but at the same
time, it may be more satisfactory to show how they
affect our happiness.

540 ON THE MOTIVES TO

Having already dwelt upon the particular good
eft'ects of prudence or discretion, temperance, forti-
tude, and courage, we shall not here dilate upon
these, but.shall observe only that they are sufficiently
striking to warrant the encouraging maxim, that
" conduct is fate." What we shall now consider, is
rather the joint influence of all these qualities, as
tending to produce that greatest of human blessings,
a healthy state of mind, free from eating cares and
anxieties, from groundless fears, from despondency
and imaginary ailments, and, lastly, from satiety.
What are all the gifts of fortune, all the advantages
of station, all bodily perfections, or even intellectual
endowments, to one whose mind is not prepared for
enjoyment ? and without the above virtues, how can
it be so prepared ? Though the exercise of those
virtues were itself unaccompanied with pleasure, they
would still be necessary to ward off pain, to nurse
our natural sensibility to innumerable delights, and
prevent it being blunted prematurely. Of the two
great causes which tend to destroy our sensibility to
enjoyment, anxiety and satiety, the one arises from
want of prudence or want of courage, the other from
want of temperance. The man who lives beyond his
income, or he who addicts himself to gambling or
other hazardous speculations, is kept in a state of
anxiety from want of prudence ; another, as the
miser, is anxious in the midst of riches from want of
courage; while a third, from over-indulgence, be-
comes insensible to pleasure. To persons such as
these, even the happy valley of Abyssinia could have
no charms, for their minds are too absorbed with

THE PRACTICE OF VIRTUE. 541

care, or too satiated by excess, to allow them to mark
or feel the beauty that everywhere surrounds them.

It has often been said, but cannot be too often re-
peated, that there is no such source of enjoyment as
an innocent, pure, and simple mind, ready to enter
into every passing amusement, and to cull every
flower, however humble, that may strew the path of
life. How mistaken the notion that happiness con-
sists in fuss, splendour, and noise, and in splendid
rather than in cheap recreations ! but how much
greater is the delusion, that the transitory delirium
of intemperance can compensate the loss of inno-
cence and simplicity of mind, which are necessary
to give relish to all natural enjoyments ! Take, for
instance, the pleasure to be derived from the con-
templation of nature in all its various forms. Can
we conceive any source of gratification more accessi-
ble, more permanent, more free from immediate pain
or ultimate evil ? Wherever men are brought toge-
ther, whether for business or pleasure, there is always
the possibility of something disagreeable, from the
clashing of opinions or interests, the difference of
tastes, the varieties of humour, or simply the contrast
of position. Since inequality must always exist,
there will always be inferiors who may feel disagree-
ably humbled in the presence of their superiors. But
in the presence of nature, we are free from all these
causes of annoyance, for she has neither opinions nor
interests, tastes nor whims, pride nor affectation.
She is indeed a loving mother, for she calls upon all
her children to come and drain her treasures and be
satisfied, treasures that contain no alloy, and require

542 ON THE MOTIVES TO

neither bolt nor bar, which are gathered without pre-
sent pain, and enjoyed without future sorrow.

Oh Nature ! a' thy shows and forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms,
Whether the kindly summer warms

With life and light ;
Or winter howls in dusky storms

The lang, dark night.^

But rarely are the votaries of intemperance sus-
ceptible of pleasures such as these. As well might
we suppose that a palate long used to high dressed
dishes should relish simple fare, as that a mind given
up to dissipation should feel the charms of nature,
and conceive the luxury of contemplation. As the
frequent use of Cayenne pepper makes all food seem
insipid without it, and as constant novel reading in-
disposes the mind for more wholesome nourishment,
so frequent riot and revelry deaden the zest for inno-
cent recreations. Nay, the libertine and voluptuary,
though decayed in mind and body, and little able to
enjoy even what alone he prizes, is apt to despise
that which he cannot relish, and to exclaim in the
blindness of his heart,

" Oh Mirth and Innocence ! oh milk and water ! " 2

Fool, whose folly is the result of his insensibility ! If
the writer who penned that line were in earnest when
he wrote it, we need ask no further proof of his un-
happiness. Though endowed by nature with the
most brilliant talents, and the most lively sensibility,

1 Burns. - Don Juan.

THE PRACTICE OF VIRTUE. 543

he seems soon to have exhausted almost every species
of enjoyment, for he v^^as given to excess, and had no
one to guide him, being left at an early age

" Lord of himself, that heritage of woe ! "

With respect to the social virtues, justice and bene-
volence, they differ from the self-regarding in this,
that their invariable tendency to the good of the
individual is not necessarily implied in their very
nature. Though they neither would, nor ought to
have been esteemed virtues, unless they were con-
ducive on the whole to the good of mankind, yet it is
conceivable that they may be occasionally opposed
to private interest. Such a supposition must be al-
lowed to involve no contradiction ; though in practice
the occasions of such discrepancy will be found much
fewer than might at first be imagined. It is certain
that men do often act as if the two interests were
opposed, and in law we must go upon that supposi-
tion, but were men sufficiently clear-sighted to per-
ceive their real interest, and had they always suffi-
cient force of character to practise what they know,
they would rarely if ever seek to benefit themselves
at the expense of others.

In regard to justice, it has long been a maxim that
honesty is the best policy, and if we consider the na-
ture of men, we shall be satisfied that the maxim is
true. For one man that makes a fortune by dis-
honest practices, we may rest assured that there are
ninety and nine who fail. The great error of the
dishonest is this, that they think themselves wiser,
or at least, act as if they thought themselves wiser,

544 ON THE MOTIVES TO

than all with whom they have to do. They forget
that men in general are by no means inattentive to
their interests, and that persons, on other occasions,
dull and narrow-minded, are here sufficiently alive.
How short-sighted is a line of conduct which can
prosper only if people in general were foolish, or in-
different ! From the well-known eagerness of men
about their own affairs, dishonesty is almost sure to
be detected, and followed by disgrace and shame,
desertion and ruin, if not by legal punishment.

Besides, even while undiscovered, there must be a
constant dread of discovery, and w^hat sort of life is
that which is passed in continual alarm ? Suppose
knavery undetected and finally triumphant, would
such triumph compensate for a long life of previous
anxiety ? Palpable success may be great, outward
appearances may be splendid, but who but the giddy
and superficial are deceived by these ? Let us look
to the mind within, and then let us say whether a
life of fear can be balanced by the gifts of fortune,
or all the outward advantages which the wide world
can bestow.

In some cases, the period of triumph is the period
of the greatest anxiety, for a high estate, though
gained, may still be lost. Such, in particular, is the
fate of those who by violence and injustice have risen
to supreme power. Read the intimate history, as far
as known, of the most celebrated tyrants of ancient
and modern times, and then say whether they were
happy. When we know that men, naturally of the
greatest courage, came at last to tremble at a shadow
we must confess that vice is inseparably connected

THE PRACTICE OF VIRTUE. 545

with punishment ; for if that punishment do not fol-
low from private vengeance or public justice, it is sure
to flow from the terrors which haunt the guilty.

Though all virtue supposes some present sacrifice,
yet, a sin the case of the self-regarding virtue^, the
sacrifice tends directly to the good of self, in that of
the benevolent to the good of others, it would seem
that benevolence is more opposed to private gratifica-
tion than any of the virtues which look to self. And
so indeed it appears to be; for otherwise why should
active benevolence require so much greater an effort
than the practice of prudence or temperance ? though
it may be that the opposition is more apparent than
real, more at first than afterwards. When I give
away to a needy man a sum of money, which I
might have spent for my own gratification, it is cer-
tain in the first instance that I sacrifice something,
and it does not immediately appear what compensa-
tion I can expect; but when I refrain from spending
in order to accumulate for a future day, I hope to
profit hereafter by my riches. If then a man do not
happen to be naturally benevolent, what motives can
we bring to induce him to cultivate such a disposi-
tion ? If we cannot prove to him that benevolence
is really for his interest ; he may laugh at all we
say. We maintain then, in spite of first appearances,
that benevolence in some shape or other is absolutely
essential to happiness, for benevolence includes not
only charity or love of our fellow-creatures in gene-
ral, but love of country, as well as the private feelings
of love, friendship, and family afiection. How im-
portant these last are to happiness we have already

N N

546 ON THE MOTIVES TO

seen in the first book of this inquiry, as also how
important to the happiness of the individual is a
general love for mankind. Indeed we found that
general benevolence has in some respects great ad-
vantages over any private attachment, for it cannot
be bereaved of its object, and is free from private
differences and jealousies, as w^ell as from painful
separations. Since life without desire is a dull
routine, the only question is, which desire is best ;
and if general benevolence were stronger, we could
not hesitate about an answer. Considered as a ruling
propensity to animate and fill up existence, its only
drawback is weakness ; but add strength, and it be-
comes all that we could wish. What if it render us
less rich or less powerful ? Can we hope to secure
every advantage? to possess untold wealth, and en-
joy at the same time the luxury of imparting it to
others? Will any one pretend to say that the plea-
sure of doing good is not great, or that it is not free
from the anxieties which attend ambition and covet-
ousness ? And, to give interest and happiness to life,
what is wanting but a desire without fear, a desire
rising into a passion? To foster general benevolence
ought therefore to be our object, if we wish for our
own happiness ; and though we succeed but partially,
we shall not have laboured in vain.

Whatever part we may attribute to fortune in the
affairs of this life, and whatever may be the occasional
successes of the wicked, the practice of virtue is ac-
companied by one certain and permanent good, the
practice of vice by one certain and permanent evil ;
for in the one case we are self-approved, in the other

THE PRACTICE OF VIRTUE. 547

we are self-condemned. Amidst the manifold uncer-
tainties of our temporal lot, it is a grand thing to
have some secure hold to which we may repair in
time of need ; some port of safety where we may lie
at ease while the tempest howls around us. Hence
the importance of wealth in the eyes of men ; for the
rich, it would seem, are free from that painful feeling
of insecurity which crushes the poor. But wealth is
amassed with difficulty, and easily lost, and the pos-
session of it is not always attended with the expected
pleasure, for a spirit to enjoy may be wanting, and
therefore it is neither a certain refuge, nor of necessity
a pleasant one. If then there be a good always in
our own power, and to be lost only by our own
fault, which is obtained without excessive labour, and
is preserved without anxiety, wdiich whether in pros-
perity or adversity, in wealth or poverty, is a never-
failing consolation, ought not this to be prized above
all others. Such is the pleasure that waits upon a good
conscience. And if there be an evil that always follows
certain actions, however pleasant at the time, or
apparently useful in their results, which clings to
them in fact as the shadow does to the substance,
which aggravates disappointment, and even poisons
success, ought not this to be shunned as the greatest
of human calamities ? Such is the pain of remorse.

" So do the dark in soul expire,

Or live like scorpion girt by fire ;

So writhes the mind remorse hath riven.

Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven." ^

3 Giaour.

548 ON THE MOTIVES TO

Moreover, the approbation of self is enhanced by
that of others. Though men may be dazzled and
even their moral sentiments perverted, by splendour
and success, yet, on the M^hole the public is a fair
judge, and in general awards praise and blame nearly
as they are merited. What men approve or dis-
approve in themselves, they also approve or disap-
prove in others, so that if private conscience be a
good monitor, public must be so likewise. And
though the latter may not be so well informed, yet
in point of impartiality it has the decided advantage,
for individuals are prone to self-delusion. The good
man may therefore rest assured that his merits will
be acknowledged, in most cases immediately, but at
all events ultimately, for party spirit will at last die
away, and complicated or suspicious circumstances
will at length be cleared up. For the same reason,
the demerits of the bad will certainly be denounced,
generally at first, but always in the end. And what
is life without the esteem of our fellows ? If a man
have a spark of sensibility he must be lowered to the
dust under the weight of public obloquy, and if he
have not, then is his condition worse, for in that case
he must be lost to all improvement, and even to all
enjoyments, except the pleasures of sense. How
wretched the lot of the vicious, who can escape from
the torments of remorse and shame, only by searing
and deadening their minds to every delight ! And
how blest the portion of the virtuous, whose inward
and healthful sensibility is roused by applauding
voices on every side !

In addition to the pleasures of reputation, a good

THE PRACTICE OF VIRTUE. 549

name is essential to advancement in any pursuit, and
the fame of signal virtue creates such respect and
confidence in all men, as are not only highly grati-
fying, but almost insure success. And be it well
noted for the honour of human nature, and for the
encouragement of the good, that no superiority ex-
cites so little envy as superior virtue. This fact is
a signal proof of the general moral nature, and parti-
cularly the justice of men, where their own passions
and interests are not concerned. The unrivalled
superiority of Cato was never an object of envy, but
the superiority of Caesar was a principal cause of his
death ; for the envy of some, and the patriotism of
others, nerved the arms that struck the fatal blow.

Were it possible that vice might on some rare oc-
casions be for our private advantage, there is still one
argument which ought to decide us against it. This
is the danger of breaking the habit of virtue. A first
offence always costs the greatest struggle, so that if
once we give way, how can we be sure that we shall
not offend again, or rather, how can we doubt but
that we shall repeat the fault ? If, when virtuous
habits were entire, we could not resist temptation,
can we hope to be firmer when they are broken ?
Let us remember, that the motives for resistance will
no longer be the same, for, the sense of innocence,
and the sense of security, when once lost, cannot be
recalled.

When we consider the many and certain advan-
tages of virtue, and the many and certain disadvan-
tages of vice, even when apparently triumphant, we
cannot but wonder how men can be so stupid as to

550 ON THE MOTIVES TO

prefer the one to the other. Since, on the one hand,
we find a great, sure, and permanent good, with a
small, uncertain, or temporary evil ; on the other, a
great, sure, and permanent evil, with a small, uncer-
tain, or temporary good ; how comes it that men can
hesitate between them, or even embrace the latter ?
That they often do so is certain ; but how shall we
account for the fact ? The fact may be accounted
for by one or other of these two general causes,
ignorance, or the violence of present temptation.
Men may not be aware of all the evil consequences
of what they are doing, or they may brave them from
a wish to enjoy the present. The future is compara-
tively distant, and apparently, at least, uncertain,
and, therefore, it cannot so inflame the passions as
that which is near and sure, even though our reason
were in general well-informed as to consequences.
Passion acts on the imagination, and both together
fill the mind and prevent those conceptions of future
evil which are necessary to the exercise of reason,
for without conceptions, reason can do nothing. In
short, violent passion may so occupy the mind as to
render reason impossible, however accurate it be on
other occasions.

The existence of vice, and the two causes of its
existence, are facts utterly opposed to the opinion of
those philosophers who consider that men always act
according to their apparent, if not to their real in-
terest, and, but for ignorance, that they would always
pursue the latter. Since vice is certainly contrary
to our real interest, those who maintain the above
opinion must allow that the clearer the intellect, the

THE PRACTICE OF VIRTUE. 551

better must be the moral character, and if knowledge
continually increase, that vice may become extinct, a
conclusion sufficiently startling. But, if the view
here given be correct, knowledge alone cannot expel
vice, or induce men to pursue their real interest,
unless it be shown that knowledge destroys all in-
ordinate passion, and renders the present no more
exciting than the future. This result may be brought
about by a course of moral discipline, cherishing
force of mind, but not by mere instruction, which in-
forms the head but does not create habits.

Far from always pursuing their real interest, men
do not always follow that which is apparent and pal-
pable ; for, at least, the word interest implies that
men never act but after some consideration or cal-
culation, whether sound or otherwise. But we know
that this is not the case, for all of us, at times, are
creatures of impulse. Resentment, for instance, often
causes men to act not only without reflection, but
totally in opposition to what their calm reason would
dictate. Here, injury to others, not the good of self,
is the direct object in view. Even where the desire
is self-regarding, it may be so violent as to preclude
reflection. Thus love of glory blinded the French
to all the evils w^hich Napoleon brought upon their
country. So that the above opinion, when thoroughly
sifted, is either false, or else can mean nothing more
than that men always act from a desire of something,
a statement true but trivial.

Hitherto we have considered virtue and vice solely
in reference to temporal happiness or misery, and we
have found that even in this life, the advantage, be-

552 THE PRACTICE OF VIRTUE.

yond all comparison, lies on the side of virtue. But
when we look to a future state, and the rewards and
punishments there held out to us, how paltry, how in-
significant, appear the triumphs of vice, how lamen-
tably blind its votaries ! If the motives to the practice
of virtue drawn from temporal considerations were
less strong than they are, and were it in this life
merely on a par with vice, who that has any fore-
sight ought to hesitate between them ? If virtue be
not rewarded here, it assuredly will hereafter, and if
vice be not punished in this life, certainly it v/ill in
another. Some may doubt the natural justice of men,
others may dread the misrepresentations of enemies,
the luke-warmness of friends, or the indifference of
the multitude, but none can question the wisdom and
justice of God. Not only is future happiness held
out as the reward of virtue, but virtue is an essential
qualification for partaking of that reward. If the
vicious cannot here relish the exalted pleasures of
pure benevolence, of friendship and of love, how
shall they share in the spiritual joys of heaven ? To
feel those joys, the mind must be prepared by moral
discipline on earth, by cultivating love of our neigh-
bour and piety to God, in a word, by Virtue and
Religion.

Let us then strive so to pass through this state of
probation, as to come out at last like silver purified by
fire ; for as the metal purged of its dross is sublimed
by the chemist's furnace, so the spirit without its
clay shall rise to immortal life.

NOTES TO BOOK II.

Note (A') p. 443.

That Caligula, Nero, and other such Emperors, should have
encouraged gladiatorial combats might not excite our surprise ;
but what must we think when we consider that they were
patronised by the very best of Princes, by the " delight of the
human race," the amiable Titus, and the no less admirable
Trajan ? We are told that Titus, at the opening of the Colos-
seum, " exhibited gladiatorial shows during a hundred days :
and five thousand wild beasts, together with some thousands of
gladiators, are said to have been sacrificed on this occasion."
Trajan gave a spectacle to the people during a hundred and
twenty-three days, when ten thousand gladiators appeared in the
arena. Do not these and similar facts prove a very general and
glaring perversion of moral sentiment ? for where should we look
for a standard of morality if not in Titus and Trajan ?

Gladiatorial combats were first introduced at the funerals of
remarkable men, and they arose, no doubt, out of a more ancient
practice, that of immolating human beings to the shades of the
departed. Thus Virgil represents ^neas as sacrificing eight
youths on the funeral pile of Pallas :

Sulmone creatos
Quattuor hie juvenes, totidem quos educat Ufens,
Viventes rapit : inferias quos immolet umbris,
Captivoque rogi perfundat sanguine flammas.

Mxi. X. 517.

This practice was too inhuman to subsist in a more enlightened
age ; but instead of it, gladiatorial shows were introduced in
honour of the deceased, and these were afterwards exhibited on
other occasions ; and what began in superstition was continued for
mere sport, and sanctioned by long custom. It is to the progress
of Christianity, and the courage of a poor monk (Telemachus),
that we owe the abolition of these sanguinary amusements.

O O

554 NOTES.

Note (Bi) p. 454.

The act of Timoleon must have been considered an extreme
one even by the ancients ; and indeed Plutarch informs us that
on the spot opinions were divided upon it, though, at the same
time he asserts that the majority of worthy citizens approved the
deed. Timoleon himself, however, was not without his scruples,
and when to these were added the execrations of his mother, he
was driven to such a state of despondency, that for twenty years
he kept aloof from public affairs ; and nothing short of the hope
of upsetting another tyrant could rouse him from his dejection.
The case must be considered a very instructive one, as showing
what different views of duty may be taken by the most enlightened
and virtuous mind.

Note (Ci) p. 478.

The following passage from De Lolme on the English Consti-
tution, is quoted in the Preface to Junius's Letters.

" In short, whoever considers what it is that constitutes the
moving principle of what we call great affairs, and the invincible
sensibility of man to the opinion of his fellow- creatures, will not
hesitate to affirm, that if it were possible for the liberty of the press
to exist in a despotic government, and (what is not less difficult,)
for it to exist without changing the constitution, this liberty of the
press would alone form a counterpoise to the power of the prince.
If, for example, in an empire of the East, a sanctuary could be
found, which, rendered respectable by the ancient religion of the
people, might insure safety to those who should bring thither
their observations of any kind ; and that from thence, printed
papers should issue, which under a certain seal might be equally
respected ; and which, in their daily appearance, should examine
and freely discuss the conduct of the cadis, the bashaws, the
vizier, the divan, and the sultan himself; that would introduce
immediately some degree of Uberty."

FINIS.

C. Whittiugham, Tooks Court, Chancery Lane.

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