"When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new-reaped,Showed like a stubble-land at harvest home.He was perfumed like a milliner;And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he heldA pouncet box, which ever and anonHe gave his nose, and took't away again;"
"When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new-reaped,Showed like a stubble-land at harvest home.He was perfumed like a milliner;And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he heldA pouncet box, which ever and anonHe gave his nose, and took't away again;"
—imagine such a character, with all his finery, floundering in the mud, and the ludicrousness of the scene would be such as to set at naught all attempts at gravity, even on the part of those who seldom smile.
When the incongruous objects are purposely brought into relation for the sake of exciting mirth, the wit may beat the expense of others, in which case we have either the practical joke, or simple buffoonery, imitating the peculiarities and incongruities of others; or the joker may play off his witat his own expense, and act the clown or the fool for the amusement of observers.
Accidental grouping of incongruous Ideas.—When the incongruity is that not ofobjects, but ofideasbrought into new and unexpected relation, and when this is the result of accident or awkwardness, rather than of design, we have what is termed ablunderor abull. In such a case there is always involved some inconsistency between the thing meant, and the thing said or done. There is an apparent congruity, but a real incongruity of the related ideas. An instance of this occurs in the anecdote related by Sydney Smith, of a physician, who, being present where the conversation turned upon an English nobleman of rankand fortune, but without children, remarked, with great seriousness, that to be childless was a misfortune, but he thought he had observed that it washereditaryin some families. Of this nature is most of the wit which we call Irish; the result of accident rather than design—a blunder, a bull. It is said that during the late rebellion in Ireland, the enraged populace, on a certain occasion, vented their wrath against a famous banker, by solemnly resolving to burn all his bank-notes which they could lay hands on; forgetting, in their rage, that this was only to make themselves so much the poorer, and him so much the richer. The instance given by Mr. Mahan is also in point, of two Irishmen walking together through the woods, the foremost of whom seizing a branch, as he passed along, and holding it for a while, suddenly let it fly back, whereby his companion behind was suddenly reduced to a horizontal position, but on recovering himself, congratulated his associate on having held back the branch as long as he did, since it must otherwise have killed him.
Intentional grouping of incongruous Ideas.—Theintentionalgrouping of incongruous ideas, for the purpose of exciting the feeling of the ludicrous, is more properly denominatedwit. This, again, may assume diverse forms. Where the ideas are entirely dissimilar, but have a name or sound in common, which similarity of mere sound or name is seized upon as the basis of comparison, the wit takes the name of apun. The more complete the incongruity of the two ideas, thus brought into strange and unexpected relation, under cover of a word, the more perfect the pun, and the more ludicrous the effect. This kind of wit is deservedly reckoned as inferior. "By unremitting exertions," says a quaint writer, "it has been at last put under, and driven into cloisters, from whence it must never again be suffered to emerge into the light of the world." One invaluable blessing, adds the same author, produced by the banishment of punning is, an immediate reduction of the number of wits.
The Burlesque.—When the wit is employed in debasing what is great and imposing, by applying thereto figures and phrases that are mean and contemptible, it takes the name ofburlesque. The pages of Hudibras afford abundant illustrations of this form of the ludicrous. The battle of Don Quixote and the wind-mills is a burlesque on the ancient tournaments.
The Mock-Heroic.—The mock-heroic, by a contrary process, provokes the sense of the ridiculous by investing what is inconsiderable and mean with high-sounding epithets and dignified description. The battle of the mice and frogs is an instance of this.
The double Meaning.—Beside the varieties of intentional incongruity of ideas already mentioned, there are certain less important forms of witticism, which can perhaps hardly be classed under any of the foregoing divisions. The whole tribe ofdouble entendres, or double meanings, where one thing is said and another thing is meant, or at least where the apparent and honest is not the only or the real meaning;satire, which is only a modification of the same principle, drawn out into somewhat more extended and dignified discourse, and which, under the form of apparent praise, hides the shafts of ridicule and invective;sarcasm, which conveys the intended censure and invective in a somewhat more indirect and oblique manner;—these are all but various modes of what we have called intentional incongruity of ideas.
This Principle, in what Respects of dangerous Tendency.—Of the value of this principle of our nature, I have as yet said nothing. To estimate it at its true worth, is not altogether an easy thing. On the one hand, there can be little doubt that, carried to excess, it becomes a dangerous principle. The tendency to view all things, even perhaps the most sacred, in a ludicrous light, and to discover fanciful and remote relations between objects and ideas the most diverse and incongruous, must exert an unhappy influence on the general tone and character of both the mind and the heart. Where wit, or the disposition to the ludicrous,becomes the predominant quality of the mind, impressing the other and nobler faculties into its lawless service, it must be to the detriment of the mind's highest energies and capacities; to the detriment especially of that sincerity and honesty of purpose, and that earnest love of truth, which are the foundation of all true greatness. I speak in this of the excess and abuse of wit; I speak of themerewit.
Of use to the Mind.—On the other hand, the tendency to the ludicrous has its uses in the economy and constitution of our nature, and they are by no means to be overlooked. It gives a lightness and buoyancy, a freshness and life, to the faculties that would otherwise be jaded in the weary march and routine of life. It is to the mind what music is to the soldier on the march. It enlivens and refreshes the spirits. A hearty laugh doeth good like a medicine. A quick and keen perception of the ludicrous, when not permitted to usurp undue control, but made the servitor of the higher powers and propensities, and keeping its true place, not in the fore-front, but in the background of the varied and busy scene, is to be regarded as one of the most fortunate mental endowments.
Wit often associated with noble Qualities.—There is no necessary connection, no connection of any sort, perhaps, between wisdom and dullness, although a great part of mankind have always persisted in the contrary opinion. The laughter-loving and laughter-provoking man is by no means a fool. He who goes through the world, such as it is, and sees in all its caprices, and inconsistencies, and follies, and absurdities, nothing to laugh at, much more justly deserves the suspicion of a lack of sense. "Wit," it has been justly remarked, "is seldom the only eminent quality which resides in the mind of any man; it is commonly accompanied by many other talents of every description, and ought to be considered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior understanding. Almost all the great poets, orators, and statesmen of all times, have been witty."
Wit as an Instrument for correcting Folly.—There is one important use of the faculty under consideration, to which I have not as yet alluded. I refer to its power as an instrument for keeping in check the follies and vices of those who are governed by no higher principle than a regard to the good opinion of society, and a fear of incurring the ridicule of an observing and sharp-sighted world. To such, and such there are in multitudes, "the world's dread laugh" is more potent and formidable than any law of God or man. There are, moreover, many lighter foibles and inconsistencies of even good men, for which the true and most effective weapon is ridicule.
Remarks of Sydney Smith.—I cannot better conclude my remarks upon this part of our mental constitution, than by citing some very just observations of Sydney Smith—himself one of the keenest wits of the age.
"I have talked of thedangerof wit; I do not mean by that to enter into common-place declamation against faculties, because theyaredangerous; wit is dangerous, eloquence is dangerous, a talent for observation is dangerous, every thing is dangerous that has energy and vigor for its characteristics; nothing is safe but mediocrity.... But when wit is combined with sense and information; where it is softened by benevolence, and restrained by strong principle; when it is in the hands of a man who can use it and despise it, who can be witty and something muchbetterthan witty, who loves honor, justice, decency, good nature, morality, and religion, ten thousand times better than wit; wit isthena beautiful and delightful part of our nature."
§ III.—Enjoyment of the New and Wonderful.
Surprise and Ennui.—Of that form of surprise which arises in view of the incongruous, and which accompanies the feeling of the ludicrous, I have already had occasion to speak, in treating of that emotion. Of the feeling ofsurprise in general, its nature, and occasions, and also of that feeling to which it stands opposed, and which for want of a better term we may callennui, I am now to speak.
Definition and nature of Surprise.—Surprise may be defined as the feeling awakened by the perception of whatever is new and wonderful. It is, in itself considered, an agreeable emotion, rather than otherwise. Variety and novelty are usually pleasing; our nature demands them, and is gratified at their occurrence. Monotony, the unbroken thread, and ever-recurring routine of ordinary life and duty, weary, and, after a time, disgust us. Upon this listlessness and lethargy of the mind, a new and unexpected event, as the arrival of a friend, or the reception of some unlooked-for intelligence, breaks in with an agreeable surprise. Hence the eagerness of men, in all ages and all nations, to hear or see some new thing. It is only when the new event or intelligence is of the nature of positive evil, when the news is of some misfortune, real or imagined, when the experience of present, or the fear of future suffering, is the direct and natural result of the occurrence, that the surprise becomes a painful emotion. And even in such cases, I am not quite sure that there is not in the first excitement of the mind upon the reception of bad news, as of the death of a friend, or the calamity of a neighbor, something for the moment, of the nature of pleasure mingling with the pain. We deeply regret the occurrence, but are pleased to have heard the news. The thing grieves us, but not the hearing of it. It is not the surprise that pains us, but the thing at which we are surprised. Surprise, like every other form of mental excitement, is not, in itself, and within due bounds, disagreeable, but the reverse.
How awakened.—This emotion is awakened, as already stated, in view of any thing unforeseen and unexpected. We naturally anticipate, to some extent, the course of the future. We presume it will be substantially as the past. We expect the recurrence of what has often and usuallyoccurred, and whenever any thing breaks in on this established order of events, we are surprised at the interruption in the ordinary train of sequences. Hence the new and the strange always excite surprise.
Differs from Wonder.—Surprise differs from wonder, in that the latter involves anintellectualelement, the effort of the mind to satisfy itself of the cause and proper explanation of the new and strange phenomenon. Surprise is purely a matter of sensibility, of feeling, and not of intellect. The mind is wholly passive under this emotion. It may lead to action, as may any other emotion, but, like every other emotion, it is, in itself, an influence exerted upon the mind, and not by it, something passively received, and not actively put forth.
From Astonishment.—It differs from astonishment in that the latter expresses a higher degree of mental excitement, as in view of some occurrence exceedingly remarkable and strange, or of some object whose magnitude and importance fills the mind.
Design of this Principle.—The end to be accomplished by this provision of our nature is sufficiently obvious. Our attention is thereby called to whatever is out of the ordinary course, and which, from the circumstance that it is something unusual, may be supposed to require attention, and we are put on our guard against the approaching danger, or roused to meet the present emergency. Surprise is the alarm-bell that calls all our energies into action, or at least warns them to be in present readiness for whatever service may be needed. The same principle operates also as a stimulus to exertion in the ordinary affairs of life. We seek new things, we are weary with the old, and this simple law of our nature is often one of the strongest incitements to effort.
The opposite Feeling.—The opposite of surprise is that uneasy feeling, of which we are conscious, from the constant recurrence of the same objects in unvaried sequence; as, for instance, from the continued repetition of the same sound,or series of sounds, the uniform succession of the same or similar objects in the landscape, and the like. Every one knows how tedious becomes a perfectly straight and level road, with the same objects occurring at regular intervals, and with nothing to break the dead monotony of the scene. The most rugged passes of the Alps would be a relief in exchange, both to body and mind. The repetition of the same song, or the same succession of musical sounds, however pleasing in themselves, becomes in like manner, after a time, intolerable. For want of a better term, for I am not sure that we have in our own language any one word that exactly expresses the feeling now under consideration, we may borrow of the French the somewhat expressive termennui, by which to designate this form of the sensibility.
Use of Ennui.—There can be little doubt that this feeling subserves a valuable purpose in the constitution and economy of our nature. It is the needed motive and stimulus to action, without which we should settle down often into a sluggish indifference and contentment with things as they are, instead of pressing forward to something worthier and better.
§ IV.—Enjoyment of the Beautiful and Sublime.
The Enjoyment, as distinguished from the intellectual Perception of the Beautiful.—Of theideaof the beautiful, and of the action of the mind ascognizantof it, in so far as regards the intellectual faculties, I have already treated in another connection. But it is not the intellect alone that comes under the influence of the beautiful. What the sense perceives, what the taste and judgment recognize and approve, the sensibility is quick to feel. Emotion is awakened. No sooner is a beautiful object perceived in nature or art, than we are conscious of lively sensations of pleasure. So strong and so universal are these feelings, that many writers have been led to speak of beauty itself, as if it were anemotion, a merely subjective matter, an affair of feeling merely. The incorrectness of this view has been already shown, and we need not enter upon the discussion anew.
The term Admiration.—The feeling awakened by the perception of the beautiful, like some other feelings of which we are conscious, has not a name that precisely designates it; hence the expression—ambiguous, and, therefore, objectionable—emotions of beauty, employed by certain writers to denote the feeling in question. The wordadmiration, though often used in a somewhat wider sense, perhaps more nearly expresses the emotion to which I refer, than any other word in our language. We are surprised at what is new and strange. We admire what is beautiful and sublime. The feeling is one of pure and unalloyed pleasure, mingled with more or less of wonder or surprise, in case the object contemplated is one which is new to us, or one of rare and surpassing beauty. As the beautiful has its opposite—the deformed or ugly—so the feeling which it awakens stands contrasted with an opposite emotion, viz.,disgust.
In connection with this form of sensibility, there are some questions requiring consideration.
Whether the Emotion is immediate.—It is a question somewhat debated, whether the emotions awakened by the beautiful and sublime are immediate, or reflective; whether they spring up at once on perception of the object, or only as the result of reflection and reasoning. Those who maintain that beauty consists in utility, or in order and proportion, fitness, unity with variety, etc., must, of course, regard the emotions awakened by it as not immediate, since, according to their theory, time must be allowed for the understanding to convince itself, in the first place, that the objectisuseful, etc. The qualities constituting the beauty must be first apprehended by the mind as existing in the object, before there can be emotion, and to do this is the work of reflection. If, however, beauty is but the expression of the invisible under the visible and sensible forms, then all thatis necessary to produce emotion is simply the perception of the object thus expressive, since the moment it is perceived, it is perceived as expressing something, and thus, appealing to our own spiritual nature, awakens immediate emotion.
How to be decided.—The question must be decided by the observation of facts, and the result will constitute an additional argument in favor of one, or the other, of the general views of the beautiful now named. What then are the facts in the case, as given by consciousness, and observation?
Testimony of Consciousness.—So far as I can judge, no sooner do we find ourselves in presence of a beautiful object than we are conscious of emotions of pleasure. There is no previous cross-questioning of the object to find out whether it is adapted to this or that useful end, or whether the rules of order, and proportion, are observed in its construction. Before we have time to think of these things, the sensibility has already responded to the appeal which beauty ever makes to our sensitive nature, and the first distinct fact of which we are conscious is an emotion of pleasure.
Effect of Repetition.—Consciousness assures us, more over, that the pleasure is usually quite as vivid at the first sight of a beautiful object as ever after, which would indicate that it is not the result of reflection. In truth, repetition is found, in most cases, to weaken the emotion, and familiarity may even destroy it. Yet every repetition adds to our opportunity for observation and reflection, and strengthens our conviction of the utility, the order, the fitness, the proportion, of that which we observe.
Critical Reflection subsequent to Emotion.—It seems evident, moreover, that whatever reflections of this nature we may choose to indulge, are uniformly subsequent to the first emotion of pleasure and delight, to the first impression made upon us by the beauty of the object—after-thoughts readily to be distinguished from those first impressions—and that they are usually the result of a special volition to inform ourselves as to these matters; whereas the emotionis spontaneous and involuntary. Doubtless a pleasure arises from the perception of the qualities referred to, but it is a pleasure of another kind from that which arises in view of the beautiful, as such. We must think, then, that the emotions awakened by the beautiful are immediate, not reflective.
Further Question.—Closely allied to the preceding is the question, Which precedes the other, the emotion which a beautiful object awakens, or the judgment of the mind that the object is beautiful. Logically, doubtless, the two things may be distinguished, but not, perhaps, in order of time. No sooner is the object perceived, than it is both perceived and felt to be beautiful. The emotion awakened and the mental affirmation, "That is beautiful," are both immediate on the perception of the object, synchronous events, so far as concerns at least our ability to distinguish between them in point of time.
Logically, Emotion precedes.—In point of logical relation, the emotion, I think, must be allowed the precedence, although so high an authority as Kant decides otherwise. Had we no emotion in view of the beautiful, we should not know that it was beautiful. As, universally, sensation is the indispensable condition of perception, and logically, at least, its antecedent, so here the feeling of the beautiful is the condition and source of the perception of the beautiful. The object strikes us as being so, moves us, affects us, produces on us the impression, and hence we say, "That is beautiful." Had we no susceptibility of emotion in view of the beautiful, it may be seriously questioned whether we should ever have the perception or impression that any given object is beautiful.
The Beautiful as distinguished from the Sublime.—There is still another point deserving attention. In discussing the æsthetic emotions, we have spoken as yet only of the feeling awakened by thebeautiful. How do these emotions differ—in degree merely—or in nature?
The Opinion that they differ only in Degree.—Some have maintained that sublimity is only a higherdegreeof what we call beauty. A little stream playing among the hills and tumbling over the rocks is beautiful; a little further on, as it grows larger, and swifter, and stronger, it becomes sublime. If this be so, it is a very simple matter: the surveyor's chain, or a ten foot pole, will, at any time, give us the difference, and enable us to determine at once whether a river or a mountain is merely pretty, or sublime.
Different Emotions excited by each.—If they differ inkind, however, and not merely in quantity, it may not be so easy to tell just what the difference is. We can best detect it, perhaps, by observing carefully the difference of the emotions excited in us by the two classes of objects. I contemplate an object, which, in common with all the world, I call beautiful. What emotion does that object awaken in me? An emotion of pleasure and delight, for which I can find, perhaps, no better name than admiration. I contemplate now another object which men call sublime. What now are my emotions? Admiration there may be, but not, as before, a calm, placid delight; far otherwise. An admiration mingled with awe, a sense of greatness and of power in the object now oppresses me, and I stand as before some superior being, or element, in whose presence I feel my comparative feebleness and insignificance.
The Sublime conveys the Idea of superior Power.—Accordingly we find that the objects which men call sublime are invariably such as are fitted to awaken such emotions. They are objects which convey the idea of superior force and power—something grand in its dimensions or in its strength—something vast and illimitable, beyond our comprehension and control. The boundless expanse of the ocean, the prairie, or the pathless desert, the huge mass of some lofty mountain, the resistless cataract, the awful crash of the thunder, as it rolls along the trembling firmament, the roar of the sea in a storm when it lifteth up its waves onhigh, the movements of an army on the battle-field—these, and such as these, are the objects we call sublime. The little may be beautiful, it is never sublime. Nor is the merely great always so, but only when it conveys the idea of superior power. Montmorenci is beautiful, Niagara is sublime. A Swiss valley, nestling among the hills, is beautiful; the mountains that tower above it through the overhanging clouds into the pure upper sky, and in the calm, serene majesty of their strength stand looking down upon the slumbering world at their feet, and all the insignificance of man and his little affairs, are sublime.
The Sublime and the Beautiful associated.—Nor is the sublime always unassociated with the beautiful. Niagara is not more sublime than beautiful. The deep emerald hue of the waters as they plunge, the bow on the mist, the foam sparkling in the abyss below, are each among the most beautiful objects in nature. The sublime and the beautiful are often mingled thus, distinct elements, but conjoined in the same object. The highest æsthetic effect is produced by this combination. The beauty tempers the sublimity; the sublimity elevates and ennobles the beauty. It is thus at Niagara. It is thus when the sunrise flashes along the summits of the snowy Alps.
The Beautiful tranquilizes, the Sublime agitates.—The beautiful pleases us; so, in a sense, does the sublime. Both produce agreeable emotions. Yet they differ. In the enjoyment of the beautiful there is a calm, quiet pleasure; the mind is at rest, undisturbed, can at its leisure and sweet will admire the delicacy and elegance of that which fills it with delight. But in the perception of the sublime it is otherwise. The mind is agitated, is in sympathy with the stir, and strife, and play of the fierce elements, or is oppressed with the feeling of its own insignificance, as contrasted with the stern majesty and strength of what it contemplates. Hence the sublime takes a deeper hold on the mind than the merely beautiful, awes it, elevates it, rousesits slumbering energies, quickens the slow course of thought, and makes it live, in brief moments, whole hours and days of ordinary life. The beautiful charms and soothes us; the sublime subdues us and leads us captive. The one awakens our sympathy and love, the other rouses in us all that is noble, serious, and great in our nature.
Relation of the Sublime to Fear.—The relation of the sublime to fear has been noticed by several writers. Memdelssohn, Ancillon, Kant, Jouffroy, Blair, have spoken of it, as well as Burke. The latter was not far from right in his theory of fear as an element of the sublime. It were better to sayawethan fear, for the boldest and stoutest hearts are fully susceptible of it; and it were better to speak of it as an element of our emotion in view of the sublime, than as an element of the sublime itself.
Cultivation of æsthetic Sensibility.—I cannot, in this connection, entirety pass without notice a topic requiring much more careful consideration than my present limits will permit—the cultivation of the æsthetic sensibility—of a love for the beautiful.
This Culture neglected.—The love of the beautiful is merely one of the manifold forms of the sensibility, and, in common with every other feeling and propensity of our nature, it may be augmented, quickened, strengthened to a very great degree by due culture and exercise. It is an endowment of nature, but, like other native endowments, it may be neglected and suffered to die out. This, unfortunately, is too frequently the case with those especially who are engaged in the active pursuits of life. The time and the attention are demanded for other and more important matters, and so the merely beautiful is passed by unheeded. It admits of question, whether it is not a serious defect in our systems of education, that so little attention is paid to the culture of the taste, and of a true love for the beautiful. The means of such a culture are ever at hand. The great works and the most perfect models in art are not, indeed, accessible to all. Not every one can cross the seas to study the frescoes of Raphael and Michael Angelo. But around us in nature, along our daily paths, are the works of a greater Artist, and no intelligent and thoughtful mind need be unobservant of their beauty. Nor is there danger, as some may apprehend, that we shall carry this matter to excess. The tendencies of our age and of our country are wholly the reverse. The danger is rather that in the activity and energy of our new life, the higher culture will be overlooked, and the love of the beautiful die out.
Value of this Principle.—The love of the beautiful is the source of some of the purest and most exquisite pleasures of life. It is the gift of God in the creation and endowment of the human soul. Nature lays the foundation for it among her earliest developments. The child is, by nature, a lover of the beautiful. Nor is it in early life alone that this principle has its natural and normal developments. On the contrary, under favorable circumstances, it grows stronger and more active as the mind matures, and the years pass on. Happy he who, even in old age, keeps fresh in his heart this pure and beautiful fountain of his youth; who, as days advance, and shadows lengthen, and sense grows dull, can still look, with all the admiration and delight of his childish years, on whatever is truly beautiful in the works of God or man.
§ V.—Satisfaction in View of Right Conduct, and Remorse in View of Wrong.
The Feeling, as distinguished from the Perception of Right.—In the chapter on the Idea and Cognizance of the Right, the notion of right, in itself considered, and also the mind's action as cognizant of the right, so far at least as concerns theintellectualfaculties thus employed, were fully discussed. It is not necessary now to enter again upon the investigation of these topics. But, as in the cognizance of the beautiful, so in the cognizance of the right, not only isthe intellect exercised, but the sensibility also is aroused. As consequent upon the perceptions of the intellect,emotionis awakened; and that emotion is both definite and strong. It is peculiar in its operation. No emotion that stirs the human bosom is more uniform in its development, more strongly marked in its character, or exerts a deeper and more permanent influence on the happiness and destiny of man, than the satisfaction with which he views the virtuous conduct of a well-spent hour or a well-spent life, and the regret, amounting sometimes to remorse, with which, on the contrary, he looks back upon the misdeeds and follies of the past. Of all the forms of joy and sorrow that cast their lights and shadows over the checkered scene and pathway of human existence, there are none which, aside from their ethical relations, are of deeper interest to the psychologist, or more worthy his careful study, than the emotions to which I now refer.
The moral Faculty not resolvable into moral Feeling.—So deeply have certain writers been impressed with the importance of this part of our nature, that they have not hesitated to resolve the moral faculty itself into the emotions now under consideration, and to make the recognition of moral distinctions ultimately a mere matter of feeling. This, whether regarded ethically, or psychologically, is certainly a great mistake, fatal in either case to the true science whether of morals or of mind. Right and wrong, as also the beautiful and its opposite, are not mere conceptions of the human mind. They have an actual objective existence and reality and, as such, are cognized by the mind, which perceives a given act to be right or wrong, and, as such, obligatory or the opposite, and approves or condemns the deed, and the doer accordingly. So far the intellect is concerned. But the process does not stop here. Sensibility is awakened. The verdict and calm decisions of the judgment are taken up by the feelings, and made the basis and occasion of a new form of mental activity. It is with this excitement of the sensibility in view of conduct as right or wrong, that we are nowconcerned, and while we can by no means resolve all our moral perceptions and judgments into this class of emotions, we would still assign it an important place among the various forms of mental activity.
Not limited to our own Conduct.—The emotion of which we speak is not limited to the occasions of our own moral conduct; it arises, also, in view of the moral actions of others. A good deed, an act of generosity, magnanimity, courage, by whomsoever performed, meets our approbation, and awakens in our bosoms feelings of pleasure. If the act is one of more than ordinary heroism and self-sacrifice, we are filled with admiration. Instances of the opposite excite our displeasure and disgust. No small part of the interest with which we trace the records of history, or the pages of romance, arises from that constant play of the feelings with which we watch the course of events, and the development of character, as corresponding to or at variance with the demands of our moral nature.
A good Conscience an Object of universal Desire.—But it is chiefly when we become ourselves the actors, and the decisions of conscience respect our own good or evil deeds that we learn the true nature and power of the moral emotions. A good conscience, it has been said, is the only object of universal desire, since even bad men wish, though in vain, for the happiness which it confers. It would perhaps be more correct to say that an accusing conscience is an object of universal dread. But in either case, whether for approval or condemnation, very great is its power over the human mind.
Sustaining Power of a good Conscience.—We all know something of it, not only by the observation of others, but by the consciousness of our own inner life. In the testimony of a good conscience, in its calm, deliberate approval of our conduct, lies one of the sweetest and purest of the pleasures of life; a source of enjoyment whose springs are beyond the reach of accident or envy; a fountain in thedesert making glad the wilderness and the solitary place. It has, moreover, a sustaining power. The consciousness of rectitude, the approval of the still small voice within, that whispers in the moment of danger and weakness, "You are right," imparts to the fainting soul a courage and a strength that can come from no other source. Under its influence the soul is elevated above the violence of pain, and the pressure of outward calamity. The timid become bold, the weak are made strong. Here lies the secret of much of the heroism that adorns the annals of martyrdom and of the church. Women and children, frail and feeble by nature, ill fitted to withstand the force of public opinion, and shrinking from the very thought of pain and suffering, have calmly faced the angry reproaches of the multitude, and resolutely met death in its most terrific forms, sustained by the power of an approving conscience, whose decisions were, to them, of more consequence than the applause or censure of the world, and whose sustaining power bore them, as on a prophet's chariot of fire, above the pains of torture and the rage of infuriated men.
Power of Remorse.—Not less is the power of an accusing conscience. Its disapprobation and censure, though clothed with no external authority, are more to be dreaded than the frowns of kings or the approach of armies. It is a silent constant presence that cannot be escaped, and will not be pacified. It embitters the happiness of life, cuts the sinews of the soul's inherent strength. It is a fire in the bones, burning when no man suspects but he only who is doomed to its endurance; a girdle of thorns worn next the heart, concealed, it may be, from the eye of man, but giving the wearer no rest, day nor night. Its accusations are not loud, but to the guilty soul they are terrible, penetrating her inmost recesses, and making her to tremble as the forest trembles at the roar of the enraged lion, as the deep sea trembles in her silent depths, when her Creator goeth by on the wings of the tempest, and the God of glorythundereth. The bold bad man hears that accusing voice, and his strength departs from him. The heart that is inured to all evil, and grown hard in sin, and fears not the face of man, nor the law of God, hears it, and becomes as the heart of a child.
How terrible is remorse! that worm that never dies, that fire that never goes out. We cannot follow the human soul beyond the confines of its present existence. But it is an opinion entertained by some, and in itself not improbable, that, in the future, conscience will act with greatly increased power. When the causes that now conspire to prevent its full development and perfect action, shall operate no longer; when the tumult of the march and the battle are over; when the cares, the pleasures, the temptations, the vain pursuits, that now distract the mind with their confused uproar, shall die away in the distance, and cease to be heard, in the stillness of eternity, in the silence of a purely spiritual existence, the still small voice of conscience may perhaps be heard as never before. In the busy day-time we catch, at intervals, the sound of the distant ocean, as a low and gentle murmur. In the still night, when all is hushed, we hear it beating, in heavy and constant surges, on the shore. And thus it may be with the power of conscience in the future.
BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS.
Character of the Affections as a Class.—Of the three generic classes into which the sensibilities were divided, viz., Simple Emotions, Affections, and Desires, the first alone has, thus far, engaged our attention. We now approach the second. It will be remembered that, in our analysis of the sensibilities, the Affections were distinguished from the Simple Emotions, as being of a complex character, involving, along with the feeling of delight and satisfaction in the object, or the reverse, the wish, more or less definite and intense, of good or ill to the object that awakens the emotion. The feeling thus assumes an active and transitive form, going forth from itself, and even forgetting itself, in its care for the object.
How divided.—The affections, it will also be remembered, were further divided into thebenevolentandmalevolent, according as they seek the good or the ill of the object on which they fasten. As the simple emotions are but so many forms ofjoyandsorrow, so, likewise, the affections are but so many modifications of the principle ofloveand its opposite,hate.
Effects upon the Character in their marked Development.—When these give tone to the general character of an individual, he becomes the philanthropist or misanthropist, the man of kind and gentle disposition, or the hater of his race, according as the one or the other principle predominates.
Roused to more than ordinary activity, breaking away from the restraints of reason, and the dictates of sober judgment, assuming the command of the soul, and urging it on to a given end, regardless of other and higher interests, these affections assume the name ofpassions, and the spectacle is presented of a man driven blindly and madly to the accomplishment of his wishes, as the ship, dismantled, drives before the storm; or else, in stern conflict with himself and the feelings that nature has implanted in his bosom, controlling with steady hand his own restless and fiery spirit.
Relation to the simple Emotions.—The relation which the affections, as a class, bear to the simple emotions, deserves a moment's attention. The one class naturally follows and grows out of the other. What we enjoy, we come naturally to regard with feelings of affection, while that which causes pain, naturally awakens feelings of dislike and aversion. So love and hate succeed to joy and sorrow in our hearts, as regards the objects contemplated. The simple emotions precede and give rise to the affections.
Enumeration.—The benevolent affections, to which we confine our attention in the present chapter, assume different forms, according to their respective objects.
The more prominent are,love of kindred,love of friends,love of benefactors,love of home and country. Of these we shall treat in their order.
§ I.—Love of Kindred.
Includes what.—Under this head we may include theparental, thefilial, and thefraternalaffection, as modifications of the same principle, varying according to the varying relations of the parties concerned.
Does not grow out of the Relations of the Parties.—That the affectiongrows outof the relations sustained by theparties to each other, I am not prepared to affirm, although some have taken this view; I should be disposed rather to regard it as an implanted and original principle of our nature; still, that it is very much influenced and augmented by those relations, and that it is manifestly adapted to them, no one, I think, can deny.
But adapted to that Relation.—How intimate and how peculiar the relation, for example, that subsists between parent and child, and how deep and strong the affection that binds the heart of the parent to the person and well-being of his offspring. The one corresponds to the other; the affection to the relation; and the duties which that relation imposes, and all the kind offices, the care, and attention which it demands, how cheerfully are they met and fulfilled, as prompted by the strength and constancy of that affection. Without that affection, the relation might still exist, requiring the same kind offices, and the same assiduous care, and reason might point out the propriety and necessity of their performance, but how inadequate, as motives to action, would be the dictates of reason, the sense of propriety, or even the indispensable necessity of the case, as compared with that strong and tender parental affection which makes all those labors pleasant, and all those sacrifices light, which are endured for the sake of the helpless ones confided to its care. There was need of just this principle of our nature to meet the demands and manifold duties arising from the relation to which we refer; and in no part of the constitution of the mind is the benevolence of the great Designer more manifest. What but love could sustain the weary mother during the long and anxious nights of watching by the couch of her suffering child? What but love could prompt to the many sacrifices and privations cheerfully endured for its welfare? Herself famished with hunger, she divides the last morsel among those who cry to her for bread. Herself perishing with cold, she draws the mantle from her own shoulders to protect the little one at her side from the furyof the blast. She freely perils her own life for the safety of her child. These instances, while they show the strength of that affection which can prompt to such privation and self-sacrifice, show, also, the end which it was designed to subserve, and its adaptation to that end.
This Affection universal.—The parental affection is universal, not peculiar to any nation, or any age, or any condition of society. Nor is it strong in one case, and weak in another, but everywhere and always one of the strongest and most active principles of our nature. Nor is it peculiar to our race. It is an emotion shared by man in common with the lower orders of intelligence. The brute-beast manifests as strong an affection for her offspring, as man under the like circumstances exhibits. The white bear of the arctic glaciers, pursued by the hunter, throws herself between him and her cub, and dies in its defence.
All these circumstances, the precise adaptation of the sensibility in question to the peculiar exigencies it seemed designed to meet, the strength and constancy of that affection, the universality of its operation, and the fact that is common to man with the brute, all go to show that the principle now under consideration must be regarded as an instinctive and original principle, implanted in our nature by the hand that formed us.
Strengthened by Circumstances.—But though an original principle, and, therefore, not derived from habit or circumstance, there can be no doubt that the affection of which we speak is greatly modified, and strengthened, by the circumstances in which the parent and child are placed with respect to each other, and also by the power of habit. Like most of our active principles, it finds, in its own use and exercise, the law of its growth. So true is this, that when the care and guardianship of the child are transferred to other hands, there springs up something of the parent's love, in the heart to which has been confided this new trust. It seems to be a law of our nature that we love those who are dependenton us, who confide in us, and for whom we are required to exert ourselves. The more dependent and helpless the object of our solicitude, and the greater the sacrifice we make, or the toil we endure, in its behalf, the greater our regard and affection for it. If in the little group that gathers around the poor man's scanty board, or evening fireside, there is one more tenderly loved than another, one on whom his eye more frequently rests, or with more tender solicitude than on the others, it is that one over whose sick-bed he has most frequently bent with anxiety, and for whose benefit he has so often denied himself the comforts of life. By every sacrifice thus made, by every hour of toil and privation cheerfully endured, by every watchful, anxious night, and every day of unremitting care and devotion, is the parental affection strengthened. And to the operation of the same law of our nature is doubtless to be attributed the regard which is felt, under similar circumstances, by those who are not parents, for the objects of their care. But it may reasonably be doubted whether, in such case, the affection, although of the same nature, ever equals, in intensity and fervor, the depth and strength of a parent's love.
Strongest in the Mother.—The parental affection, though common to both sexes, finds its most perfect development in the heart of the mother. Whether this is the natural result of the principle already referred to, the care and effort that devolve in greater degree upon the mother, and awaken a love proportionably stronger, or whether it is an original provision of nature to meet the necessity of the case, we can but see in the fact referred to a beautiful adaptation of our nature to the circumstances that surround us.
Stronger in the Parent than in the Child.—The love of the parent for the child is stronger than that of the child for the parent. There was need that it should be so. Yet is there no affection, of all those that find a place in the human heart, more beautiful and touching than filial love. Nor, on the contrary, is there any one aspect of human nature,imperfect as it is, so sad and revolting as the spectacle sometimes presented, of filial ingratitude, a spectacle sure to awaken the indignation and abhorrence of every generous heart. When the son, grown to manhood, forgets the aged mother that bore him, and is ashamed to support her tottering steps, or leaves to loneliness and want the father whose whole life has been one of care and toil for him, he receives, as he deserves, the contempt of even the thoughtless world, and the scorn of every man whose opinion is worth regarding.
There have not been wanting noble instances of the strength of the filial affection. If parents have voluntarily incurred death to save their children, so, also, though perhaps less frequently, have children met death to save a parent.
Value of these Affections.—The parental and filial affections lie at the foundation of the social virtues. They form the heart to all that is most noble and elevating, and constitute the foundation of all that is truly great and valuable in character. Deprived of these influences, men may, indeed, become useful and honorable members of society—such cases have occurred—but rather as exceptions to the rule. It is under the genial influences of home, and parental care and love, that the better qualities of mind and heart are most favorably and surely developed, and the character most successfully formed for the conflicts and temptations of future life.
Not inconsistent with the manly Virtues.—Nor is the gentleness implied in the domestic affections inconsistent with those sterner qualities of character, which history admires in her truly great and heroic lives. Poets have known this, painters have seized upon it, critics have pointed it out in the best ideal delineations, both of ancient and of modern times. It softens the gloomy and otherwise forbidding character of stern Achilles; it invests with superior beauty, and almost sacredness, the aged Priam suing for the dead body of Hector; it constitutes one of the brightest ornaments with which Virgil knew how to adorn the character of the heroof the Æneid, while in the affection of Napoleon for his son, and in the grief of Cromwell for the death of his daughter, the domestic affection shines forth in contrast with the strong and troubled scenes of eventful public life, as a gentle star glitters on the brow of night.
§ II.—Love of Friends.
Much said in Praise of Friendship.—Among the benevolent affections that find a place in the human heart, friendship has ever been regarded as one of the purest and noblest. Poets and moralists have vied with each other in its praise. Even those philosophers who have derived all our active principles from self-love have admitted this to a place among the least selfish of our emotions. There can be no doubt that it is a demand of our nature, a part of our original constitution. The man who, among all his fellows, finds no one in whom he delights, and whom he calls his friend, must be wanting in some of the best traits and qualities of our common humanity, while, on the other hand, pure and elevated friendship is a mark of a generous and noble mind.
On what Circumstances it depends.—If we inquire whence arises this emotion in any given case, on what principles or circumstances it is founded, we shall find that, while other causes have much to do with it, it depends chiefly on themore or less intimate acquaintanceof the parties. There must, indeed, be on our part some perception of high and noble qualities belonging to him whom we call our friend, and some appreciation, also, of those qualities. We must admire his genius, or his courage, or his manly strength and prowess, or his moral virtues, or, at least, his position and success. All these things come in to modify our estimate and opinion of the man, and may be said to underlie our friendship for him. Still, it is not so much from these circumstances, as from personal and intimateacquaintance, that friendship most directly springs. Admiration and respect for the high qualities and noble character of another, are not themselves friendship, however closely related to it. They may be, and doubtless are, to some extent, the foundation on which that affection rests, but they are not its immediately producing cause. They may exist where no opportunity for personal acquaintance is afforded, while, on the other hand, a simple and long-continued acquaintance, with one whom we, perhaps, should not, in our own candid judgment, pronounce superior to other men, either in genius, or fortune, or the nobler qualities of the soul, may, nevertheless, ripen into strong and lasting friendship.
How Acquaintance leads to Friendship.—To what is this owing? Not so much, I suspect, to the fact that acquaintance reveals always something to admire, even in those whom we had not previously regarded with special deference—although this, I am willing to admit, may be the case—but rather to that simple law of mental activity which we call association. The friend whom we have long and intimately known, the friend of other, and earlier, and, it may be, happier years, is intimately connected with our own history. His life and our own have run side by side, on rather, like vines springing from separate roots, have intertwined their branches until they present themselves as one to the eye. It is this close connection of my friend with whatever pertains to myself, of his history with my history, and his life with my life, that contributes in great measure to the regard and interest I feel for him. He has become, as it were, a part of myself. The thought of him awakens in my mind pleasing remembrances, and is associated with agreeable conceptions of the walks, the studies, the sports, the varied enjoyments and the varied sorrows that we have shared together.
Regard for inanimate Objects.—The same principle extends also to inanimate objects, as places and scenes withwhich we have become familiar, the meadows through which we roamed in childhood, the books we read, the rooms we inhabited, even the instruments of our daily toil. These all become associated with ourselves, we form a sort of friendship for them. The prisoner who has spent long years of confinement in his solitary cell, forms a species of attachment for the very walls that have shut him in, and looks upon them for the last time, when at length the hour of deliverance arrives, not without a measure of regret. The sword that has been often used in battle is thenceforth, to the old soldier, the visible representative of many a hard-fought field, and many a perilous adventure. Uncouth and rusty it may be, ill-formed, and unadorned, in its plain and clumsy iron scabbard, but its owner would not exchange it for one of solid gold. It is not strange that the principle of association, which attaches us so closely even to inanimate objects, should enter largely as an element into the friendships we form with our own species.
Other Causes auxiliary.—I would by no means deny, however, that other causes may, and usually do, contribute to the same result. Mere acquaintance and companionship do not, of necessity, nor invariably, amount to friendship. There must be some degree of sympathy, and congeniality of thought and feeling, some community of interests, pursuits, desires, hopes, something in common between the two minds, or no friendship will spring up between them. Acquaintance, and participation in the same scenes and pursuits, furnish, to some extent, this common ground. But even where this previous companionship is wanting, there may exist such congeniality and sympathy between two minds, the tastes and feelings, the aims and aspirations of each may be so fully in unison, that each shall feel itself drawn to the other, with a regard which needs only time and opportunity to ripen into strong and lasting friendship.
Dissimilarity not inconsistent with Friendship.—Nor is it necessary, in order to true friendship, that there should becomplete similarity or agreement. The greatest diversity even may exist in many respects, whether as to qualities of mind, or traits of character. Indeed, such diversity, to some extent, must be regarded as favorable to friendship, rather than otherwise. We admire, often, in others, the very qualities which we perceive to be lacking in ourselves, and choose for our friends those whose richer endowments in these respects may compensate in a measure for our own deficiencies. The strongest friendships are often formed in this way by persons whose characters present striking points of contrast. Such diversity, in respect to natural gifts and traits of character, is not inconsistent with the closest sympathy of views and feelings in regard to other matters, and therefore not inconsistent with the warmest friendship.
Limitation of the Number of Friends.—It was, perhaps, an idle question, discussed in the ancient schools of philosophy, whether true friendship can subsist between more than two persons. No reason can be shown why this affection should be thus exclusive, nor do facts seem to justify such a limitation. The addition of a new friend to the circle of my acquaintance does not necessarily detract aught from the affection I bear to my former friends, nor does it awaken suspicion or jealousy on their part. In this respect, friendship is unlike the love which exists between the sexes, and which is exclusive in its nature.
It must be admitted, at the same time, that there are limits to this extension, and that he who numbers a large circle of friends is not likely to form a very strong attachment for any one of them. Not unfrequently, indeed, a friendship thus unlimited is the mark, as Mr. Stewart suggests, of a cold and selfish character, prompted to seek the acquaintance of others by a regard to his own advantage, and a desire for society, rather than by any real attachment to those whose companionship he solicits. True and genuine friendship is usually more select in its choice, and is wholly disinterested in its character. A cold and calculating policyforms no part of its nature. It springs from no selfish or even prudential considerations. It burns with a pure and steady flame in the heart that cherishes it, and burns on even when the object of its regard is no longer on earth. Our friendships are not all with the living. We cherish the memory of those whom we no longer see, and welcome to the heart those whom we no longer welcome to our home and fireside.
Effect of adventitious Circumstances.—Reverses in life, changes in fortune, the accidents of health and sickness, of wealth and poverty, of station and influence, have little power to weaken the ties of true friendship once formed. They test, but do not impair its strength. True friendship only makes us cling the closer to our friend in his adversity; and when fortune frowns, and the sunshine of popular favor passes away, and "there is none so poor to do him reverence," whom once all men courted and admired, we still love him, who, in better days, showed himself worthy of our love and who, we feel, is none the less worthy of it, now that we must love him for what heis, and not for what he has. That is not worthy the name of friendship, which will not endure this test.
Changes in moral Character.—Much more seriously is friendship endangered by any change of moral character and principle, on the part of either of the friends. So long as the change affects merely the person, the wealth, the social position, the power, the good name even, we feel that these are but the external circumstances, the accidents, the surroundings, and not the man himself, and however these things may vary, our friend remains the same. But when the change is in the heart and character of the man himself, when he whose sympathies and moral sentiments were once in unison with our own, shows himself to be no longer what he once was, or what we fondly thought him to be, there is no longer that community of thought and feeling between us that is essential to true and lasting friendship. Yet,even in such a case, we continue to cherish for the friend of former years a regard and affection which subsequent changes do not wholly efface. We think of himas he was, and not as he is; as he was in those earlier and better days, when the heart was fresh and unspoiled, and the feet had not as yet turned aside from the paths of rectitude and honor.
§ III.—Love of Benefactors.
As related to Friendship.—Closely allied to the affections we feel for our friends is the emotion we cherish towards our benefactors. Like the former, it is one of the forms of that principle into which all kindly affection ultimately resolves itself, namely, love, differing as the object differs on which it rests, but one in nature under all these varieties of form. The love which we feel for a benefactor, differs from that which we feel for a friend, as the latter again differs from that which we feel for a parent or a child. It differs from friendship, in that the motive which prompted the benefaction, on the part of the giver, may be simple benevolence, and not personal regard; while, on our part, the emotion awakened may be simple gratitude to the generous donor, a gratitude which, though it may lead to friendship, is not itself the result of personal attachment.
Nature of this Affection.—If we inquire more closely into the nature of this affection, we find that it involves, as do all the benevolent affections, a feeling of pleasure or delight, together with a benevolent regard for the object on which the affection rests. The pleasure, in this case, results from the reception of a favor. It is not, however, merely a pleasure in the favor received, as in itself valuable, or as meeting our necessities; it is, over and beyond this, a pleasure in the giver as a noble and generous person, and as standing in friendly relations to us. Such conceptions are always agreeable to the mind, and that in a high degree. The benevolent regard which we cherish for such a person, thedisposition and wish to do him good in turn, are the natural result of this agreeable conception of him; and the two together, the pleasure, and the benevolent regard, constitute the complex emotion which we call gratitude.
Regards the Giver rather than the Gift.—If this be the correct analysis of the affection now under consideration, it is not so much thegift, as thegiver, that awakens the emotion; and this view is confirmed by the fact that when, from any circumstances, we are led to suspect a selfish motive on the part of the donor, that the gift was prompted, not so much by regard to us, as by regard to his own personal ends, for favors thus conferred we feel very little gratitude. The gift may be the same in either case, but not the giver.
Modes of manifesting Gratitude.—Philosophers have noticed the different manner in which persons of different character, and mental constitution, are affected by the reception of kindness from others, and the different modes in which their gratitude expresses itself. Some are much more sensibly affected than others by the same acts of kindness; and even when gratitude may exist in equal degree, it is not always equally manifested. We naturally look, however, for some exhibition of it, in all cases, where favors have been conferred; its due exhibition satisfies and pleases us; its absence gives us pain, and we set it down as indicative of a cold and selfish nature.
A disordered Sensibility indicated by the Absence of this Principle.—One of the most painful forms of disordered sensibility—the insanity, not of the intellect, but of the feelings—is that which manifests itself in the entire indifference and apathy with which the kindest attentions are received, or even worse, the ill-concealed and hardly-suppressed hatred which is felt even for the generous benefactor. A case of this sort is mentioned by Dr. Bell, the accomplished superintendent of the MacLean Asylum for the insane, as coming under his notice, in which the patient, a lady, by no means wanting in mental endowments, seemed utterlydestitute and incapable of natural affection. Having, on one occasion, received some mark of kindness from a devoted friend, she exclaimed, "I suppose I ought to love that person, and I should, if it were possible for me to love any one; but it is not. I do not know what that feeling is." A more sad and wretched existence can hardly be conceived than that which is thus indicated—the deep night and winter of the soul, a gloom unbroken by one ray of kindly feeling for any living thing, one gleam of sunshine on the darkened heart. Happily such cases are of rare occurrence. The kindness of men awakens a grateful response, in every human heart, whose right and normal action is not hindered by disorder, or prevented by crime.
Disorder of the moral Nature.—Is it not an indication of the imperfect and disordered condition of our moral nature, that while the little kindnesses of our fellow men awaken in our breasts lively emotions of gratitude, we receive, unmoved, the thousand benefits which the great Author of our being is daily and hourly conferring, with little gratitude to the giver of every good and perfect gift?
§ IV.—Love of Home and Country.
Its proper Place.—Among the emotions which constitute our sensitive nature, the love of home and of country, or the patriotic emotion, holds a prominent rank. It falls into that class of feelings which we term affections, inasmuch as it involves not only an emotion of pleasure, but a desire of good towards the object which awakens the feeling.
Founded on the Separation of the Race.—The affection now to be considered implies, as its condition, the separation of the human race into families, tribes, and nations, and of its dwelling-places into corresponding divisions of territory and country, a division founded not more in human nature, than in the physical conditions and distributions of theglobe, broken as it is into different countries, by mountain, river, and sea. No one can fail to perceive, in this arrangement, a design and provision for the distribution of the race into distinct states and nations. To this arrangement and design the nature of man corresponds. To him, in all his wanderings, there is no place like home, no land like his native land. It may be barren and rugged, swept by the storms, and overshadowed by the frozen hills, of narrow boundary, and poor in resources, where life is but one continued struggle for existence with an inhospitable climate, unpropitious seasons, and an unwilling soil; but it is his own land, it is his father-land, and sooner than he will see its soil invaded, or its name dishonored, he will shed the last drop of blood in its defence.
Other Causes auxiliary.—The strong tendency to rivalry and war, between different tribes, tends, doubtless, to keep alive the patriotic sentiment, by binding each more closely to the soil, which it finds obliged to defend at the sacrifice of treasure, and of life. The great diversity of language, manners, and customs, which prevails among different nations, must also tend very strongly to separate nations still more widely from each other, and bind them more closely to their own soil, and their own institutions.
Effect of Civilization.—Such are some of the causes which give rise to the patriotic sentiment. Civilization tends, in a measure, doubtless, to diminish the activity of these causes. In proportion as society advances, as national jealousies and rivalries diminish, as wars become less frequent, as nations come to understand better each other's manners, laws, and languages, and to learn that their interests, apparently diverse, are really identical, this progress of civilization and culture, removing, as it does, in great measure, the barriers that have hitherto kept nations asunder, must tend, it would seem, to weaken the influence of those causes which contribute to keep alive the patriotic feeling. And such we believe to be the fact. It is in the early period ofa nation's existence, the period of its origin and growth, of its weakness and danger, that the love of country most strongly developes itself. It is then that sacrifices are most cheerfully made, and danger and toil most readily met, and life most freely given, for the state whose foundations can no other way be laid. As the state, thus founded in treasure and in blood, and vigilantly guarded in its infancy, gains maturity and strength, becomes rich, and great, and powerful, comes into honorable relation with the surrounding states and nations, the love of country seems not to keep pace with its growth in the hearts of the people, but rather to diminish, as there is less frequent and less urgent occasion for its exercise.
National Pride.—There is, however, a counteracting tendency to be found in the national pride which is awakened by the prosperity and power of a country, and especially by its historic greatness. The citizen of England, or of France, at the present day, has more to defend, and more to love, than merely his own home and fireside, the soil that he cultivates, and the institutions that guarantee his freedom and his rights. The past is intrusted to him, as well as the present. The land whose honor and integrity he is determined to maintain, at all hazard and personal sacrifice, is not the England, or the France, of to-day merely, but of the centuries. He remembers the glories of the empire, the armies, and the illustrious leaders that have carried his country's flag with honor into all lands, the monarchs that, in succession, from Clovis and Charlemagne, from Alfred and Harold the dauntless, have sat in state upon the throne that claims his present allegiance, the generations that have contributed to make his country what it now is; and he feels that not merely the present greatness and power of his country, but all its former greatness and glory, are intrusted to his present care and keeping.
Depends upon Association.—If we inquire more closely into the philosophy of the matter, we shall find, I think,that the principle ofassociationis largely concerned as the immediately producing cause of the emotion now under consideration. We connect with the idea of any country the history and fortunes, the virtues and vices of its inhabitants, of those who, at any time, recent or remote, have passed their brief day, and acted their brief part, within its borders, and whose unknown dust mingles with its soil. They have long since passed away, but the same hills stand, the same rivers flow along the same channels, the same ocean washes the ancient shores, the same skies look down upon those fields and waters, and with these aspects and objects of nature we associate all that is great and heroic in the history of the people that once dwelt among those hills, and along those shores. Every lofty mountain, every majestic river, every craggy cliff and frowning headland along the coast, stand asrepresentativeobjects, sacred to the memory of the past, and the great deeds that have been there performed. How much this must add to the force and power of the patriotic emotion is obvious at a glance.
Same Principle concerned in the Love of Home.—In like manner, by the same principle of association, we connect our own personal history with the places where we dwell, and the country we inhabit. They become, in a measure, identified with ourselves. To love the home of our childhood, and our native land, is but to love our former selves, since it is here that our little history lies, and whatever we have wrought of good or ill.
An original Principle.—With respect to the character of this emotion, while it is doubtless awakened and strengthened by the law of association, still I cannot but regard it as an original provision and principle of our nature, springing up instinctively in the bosom, showing itself essentially the same under all conditions of society, and in all ages and countries. It waits not for education to call it forth, nor for reason and reflection to give it birth; while at the same time, reason and reflection doubtless contribute largely to its development and strength.