A twofold Aspect—Covetousness, Avarice.—There are, if I mistake not, two forms which the desire of possession assumes. The one is the simple desire of acquiring, that there may be the more to spend; the other of accumulating, adding to the heaps already obtained—which may be done by keeping fast what is already gotten, as well as by getting more. The one is the desire of getting, which is not inconsistent with the desire of spending, but, in fact, grows out of that in the first instance; the other is the desire of increasing, and the corresponding dread of diminishing, what is gotten, which, when it prevails to any considerable degree, effectually prevents all enjoyment of the accumulated treasure, and becomes one of the most remarkable and mostodious passions of our perverted nature. The termcovetousnessanswers somewhat nearly to the one,avariceto the other, of these forms of desire. It must be added, also, that it seems to be the natural tendency of the primitive and milder form of this principle, to pass into the other and more repulsive manifestation. He who begins with desiring wealth as a means of gratifying his various wants, too frequently ends with desiring it for its own sake, and becomes that poorest and most miserable of all men, the miser.
The inordinate love of Money not owing wholly to Association.—Whence arises that inordinate value which the miser attaches to money, which, in reality, is but the mere representative of enjoyment, the mere means to an end? Why is he so loth to part with the smallest portion of the representative medium, in order to secure the reality, the end for which alone the means is valuable? Is it that, by the laws of association, the varied enjoyments which gold has so often procured, and which have a fixed value in our minds, are transferred with all their value to the gold which procured them? Doubtless this is, in some measure, the case, and it may, therefore, in part, account for the phenomenon in question. The gold piece which I take from my drawer for the purchase of some needful commodity, has, it may be, an increased value in my estimation, from the recollection of the advantages previously derived from the possession of just such a sum. But why should such associations operate more powerfully upon the miser, than upon any other person? Why are we notallmisers, if such associations are the true cause and explanation of avarice? Nay, why is not the spendthrift the most avaricious of all men, since he has more frequently exchanged the representative medium for the enjoyment which it would procure, and has, therefore, greater store of such associations connected with his gold?
The true Explanation.—Dr. Brown, who has admirably treated this part of our mental constitution, has suggested, I think, the true explanation of this phenomenon.
So long as the gold itself is in the miser's grasp, it is, and is felt to be, a permanent possession; when it is expended, it is usually for something of a transient nature, which perishes with the using. It seems to him afterward as so much utter loss, and is regretted as such. Every such regretted expenditure increases the reluctance to part with another portion of the treasure. There is, moreover, another circumstance which heightens this feeling of reluctance. The enjoyment purchased is one and simple. The gold with which it was purchased is the representative, not of that particular form of enjoyment alone, but of a thousand others as well, any one of which might have been procured with the same money. All these possible advantages are now no longer possible. Very great seems the loss. Add to this the circumstance that the miser, in most cases, probably, has accumulated, or set his heart upon accumulating, a certain round sum, say so many thousands or hundreds of thousands. The spending a single dollar breaks that sum, and, therewith, the charm is broken, and he who was a millionaire before that unlucky expenditure, is a millionaire no longer. It is mainly in these feelings of regret, which attend the necessary expenses of the man who has once learned to set a high value upon wealth, that avarice finds, if not its source, at least its chief strength and aliment.
Odiousness of this Vice.—There is, perhaps, no passion or vice to which poor human nature is subject, that is, in some respects, more odious and repulsive than this. There is about it no redeeming feature. It is pure and unmingled selfishness, without even the poor apology that most other vices can offer, of contributing to the present enjoyment and sensual gratification of the criminal. The miser is denied even this. He covets, not that he may enjoy, but that he may refrain from enjoying.
Strongest in old Age.—"In the contemplation of many of the passions that rage in the heart with greatest fierceness," says Dr. Brown, "there is some comfort in thethought that, violent as they may be for a time, they are not to rage through the whole course of life, at least if life be prolonged to old age; that the agitation which at every period will have some intermissions, will grow gradually less as the body grows more weak, and that the mind will at last derive from this very feebleness a repose which it could not enjoy when the vigor of the bodily frame seemed to give to the passion a corresponding vigor. It is not in avarice, however, that this soothing influence of age is to be found. It grows with our growth and with our strength, but it strengthens also with our very weakness. There are no intermissions in the anxieties which it keeps awake; and every year, instead of lessening its hold, seems to fix it more deeply within the soul itself, as the bodily covering around it slowly moulders away.... The heart which is weary of every thing else is not weary of coveting more gold; the memory which has forgotten every thing else, continues still, as Cato says in Cicero's dialogue, to remember where its gold is stored; the eye is not dim to gold that is dim to every thing beside; the hand which it seems an effort to stretch out and fix upon any thing, appears to gather new strength from the very touch of the gold which it grasps, and has still vigor enough to lift once more, and count once more, though a little more slowly, what it has been its chief and happiest occupation thus to lift and count for a period of years far longer than the ordinary life of man. When the relations or other expectant heirs gather around his couch, not to comfort, nor even to seem to comfort, but to await, in decent mimicry of solemn attendance, that moment which they rejoice to view approaching; the dying eye can still send a jealous glance to the coffer near which it trembles to see, though it scarcely sees, so many human forms assembled; and that feeling of jealous agony, which follows and outlasts the obscure vision of floating forms that are scarcely remembered, is at once the last misery and the last consciousness of life."
§ V.—Desire of Society
A natural Principle.—There can be little doubt that the desire of society is one of the original principles of our nature. It shows itself at a very early period of life, and under all the diverse conditions of existence. Its universal manifestation, and that under circumstances which preclude the idea of education or imitation in the matter, proves it an implanted principle, having its seat in the constitution of the mind.
Manifested by Animals of every Species.—The child rejoices in the company of its fellows. The lower animals manifest the same regard for each other's society, and are unhappy when separated from their kind. Much of the attachment of the dog to his master may, not improbably, be owing to the same source. The beast of labor is cheered and animated by his master's presence, and the patient ox as he toils along the furrow, or the highway, moves more willingly when he hears the well-known step and voice of his owner trudging by his side. Every one knows how much the horse is inspirited by the chance companionship, upon the way, of a fellow-laborer of his own species. Horses that have been accustomed to each other's society on the road, or in the stall, frequently manifest the greatest uneasiness and dejection when separated; and it has been observed by those acquainted with the habits of animals, that cattle do not thrive as well, even in good pasture, when solitary, as when feeding in herds.
Social Organizations of Animals.—Accordingly we find most animals, when left to the instinct of nature, associating in herds, and tribes, larger or smaller, according to the habits of the animal. They form their little communities, have their leaders, and, to some extent, their laws, acknowledged and obeyed by all, their established customs and modes of procedure—in which associations, thus regulated, it is impossible not to recognize the essential featureand principle of what man, in his political associations of the same nature, calls thestate. What else are the little communities of the bee, and the ant, and the beaver, but so many busy cities, and states, of the insect and animal tribes?
The social State not adopted because of its Advantages merely.—It may be said that man derives advantages from the social state, and adopts it for that reason. Unquestionably he does derive immense advantages from it; but is that the reason he desires it? Is the desire of society consequent upon the advantages, experienced or foreseen, which accrue from it, or are the advantages consequent upon the desire and the adoption of the state in question? Is it matter of expediency and calculation, of policy and necessity, or of native instinct and implanted constitutional desire? What is it with the lower animals? Has not nature provided in their very constitution for their prospective wants, and, by implanting in them the desire for each other's society, laid the foundation for their congregating in tribes and communities? Is it not reasonable to suppose that the same may be true of man? The analogy of nature, the early manifestation of the principle prior to education and experience, the universality and uniformity of its operation, and the fact that it shows itself often in all its strength under circumstances in which very little benefit would seem to result from the social condition, as with the savage races of the extreme North, and with many rude and uncultivated tribes of the forest and the desert—all these circumstances go to show that the desire of society is founded in the nature of man, and is not a mere matter of calculation and policy.
Man's Nature deficient without this Principle.—And this is a sufficient answer to the theory of those who, with Hobbes, regard the social condition of man as the result of his perception of what is for his own interest, the dictate of prudence and necessity. The very fact that it is for his interest would lead us to expect that some provision should be made for it in his nature; and this is precisely what wefind to be the case. Were it otherwise, we should feel that, in one important respect, the nature of man was deficient, inferior even to that of the brute. But the truth is, the whole history of the race is one complete and compact contradiction of the theory of Hobbes, and shows with the clearness of demonstration, that thenaturalcondition of man is not that of seclusion, and isolation from his fellows, but of society and companionship.
Strength of this Principle.—So strongly is this principle rooted in the very depths of our nature, that when man is for a length of time shut out from the society of his fellow men, he seeks the acquaintance and companionship of brutes, and even of insects, and those animals for whom, in his usual condition, he has a marked repugnance, as a relief from utter loneliness and absolute solitude. Mr. Stewart relates the instance of a French nobleman, shut up for several years a close prisoner in the Castle of Pignerol, during the reign of Louis XIV., who amused himself, in his solitude, by watching the movements of a spider, to which he at length became so much attached, that when the jailor, discovering his amusement, killed the spider, he was afflicted with the deepest grief. Silvio Pellico, in his imprisonment, amused himself in like manner. Baron Trench sought to alleviate the wretchedness of his long imprisonment, by cultivating the acquaintance or friendship of a mouse, which in turn manifested a strong attachment to him, played about his person, and took its food from his hand. The fact having been discovered by the officers, the mouse was removed to the guard-room, but managed to find its way back to the prison door, and, at the hour of visitation, when the door was opened, ran into the dungeon, and manifested the greatest delight at finding its master. Being subsequently removed and placed in a cage, it pined, refused all sustenance, and in a few days died. "The loss of this little companion made me for some time quite melancholy," adds the narrator.
Case of Silvio Pellico.—How strongly is the desire for society manifested in these words of Silvio Pellico, when forbidden to converse with his fellow-prisoner. "I shall do no such thing. I shall speak as long as I have breath, and invite my neighbor to talk to me. If he refuse, I will talk to my window-bars. I will talk to the hills before me. I will talk to the birds as they fly about. Iwilltalk."
Facts of this nature clearly indicate that the love of society is originally implanted in the human mind.
Illustrated from the History of Prison Discipline.—The same thing is further evident from the effects of entire seclusion from all society, as shown in the history of prison discipline. For the facts which follow, as well as for some of the preceding, I am indebted to Mr. Upham.
The legislature of New York some years since, by way of experiment, directed a number of the most hardened criminals in the State prison at Auburn, to be confined in solitary cells, without labor, and without intermission of their solitude. The result is thus stated by Messrs. Beaumont and Tocqueville, who were subsequently appointed commissioners by the French government to examine and report on the American system of prison discipline. "This, trial from which so happy a result had been anticipated, was fatal to the greater part of the convicts; in order to reform them, they had been subjected to complete isolation; but this absolute solitude, if nothing interrupts it, is beyond the strength of man; it destroys the criminal, without intermission, and without pity; it does not reform, it kills. The unfortunates on whom this experiment was made, fell into a state of depression so manifest that their keepers were struck with it; their lives seemed in danger if they remained longer in this situation; five of them had already succumbed during a single year; their moral state was no less alarming; one of them had become insane; another, in a fit of despair, had embraced the opportunity, when the keeper brought himsomething, to precipitate himself from his cell, running the almost certain chance of a mortal fall. Upon those, and similar effects, the system was finally judged." The same results substantially have followed similar experiments in other prisons. It is stated by Lieber, that in the penitentiary of New Jersey, ten persons are mentioned as having been killed by solitary confinement. Facts like these show how deeply-rooted in our nature is the desire of society, and how essential to our happiness is the companionship of our fellow-beings.
§ VI.—Desire of Esteem.
An important and original Principle.—Of the active principles of our nature, few exert a more important influence over human conduct, few certainly deserve a more careful consideration, than the regard which we feel for the approbation of others. The early period at which this manifests itself, as well as the strength which it displays, indicate, with sufficient clearness, that it is an original principle, founded in the constitution of the mind.
Cannot be regarded as an acquired Habit.—When we see children of tender age manifesting a sensitive regard for the good opinion of their associates, shrinking with evident pain from the censure of those around them, and delighted with the approbation which they may receive; when, in maturer years, we find them—children no longer—ready to sacrifice pleasure and advantage in every form, and to almost any amount, and even to lay down life itself to maintain an honorable place in the esteem of men, and to preserve a name and reputation unsullied—and these things we do see continually—we cannot believe that what shows itself so early, and so uniformly, and operates with such strength, is only some acquired principle, the result of association, or the mere calculation of advantage, and a prudential regard to self-interest. In many cases we know it cannot be so.It is not the dictate of prudence, or the calculation of advantage, that influences the little child; nor is it the force of such considerations that induces the man of mature years to give up ease, fortune, and life itself, for the sake of honor and a name. Even where the approbation or censure of those who may pass an opinion, favorable, or unfavorable, upon our conduct, can be of no benefit or injury to us, that approbation is still desired, that censure is still feared. We prefer the good opinion of even a weak man, or a bad man, to his disesteem; and even if the odium which, in that case, we may chance to incur in the discharge of duty, is felt to be unjust and undeserved, and our consciousness of right intention and right endeavor sustains us under all the pressure of opinion from without, it is impossible, nevertheless, not to be pained with even that unjust and undeserved reproach. We feel that, in losing the confidence and esteem of others, we incur a heavy loss.
Want and wretchedness may drive a man to desperate and reckless courses; yet few, probably, can be found, so wretched and desperate, who, in all their misery, would not prefer the good opinion and the good offices of their fellow-man.
Accounted for neither by the selfish nor the associative Principle.—It can hardly be, then, aselfishand prudential principle—this strong desire of esteem; nor yet can it be the result of association, as some have inferred; since it shows itself under circumstances where a selfish regard for one's own interests could not be supposed to operate, and with a power which no laws of association can explain.
Hume's Theory.—Hardly better is it accounted for on the principle which Hume suggests, that the good opinion of others confirms our good opinion of ourselves, and hence is felt to be desirable. Doubtless there is need enough, in many cases, perhaps in most, of some such confirmation. Nor would I deny that this may be one element of the pleasure which we derive from the esteem of others. Dr.Brown, in his analysis of the principle under consideration, has very justly included this among the components of the pleasure thus derived. But it by no means accounts for the origin, nor explains the nature, of this desire. It is rather an incidental circumstance than the producing cause.
This Principle as it relates to the Future.—Perhaps in no one of its aspects is the desire of esteem more remarkable, than when it relates to the future—the desire to leave a good name behind us, when we are no longer concerned with the affairs of time. It would seem as if the good or ill opinion of men would be of no moment whatever to us, when once we have taken our final departure from the stage of life. We pass to a higher tribunal, and the verdict of approving or reproving millions, the applause of nations, the condemnation of a world in arms against us, will hardly break the silence or disturb the deep repose of the tomb. These approving and condemning voices will die away in the distance, or be heard but as the faint echo of the wave that lashes some far-off shore.
Yet, though the honors that may then await our names will be of as little moment to us, personally, as the perishing garlands that the hand of affection may place upon our tombs, we still desire to leave a name unsullied at least, if not distinguished, even as we desire to live in the memory and affections of those who survive us.
How to be explained.—To what, then, can be owing this desire of the good opinion and esteem of those who are to come after us, and whose opinion, be it good or ill, can in no way affect our happiness? Philosophers have been sadly at a loss to account for it, especially those who trace the desire of esteem to a selfish origin. Some, with Wollaston and Smith, have referred it to the illusions of the imagination, by which we seem, to ourselves, to be present, and to witness the honors, and listen to the praises, which the future is to bestow. Such an illusion may possibly arise in some hour of reverie, some day-dream of the mind; but it isimpossible to suppose that any one of sound mind should be permanently influenced by such an illusion, or fail to perceive, when reason resumes her sway, that itisan illusion, and that only.
Admits of Explanation in another Way.—If, however we regard the desire of the good opinion of others as an original principle of our nature, and not as springing from selfish considerations, it is easy to see how the same principle may extend to the future. If, irrespective of personal advantage, we desire the esteem of our fellow-men while we live, so, also, without regard to such advantage, we may desire their good opinion when we are no longer among them.
True, it is only a name that is transmitted and honored, as Wollaston says, and not the man himself.Hedoes not live because hisnamedoes, nor isheknown because his name is known. As in those lines of Cowley, quoted by Stewart:
"'Tis true the two immortal syllables remain,But, O! ye learned men, explainWhat essence, substance, what hypostasisIn five poor letters is?In these alone does the great Cæsar live—'Tis all the conquered world could give."
"'Tis true the two immortal syllables remain,But, O! ye learned men, explainWhat essence, substance, what hypostasisIn five poor letters is?In these alone does the great Cæsar live—'Tis all the conquered world could give."
Yet reason as we may, it is no trait of a noble and ingenuous mind to be regardless of the opinions of the future. The common sentiment of men, even the wisest and the best, finds itself, after all, much more influenced by such considerations than by any reasoning to the contrary.
Not unworthy of a noble Mind.—Nor is it altogether unworthy of the ambition of a noble and generous mind to leave a good name as a legacy to the future; in the language of Mr. Stewart, "to be able to entail on the casual combination of letters which compose our name, the respect of distant ages, and the blessings of generations yet unborn. Nor is it an unworthy object of the most rational benevolenceto render these letters a sort of magical spell for kindling the emulation of the wise and good whenever they shall reach the human ear."
Desire of Esteem not a safe Rule of Conduct.—I would by no means be understood, however, to present the desire of esteem as, on the whole, a safe and suitable rule of conduct, or to justify that inordinate ambition which too frequently seeks distinction regardless of the means by which it is acquired, or of any useful end to be accomplished. The mere love of fame is by no means the highest principle of action by which man is guided—by no means the noblest or the safest. It is ever liable to abuse. Its tendencies are questionable. The man who has no higher principle than a regard to the opinions of others is not likely to accomplish any thing great or noble. He will lack that prime element of greatness,consistencyof character and purpose. His conduct and his principles will vary to suit the changing aspect of the times. He will, almost of necessity, also lack firmness and strength of character. It is necessary, sometimes, for the wise and good man to resist the force and pressure of public opinion. He must do that, or abandon his principles, and prove false at once to duty, and to himself. To do this costs much. It requires, and, at the same time, imparts, true strength. Such strength comes in no other way. That mind is essentially weak that depends for its point of support on the applause of man. In the noble language of Cicero, "To me, indeed, those actions seem all the more praiseworthy which we perform without regard to public favor, and without observation of man.. The true theatre for virtue is conscience; there is none greater." The praise of man confers no solid happiness, unless it is felt to be deserved; and if itbeso, that very consciousness is sufficient.
Disregard of public Opinion equally unsafe.—It must be confessed, however, that if a regard to the opinions of others is not to be adopted as a wise and safe rule of conduct, an entire disregard of public opinion is, on the other hand, a mark neither of a well ordered mind, nor of a virtuous character. "Contempta fama," says Tacitus, "contemnantur virtutes."
Accordingly we find that those who, from any cause, have lost their character and standing in society, and forfeited the good opinion of their fellow-men, are apt to become desperate and reckless, and ready for any crime.
HOPE AND FEAR.
Nature of these Emotions.—In the analysis of the sensibilities, which was given in a preceding chapter,hope and fearwere classed as modifications ofdesire and aversion, having reference to the probability that the object which is desired or feared may be realized. Desire always relates to something in the future, and something that is agreeable, or viewed as such, and also something possible, or that is so regarded. Add to this future agreeable something the idea or element ofprobability, let it be not only something possible to be attained, but not unlikely to be, and what was before but mere desire, more or less earnest, now becomeshope, more or less definite or strong, according as the object is more or less desirable, and more or less likely to be realized. And the same is true of fear; an emotion awakened in view of any object regarded as disagreeable, in the future, and as more or less likely to be met.
As desire and aversion do not necessarily relate to different objects, but are simply counterparts of each other, the desire of any good implying always an aversion to its loss, so, also, hope and fear may both be awakened by the same object, according as the gaining or losing of the objectbecomes the more probable. What we hope to gain we fear to lose. What we fear to meet, we hope to escape.
The Strength of the Feeling dependent, in part, on the Importance of the Object.—Thedegreeof the emotion, however, in either case, the readiness with which it is awakened, and the force and liveliness with which it affects the mind, are not altogether in proportion to the probability merely that the thing will, or will not, be as we hope or fear, but somewhat in proportion, also, to the importance of the object itself. That which is quite essential to our happiness is more ardently desired, than what is of much less consequence, though, perhaps, much more likely to be attained; and because it is more important and desirable, even a slight prospect of its attainment, or a slight reason to apprehend its loss, more readily awakens our hopes, and our fears, and more deeply impresses and agitates the mind, than even a much stronger probability would do in cases of less importance. What we very much desire, we are inclined to hope for, what we are strongly averse to, we are readily disposed to fear. Nothing is more desirable to the victim of disease than recovery, and hence his hope and almost confident expectation that he shall recover, when, perhaps, to every eye but his own, the case is hopeless. Nothing could be more dreadful to the miser than the loss of his treasure, and nothing, accordingly, does he so much fear. Poverty would be to him the greatest of possible calamities, and of this, accordingly, he lives in constant apprehension. Yet nothing is really more unlikely to occur. It is the tendency of the mind, in such cases, to magnify both the danger of the evil, on the one hand, and the prospect of good on the other.
Illustration from the case of a Traveller.—"There can be no question," says Dr. Brown, "that he who travels in the same carriage, with the same external appearances of every kind, by which a robber could be tempted or terrified, will be in equal danger of attack, whether he carry with him little of which he can be plundered, or such a booty aswould impoverish him if it were lost. But there can be no question, also, that though the probabilities of danger be the same, the fear of attack would, in these two cases, be very different; that, in the one case, he would laugh at the ridiculous terror of any one who journeyed with him, and expressed much alarm at the approach of evening;—and that, in the other case, his own eye would watch, suspiciously, every horseman who approached, and would feel a sort of relief when he observed him pass carelessly and quietly along, at a considerable distance behind."
Uneasiness attending the sudden Acquisition of Wealth.—This tendency of the imagination to exaggerate the real, and conjure up a thousand unreal dangers, when any thing of peculiar value is in possession, which it is certainly possible, and it may be slightly probable, that we may lose, may, perhaps, account for the uneasiness, amounting often to extreme anxiety, that frequently accompanies the sudden acquisition of wealth. The poor cobbler, at his last, is a merry man, whistling at his work, from morning till night. Bequeath him a fortune, and he quits at once his last and his music; he is no longer the light-hearted man that he was; his step is cautious, his look anxious and suspicious; he grows care-worn and old. He that was never so happy in his life as when a poor man, now dreads nothing so much as poverty. While he was poor, there was nothing to fear, but every thing to hope, from the future; now that he is rich, there is nothing further to hope, but much to fear, since if the future brings any change in his condition, as it is not unlikely to do, it will, in all probability, be a change, not from wealth to still greater wealth, but from present affluence to his former penury.
The Pleasure of Hope surpasses the Pleasure of Reality.—It will, doubtless, be found generally true, that the pleasure of hope surpasses the pleasure derived from the realization of the object wished and hoped for. The imagination invests with ideal excellence the good that is still future, and when the hour of possession and enjoyment comes, thereality does not fully answer the expectation. Or, as in the case, already supposed, of the acquisition of wealth, there come along with the desired and expected treasure, a thousand cares and anxieties that were not anticipated, and that go far to diminish the enjoyment of the acquisition. From these, and other causes, it happens, I believe, not unfrequently, that those enjoy the most, who have really the least, whether of wealth, or of any other good which the mind naturally desires as a means of happiness; nor can we fail to see in this a beautiful provision of divine benevolence for the happiness of the great human family.
Influence on the Mind.—The influence of hope, upon the human mind, is universally felt, and recognized, as one of the most powerful and permanent of those varied influences, and laws of being, that make us what we are. It is limited to no period of life, no clime and country, no age of the world, no condition of society, or of individual fortune. It cheers us, alike, in the childhood of our being, in the maturity of our riper years, and in the second childhood of advancing age. There is no good which it cannot promise, no evil for which it cannot suggest a remedy and a way of escape, no sorrow which it cannot assuage. It is strength to the weary, courage to the desponding, life to the dying, joy to the desolate. It lingers with gentle step about the couch of the suffering, when human skill can do no more; and, upon the tombs of those whose departure we mourn, it hangs the unfading garland of a blessed immortality.
"Angel of life! thy glittering wings exploreEarth's loveliest bounds, and ocean's widest shore."
"Angel of life! thy glittering wings exploreEarth's loveliest bounds, and ocean's widest shore."
The same poet who sang so well the pleasures of hope, has depicted the influence of this emotion, on the mind which some great calamity has bereft of reason.
"Hark, the wild maniac sings to chide the galeThat wafts so slow her lover's distant sail;Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight skyAnd the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry,Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burnTo hail the bark that never can return;And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep,That constant love can linger on the deep."
"Hark, the wild maniac sings to chide the galeThat wafts so slow her lover's distant sail;
Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight skyAnd the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry,Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burnTo hail the bark that never can return;And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep,That constant love can linger on the deep."
It is, indeed, a touching incident, illustrative not more of the strength of this principle of our nature, than of the benevolence which framed our mental and moral constitution, that when, under the heavy pressure of earthly ills, reason deserts her empire, and leaves the throne of the human mind vacant,Hopestill lingers to cheer even the poor maniac, and calmly takes her seat upon that vacant throne, even as the radiant angels sat upon the stone by the door of the empty sepulchre.
Leading Divisions.—In our analysis and distribution of the powers of the mind, they were divided into three generic classes, viz., Intellect, Sensibility, and Will. Of these, the two former have been discussed in the preceding pages; it now remains to enter upon the examination of the third.
Importance and Difficulty of this Department.—This is, in many respects, at once the most important and the most difficult of the three. Its difficulty becomes apparent when we consider what questions arise respecting this power of the mind, and what diverse and conflicting views have been entertained, not among philosophers only, but among all classes of men, and in all ages of the world, concerning these matters. Its importance is evident from the relation which this faculty sustains to the other powers of the mind, and from its direct and intimate connection with some of the most practical and personal duties of life. Whatever control we have over ourselves, whether as regards the bodily or the mental powers, whatever use and disposition it is in our power to make of the intellectual faculties with which we are endowed, and of the sensibilities which accompany or give rise to those intellectual activities, and of the physical organization which obeys the behests of the sovereign mind, whatever separates and distinguishes us from the mere inanimate and mechanical forces of nature on the one hand, or the blind impulses of irrational brute instinct on the other; for all this, be it more or less, we are indebtedto that faculty which we call the Will. And hence it happens that in this, as in many other cases, the most abstract questions of philosophy become the most practical and important questions of life. In every system of mental philosophy the Will holds a cardinal place. The system can no more be complete without it, than a steamship without the engines that are to propel her. As is the view taken of the Will, such is essentially the system.
Relation to Theology.—Nor is it to be overlooked that the doctrine of the Will is a cardinal doctrine of theology, as well as of psychology. Inasmuch as it has a direct and practical bearing upon the formation of character, and upon the moral and religious duties of life, it comes properly within the sphere of that science which treats of these duties, and of man's relation to his Maker. Hence every system of theology has to do with the Will; and according to the view taken of this faculty, such essentially is the system. If in psychology, still more in theology, is this the stand-point of the science.
Not, therefore, to be treated as a theological Doctrine.—Not, however, on this account, is the matter to be treated as theological and not strictly psychological. It is a matter which pertains properly and purely to psychology. It is for that science which treats of the laws and powers of the human mind to unfold and explain the activity of this most important of all the mental faculties. To this science theology must come for her data, so far as she has occasion to refer to the phenomena of the Will. The same may be said of ethical, as well as of theological science. In so far as they are concerned with the moral powers, and with the human will, they must both depend on psychology. With in her proper sphere they stand, not as teachers, but as learners.
The more Care requisite on this Account.—For this reason all the more care is necessary, in the study and explanation of the present theme. An error in this part ofthe investigation is likely to extend beyond the bounds of the science itself, into other and kindred sciences. The most serious consequences may flow from it, in other and wider fields of thought.
Sources of Information.—The sources of our information are essentially the same in this as in the preceding divisions of the science. They are twofold; the consciousness of what passes in our own minds, and the observation of others. Our single business is to ascertain facts, actual phenomena; not to inquire what might be, or whatoughtto be, according to preconceived notions and theories, but whatis. This is to be learned, not by reasoning and logical argument, but by simple observation of phenomena. Having once ascertained these, we may infer, and conclude, and reason from them, as far as we please, and our conclusions will be correct, provided the data are correct from which we set forth, and provided we reason correctly from these principles.
Method to be pursued.—In treating of this department of mental activity, it will be our first business, then, to point out the well established and evident facts pertaining to the matter in hand, viewed simply as psychological phenomena, as modes in which the human mind manifests itself in action, according to the laws of its constitution. These being ascertained, we shall be prepared to consider some of the more difficult and doubtful matters respecting the will, on which the world has long been divided, and which can never be intelligently discussed, much less settled, without a clear understanding, in the first place, of the psychological facts in the case, about which there need be, and should be, no dispute.
NATURE OF THE WILL.
What the Will is.—I understand, by the will, that power which the mind has of determining or deciding what it will do, and of putting forth volitions accordingly. The will is thepowerof doing this; willing, is the exercise of the power; volition, is the deed, the thing done. The will is but another name for the executive power of the mind. Whatever we do intelligently and intentionally, whether it implies an exercise of the intellect, or of the feelings, or of both, that is an act of the will. All our voluntary, in distinction from our involuntary movements of the body, and movements of mind, are the immediate results of the activity of the Will.
Condition of a Being destitute of Will.—We can, perhaps, conceive of a being endowed with intellect and sensibility, but without the faculty of will. Such a being, however superior he might be to the brutes in point of intelligence, would, so far as regards the capacities of action, be even their inferior, since his actions must be, as theirs, the result of mere sensational impulse, without even that unerring instinct to guide him, which the brute possesses, and which supplies the place of reason and intelligent will. To this wretched condition man virtually approximates when, by any means, the will becomes so far enfeebled, or brought under the dominion of appetite and passion, as to lose the actual control of the mental and physical powers.Will not distinct from the Mind.—It must be borne in mind, of course, as we proceed, that the will is nothing but the mind itself willing, or having power to will, and not something distinct from the mind, or even apartof themind, as the handle and the blade are distinct parts of the knife. The power to think, the power to feel, the power to will, are distinct powers, but the mind is one and indivisible, exercising now one, now another, of these powers.
§ I.—Elements involved in an Act of Will.
Proposed Analysis.—In order to the better understanding of the nature of this faculty, let us first analyze its operations, with a view to ascertain the several distinct stages or elements of the mental process which takes place. We will then take up these several elements, one by one, for special investigation.
Observation of an Act of Will.—What, then, are the essential phenomena of an act of the will? Let us arrest ourselves in the process of putting forth an act of this kind, and observe precisely what it is that we do, and what are the essential data in the case. I am sitting at my table. I reach forth my hand to take a book. Here is an act of my will. My arm went not forth self-moved and spontaneously, it was sent, was bidden to go; the soul seated within, animating this physical organism, and making it subservient to her will, moved that arm. Here, then, is clearly an act of will. Let us subject it to the test of observation.
The first Element.—First of all, then, there was evidently, in this case,something to be done—an end to be accomplished—a book to be reached. The action, both of body and of mind, was directed to that end, and but for that the volition would not have been put forth. It is to be observed, moreover, that the end to be accomplished, in this case, was apossibleone—the book was, or was supposed to be, within my reach. Otherwise I should not have attempted to reach it.
A second Element.—I observe, furthermore, in the case under consideration, a motive, impelling or inducing to that end; areason whyI willed the act. It was curiosity,perhaps, to see what the book was, or it may have been some other principle of my nature, which induced me to put forth the volition.
A further Step in the Process.—But the motive does not, itself, produce the act. It is merely thereason whyI produce it. It has to do not directly with the action, but with me. Its immediate effect terminates on me, and it is only indirectly that it affects the final act. The next step in the process, then, is to be sought, not in the final act, but in my mind as influenced by motive; and that step is mychoice. Previous to my putting forth the volition to move my arm, there was a choice or decision to do so. In view of the end to be accomplished, and influenced by the motive, Imade up my mind—to use a common but not inapt expression—to perform the act. The question arose, for the instant, Shall I do it? The very occurrence of a thing to be done, a possible thing, and of a motive for doing it, raises, of itself, the question, Shall it be done? The question may be at once decided in the affirmative, in the absence of reasons to the contrary, or, in the absence of reflection, so quickly decided, that, afterward, we shall hardly be conscious that it was ever before the mind. Or it may be otherwise. Reasons to the contrary suggest themselves—counter influences and motives—in view of which we hesitate, deliberate, decide; and that decision, in view of all the circumstances, is ourpreference, orchoice. In most cases the process is so rapid as to escape attention; but subsequent reflection can hardly fail to detect such a process, more or less distinctly marked.
The final Stage of the Act.—We have reached now the point at which it is decided, in our own minds, what course to pursue. In the case supposed, I have decided to take up the book. The volition is not yet put forth. Nothing now remains, however, but to put forth the volition, and at once the muscular organism, if unimpeded and in health, obeys the will. The thing is done, and the experiment concluded.
Summary of Results.—I repeat now the experiment ten or a hundred times, but always with like results. I find always, where there is an act of the will, some end to be obtained, some motive, a choice, an executive volition. I conclude that these are the essential phenomena of all voluntary action.
Of these, the two former, viz., the end to be accomplished, and the motive, may be regarded as more properlyconditionsof volition, than constituent elements of it. Still, so intimately is the volition connected with one, at least, of these conditions, viz., the motive, that it claims special consideration. The ends to be accomplished by volition are as numerous as the infinite variety of human purposes and actions, and, of course, admit of no complete enumeration or classification. We confine our further attention, then, to these elements—the motive, the choice, the executive volition—and proceed to their more careful investigation as phenomena of the will.
§ II.—Investigation of these Elements.
The first of these Elements, Motive, always implied in Action.—I.The Motive—that which incites the mind to action—the reason why it acts, and acts as it does. We never act without some such incitement, some reason for acting; at least this is true of all our intelligent and voluntary actions, of which, alone, we now speak. It may be nothing more than mere present impulse, mere animal appetite or passion, even that is a motive, a reason why we act. We cannot conceive of any being having the power of voluntary action, and exerting that power withoutany reason whateverwhy he did it. The reason may, or may not, be clearly apprehended by his own mind—that is another question; but whether distinctly and clearly recognized as such, or not, by our own minds, a reason there always is for what we do.
In what Sense this Term employed.—Strictly speaking, the motive is not any and every influence which may bear upon the mind as an inducement to action, but only theprevailinginducement, that whichactually movesor induces us to perform the proposed act. In this sense, there may be many different inducements, but only one motive. Such, however, is not the ordinary use of the term. That is usually called a motive which is of a nature to influence the mind, and induce volition, whether it is, in the given case, effective, or not. To avoid confusion, I adopt the general use.
Nature of Motives.—As to the nature of the motives from which we act, they are manifestly of two kinds, and widely distinct. There is desire, and there is the sense of moral obligation or duty;—the agreeable, and the right; each of these constitutes a powerful motive to action. We find ourselves, under the influence of these motives, acting, now from desire, now from sense of duty, now in view of what is in itself agreeable, and now in view of what is right; and the various motives which influence us and result in action, may be resolved into one or the other of these powerful elements.
These Elements distinguished.—These are quitedistinctelements, never to be confounded with, nor resolved into each other.Desireis the feeling which arises in view of some good not in present possession, something agreeable, and to be obtained; it looks forward to that; its root and spring is that grand principle of our nature, the love of happiness. Its appeal is to that. Its strength lies in thatDuty, as we have already shown—that sense of obligation which is implied in the very idea ofright—is quite another principle than that, not founded in that; springs not from self-love, or the desire of happiness; is, on the contrary, a simple, primitive, fundamental idea of the human mind, based in the inherent, essential, eternal nature of things. Given the right, the perception of right, and there is given, also along with it, the sense ofobligation.
Their Action not always in Unison.—These two motives may act in different directions; they frequently do so. Desire impels me one way, duty another. Conflict then arises. Which shall prevail, desire or duty, depends on circumstances, on my character already formed, my habits of thought and feeling, my degree of self-control, my conscientiousness, the strength of my native propensities, the clearness with which, at the time, I apprehend the different courses of conduct proposed, their character and their consequences. Desire may prevail, and then I go counter to my sense of obligation. Remorse follows. I am wretched. I suffer penalty. Duty prevails, and I do that which I believe to be right, regardless of consequences. I suffer in property, health, life, external good, but am sustained by that approving voice within, which more than compensates for all such losses.
That there are these two springs or motives of human action, and that they aredistinctfrom each other, is what I affirm, and what no one, I think, who reflects on what consciousness reveals, will be disposed to deny.
Motives of Duty not resolvable into Motives of Interest.—Should any still contend that this very approval of conscience, this peace and happiness which result from doing right, are, themselves, the motive to action, in the case supposed, and so, self-love, a desire of happiness, is, after all, theonly motive, I reply, this is an assumption utterly without proof. Consciousness contradicts it. The history of the human race contradicts it. There is such a thing as doing right for its own sake, irrespective of good to ourselves. Every man is conscious of such distinction, and of its force as a motive of conduct. Everyvirtuousman is conscious of acting, at times, at least, from such a motive.
Coincidence of Desire and Duty.—It is only when desire and duty coincide, that the highest happiness can be reached, when we no longer desire and long for, because we no longer view as agreeable, that which is not strictly right.This is a state never fully realized in this life. It implies perfection of character, and a perfect world.
Desires, as Motives of Action, further distinguished.—Desire, and the feeling of obligation, I have spoken of as motives of conduct. The former, again, is not always of one sort. Desire is, indeed, in itself, a simple element, springing from one source, but not always directed to the same object. We desire now one thing, now another. There are two classes, at least, of desires quite easy to be distinguished, the physical and the psychical, the one relating to the wants of the body, the other to the craving of the higher nature; the mere animal instincts, propensities, passions, looking to animal gratification; and the higher rational self-love, which seeks the true and permanent well-being, under the guidance of reason. Each of these furnishes a powerful motive, or class of motives, to human action. They are each, however, but different forms ofdesire.
The second Element, Choice, always involved in Volition.—II.Choice.—This is an essential element in volition, and next in order. As, setting aside such acts as are purely spontaneous and mechanical, we never, intelligently and purposely, do any thing without a volition to do it, so we never put forth volition without exercisingchoice. The act performed is not avoluntaryact, unless it is something which Ichooseto do. True, my choice may be influenced by extraneous causes—may even be constrained—circumstances may virtually compel me to choose as I do, by shutting me up to this one course, as being either the only right, or the only desirable course. And these circumstances, that thus influence my decisions, may be essentially beyond my control, as they not unfrequently are. Yet, all things considered, it is mychoiceto do thus and not otherwise, and so long as I do choose, and am free to act accordingly, the act is voluntary.
The Position illustrated.—This may be illustrated by the case of the soldier who, in the bombardment of his nativecity, is ordered to point his piece in the direction of his own dwelling. To disobey, is death. To obey, is to put in jeopardy those who are dear to him. He hesitates, but finally chooses to obey orders. He aims his piece as directed, sadly against his inclination; yet, on the whole, it is hischoiceto do it. He prefers that to the certainty of dishonorable death, a death which would in no way benefit or protect those whom he wishes to save. A man, of his own accord, lies down upon the surgeon's operating table, and stretches out his arm to the knife. It is his choice—a hard choice, indeed, but, nevertheless, decidedly his choice. He prefers that to still greater suffering, or even death. In these cases—and they are only instances and illustrations of what, in a less marked and decided way, is continually occurring—we see the utmost strain and pressure of circumstances upon a man's choice, making it morally certain that he will decide as he does, shutting him up to that decision, in fact, yet his choice remaining unimpaired, and his act afreeact; free, because he does as he, on the whole, and under the circumstances, chooses to do. He does the thing voluntarily.
Another Case supposed.—Suppose, now, the man were forcibly seized, and borne by sheer strength to the table, and placed upon it, and held there while the operation was performed. In that case, he no longer acts, is only acted upon, no longer chooses and wills to go there, nay, chooses and wills directly the contrary. The difference in the two cases, is the difference between a voluntary act, chosen reluctantly, indeed, and under the pressure of an exigency, but stillchosen, and the passive suffering of an action which, so far from being voluntary, was, in no sense, an act of his own.
Choice always influenced by Circumstances.—Now, as regards the actual operation of things, our choices are, in fact, always influenced by circumstances, and these circumstances are various and innumerable; a thousand seen and unseen influences are at work upon us, to affect our decisionsWere it possible to estimate aright all these influences, to calculate, with precision, their exact weight and effect, then our choice, under any given circumstances, might be predicted with unerring certainty. This can never be exactly known to man. Sagacity may approximate to it, and may, so far, be able to read the future, and predict the probable conduct of men in given circumstances. To the omniscient, these thingsarefully known, and to his eye, therefore, the whole future of our lives, our free choices and voluntary acts, lie open before they are yet known to ourselves.
Conclusion stated.—From what has been said, it appears that it is not inconsistent with the nature of choice, to be influenced, nay, decided by circumstances, even when circumstances are beyond our control.
Diversity of Objects essential to Choice.—What isimpliedin an act of choice? Several things. In order to choice, there must, of course, bediversity of objectsfrom which to choose. If there were but one possible course to be pursued, it were absurd to speak of choice. Hence, even in the cases just now supposed, there was a diversity of objects from which to choose—death, or obedience to orders, suffering from the surgery, or greater suffering and danger without it, and between these the man made his choice.
Liberty of Selection also essential.—As a further condition of choice, there is impliedlibertyof selection from among the different objects proposed. It were of no use that there should be different courses of conduct—different ends, or different means of attaining an end—proposed to our understanding, if it were not in our power to select which we pleased, if we were not free to go which way we will. Choice always implies that different actions and volitions are possible, and are, as such, submitted to our decision and preference. There can be no volition without choice, and no choice without liberty to choose. Whatever interferes, then, with that liberty, and diminishes or takes it away, interferes, also, with my choice, and diminishes ordestroys that. The veryessenceof a voluntary act consists in its being an act of choice, or a free-will act. No tyranny can take this away, except such as destroys, also, all voluntary and responsible action. You may command me to burn incense on a heathen altar. The very command leaves it optional with me whether to obey. If I do not, the penalty is death. Very well—I maychoosethe penalty, rather than the crime, and no power on earth cancompelme to choose otherwise. I die, but I die afreeman. True, you may bind me, and by mechanical force urge me to the altar, and by superior strength of other arms, may cause my hand to put incense there, but it is notmyact then; it is the act of those who use me as a mere passive instrument; it is no more my act, than it would be the act of so much iron, or wood, or other instrument.
Deliberation implied.—Choice, moreover, implies deliberation, the balancing and weighing of inducements, the comparison and estimate of the several goods proposed, the several ends and objects, the various means to those ends; the exercise of reason and; judgment in this process. I see before me different courses, different ends proposed to my understanding, am conscious of diverse inducements and reasons, some urging me in one direction, some in another. Native propensities impel me toward this line of conduct. Rational self-love puts in a claim for quite another procedure. Benevolence, and a sense of duty, it may be, conspire to urge me in still another direction. I am at liberty to choose I must choose. I can go this way or that, must go in one or the other. I hesitate, deliberate, am at a loss.
Now there is no choice which does not virtually involve some process of this kind. It may be very rapid; so rapid as to escape detection, in many cases, so that we are hardly conscious of the process. In other cases, we are painfully conscious of the whole scene; we hesitate long, are in doubt and suspense between conflicting motives and interests. Desire and duty wage a fierce contest within us. Shall wechoose the agreeable? Shall we choose the right? And then, again, which is really the agreeable, and which is truly the right?
Final Decision.—As the result of this deliberation, we finally decide, one way, or the other. This decision is ourpreference, our choice. Our minds, as we say, are made up what to do, what course to pursue. When the time comes, we shall act. Something may prevent our having our way; opportunity may not offer, or we may see fit, subsequently to reconsider and revoke our decision. Otherwise, our choice is carried out in action.
Choice implies, then, these things: diversity of objects, liberty of selection, deliberation, decision, or preference.
The final Element.—III.Executive Volition.—In our investigation of the several elements or momenta of an act of the Will, we have as yet considered but two, viz.,motiveandchoice—the first, more properly aconditionof voluntary action, than itself a constituent part of it, yet still, a condition so indispensably connected with volition, as to require investigation in connection with the latter. It only remains now to notice the last stage of the process, the final element, which added, the process is complete—that is, theexecutive act of the mind,volitionproperly so called. When the objects to be attained have been presented, when the motives or inducements to action have been considered, when, in view of all, the choice or preference has been made, it still remains to put forth the volition, or the act will not be performed. This may never happen. Opportunity may never offer. But suppose it does. Wewill. This done, the bodily mechanism springs into play, obedient to the call and command of the soul.
Even now, the action does not of necessity correspond to the volition. Even now, we may be disappointed. Other wills may be in action in opposition to ours. Other arms may move in obedience to those other wills. Or we may find the thing too much for us to do, impracticable, beyond our strength and means, or disease may palsy the frame, so that it shall not obey the mandate of the spirit. Nevertheless thevolitionis complete. That depends not on the success of the exertion. We havewilled, and with that our mental action ceases. What remains is physical, not psychological. If we succeed, if the volition finds itself answered in execution, then, also, the act once performed is thenceforth out of our power. It is done, and stands a permanent historic event, beyond our control, beyond our decision or revocation. Our power over it ceases in the moment of volition. Our connection with it may never cease. It moves on in its inevitable career of consequences, and, like a swift river, bears us along with it. We have no more to do with it, but it has to do with us; it may be to our sorrow, it may be, forever.
Such are, in brief, the main psychological facts, relating to the will, as they offer themselves to our consciousness and careful inspection.