None ever have, nor ever will, on earth,Reach truth of theory concerning Fate.It stands as whole from every touch of manAs ocean’s broad blue scroll, whose rubber wavesErase the furrows of the plowing keels.Then, careless whether man be king or slave,I’ll take his actions, whether free or not,And trace them to their sources. Deep the dive,But, throwing off the buoys of CharityAnd Faith, and all the prejudice of life,I grasp the lead of Doubt, and downward sinkInto the cesspool of the human heart,To find the fount, that to the surface castsA thousand bubbles of such varied hues:The pale white bubble of hypocrisy,The murky bubble of revenge and hate,The frail gilt bubble of ambition’s hope,The rainbow bubble of sweet love in youth,The dull slime bubble of a sensual lust,The crystal bubble of true charity!Instead of analyzing every factOf moral nature, searching for its source,I’ll name a source most probable, and tryThe facts upon it; if they fit, confirm,If not, reject. With Hobbes and Paley thenI join; and here avow that all mankindHave but one source of action—Love of self—Yet not self-love as understands the world,For that’s a name for error shown by few;But natural instinct that impels all menTo give self pleasure, and to save it pain;For pain and pleasure are Life’s only modes—No neutral state—we suffer, or enjoy;And every action’s linked with one of these.We cannot act without a consciousness,A consciousness of pleasure or of pain,The very automatic workings of our framesAre pleasures, unmarked from their constancy;But if impeded, they produce a pain.This instinct, teaching us to pleasure seek,And pain avoid, none ever disobey;For be their conduct what it may, a crimeOr virtue, greed or pure benevolence,To find the greatest pleasure is their aim.Nay, start not, critic, but attend the proofs.A man exists within himself alone,Himself, or he would lose identity.To him the world exists but by effectsUpon himself. His actions toward it thenBear reference to himself. He cannot actWithout affecting self. His nature’s lawDemands that self be dealt with pleasantly.There is no pain or pleasure in the world,But as he feels th’ reality in self,Or fancies it by signs in other men.This fancied pain is neverrealpain,But yields arealreflex. Others’ painIs never pain to us, unless we knowIt does exist. Within a hundred yardsA neighbor dies, in agony intense,And yet we feel no slightest trace of pain,Unless informed thereof. ’Tis only when we know,And therefore are affected, that we feel.The modes of pain and pleasure are then two,A real and a fancied one. The first acute,In ratio of our sensibilities;The last in ratio of our image-power.These gifts in different men unequal are,And hence life’s varied phases. One may deemA real pain far greater than a painIn fancy formed, from others’ sufferings;He eats alone, and drives the starving off.Another’s fancy paints more vividly,And he endures keen hunger to supplyThe poor with food. And so of pleasure too,—And this moves all to shun the greatest pain,And find the greatest pleasure.Different minds,And each at different times of life, possessA different standard of this highest good.The swaddled infant wails for its own food,Because its highest pleasure is alone in sense;The child will from its playmate hide a cakeUntil it learns that praise for sharing itGives greater pleasure than the sweetened taste;One boy at school proves insubordinate,His schoolmates’ praise he deems his highest good;Another studies well, because he values moreA parent’s smile. The murderer with his knife,The maiden praying in her purity,The miser dying over hoards of gold,The widow casting thither her two mites,A white-veil bending o’er the dying couch,A stained beauty floating through the waltz,The preacher’s zeal, the gambler’s eager zest;All have one motive, greatest good to self!The tender stop their ears, and cry aloud:“What! do you dare assert the gambler seeksWith hellish zeal the faintest shade of good?That he is holy as the Man of God?”By no means, yet he seeks his good the same.Not good as you’ve been taught to apprehend,But good, the greatest to his frame of mind.Do not exclaim that good is always good,And never differs from itself. AnonWe’ll speak of abstract truths, if such there beThat good and pleasure are synonymousAt times of action, is most surely plain;For pleasure’s but the consciousness of good,Or satisfaction of our tendencies.If all the gambler’s soul is bent on gain,Then at the moment gain is greatest good;But should you reason with him, and explainAnother life, and make it really seemTo him the best, he straight would change his course.“But,” cries my friend, “the preacher, if he’s true,Must labor, not for self, but others’ good;And in proportion as the self’s forgot,And others cared for, does his conduct rise.”But he can not, if conscious, forget self,For everything he does is felt within;But deeds for others’ good a pleasure give;If done in pain to self, the pleasure’s more.To gain the pleasure, self is put to pain,Just as a vesication brings relief.If he refused to undergo the painRemorse would double it.Among his flockSome one is sick; to visit him is right,And done, affords a pleasure. Sweeter farThat pleasure, if he walks through snow and ice,At duty’s call!Sublime self-sacrifice,Of which men prate, is nothing more nor lessThan base self-worship. Little pain enduredT’ avoid a great; a smaller pleasure lostTo gain a larger!All the preacher’s words,That burn or die upon the stolid ear,Are spoken from this motive, good to self.You stare; but it is true. Why does he preach?To save men’s souls?—Why does he try to save?Because he loves his fellow-men? Not so.His love for them but to the pleasure adds,Which duty done confers; but all his workMust be with reference to himself alone,Though cunning self the real motive hides,And leaves his broad philanthropy and loveTo claim the merit. Let a score of men,The blackest sinners, die. He knows it not,And feels no pang; but if he is informed,He suffers reflex pain. And if his charge,Remorseful tortures for unfaithfulness.And only is the state of souls to himOf interest, as they are known. When known,It is a source of pleasure or of painWhich all his labor is to gain or shun.“This difference then,” says one, “between men’s lives;Some live for present, some for future good.The sensual care for self on earth alone,The mystic cares for self beyond the grave.”Both love a present self, in present time.They differ in their notions of its good.The stern ascetic, with his shirt of hair,His bleeding penitential knees, his fastsTo almost death, his soul-exhausting prayers,Is seeking, cries the world, good after death.And yet his course of life is that aloneWhich could yield pleasure in his state of mind.He suffers, it is true, but hope of HeavenThus rendered sure, as much a present goodIs, as the food that feasts the epicure.The contemplation of his future home,Which he is thus securing, is a balmThat heals his stripes, and sweetens all their pain.The penance blows upon his blood-wealed breastAre bliss compared to lashes of remorse.So for the greater good, the hope of Heaven,He undergoes “the trivial pain of flesh.”The epicure cares not a fig for Heaven,But finds his greatest good in pleasing sense.And so the man who gives his wealth awayIs just as selfish as the money-slaveWho grinds out life amid his dusty bags.They both seek happiness with equal zest:The one finds pleasure in the many thanksOf those receiving, or the public’s praise,Or if concealed, in consciousness of right;The other in the consciousness of wealth.If all men act from motives just the same,Where is the right and wrong? In the effect?The quality of actions must be judgedFrom their intent, and not their consequence.If two men matches light for their cigars,And from one careless dropped, a house is burned,Is he that dropped it guiltier of crimeThan he whose match went out? Most surely no!Then is the miser blameless, though he turnThe helpless orphan freezing from his door;And Dives should not be commended more,Though all his goods to feed the poor he gives.How then shall we determine qualityOf actions, when their sources are the same,And their effects possess no quality?Two dead men lie in blood beside the way,The one shot by a friend, an accident;The other murdered for his gold. ’Tis plainNo wrong lies in th’ effects, for both are ’like;And of the agents, he of accidentHad no intent, and therefore did no wrong.The other killed to satisfy the self,A motive founding all the Christian work,And right if that is right. The wrongThen lies between the motive and effect,And must exist in the effecting means.Yet how within the means is wrong proved wrong?Jouffroy would say, because a disregardOf others’ rights; for here he places good,When classifying Nature’s moral facts.He makes the child first serve flesh self,Then moral self, and last to others’ goodAscend, and general order. What a myth!As if man thought of others, save effectFrom them upon himself. But order givesA greater good to self; therefore he joinsHis strength to others, creates laws that bindHimself and them, and produce harmony.He thus surrenders minor good of self,To gain a greater. This is all the needHe has of order, though Jouffroy assertsThat order universal is the Good.Yet still he says that private good of eachIs but a fragment of the absolute,And that regard for every being’s rightsIs binding as the universal law!Regard for others’ rights indeed, when menUnharmed agree to hang a man for crime!Not for the crime—that’s past; but to preventA second crime, which crime alone existsIn apprehensive fancy. Thus for wrongThat’s but forethought, they do a real wrong.To save their rights from harm they fear may come.They strip a fellow-man of actual right,And highest, right of life; then dare to callTheir action pure, divinely just, and good,And all the farce of empty names.They makeOf gross injustice individual,A flimsy justice, for mankind at large,And cry, Let it be done, though Heaven fall!As if a whole could differ from its parts,Or right be made from wrong. Yet some may sayThat one is sacrificed for many’s good,Or hung that many may avoid his fate;And that his crime deserved what he received.But law must value every man alike,And cannot save one man, or thousand men,From future evil, only possible,By greatest evil to another man,In its own view of justice. Nor can crimeMeet punishment, at mortal hands, by right,For murder’s murder, done by one or twelve,And legal murder’s done in colder blood,Whose stains are chalked by vain authority.Authority! the child of numbers and self-love!Regard for rights of things, indeed, when beastsAnd birds must yield their right of life that manMay please his right of taste. When, during Lent,The holy-days of fasting and of prayer,The scaly victims crowd the Bishop’s board,Their flesh unfleshed by Conscience’ pliant rule,Our palates must be for a moment pleased,Though costing something agonies of death;And worse than robbers, what we cannot give,We dare to take.They have no souls, say you?Nor after death exist?That nothing’s lost,Philosophy maintains as axiom truth.An object disappears, but somewhere livesIn other form. The water-pool to mistIs changed, the powder into flame and smoke.My pointer dies, his body, decomposed,The air, the soil, and vegetation feeds;Yet still exists, although disintegrate.For there was something, while the pointer lived,That was not body, but that governed it,A spirit, essence, call it what you will,A something seen but through phenomena,And by them proved most clearly to exist.A something, not the feet that made them run,A something, not the eyes, but knew they saw,A something, without which the eyes could seeAs much as glasses can without the eye,The something, “Carlo” named, that knew the name.The pointer dies, and we dissect the flesh.All there, none missing, to the tiniest nerve;Yet something’s gone, the more important part,And can you say that it has ceased to be,When th’ flesh, inferior to it, still exists?The spirit, if existent, must be whole,Nor can be parted till material proven.That Carlo lives, seems plain as I shall live;He lived for self, and so did I; we fareAlike in after-life, we differ hereIn consciousness of immortality.But I digress.Where is the right and wrong?This is the Gordian knot no sword can cut,All sages of the world, with wisdom-teeth,Have gnawed this file without the least effect.The thousand savants of old Greece and RomeProclaimed a thousand theories of good,That each, successive, proud devoid of truth.A myriad moderns have advanced their views,Each gained a few disciples, who avowed their truth,And each, by some one else, been proven wrong.A Bentham marches out utility,A moral test from benefit or harm.As if the good depended on effect,And good would not be good, though universeIn all its phases found no use! And PriceParades his “reason,” with its simple good;Who’d rather give the question up, than err,And so declares it cannot be defined.Then Wollaston declares that good is truth,Which no one doubts, far as it goes; it goesToward good, as far as truth, its attribute;Beyond, it cannot reach. And MontesquieuAnd Clarke, relation’s order preach; a ruleThat makes the growing grain, or falling shower,A moral agent, capable of good.Then Wolf and Malebranche perfection see,And therefore good, in God; but their sight fails,And God may mirror good, but man’s weak eyesNe’er see it. Adam Smith, with “sentiment”Proceeds to dress a thought, and call it, good;And makes the abstract of a UniverseArise from puling human sympathy.The largest concourse follow Hutcheson,Although the greater part ne’er heard of him.The world at large believes in moral sense;They call it conscience! Oh the precious word!Though stretched and warped, they almost deify,And term it man’s tribunal in his breast,Where he may judge his actions, right or wrong.What nonsense! Conscience is but consciousnessOf soul, and idea of its good. We formThis idea from regard of fellow-men,Association, and from thought. We findSometimes the good of soul conflicts with flesh,And when we know the soul above the flesh,We yield to that the preference. Hence ariseThe foolish notions of self disregard.The savage does not know he has a soul,And therefore has no conscience. He can stealWithout remorse. But when he learns of soul,He finds it has a good, and by this testTries moral actions, are they good for soul?And this is conscience.Yet is conscience changedBy circumstance. The Hindoo mother tearsThe helpless infant from her trickling breast,To feed the crocodile, and save her soul;She’s happier in its conscience-murdered wailThan in its gleeful prattle on her knee.And daily we see one commit a deedWithout a pang, another dare not do.If conscience may be warped but one degreeBy plain Sorites, it may be reversed,And only prove an interested thought.To abstract good no man has found the key,Though in the various forms of concrete goodWe see the similars, and from these frameA good that serves the purposes of life.We pass it as we do the concept, “Man,”But never ope to count the attributes.Our purest right is but approximateTo this vague abstract idea, how obtained,We know not. Plato says ’tis memoryOf previous life. Perhaps! ’Tis very dimIn this; and yet it rocks the cradle worldAs strongly as the baby man can bearAnd so of truth, or aught abstract, we knowOf such existence somewhere, that is all.“But we,” cries one, “do hold some abstract truth,In perfect form. The truth of science’ laws,The truths of numbers, each are perfect truths.”The truths of science are hypotheses,And only true as far as they explain.But perfect truth must save all facts,That ever rose or possibly can rise.“The priest of Nature” thought he held the truthWhen throughout space he tracked the motes of light,And ground the sunbeams into dazzling dust.Our quivering waves through subtle ether flash,And drown Sir Isaac’s atoms in a floodOf glorious truth; till some new fact shall riseTo give our truth the lie, and cause a changeOf theory.Our numbers no truth have,Or but a shadow, cast on Earth by truthExistent in some unknown world. We makeOur little numbers fit the shadow’s lineAs best they can, and boast eternal truth!Yet take a simple form of numbers, “two,”We cannot have a perfect thought of this,Because the mind directly asks, two what?’Tis not enough chameleon to feedOn empty air. Two units, we replyThen what is meant by unity? An “One,”—The mind can only cognize o-n-e,Which makes three units and not one.The mindMust have a concrete object to adjustThe abstract on, before it comprehends.But two concretes are never two, becauseThey never can be proved exactly ’like.To illustrate: suppose two ivory balls,Of finest mold, and equal weight, preciseAs hair-hung scales, arranged most delicate,Can prove; yet they can not be shownTo differ, not the trillionth of a grain;Or if they could, they may in densityBe unlike; then to equal weight, one mustBe larger by the trillionth of an inch.Even if alike in density and weight,No one will dare assert that they possessA perfect similarity in all.The abstract two is twice as much as one,But our two balls unlike, perforce must beGreater or less than two of either one;But two of one, the same can never beOn poor, imperfect Earth. Thus all our twosFall, in some measure, short of concept two.And if we paint the concept to the eye,The figure 2 of finest stereotype,Beneath the microscope imperfect shows.And so our perfect numbers, wisdom’s boast,Are faint, uncertain shadows in the mind,That we can never picture to the eye,Nor truthfully apply to anything.We use a ragged, ill-drawn substitute,That answers all the purposes of life.The truths of mathematics, so sublime,Are never true to us, concretely known;And in the abstract so concealed are they,No man can swear he has their perfect form.We can’t conceive a line without some breadth—The perfect line possesses length alone;Earth never saw a pure right-angle drawn,Pythag’ras cannot prove his theorem,The finest quadrant is but nearest truth,The closest measures but approximate,And all from Sanconiathon to Pierce,With grandest soaring into Number’s realms,Have only fluttered feebly o’er the ground,Their heaven-strong wings by feebling matter tied.Man is a pris’ner, but the prison wallsAre very vast; so vast the universeLies, like a mote, within their mighty scope.Most are content to grovel on the earth,Some rise a little way, and sink again;And some, on noble wing, soar to the bounds,And eager beat the bars. Beyond these wallsThe abstract lies, and oft the straggling rays,Through crevices and chinks, stray to our jail;And these we fondly hug as truth.Poor man!The glimpses of the great Beyond have roused,For centuries, his curious soul to flight.With eagle eye fixed on the distant goal,He cleaves his way, till dashed against the walls;Some fall with bruiséd wing again to Earth,And some cling bravely there, so eager theyTo reach the untouched prize, and so intentTheir gaze upon its light, they notice notThe bounds, till Hamilton, with wary eye,Discovers the Eternal bounding line,And sadly shows its hopeless fixity.But man on Earth I love to ridicule,A little clod of sordid selfishness!I’ll take his mental acts of every kindAnd see how self originates them all;I’ll follow Stewart, since he classifiesWith shrewd discretion, though his reasoning err,He places first the appetites; and thesePerforce are selfish, as our self aloneMust feel and suffer with our wants. Our foodTastes good alone to us. The richest feast,In others’ mouths, could never satisfyOur appetite for food; self must be fed.Desires are next; and that of knowledge, first,Is proven selfish, by his quoted lineFrom Cicero—that “knowledge is the foodOf mind”—and food is ever sought for self.Desire of social intercourse with men,From thought that it will better self, proceeds.Man’s state is friendly, not a state of war,For instinct teaches him societyWill offer many benefits to self;And only when he has a cause to fearThat self will suffer, does he learn to war.Desire to gain esteem, is self in searchOf approbation; like the appetite,The end pursued affects alone the self.And lastly Stewart boasts posthumous fame,When self, as sacrificed, can seek no good.To prove the motive is a selfish good,I’ll not assert enjoyment after life,But say, the pleasure of the millions’ praise,Anticipated in the present thought,And intense consciousness of heroism,Far more than compensates the pangs of death.A Curtius leaping down the dread abyss,Enjoys his fame enough, before he strikes,To pay for every pain of mangling death.Affections next adorn the moral page.At that of kindred, mothers cry aloud:“For shame! for shame! do you pretend to sayI love my child with any thought of self?When I would lay my arm upon the block,And have it severed for his slightest good!”I’ll square your love by Reason’s rigid rule,And test its source. Why do you love him so?For benefit he has conferred, or may?No, as the helpless babe, demanding care,You love him most. Your love is instinct then,And like the cow her calf, you love your child;That you may care for him, before self moves.Then do you love him always just the same,When rude and bad as when obedient?But I’ll dissect your love, and take awayEach part affecting self; and see what’s left.He now has grown beyond your instinct love;You love him, first, because he is your son,And you would suffer blame, if you did not;You love him, too, because he does reflectA credit on yourself. You feel assuredThat others thinking well of him, think wellOf you. Because it flatters all your prideTo think so fine a life is part of yours;Because his high opinion of your worthEvokes a meet return; because you lookInto the future, and see honors brightAwaiting you through him; because you feelThe world is praising you for loving him,And would condemn you, did you not. And last,You feel the pleasure deep of self-esteem,Because you fill the public’s and your ownRomantic ideas of a mother’s love.Let each component part be now destroyed,And see if still you love him. As a man,He plunges into vice of vilest kinds;His bright reflections on yourself are gone,And people think the worse of you, for him;You never smile, but frown, upon him now,But still you love him dearly! To his viceHe adds a crime, a foul and blasting crime;Your pride is gone, you feel a bitter shame,A score of opposites to love creep in;A righteous anger at his foolish sins,A just contempt for nature, weak as his;But yet you love him fondly, for the worldIs lauding you for “mother’s holy love”;And you delight its clinging strength to show,You gain in public credit by your woes,And get the soothing martyr’s sympathy.But let him still grow worse, and sink so low,That people say you are disgraced through him,Your warmest friends will not acquaintance own,Your love for such an object’s ridiculed,And gains respect from none. Your only chanceIs to disown him. How you loud proclaim,“He’s not my child but by the accidentOf birth!”Do yet you love him in your heart?This then because you think yourself so good,So heaven-like, for loving him disgraced,You go to see him in the shameful jail;He spits upon, and beats you from his cell,And tells you that he hates your very name.Now all your love is gone, except the glowOf pity for him chained to dungeon floor;But he’s released, and deeper goes in crime;Then, lastly, Pity yields. Your heart is stone!But love was only touched in selfish part,Yet should you still deny your love is self’s;Of several children, do you not love mostThe one whose conduct pleases most yourself?But love, unselfish, never could be movedBy anything affecting self alone.The throbbing hearts of lovers beat for self,And this I’ll prove, though Pyramus may vowHe has no thought but Thisbe.Take awayLove’s sensual part, which is an appetite,And therefore selfish, by its Nature’s law;And what remains is, first, a slight conceitAt our discernment in the choice we’ve made,And then a pride that we have won the prize;A pride, that some one thinks we are the best;A pleasure in her presence, too, we feel,Because in every look she manifestsHer preference for us. This is flatteringBeyond all else that we have ever known.A friend may raise our self-esteem, indeed,By showing constantly his own esteem,But never can man’s vanity receiveA higher tribute than a woman’s love!This tribute, we, of course, reciprocate,And when together, we increase self-loveBy mutual words expressing our regard.Yet when our love is deepest, if we findOur Self is not so worshipped as we thought,Our love grows cold; and when we are not lovedWe cease to love. To illustrate permit:You’re on the topmost wave of fervid love—A wilder flame than poets ever sung;You’ve passed the timid declaration’s bounds,And revel in a full assured return.There is no need for check upon your heart,It has full leave to pour its gushing tideOf feeling forth, and meet responsive floods.You meet her in the parlor’s solitude,No meddling eye to watch the sacred scene.The purple curtains hang their corded foldsBefore the tell-tale windows; closed the door,And sealed with softest list. The rich divanIs drawn before the ruddy grate that glowsWith red between the bars, and blue above.You sit beside The Angel of your dreams,And gaze in adoration. What a form!Revealed in faultless symmetry by robesOf rare, exquisite elegance, and taste,That fit the tap’ring waist and arching neck.And how superbly flow the torrents of her hair!Which she has shaken loose, because “it’s you”;Her great brown eyes that gaze so dreamilyUpon the flowers of the vellum-screenThat wards the fire from her tinted cheek!One hollow foot, in dainty, bronze bootee,Tapping the tufted lion on the rug;A snowy hand with blazing solitaire—The pledge of your betrothal—nestling softWithin your own.And thus you sit, and breatheWith tones so soft, because the ear’s so near,The mutual confidence of little cares;And how you longed for months to tell your love,But feared a cold rebuke; and how you daredTo hope through all the gloom; and how you grievedAt every favor shown to other men;How now the clouds have flown away,And all is brightness, joy, and tender love.Then drawing nearer, round the slender waistYou pass an arm; and nestling cheek to cheek,Palm throbbing palm, you hush all useless words,And thought meets thought, in silent love.And now and then, you leave the cheek, to kissThe coral lips; yet not with transient touch,But with a fervid, lingering pressure there,As if you longed to force the lips apart,And drink the soul; while both her melting orbsAre drooped beneath your burning inch-near eyes.The parting hour must come. The good-night said,You rise to leave; and turning, at the door,You see her head drooped on the sofa’s arm,You fancy she is sighing that you’re gone;And stealing back on tiptoe, gently raiseThe beauteous face, and take it ’twixt your palms;And gazing on the features radiant,Distorted queerly by your pressing hands,You feel that life, the parting cannot bear,That you must stay forever there, or die!Another effort, one more nectar sip,You rush from out the room, and slam the door,Just on the steps, you meet your rival’s face.He has an easy confidence, and walksInto the house, as if it were his own.Poor fellow! how you really pity him!You can afford to be magnanimous,And deprecate his certain, cruel fate.You murmur: “Well, he brings it on himself,”And turn to go. The window’s near the ground,And slightly raised. Although you know it’s mean,You cannot now resist, but creep up near,And with a finger part the curtain’s fringe.You see your darling run across the roomWith both extended hands, and hear her say:“Oh Fred! I am so very glad you’ve come,I feared that stupid thing would never leave,I had to let him take my hand awhile,And mumble over it, to get him off.”
None ever have, nor ever will, on earth,Reach truth of theory concerning Fate.It stands as whole from every touch of manAs ocean’s broad blue scroll, whose rubber wavesErase the furrows of the plowing keels.Then, careless whether man be king or slave,I’ll take his actions, whether free or not,And trace them to their sources. Deep the dive,But, throwing off the buoys of CharityAnd Faith, and all the prejudice of life,I grasp the lead of Doubt, and downward sinkInto the cesspool of the human heart,To find the fount, that to the surface castsA thousand bubbles of such varied hues:The pale white bubble of hypocrisy,The murky bubble of revenge and hate,The frail gilt bubble of ambition’s hope,The rainbow bubble of sweet love in youth,The dull slime bubble of a sensual lust,The crystal bubble of true charity!Instead of analyzing every factOf moral nature, searching for its source,I’ll name a source most probable, and tryThe facts upon it; if they fit, confirm,If not, reject. With Hobbes and Paley thenI join; and here avow that all mankindHave but one source of action—Love of self—Yet not self-love as understands the world,For that’s a name for error shown by few;But natural instinct that impels all menTo give self pleasure, and to save it pain;For pain and pleasure are Life’s only modes—No neutral state—we suffer, or enjoy;And every action’s linked with one of these.We cannot act without a consciousness,A consciousness of pleasure or of pain,The very automatic workings of our framesAre pleasures, unmarked from their constancy;But if impeded, they produce a pain.This instinct, teaching us to pleasure seek,And pain avoid, none ever disobey;For be their conduct what it may, a crimeOr virtue, greed or pure benevolence,To find the greatest pleasure is their aim.Nay, start not, critic, but attend the proofs.A man exists within himself alone,Himself, or he would lose identity.To him the world exists but by effectsUpon himself. His actions toward it thenBear reference to himself. He cannot actWithout affecting self. His nature’s lawDemands that self be dealt with pleasantly.There is no pain or pleasure in the world,But as he feels th’ reality in self,Or fancies it by signs in other men.This fancied pain is neverrealpain,But yields arealreflex. Others’ painIs never pain to us, unless we knowIt does exist. Within a hundred yardsA neighbor dies, in agony intense,And yet we feel no slightest trace of pain,Unless informed thereof. ’Tis only when we know,And therefore are affected, that we feel.The modes of pain and pleasure are then two,A real and a fancied one. The first acute,In ratio of our sensibilities;The last in ratio of our image-power.These gifts in different men unequal are,And hence life’s varied phases. One may deemA real pain far greater than a painIn fancy formed, from others’ sufferings;He eats alone, and drives the starving off.Another’s fancy paints more vividly,And he endures keen hunger to supplyThe poor with food. And so of pleasure too,—And this moves all to shun the greatest pain,And find the greatest pleasure.Different minds,And each at different times of life, possessA different standard of this highest good.The swaddled infant wails for its own food,Because its highest pleasure is alone in sense;The child will from its playmate hide a cakeUntil it learns that praise for sharing itGives greater pleasure than the sweetened taste;One boy at school proves insubordinate,His schoolmates’ praise he deems his highest good;Another studies well, because he values moreA parent’s smile. The murderer with his knife,The maiden praying in her purity,The miser dying over hoards of gold,The widow casting thither her two mites,A white-veil bending o’er the dying couch,A stained beauty floating through the waltz,The preacher’s zeal, the gambler’s eager zest;All have one motive, greatest good to self!The tender stop their ears, and cry aloud:“What! do you dare assert the gambler seeksWith hellish zeal the faintest shade of good?That he is holy as the Man of God?”By no means, yet he seeks his good the same.Not good as you’ve been taught to apprehend,But good, the greatest to his frame of mind.Do not exclaim that good is always good,And never differs from itself. AnonWe’ll speak of abstract truths, if such there beThat good and pleasure are synonymousAt times of action, is most surely plain;For pleasure’s but the consciousness of good,Or satisfaction of our tendencies.If all the gambler’s soul is bent on gain,Then at the moment gain is greatest good;But should you reason with him, and explainAnother life, and make it really seemTo him the best, he straight would change his course.“But,” cries my friend, “the preacher, if he’s true,Must labor, not for self, but others’ good;And in proportion as the self’s forgot,And others cared for, does his conduct rise.”But he can not, if conscious, forget self,For everything he does is felt within;But deeds for others’ good a pleasure give;If done in pain to self, the pleasure’s more.To gain the pleasure, self is put to pain,Just as a vesication brings relief.If he refused to undergo the painRemorse would double it.Among his flockSome one is sick; to visit him is right,And done, affords a pleasure. Sweeter farThat pleasure, if he walks through snow and ice,At duty’s call!Sublime self-sacrifice,Of which men prate, is nothing more nor lessThan base self-worship. Little pain enduredT’ avoid a great; a smaller pleasure lostTo gain a larger!All the preacher’s words,That burn or die upon the stolid ear,Are spoken from this motive, good to self.You stare; but it is true. Why does he preach?To save men’s souls?—Why does he try to save?Because he loves his fellow-men? Not so.His love for them but to the pleasure adds,Which duty done confers; but all his workMust be with reference to himself alone,Though cunning self the real motive hides,And leaves his broad philanthropy and loveTo claim the merit. Let a score of men,The blackest sinners, die. He knows it not,And feels no pang; but if he is informed,He suffers reflex pain. And if his charge,Remorseful tortures for unfaithfulness.And only is the state of souls to himOf interest, as they are known. When known,It is a source of pleasure or of painWhich all his labor is to gain or shun.“This difference then,” says one, “between men’s lives;Some live for present, some for future good.The sensual care for self on earth alone,The mystic cares for self beyond the grave.”Both love a present self, in present time.They differ in their notions of its good.The stern ascetic, with his shirt of hair,His bleeding penitential knees, his fastsTo almost death, his soul-exhausting prayers,Is seeking, cries the world, good after death.And yet his course of life is that aloneWhich could yield pleasure in his state of mind.He suffers, it is true, but hope of HeavenThus rendered sure, as much a present goodIs, as the food that feasts the epicure.The contemplation of his future home,Which he is thus securing, is a balmThat heals his stripes, and sweetens all their pain.The penance blows upon his blood-wealed breastAre bliss compared to lashes of remorse.So for the greater good, the hope of Heaven,He undergoes “the trivial pain of flesh.”The epicure cares not a fig for Heaven,But finds his greatest good in pleasing sense.And so the man who gives his wealth awayIs just as selfish as the money-slaveWho grinds out life amid his dusty bags.They both seek happiness with equal zest:The one finds pleasure in the many thanksOf those receiving, or the public’s praise,Or if concealed, in consciousness of right;The other in the consciousness of wealth.If all men act from motives just the same,Where is the right and wrong? In the effect?The quality of actions must be judgedFrom their intent, and not their consequence.If two men matches light for their cigars,And from one careless dropped, a house is burned,Is he that dropped it guiltier of crimeThan he whose match went out? Most surely no!Then is the miser blameless, though he turnThe helpless orphan freezing from his door;And Dives should not be commended more,Though all his goods to feed the poor he gives.How then shall we determine qualityOf actions, when their sources are the same,And their effects possess no quality?Two dead men lie in blood beside the way,The one shot by a friend, an accident;The other murdered for his gold. ’Tis plainNo wrong lies in th’ effects, for both are ’like;And of the agents, he of accidentHad no intent, and therefore did no wrong.The other killed to satisfy the self,A motive founding all the Christian work,And right if that is right. The wrongThen lies between the motive and effect,And must exist in the effecting means.Yet how within the means is wrong proved wrong?Jouffroy would say, because a disregardOf others’ rights; for here he places good,When classifying Nature’s moral facts.He makes the child first serve flesh self,Then moral self, and last to others’ goodAscend, and general order. What a myth!As if man thought of others, save effectFrom them upon himself. But order givesA greater good to self; therefore he joinsHis strength to others, creates laws that bindHimself and them, and produce harmony.He thus surrenders minor good of self,To gain a greater. This is all the needHe has of order, though Jouffroy assertsThat order universal is the Good.Yet still he says that private good of eachIs but a fragment of the absolute,And that regard for every being’s rightsIs binding as the universal law!Regard for others’ rights indeed, when menUnharmed agree to hang a man for crime!Not for the crime—that’s past; but to preventA second crime, which crime alone existsIn apprehensive fancy. Thus for wrongThat’s but forethought, they do a real wrong.To save their rights from harm they fear may come.They strip a fellow-man of actual right,And highest, right of life; then dare to callTheir action pure, divinely just, and good,And all the farce of empty names.They makeOf gross injustice individual,A flimsy justice, for mankind at large,And cry, Let it be done, though Heaven fall!As if a whole could differ from its parts,Or right be made from wrong. Yet some may sayThat one is sacrificed for many’s good,Or hung that many may avoid his fate;And that his crime deserved what he received.But law must value every man alike,And cannot save one man, or thousand men,From future evil, only possible,By greatest evil to another man,In its own view of justice. Nor can crimeMeet punishment, at mortal hands, by right,For murder’s murder, done by one or twelve,And legal murder’s done in colder blood,Whose stains are chalked by vain authority.Authority! the child of numbers and self-love!Regard for rights of things, indeed, when beastsAnd birds must yield their right of life that manMay please his right of taste. When, during Lent,The holy-days of fasting and of prayer,The scaly victims crowd the Bishop’s board,Their flesh unfleshed by Conscience’ pliant rule,Our palates must be for a moment pleased,Though costing something agonies of death;And worse than robbers, what we cannot give,We dare to take.They have no souls, say you?Nor after death exist?That nothing’s lost,Philosophy maintains as axiom truth.An object disappears, but somewhere livesIn other form. The water-pool to mistIs changed, the powder into flame and smoke.My pointer dies, his body, decomposed,The air, the soil, and vegetation feeds;Yet still exists, although disintegrate.For there was something, while the pointer lived,That was not body, but that governed it,A spirit, essence, call it what you will,A something seen but through phenomena,And by them proved most clearly to exist.A something, not the feet that made them run,A something, not the eyes, but knew they saw,A something, without which the eyes could seeAs much as glasses can without the eye,The something, “Carlo” named, that knew the name.The pointer dies, and we dissect the flesh.All there, none missing, to the tiniest nerve;Yet something’s gone, the more important part,And can you say that it has ceased to be,When th’ flesh, inferior to it, still exists?The spirit, if existent, must be whole,Nor can be parted till material proven.That Carlo lives, seems plain as I shall live;He lived for self, and so did I; we fareAlike in after-life, we differ hereIn consciousness of immortality.But I digress.Where is the right and wrong?This is the Gordian knot no sword can cut,All sages of the world, with wisdom-teeth,Have gnawed this file without the least effect.The thousand savants of old Greece and RomeProclaimed a thousand theories of good,That each, successive, proud devoid of truth.A myriad moderns have advanced their views,Each gained a few disciples, who avowed their truth,And each, by some one else, been proven wrong.A Bentham marches out utility,A moral test from benefit or harm.As if the good depended on effect,And good would not be good, though universeIn all its phases found no use! And PriceParades his “reason,” with its simple good;Who’d rather give the question up, than err,And so declares it cannot be defined.Then Wollaston declares that good is truth,Which no one doubts, far as it goes; it goesToward good, as far as truth, its attribute;Beyond, it cannot reach. And MontesquieuAnd Clarke, relation’s order preach; a ruleThat makes the growing grain, or falling shower,A moral agent, capable of good.Then Wolf and Malebranche perfection see,And therefore good, in God; but their sight fails,And God may mirror good, but man’s weak eyesNe’er see it. Adam Smith, with “sentiment”Proceeds to dress a thought, and call it, good;And makes the abstract of a UniverseArise from puling human sympathy.The largest concourse follow Hutcheson,Although the greater part ne’er heard of him.The world at large believes in moral sense;They call it conscience! Oh the precious word!Though stretched and warped, they almost deify,And term it man’s tribunal in his breast,Where he may judge his actions, right or wrong.What nonsense! Conscience is but consciousnessOf soul, and idea of its good. We formThis idea from regard of fellow-men,Association, and from thought. We findSometimes the good of soul conflicts with flesh,And when we know the soul above the flesh,We yield to that the preference. Hence ariseThe foolish notions of self disregard.The savage does not know he has a soul,And therefore has no conscience. He can stealWithout remorse. But when he learns of soul,He finds it has a good, and by this testTries moral actions, are they good for soul?And this is conscience.Yet is conscience changedBy circumstance. The Hindoo mother tearsThe helpless infant from her trickling breast,To feed the crocodile, and save her soul;She’s happier in its conscience-murdered wailThan in its gleeful prattle on her knee.And daily we see one commit a deedWithout a pang, another dare not do.If conscience may be warped but one degreeBy plain Sorites, it may be reversed,And only prove an interested thought.To abstract good no man has found the key,Though in the various forms of concrete goodWe see the similars, and from these frameA good that serves the purposes of life.We pass it as we do the concept, “Man,”But never ope to count the attributes.Our purest right is but approximateTo this vague abstract idea, how obtained,We know not. Plato says ’tis memoryOf previous life. Perhaps! ’Tis very dimIn this; and yet it rocks the cradle worldAs strongly as the baby man can bearAnd so of truth, or aught abstract, we knowOf such existence somewhere, that is all.“But we,” cries one, “do hold some abstract truth,In perfect form. The truth of science’ laws,The truths of numbers, each are perfect truths.”The truths of science are hypotheses,And only true as far as they explain.But perfect truth must save all facts,That ever rose or possibly can rise.“The priest of Nature” thought he held the truthWhen throughout space he tracked the motes of light,And ground the sunbeams into dazzling dust.Our quivering waves through subtle ether flash,And drown Sir Isaac’s atoms in a floodOf glorious truth; till some new fact shall riseTo give our truth the lie, and cause a changeOf theory.Our numbers no truth have,Or but a shadow, cast on Earth by truthExistent in some unknown world. We makeOur little numbers fit the shadow’s lineAs best they can, and boast eternal truth!Yet take a simple form of numbers, “two,”We cannot have a perfect thought of this,Because the mind directly asks, two what?’Tis not enough chameleon to feedOn empty air. Two units, we replyThen what is meant by unity? An “One,”—The mind can only cognize o-n-e,Which makes three units and not one.The mindMust have a concrete object to adjustThe abstract on, before it comprehends.But two concretes are never two, becauseThey never can be proved exactly ’like.To illustrate: suppose two ivory balls,Of finest mold, and equal weight, preciseAs hair-hung scales, arranged most delicate,Can prove; yet they can not be shownTo differ, not the trillionth of a grain;Or if they could, they may in densityBe unlike; then to equal weight, one mustBe larger by the trillionth of an inch.Even if alike in density and weight,No one will dare assert that they possessA perfect similarity in all.The abstract two is twice as much as one,But our two balls unlike, perforce must beGreater or less than two of either one;But two of one, the same can never beOn poor, imperfect Earth. Thus all our twosFall, in some measure, short of concept two.And if we paint the concept to the eye,The figure 2 of finest stereotype,Beneath the microscope imperfect shows.And so our perfect numbers, wisdom’s boast,Are faint, uncertain shadows in the mind,That we can never picture to the eye,Nor truthfully apply to anything.We use a ragged, ill-drawn substitute,That answers all the purposes of life.The truths of mathematics, so sublime,Are never true to us, concretely known;And in the abstract so concealed are they,No man can swear he has their perfect form.We can’t conceive a line without some breadth—The perfect line possesses length alone;Earth never saw a pure right-angle drawn,Pythag’ras cannot prove his theorem,The finest quadrant is but nearest truth,The closest measures but approximate,And all from Sanconiathon to Pierce,With grandest soaring into Number’s realms,Have only fluttered feebly o’er the ground,Their heaven-strong wings by feebling matter tied.Man is a pris’ner, but the prison wallsAre very vast; so vast the universeLies, like a mote, within their mighty scope.Most are content to grovel on the earth,Some rise a little way, and sink again;And some, on noble wing, soar to the bounds,And eager beat the bars. Beyond these wallsThe abstract lies, and oft the straggling rays,Through crevices and chinks, stray to our jail;And these we fondly hug as truth.Poor man!The glimpses of the great Beyond have roused,For centuries, his curious soul to flight.With eagle eye fixed on the distant goal,He cleaves his way, till dashed against the walls;Some fall with bruiséd wing again to Earth,And some cling bravely there, so eager theyTo reach the untouched prize, and so intentTheir gaze upon its light, they notice notThe bounds, till Hamilton, with wary eye,Discovers the Eternal bounding line,And sadly shows its hopeless fixity.But man on Earth I love to ridicule,A little clod of sordid selfishness!I’ll take his mental acts of every kindAnd see how self originates them all;I’ll follow Stewart, since he classifiesWith shrewd discretion, though his reasoning err,He places first the appetites; and thesePerforce are selfish, as our self aloneMust feel and suffer with our wants. Our foodTastes good alone to us. The richest feast,In others’ mouths, could never satisfyOur appetite for food; self must be fed.Desires are next; and that of knowledge, first,Is proven selfish, by his quoted lineFrom Cicero—that “knowledge is the foodOf mind”—and food is ever sought for self.Desire of social intercourse with men,From thought that it will better self, proceeds.Man’s state is friendly, not a state of war,For instinct teaches him societyWill offer many benefits to self;And only when he has a cause to fearThat self will suffer, does he learn to war.Desire to gain esteem, is self in searchOf approbation; like the appetite,The end pursued affects alone the self.And lastly Stewart boasts posthumous fame,When self, as sacrificed, can seek no good.To prove the motive is a selfish good,I’ll not assert enjoyment after life,But say, the pleasure of the millions’ praise,Anticipated in the present thought,And intense consciousness of heroism,Far more than compensates the pangs of death.A Curtius leaping down the dread abyss,Enjoys his fame enough, before he strikes,To pay for every pain of mangling death.Affections next adorn the moral page.At that of kindred, mothers cry aloud:“For shame! for shame! do you pretend to sayI love my child with any thought of self?When I would lay my arm upon the block,And have it severed for his slightest good!”I’ll square your love by Reason’s rigid rule,And test its source. Why do you love him so?For benefit he has conferred, or may?No, as the helpless babe, demanding care,You love him most. Your love is instinct then,And like the cow her calf, you love your child;That you may care for him, before self moves.Then do you love him always just the same,When rude and bad as when obedient?But I’ll dissect your love, and take awayEach part affecting self; and see what’s left.He now has grown beyond your instinct love;You love him, first, because he is your son,And you would suffer blame, if you did not;You love him, too, because he does reflectA credit on yourself. You feel assuredThat others thinking well of him, think wellOf you. Because it flatters all your prideTo think so fine a life is part of yours;Because his high opinion of your worthEvokes a meet return; because you lookInto the future, and see honors brightAwaiting you through him; because you feelThe world is praising you for loving him,And would condemn you, did you not. And last,You feel the pleasure deep of self-esteem,Because you fill the public’s and your ownRomantic ideas of a mother’s love.Let each component part be now destroyed,And see if still you love him. As a man,He plunges into vice of vilest kinds;His bright reflections on yourself are gone,And people think the worse of you, for him;You never smile, but frown, upon him now,But still you love him dearly! To his viceHe adds a crime, a foul and blasting crime;Your pride is gone, you feel a bitter shame,A score of opposites to love creep in;A righteous anger at his foolish sins,A just contempt for nature, weak as his;But yet you love him fondly, for the worldIs lauding you for “mother’s holy love”;And you delight its clinging strength to show,You gain in public credit by your woes,And get the soothing martyr’s sympathy.But let him still grow worse, and sink so low,That people say you are disgraced through him,Your warmest friends will not acquaintance own,Your love for such an object’s ridiculed,And gains respect from none. Your only chanceIs to disown him. How you loud proclaim,“He’s not my child but by the accidentOf birth!”Do yet you love him in your heart?This then because you think yourself so good,So heaven-like, for loving him disgraced,You go to see him in the shameful jail;He spits upon, and beats you from his cell,And tells you that he hates your very name.Now all your love is gone, except the glowOf pity for him chained to dungeon floor;But he’s released, and deeper goes in crime;Then, lastly, Pity yields. Your heart is stone!But love was only touched in selfish part,Yet should you still deny your love is self’s;Of several children, do you not love mostThe one whose conduct pleases most yourself?But love, unselfish, never could be movedBy anything affecting self alone.The throbbing hearts of lovers beat for self,And this I’ll prove, though Pyramus may vowHe has no thought but Thisbe.Take awayLove’s sensual part, which is an appetite,And therefore selfish, by its Nature’s law;And what remains is, first, a slight conceitAt our discernment in the choice we’ve made,And then a pride that we have won the prize;A pride, that some one thinks we are the best;A pleasure in her presence, too, we feel,Because in every look she manifestsHer preference for us. This is flatteringBeyond all else that we have ever known.A friend may raise our self-esteem, indeed,By showing constantly his own esteem,But never can man’s vanity receiveA higher tribute than a woman’s love!This tribute, we, of course, reciprocate,And when together, we increase self-loveBy mutual words expressing our regard.Yet when our love is deepest, if we findOur Self is not so worshipped as we thought,Our love grows cold; and when we are not lovedWe cease to love. To illustrate permit:You’re on the topmost wave of fervid love—A wilder flame than poets ever sung;You’ve passed the timid declaration’s bounds,And revel in a full assured return.There is no need for check upon your heart,It has full leave to pour its gushing tideOf feeling forth, and meet responsive floods.You meet her in the parlor’s solitude,No meddling eye to watch the sacred scene.The purple curtains hang their corded foldsBefore the tell-tale windows; closed the door,And sealed with softest list. The rich divanIs drawn before the ruddy grate that glowsWith red between the bars, and blue above.You sit beside The Angel of your dreams,And gaze in adoration. What a form!Revealed in faultless symmetry by robesOf rare, exquisite elegance, and taste,That fit the tap’ring waist and arching neck.And how superbly flow the torrents of her hair!Which she has shaken loose, because “it’s you”;Her great brown eyes that gaze so dreamilyUpon the flowers of the vellum-screenThat wards the fire from her tinted cheek!One hollow foot, in dainty, bronze bootee,Tapping the tufted lion on the rug;A snowy hand with blazing solitaire—The pledge of your betrothal—nestling softWithin your own.And thus you sit, and breatheWith tones so soft, because the ear’s so near,The mutual confidence of little cares;And how you longed for months to tell your love,But feared a cold rebuke; and how you daredTo hope through all the gloom; and how you grievedAt every favor shown to other men;How now the clouds have flown away,And all is brightness, joy, and tender love.Then drawing nearer, round the slender waistYou pass an arm; and nestling cheek to cheek,Palm throbbing palm, you hush all useless words,And thought meets thought, in silent love.And now and then, you leave the cheek, to kissThe coral lips; yet not with transient touch,But with a fervid, lingering pressure there,As if you longed to force the lips apart,And drink the soul; while both her melting orbsAre drooped beneath your burning inch-near eyes.The parting hour must come. The good-night said,You rise to leave; and turning, at the door,You see her head drooped on the sofa’s arm,You fancy she is sighing that you’re gone;And stealing back on tiptoe, gently raiseThe beauteous face, and take it ’twixt your palms;And gazing on the features radiant,Distorted queerly by your pressing hands,You feel that life, the parting cannot bear,That you must stay forever there, or die!Another effort, one more nectar sip,You rush from out the room, and slam the door,Just on the steps, you meet your rival’s face.He has an easy confidence, and walksInto the house, as if it were his own.Poor fellow! how you really pity him!You can afford to be magnanimous,And deprecate his certain, cruel fate.You murmur: “Well, he brings it on himself,”And turn to go. The window’s near the ground,And slightly raised. Although you know it’s mean,You cannot now resist, but creep up near,And with a finger part the curtain’s fringe.You see your darling run across the roomWith both extended hands, and hear her say:“Oh Fred! I am so very glad you’ve come,I feared that stupid thing would never leave,I had to let him take my hand awhile,And mumble over it, to get him off.”
None ever have, nor ever will, on earth,Reach truth of theory concerning Fate.It stands as whole from every touch of manAs ocean’s broad blue scroll, whose rubber wavesErase the furrows of the plowing keels.
Then, careless whether man be king or slave,I’ll take his actions, whether free or not,And trace them to their sources. Deep the dive,But, throwing off the buoys of CharityAnd Faith, and all the prejudice of life,I grasp the lead of Doubt, and downward sinkInto the cesspool of the human heart,To find the fount, that to the surface castsA thousand bubbles of such varied hues:The pale white bubble of hypocrisy,The murky bubble of revenge and hate,The frail gilt bubble of ambition’s hope,The rainbow bubble of sweet love in youth,The dull slime bubble of a sensual lust,The crystal bubble of true charity!Instead of analyzing every factOf moral nature, searching for its source,I’ll name a source most probable, and tryThe facts upon it; if they fit, confirm,If not, reject. With Hobbes and Paley thenI join; and here avow that all mankindHave but one source of action—Love of self—Yet not self-love as understands the world,For that’s a name for error shown by few;But natural instinct that impels all menTo give self pleasure, and to save it pain;For pain and pleasure are Life’s only modes—No neutral state—we suffer, or enjoy;And every action’s linked with one of these.We cannot act without a consciousness,A consciousness of pleasure or of pain,The very automatic workings of our framesAre pleasures, unmarked from their constancy;But if impeded, they produce a pain.This instinct, teaching us to pleasure seek,And pain avoid, none ever disobey;For be their conduct what it may, a crimeOr virtue, greed or pure benevolence,To find the greatest pleasure is their aim.Nay, start not, critic, but attend the proofs.A man exists within himself alone,Himself, or he would lose identity.To him the world exists but by effectsUpon himself. His actions toward it thenBear reference to himself. He cannot actWithout affecting self. His nature’s lawDemands that self be dealt with pleasantly.
There is no pain or pleasure in the world,But as he feels th’ reality in self,Or fancies it by signs in other men.This fancied pain is neverrealpain,But yields arealreflex. Others’ painIs never pain to us, unless we knowIt does exist. Within a hundred yardsA neighbor dies, in agony intense,And yet we feel no slightest trace of pain,Unless informed thereof. ’Tis only when we know,And therefore are affected, that we feel.
The modes of pain and pleasure are then two,A real and a fancied one. The first acute,In ratio of our sensibilities;The last in ratio of our image-power.These gifts in different men unequal are,And hence life’s varied phases. One may deemA real pain far greater than a painIn fancy formed, from others’ sufferings;He eats alone, and drives the starving off.Another’s fancy paints more vividly,And he endures keen hunger to supplyThe poor with food. And so of pleasure too,—And this moves all to shun the greatest pain,And find the greatest pleasure.Different minds,And each at different times of life, possessA different standard of this highest good.The swaddled infant wails for its own food,Because its highest pleasure is alone in sense;The child will from its playmate hide a cakeUntil it learns that praise for sharing itGives greater pleasure than the sweetened taste;One boy at school proves insubordinate,His schoolmates’ praise he deems his highest good;Another studies well, because he values moreA parent’s smile. The murderer with his knife,The maiden praying in her purity,The miser dying over hoards of gold,The widow casting thither her two mites,A white-veil bending o’er the dying couch,A stained beauty floating through the waltz,The preacher’s zeal, the gambler’s eager zest;All have one motive, greatest good to self!
The tender stop their ears, and cry aloud:“What! do you dare assert the gambler seeksWith hellish zeal the faintest shade of good?That he is holy as the Man of God?”By no means, yet he seeks his good the same.Not good as you’ve been taught to apprehend,But good, the greatest to his frame of mind.Do not exclaim that good is always good,And never differs from itself. AnonWe’ll speak of abstract truths, if such there beThat good and pleasure are synonymousAt times of action, is most surely plain;For pleasure’s but the consciousness of good,Or satisfaction of our tendencies.If all the gambler’s soul is bent on gain,Then at the moment gain is greatest good;But should you reason with him, and explainAnother life, and make it really seemTo him the best, he straight would change his course.
“But,” cries my friend, “the preacher, if he’s true,Must labor, not for self, but others’ good;And in proportion as the self’s forgot,And others cared for, does his conduct rise.”
But he can not, if conscious, forget self,For everything he does is felt within;But deeds for others’ good a pleasure give;If done in pain to self, the pleasure’s more.To gain the pleasure, self is put to pain,Just as a vesication brings relief.If he refused to undergo the painRemorse would double it.Among his flockSome one is sick; to visit him is right,And done, affords a pleasure. Sweeter farThat pleasure, if he walks through snow and ice,At duty’s call!
Sublime self-sacrifice,Of which men prate, is nothing more nor lessThan base self-worship. Little pain enduredT’ avoid a great; a smaller pleasure lostTo gain a larger!
All the preacher’s words,That burn or die upon the stolid ear,Are spoken from this motive, good to self.You stare; but it is true. Why does he preach?To save men’s souls?—Why does he try to save?Because he loves his fellow-men? Not so.His love for them but to the pleasure adds,Which duty done confers; but all his workMust be with reference to himself alone,Though cunning self the real motive hides,And leaves his broad philanthropy and loveTo claim the merit. Let a score of men,The blackest sinners, die. He knows it not,And feels no pang; but if he is informed,He suffers reflex pain. And if his charge,Remorseful tortures for unfaithfulness.And only is the state of souls to himOf interest, as they are known. When known,It is a source of pleasure or of painWhich all his labor is to gain or shun.
“This difference then,” says one, “between men’s lives;Some live for present, some for future good.The sensual care for self on earth alone,The mystic cares for self beyond the grave.”
Both love a present self, in present time.They differ in their notions of its good.The stern ascetic, with his shirt of hair,His bleeding penitential knees, his fastsTo almost death, his soul-exhausting prayers,Is seeking, cries the world, good after death.And yet his course of life is that aloneWhich could yield pleasure in his state of mind.He suffers, it is true, but hope of HeavenThus rendered sure, as much a present goodIs, as the food that feasts the epicure.The contemplation of his future home,Which he is thus securing, is a balmThat heals his stripes, and sweetens all their pain.The penance blows upon his blood-wealed breastAre bliss compared to lashes of remorse.So for the greater good, the hope of Heaven,He undergoes “the trivial pain of flesh.”The epicure cares not a fig for Heaven,But finds his greatest good in pleasing sense.And so the man who gives his wealth awayIs just as selfish as the money-slaveWho grinds out life amid his dusty bags.They both seek happiness with equal zest:The one finds pleasure in the many thanksOf those receiving, or the public’s praise,Or if concealed, in consciousness of right;The other in the consciousness of wealth.
If all men act from motives just the same,Where is the right and wrong? In the effect?The quality of actions must be judgedFrom their intent, and not their consequence.If two men matches light for their cigars,And from one careless dropped, a house is burned,Is he that dropped it guiltier of crimeThan he whose match went out? Most surely no!Then is the miser blameless, though he turnThe helpless orphan freezing from his door;And Dives should not be commended more,Though all his goods to feed the poor he gives.
How then shall we determine qualityOf actions, when their sources are the same,And their effects possess no quality?Two dead men lie in blood beside the way,The one shot by a friend, an accident;The other murdered for his gold. ’Tis plainNo wrong lies in th’ effects, for both are ’like;And of the agents, he of accidentHad no intent, and therefore did no wrong.The other killed to satisfy the self,A motive founding all the Christian work,And right if that is right. The wrongThen lies between the motive and effect,And must exist in the effecting means.Yet how within the means is wrong proved wrong?Jouffroy would say, because a disregardOf others’ rights; for here he places good,When classifying Nature’s moral facts.He makes the child first serve flesh self,Then moral self, and last to others’ goodAscend, and general order. What a myth!As if man thought of others, save effectFrom them upon himself. But order givesA greater good to self; therefore he joinsHis strength to others, creates laws that bindHimself and them, and produce harmony.He thus surrenders minor good of self,To gain a greater. This is all the needHe has of order, though Jouffroy assertsThat order universal is the Good.Yet still he says that private good of eachIs but a fragment of the absolute,And that regard for every being’s rightsIs binding as the universal law!
Regard for others’ rights indeed, when menUnharmed agree to hang a man for crime!Not for the crime—that’s past; but to preventA second crime, which crime alone existsIn apprehensive fancy. Thus for wrongThat’s but forethought, they do a real wrong.To save their rights from harm they fear may come.They strip a fellow-man of actual right,And highest, right of life; then dare to callTheir action pure, divinely just, and good,And all the farce of empty names.They makeOf gross injustice individual,A flimsy justice, for mankind at large,And cry, Let it be done, though Heaven fall!As if a whole could differ from its parts,Or right be made from wrong. Yet some may sayThat one is sacrificed for many’s good,Or hung that many may avoid his fate;And that his crime deserved what he received.
But law must value every man alike,And cannot save one man, or thousand men,From future evil, only possible,By greatest evil to another man,In its own view of justice. Nor can crimeMeet punishment, at mortal hands, by right,For murder’s murder, done by one or twelve,And legal murder’s done in colder blood,Whose stains are chalked by vain authority.Authority! the child of numbers and self-love!Regard for rights of things, indeed, when beastsAnd birds must yield their right of life that manMay please his right of taste. When, during Lent,The holy-days of fasting and of prayer,The scaly victims crowd the Bishop’s board,Their flesh unfleshed by Conscience’ pliant rule,Our palates must be for a moment pleased,Though costing something agonies of death;And worse than robbers, what we cannot give,We dare to take.They have no souls, say you?Nor after death exist?That nothing’s lost,Philosophy maintains as axiom truth.An object disappears, but somewhere livesIn other form. The water-pool to mistIs changed, the powder into flame and smoke.My pointer dies, his body, decomposed,The air, the soil, and vegetation feeds;Yet still exists, although disintegrate.For there was something, while the pointer lived,That was not body, but that governed it,A spirit, essence, call it what you will,A something seen but through phenomena,And by them proved most clearly to exist.A something, not the feet that made them run,A something, not the eyes, but knew they saw,A something, without which the eyes could seeAs much as glasses can without the eye,The something, “Carlo” named, that knew the name.The pointer dies, and we dissect the flesh.All there, none missing, to the tiniest nerve;Yet something’s gone, the more important part,And can you say that it has ceased to be,When th’ flesh, inferior to it, still exists?The spirit, if existent, must be whole,Nor can be parted till material proven.That Carlo lives, seems plain as I shall live;He lived for self, and so did I; we fareAlike in after-life, we differ hereIn consciousness of immortality.But I digress.Where is the right and wrong?This is the Gordian knot no sword can cut,All sages of the world, with wisdom-teeth,Have gnawed this file without the least effect.The thousand savants of old Greece and RomeProclaimed a thousand theories of good,That each, successive, proud devoid of truth.A myriad moderns have advanced their views,Each gained a few disciples, who avowed their truth,And each, by some one else, been proven wrong.A Bentham marches out utility,A moral test from benefit or harm.As if the good depended on effect,And good would not be good, though universeIn all its phases found no use! And PriceParades his “reason,” with its simple good;Who’d rather give the question up, than err,And so declares it cannot be defined.Then Wollaston declares that good is truth,Which no one doubts, far as it goes; it goesToward good, as far as truth, its attribute;Beyond, it cannot reach. And MontesquieuAnd Clarke, relation’s order preach; a ruleThat makes the growing grain, or falling shower,A moral agent, capable of good.Then Wolf and Malebranche perfection see,And therefore good, in God; but their sight fails,And God may mirror good, but man’s weak eyesNe’er see it. Adam Smith, with “sentiment”Proceeds to dress a thought, and call it, good;And makes the abstract of a UniverseArise from puling human sympathy.The largest concourse follow Hutcheson,Although the greater part ne’er heard of him.The world at large believes in moral sense;They call it conscience! Oh the precious word!Though stretched and warped, they almost deify,And term it man’s tribunal in his breast,Where he may judge his actions, right or wrong.What nonsense! Conscience is but consciousnessOf soul, and idea of its good. We formThis idea from regard of fellow-men,Association, and from thought. We findSometimes the good of soul conflicts with flesh,And when we know the soul above the flesh,We yield to that the preference. Hence ariseThe foolish notions of self disregard.The savage does not know he has a soul,And therefore has no conscience. He can stealWithout remorse. But when he learns of soul,He finds it has a good, and by this testTries moral actions, are they good for soul?And this is conscience.Yet is conscience changedBy circumstance. The Hindoo mother tearsThe helpless infant from her trickling breast,To feed the crocodile, and save her soul;She’s happier in its conscience-murdered wailThan in its gleeful prattle on her knee.And daily we see one commit a deedWithout a pang, another dare not do.If conscience may be warped but one degreeBy plain Sorites, it may be reversed,And only prove an interested thought.
To abstract good no man has found the key,Though in the various forms of concrete goodWe see the similars, and from these frameA good that serves the purposes of life.We pass it as we do the concept, “Man,”But never ope to count the attributes.Our purest right is but approximateTo this vague abstract idea, how obtained,We know not. Plato says ’tis memoryOf previous life. Perhaps! ’Tis very dimIn this; and yet it rocks the cradle worldAs strongly as the baby man can bearAnd so of truth, or aught abstract, we knowOf such existence somewhere, that is all.“But we,” cries one, “do hold some abstract truth,In perfect form. The truth of science’ laws,The truths of numbers, each are perfect truths.”The truths of science are hypotheses,And only true as far as they explain.But perfect truth must save all facts,That ever rose or possibly can rise.“The priest of Nature” thought he held the truthWhen throughout space he tracked the motes of light,And ground the sunbeams into dazzling dust.Our quivering waves through subtle ether flash,And drown Sir Isaac’s atoms in a floodOf glorious truth; till some new fact shall riseTo give our truth the lie, and cause a changeOf theory.Our numbers no truth have,Or but a shadow, cast on Earth by truthExistent in some unknown world. We makeOur little numbers fit the shadow’s lineAs best they can, and boast eternal truth!Yet take a simple form of numbers, “two,”We cannot have a perfect thought of this,Because the mind directly asks, two what?’Tis not enough chameleon to feedOn empty air. Two units, we replyThen what is meant by unity? An “One,”—The mind can only cognize o-n-e,Which makes three units and not one.The mindMust have a concrete object to adjustThe abstract on, before it comprehends.But two concretes are never two, becauseThey never can be proved exactly ’like.To illustrate: suppose two ivory balls,Of finest mold, and equal weight, preciseAs hair-hung scales, arranged most delicate,Can prove; yet they can not be shownTo differ, not the trillionth of a grain;Or if they could, they may in densityBe unlike; then to equal weight, one mustBe larger by the trillionth of an inch.Even if alike in density and weight,No one will dare assert that they possessA perfect similarity in all.The abstract two is twice as much as one,But our two balls unlike, perforce must beGreater or less than two of either one;But two of one, the same can never beOn poor, imperfect Earth. Thus all our twosFall, in some measure, short of concept two.And if we paint the concept to the eye,The figure 2 of finest stereotype,Beneath the microscope imperfect shows.And so our perfect numbers, wisdom’s boast,Are faint, uncertain shadows in the mind,That we can never picture to the eye,Nor truthfully apply to anything.We use a ragged, ill-drawn substitute,That answers all the purposes of life.The truths of mathematics, so sublime,Are never true to us, concretely known;And in the abstract so concealed are they,No man can swear he has their perfect form.We can’t conceive a line without some breadth—The perfect line possesses length alone;Earth never saw a pure right-angle drawn,Pythag’ras cannot prove his theorem,The finest quadrant is but nearest truth,The closest measures but approximate,And all from Sanconiathon to Pierce,With grandest soaring into Number’s realms,Have only fluttered feebly o’er the ground,Their heaven-strong wings by feebling matter tied.
Man is a pris’ner, but the prison wallsAre very vast; so vast the universeLies, like a mote, within their mighty scope.Most are content to grovel on the earth,Some rise a little way, and sink again;And some, on noble wing, soar to the bounds,And eager beat the bars. Beyond these wallsThe abstract lies, and oft the straggling rays,Through crevices and chinks, stray to our jail;And these we fondly hug as truth.Poor man!The glimpses of the great Beyond have roused,For centuries, his curious soul to flight.With eagle eye fixed on the distant goal,He cleaves his way, till dashed against the walls;Some fall with bruiséd wing again to Earth,And some cling bravely there, so eager theyTo reach the untouched prize, and so intentTheir gaze upon its light, they notice notThe bounds, till Hamilton, with wary eye,Discovers the Eternal bounding line,And sadly shows its hopeless fixity.
But man on Earth I love to ridicule,A little clod of sordid selfishness!I’ll take his mental acts of every kindAnd see how self originates them all;I’ll follow Stewart, since he classifiesWith shrewd discretion, though his reasoning err,He places first the appetites; and thesePerforce are selfish, as our self aloneMust feel and suffer with our wants. Our foodTastes good alone to us. The richest feast,In others’ mouths, could never satisfyOur appetite for food; self must be fed.Desires are next; and that of knowledge, first,Is proven selfish, by his quoted lineFrom Cicero—that “knowledge is the foodOf mind”—and food is ever sought for self.Desire of social intercourse with men,From thought that it will better self, proceeds.Man’s state is friendly, not a state of war,For instinct teaches him societyWill offer many benefits to self;And only when he has a cause to fearThat self will suffer, does he learn to war.Desire to gain esteem, is self in searchOf approbation; like the appetite,The end pursued affects alone the self.And lastly Stewart boasts posthumous fame,When self, as sacrificed, can seek no good.To prove the motive is a selfish good,I’ll not assert enjoyment after life,But say, the pleasure of the millions’ praise,Anticipated in the present thought,And intense consciousness of heroism,Far more than compensates the pangs of death.A Curtius leaping down the dread abyss,Enjoys his fame enough, before he strikes,To pay for every pain of mangling death.Affections next adorn the moral page.At that of kindred, mothers cry aloud:“For shame! for shame! do you pretend to sayI love my child with any thought of self?When I would lay my arm upon the block,And have it severed for his slightest good!”I’ll square your love by Reason’s rigid rule,And test its source. Why do you love him so?For benefit he has conferred, or may?No, as the helpless babe, demanding care,You love him most. Your love is instinct then,And like the cow her calf, you love your child;That you may care for him, before self moves.Then do you love him always just the same,When rude and bad as when obedient?But I’ll dissect your love, and take awayEach part affecting self; and see what’s left.He now has grown beyond your instinct love;You love him, first, because he is your son,And you would suffer blame, if you did not;You love him, too, because he does reflectA credit on yourself. You feel assuredThat others thinking well of him, think wellOf you. Because it flatters all your prideTo think so fine a life is part of yours;Because his high opinion of your worthEvokes a meet return; because you lookInto the future, and see honors brightAwaiting you through him; because you feelThe world is praising you for loving him,And would condemn you, did you not. And last,You feel the pleasure deep of self-esteem,Because you fill the public’s and your ownRomantic ideas of a mother’s love.
Let each component part be now destroyed,And see if still you love him. As a man,He plunges into vice of vilest kinds;His bright reflections on yourself are gone,And people think the worse of you, for him;You never smile, but frown, upon him now,But still you love him dearly! To his viceHe adds a crime, a foul and blasting crime;Your pride is gone, you feel a bitter shame,A score of opposites to love creep in;A righteous anger at his foolish sins,A just contempt for nature, weak as his;But yet you love him fondly, for the worldIs lauding you for “mother’s holy love”;And you delight its clinging strength to show,You gain in public credit by your woes,And get the soothing martyr’s sympathy.But let him still grow worse, and sink so low,That people say you are disgraced through him,Your warmest friends will not acquaintance own,Your love for such an object’s ridiculed,And gains respect from none. Your only chanceIs to disown him. How you loud proclaim,“He’s not my child but by the accidentOf birth!”Do yet you love him in your heart?This then because you think yourself so good,So heaven-like, for loving him disgraced,You go to see him in the shameful jail;He spits upon, and beats you from his cell,And tells you that he hates your very name.Now all your love is gone, except the glowOf pity for him chained to dungeon floor;But he’s released, and deeper goes in crime;Then, lastly, Pity yields. Your heart is stone!
But love was only touched in selfish part,Yet should you still deny your love is self’s;Of several children, do you not love mostThe one whose conduct pleases most yourself?But love, unselfish, never could be movedBy anything affecting self alone.
The throbbing hearts of lovers beat for self,And this I’ll prove, though Pyramus may vowHe has no thought but Thisbe.Take awayLove’s sensual part, which is an appetite,And therefore selfish, by its Nature’s law;And what remains is, first, a slight conceitAt our discernment in the choice we’ve made,And then a pride that we have won the prize;A pride, that some one thinks we are the best;A pleasure in her presence, too, we feel,Because in every look she manifestsHer preference for us. This is flatteringBeyond all else that we have ever known.A friend may raise our self-esteem, indeed,By showing constantly his own esteem,But never can man’s vanity receiveA higher tribute than a woman’s love!This tribute, we, of course, reciprocate,And when together, we increase self-loveBy mutual words expressing our regard.Yet when our love is deepest, if we findOur Self is not so worshipped as we thought,Our love grows cold; and when we are not lovedWe cease to love. To illustrate permit:
You’re on the topmost wave of fervid love—A wilder flame than poets ever sung;You’ve passed the timid declaration’s bounds,And revel in a full assured return.There is no need for check upon your heart,It has full leave to pour its gushing tideOf feeling forth, and meet responsive floods.You meet her in the parlor’s solitude,No meddling eye to watch the sacred scene.The purple curtains hang their corded foldsBefore the tell-tale windows; closed the door,And sealed with softest list. The rich divanIs drawn before the ruddy grate that glowsWith red between the bars, and blue above.You sit beside The Angel of your dreams,And gaze in adoration. What a form!Revealed in faultless symmetry by robesOf rare, exquisite elegance, and taste,That fit the tap’ring waist and arching neck.And how superbly flow the torrents of her hair!Which she has shaken loose, because “it’s you”;Her great brown eyes that gaze so dreamilyUpon the flowers of the vellum-screenThat wards the fire from her tinted cheek!One hollow foot, in dainty, bronze bootee,Tapping the tufted lion on the rug;A snowy hand with blazing solitaire—The pledge of your betrothal—nestling softWithin your own.And thus you sit, and breatheWith tones so soft, because the ear’s so near,The mutual confidence of little cares;And how you longed for months to tell your love,But feared a cold rebuke; and how you daredTo hope through all the gloom; and how you grievedAt every favor shown to other men;How now the clouds have flown away,And all is brightness, joy, and tender love.Then drawing nearer, round the slender waistYou pass an arm; and nestling cheek to cheek,Palm throbbing palm, you hush all useless words,And thought meets thought, in silent love.And now and then, you leave the cheek, to kissThe coral lips; yet not with transient touch,But with a fervid, lingering pressure there,As if you longed to force the lips apart,And drink the soul; while both her melting orbsAre drooped beneath your burning inch-near eyes.The parting hour must come. The good-night said,You rise to leave; and turning, at the door,You see her head drooped on the sofa’s arm,You fancy she is sighing that you’re gone;And stealing back on tiptoe, gently raiseThe beauteous face, and take it ’twixt your palms;And gazing on the features radiant,Distorted queerly by your pressing hands,You feel that life, the parting cannot bear,That you must stay forever there, or die!Another effort, one more nectar sip,You rush from out the room, and slam the door,Just on the steps, you meet your rival’s face.He has an easy confidence, and walksInto the house, as if it were his own.Poor fellow! how you really pity him!You can afford to be magnanimous,And deprecate his certain, cruel fate.You murmur: “Well, he brings it on himself,”And turn to go. The window’s near the ground,And slightly raised. Although you know it’s mean,You cannot now resist, but creep up near,And with a finger part the curtain’s fringe.You see your darling run across the roomWith both extended hands, and hear her say:“Oh Fred! I am so very glad you’ve come,I feared that stupid thing would never leave,I had to let him take my hand awhile,And mumble over it, to get him off.”