interrogatories, I must get on without him. In matters of absolute
demonstration and speculative indifferences, I grant, that belief is
involuntary, and the proof not to be resisted; but then, in such
matters, there is no difference of opinion, or the difference is
adjusted amicably and rationally. Hobbes is of opinion, that if their
passions or interests could be implicated in the question, men would
deny stoutly that the three angles of a right-angled triangle are
equal to two right ones: and the disputes in religion look something
like it. I only contend, however, that in all cases not of this
peremptory and determinate cast, and where disputes commonly arise,
inclination, habit, and example have a powerful share in throwing in
the casting-weight to our opinions, and that he who is only tolerably
free from these, and not their regular dupe or slave, is indeed 'a man
of ten thousand.' Take, for instance, the example of a Catholic
clergyman in a Popish country: it will generally be found that he
lives and dies in the faith in which he was brought up, as the
Protestant clergyman does in his--shall we say that the necessity of
gaining a livelihood, or the prospect of preferment, that the early
bias given to his mind by education and study, the pride of victory,
the shame of defeat, the example and encouragement of all about him,
the respect and love of his flock, the flattering notice of the great,
have no effect in giving consistency to his opinions and carrying them
through to the last? Yet, who will suppose that in either case this
apparent uniformity is mere hypocrisy, or that the intellects of the
two classes of divines are naturally adapted to the arguments in
favour of the two religions they have occasion to profess? No; but the
understanding takes a tincture from outward impulses and
circumstances, and is led to dwell on those suggestions which favour,
and to blind itself to the objections which impugn, the side to which
it previously and morally inclines. Again, even in those who oppose
established opinions, and form the little, firm, formidable phalanx of
dissent, have not early instruction, spiritual pride, the love of
contradiction, a resistance to usurped authority, as much to do with
keeping up the war of sects and schisms as the abstract love of truth
or conviction of the understanding? Does not persecution fan the flame
in such fiery tempers, and does it not expire, or grow lukewarm, with
indulgence and neglect? I have a sneaking kindness for a Popish
priest in this country; and to a Catholic peer I would willingly bow
in passing. What are national antipathies, individual attachments, but
so many expressions of the _moral_ principle in forming our opinions?
All our opinions become grounds on which we act, and build our
expectations of good or ill; and this good or ill mixed up with them
is soon changed into the ruling principle which modifies or violently
supersedes the original cool determination of the reason and senses.
The will, when it once gets a footing, turns the sober judgment out of
doors. If we form an attachment to any one, are we not slow in giving
it up? Or, if our suspicions are once excited, are we not equally rash
and violent in believing the worst? Othello characterises himself as
one
----'That loved not wisely, but too well;
Of one not easily jealous--but, being wrought,
Perplex'd in the extreme.'
And this answers to the movements and irregularities of passion and
opinion which take place in human nature. If we wish a thing we are
disposed to believe it: if we have been accustomed to believe it, we
are the more obstinate in defending it on that account: if all the
world differ from us in any question of moment, we are ashamed to own
it; or are hurried by peevishness and irritation into extravagance and
paradox. The weight of example presses upon us (whether we feel it or
not) like the law of gravitation. He who sustains his opinion by the
strength of conviction and evidence alone, unmoved by ridicule,
neglect, obloquy, or privation, shows no less resolution than the
Hindoo who makes and keeps a vow to hold his right arm in the air till
it grows rigid and callous.
To have all the world against us is trying to a man's temper and
philosophy. It unhinges even our opinion of our own motives and
intentions. It is like striking the actual world from under our feet:
the void that is left, the death-like pause, the chilling suspense, is
fearful. The growth of an opinion is like the growth of a limb; it
receives its actual support and nourishment from the general body of
the opinions, feelings, and practice of the world; without that, it
soon withers, festers, and becomes useless. To what purpose write a
good book, if it is sure to be pronounced a bad one, even before it is
read? If our thoughts are to be blown stifling back upon ourselves,
why utter them at all? It is only exposing what we love most to
contumely and insult, and thus depriving ourselves of our own relish
and satisfaction in them. Language is only made to communicate our
sentiments, and if we can find no one to receive them, we are reduced
to the silence of dumbness, we live but in the solitude of a dungeon.
If we do not vindicate our opinions, we seem poor creatures who have
no right to them; if we speak out, we are involved in continual brawls
and controversy. If we contemn what others admire, we make ourselves
odious; if we admire what they despise, we are equally ridiculous. We
have not the applause of the world nor the support of a party; we can
neither enjoy the freedom of social intercourse, nor the calm of
privacy. With our respect for others, we lose confidence in ourselves:
everything seems to be a subject of litigation--to want proof or
confirmation; we doubt, by degrees, whether we stand on our head or
our heels--whether we know our right hand from our left. If I am
assured that I never wrote a sentence of common English in my life,
how can I know that this is not the case? If I am told at one time
that my writings are as heavy as lead, and at another, that they are
more light and flimsy than the gossamer--what resource have I but to
choose between the two? I could say, if this were the place, what
those writings are.--'Make it the place, and never stand upon
punctilio!'
They are not, then, so properly the works of an author by profession,
as the thoughts of a metaphysician expressed by a painter. They are
subtle and difficult problems translated into hieroglyphics. I
thought for several years on the hardest subjects, on Fate, Free-will,
Foreknowledge absolute, without ever making use of words or images at
all, and that has made them come in such throngs and confused heaps
when I burst from that void of abstraction. In proportion to the
tenuity to which my ideas had been drawn, and my abstinence from
ornament and sensible objects, was the tenaciousness with which actual
circumstances and picturesque imagery laid hold of my mind, when I
turned my attention to them, or had to look round for illustrations.
Till I began to paint, or till I became acquainted with the author of
_The Ancient Mariner_, I could neither write nor speak. He encouraged
me to write a book, which I did according to the original bent of my
mind, making it as dry and meagre as I could, so that it fell
still-born from the press, and none of those who abuse me for a
shallow _catch-penny_ writer have so much as heard of it. Yet, let me
say, that work contains an important metaphysical discovery, supported
by a continuous and severe train of reasoning, nearly as subtle and
original as anything in Hume or Berkeley. I am not accustomed to speak
of myself in this manner, but impudence may provoke modesty to justify
itself. Finding this method did not answer, I despaired for a time;
but some trifle I wrote in the _Morning Chronicle_, meeting the
approbation of the editor and the town, I resolved to turn over a new
leaf--to take the public at its word, to muster all the tropes and
figures I could lay hands on, and, though I am a plain man, never to
appear abroad but in an embroidered dress. Still, old habits will
prevail; and I hardly ever set about a paragraph or a criticism, but
there was an undercurrent of thought, or some generic distinction on
which the whole turned. Having got my clue, I had no difficulty in
stringing pearls upon it; and the more recondite the point, the more I
laboured to bring it out and set it off by a variety of ornaments and
allusions. This puzzled the scribes whose business it was to crush me.
They could not see the meaning: they would not see the colouring, for
it hurt their eyes. One cried out, it was dull; another, that it was
too fine by half: my friends took up this last alternative as the most
favourable; and since then it has been agreed that I am a florid
writer, somewhat flighty and paradoxical. Yet, when I wished to
unburthen my mind in the _Edinburgh_ by an article on English
metaphysics, the editor, who echoes this _florid_ charge, said he
preferred what I wrote for effect, and was afraid of its being thought
heavy! I have accounted for the flowers; the paradoxes may be
accounted for in the same way. All abstract reasoning is in extremes,
or only takes up one view of a question, or what is called the
principle of the thing; and if you want to give this popularity and
effect, you are in danger of running into extravagance and hyperbole.
I have had to bring out some obscure distinction, or to combat some
strong prejudice, and in doing this with all my might, may have often
overshot the mark. It was easy to correct the excess of truth
afterwards. I have been accused of inconsistency, for writing an
essay, for instance, on the _Advantages of Pedantry_, and another on
the _Ignorance of the Learned_, as if ignorance had not its comforts
as well as knowledge. The personalities I have fallen into have never
been gratuitous. If I have sacrificed my friends, it has always been
to a theory. I have been found fault with for repeating myself, and
for a narrow range of ideas. To a want of general reading, I plead
guilty, and am sorry for it; but perhaps if I had read more, I might
have thought less. As to my barrenness of invention, I have at least
glanced over a number of subjects--painting, poetry, prose, plays,
politics, parliamentary speakers, metaphysical lore, books, men, and
things. There is some point, some fancy, some feeling, some taste,
shown in treating of these. Which of my conclusions has been reversed?
Is it what I said ten years ago of the Bourbons which raised the
war-whoop against me? Surely all the world are of that opinion now. I
have, then, given proofs of some talent, and of more honesty: if
there is haste or want of method, there is no commonplace, nor a line
that licks the dust; and if I do not appear to more advantage, I at
least appear such as I am. If the Editor of the _Atlas_ will do me the
favour to look over my _Essay on the Principles of Human Action_, will
dip into any essay I ever wrote, and will take a sponge and clear the
dust from the face of my _Old Woman_, I hope he will, upon second
thoughts, acquit me of an absolute dearth of resources and want of
versatility in the direction of my studies.
1828.
FOOTNOTE:
[6] The only friends whom we defend with zeal and obstinacy are our
relations. They seem part of ourselves. For our other friends we are
only answerable, so long as we countenance them; and therefore cut the
connection as soon as possible. But who ever willingly gave up the
good dispositions of a child or the honour of a parent?
ESSAY VI
ON PERSONAL IDENTITY
'Ha! here's three of us are sophisticated.'--Lear.
'If I were not Alexander, I would be Diogenes!' said the Macedonian
hero; and the cynic might have retorted the compliment upon the prince
by saying, that, 'were he not Diogenes, he would be Alexander!' This
is the universal exception, the invariable reservation that our
self-love makes, the utmost point at which our admiration or envy ever
arrives--to wish, if we were not ourselves, to be some other
individual. No one ever wishes to be another, _instead_ of himself. We
may feel a desire to change places with others--to have one man's
fortune--another's health or strength--his wit or learning, or
accomplishments of various kinds--
'Wishing to be like one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope';
but we would still be ourselves, to possess and enjoy all these, or we
would not give a doit for them. But, on this supposition, what in
truth should we be the better for them? It is not we, but another,
that would reap the benefit; and what do we care about that other? In
that case, the present owner might as well continue to enjoy them.
_We_ should not be gainers by the change. If the meanest beggar who
crouches at a palace gate, and looks up with awe and suppliant fear to
the proud inmate as he passes, could be put in possession of all the
finery, the pomp, the luxury, and wealth that he sees and envies, on
the sole condition of getting rid, together with his rags and misery,
of all recollection that there ever was such a wretch as himself, he
would reject the proffered boon with scorn. He might be glad to change
situations; but he would insist on keeping his own thoughts, to
_compare notes_, and point the transition by the force of contrast. He
would not, on any account, forego his self-congratulation on the
unexpected accession of good fortune, and his escape from past
suffering. All that excites his cupidity, his envy, his repining or
despair, is the alternative of some great good to himself; and if, in
order to attain that object, he is to part with his own existence to
take that of another, he can feel no farther interest in it. This is
the language both of passion and reason.
Here lies 'the rub that makes calamity of so long life': for it is not
barely the apprehension of the ills that 'in that sleep of death may
come,' but also our ignorance and indifference to the promised good,
that produces our repugnance and backwardness to quit the present
scene. No man, if he had his choice, would be the angel Gabriel
to-morrow! What is the angel Gabriel to him but a splendid vision? He
might as well have an ambition to be turned into a bright cloud, or a
particular star. The interpretation of which is, he can have no
sympathy with the angel Gabriel. Before he can be transformed into so
bright and ethereal an essence, he must necessarily 'put off this
mortal coil'--be divested of all his old habits, passions, thoughts,
and feelings--to be endowed with other attributes, lofty and beatific,
of which he has no notion; and, therefore, he would rather remain a
little longer in this mansion of clay, which, with all its flaws,
inconveniences, and perplexities, contains all that he has any real
knowledge of, or any affection for. When, indeed, he is about to quit
it in spite of himself and has no other chance left to escape the
darkness of the tomb he may then have no objection (making a virtue of
necessity) to put on angel's wings, to have radiant locks, to wear a
wreath of amaranth, and thus to masquerade it in the skies.
It is an instance of the truthful beauty of the ancient mythology,
that the various transmutations it recounts are never voluntary, or of
favourable omen, but are interposed as a timely release to those who,
driven on by fate, and urged to the last extremity of fear or anguish,
are turned into a flower, a plant, an animal, a star, a precious
stone, or into some object that may inspire pity or mitigate our
regret for their misfortunes. Narcissus was transformed into a flower;
Daphne into a laurel; Arethusa into a fountain (by the favour of the
gods)--but not till no other remedy was left for their despair. It is
a sort of smiling cheat upon death, and graceful compromise with
annihilation. It is better to exist by proxy, in some softened type
and soothing allegory, than not at all--to breathe in a flower or
shine in a constellation, than to be utterly forgot; but no one would
change his natural condition (if he could help it) for that of a bird,
an insect, a beast, or a fish, however delightful their mode of
existence, or however enviable he might deem their lot compared to his
own. Their thoughts are not our thoughts--their happiness is not our
happiness; nor can we enter into it, except with a passing smile of
approbation, or as a refinement of fancy. As the poet sings:
'What more felicity can fall to creature
Than to enjoy delight with liberty,
And to be lord of all the works of nature?
To reign in the air from earth to highest sky;
To feed on flowers and weeds of glorious feature;
To taste whatever thing doth please the eye?--
Who rests not pleased with such happiness,
Well worthy he to taste of wretchedness!'
This is gorgeous description and fine declamation: yet who would be
found to act upon it, even in the forming of a wish; or would not
rather be the thrall of wretchedness, than launch out (by the aid of
some magic spell) into all the delights of such a butterfly state of
existence? The French (if any people can) may be said to enjoy this
airy, heedless gaiety and unalloyed exuberance of satisfaction: yet
what Englishman would deliberately change with them? We would sooner
be miserable after our own fashion than happy after theirs. It is not
happiness, then, in the abstract, which we seek, that can be addressed
as
'That something still that prompts th' eternal sigh,
For which we wish to live or dare to die,'
but a happiness suited to our tastes and faculties--that has become a
part of ourselves, by habit and enjoyment--that is endeared to us by a
thousand recollections, privations, and sufferings. No one, then,
would willingly change his country or his kind for the most plausible
pretences held out to him. The most humiliating punishment inflicted
in ancient fable is the change of sex: not that it was any degradation
in itself--but that it must occasion a total derangement of the moral
economy and confusion of the sense of personal propriety. The thing is
said to have happened _au sens contraire_, in our time. The story is
to be met with in 'very choice Italian'; and Lord D---- tells it in
very plain English!
We may often find ourselves envying the possessions of others, and
sometimes inadvertently indulging a wish to change places with them
altogether; but our self-love soon discovers some excuse to be off the
bargain we were ready to strike, and retracts 'vows made in haste, as
violent and void.' We might make up our minds to the alteration in
every other particular; but, when it comes to the point, there is sure
to be some trait or feature of character in the object of our
admiration to which we cannot reconcile ourselves--some favourite
quality or darling foible of our own, with which we can by no means
resolve to part. The more enviable the situation of another, the more
entirely to our taste, the more reluctant we are to leave any part of
ourselves behind that would be so fully capable of appreciating all
the exquisiteness of its new situation, or not to enter into the
possession of such an imaginary reversion of good fortune with all our
previous inclinations and sentiments. The outward circumstances were
fine: they only wanted a _soul_ to enjoy them, and that soul is ours
(as the costly ring wants the peerless jewel to perfect and set it
off). The humble prayer and petition to sneak into visionary felicity
by personal adoption, or the surrender of our own personal
pretentions, always ends in a daring project of usurpation, and a
determination to expel the actual proprietor, and supply his place so
much more worthily with our own identity--not bating a single jot of
it. Thus, in passing through a fine collection of pictures, who has
not envied the privilege of visiting it every day, and wished to be
the owner? But the rising sigh is soon checked, and 'the native hue of
emulation is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,' when we
come to ask ourselves, not merely whether the owner has any taste at
all for these splendid works, and does not look upon them as so much
expensive furniture, like his chairs and tables--but whether he has
the same precise (and only true) taste that we have--whether he has
the very same favourites that we have--whether he may not be so blind
as to prefer a Vandyke to a Titian, a Ruysdael to a Claude; nay,
whether he may not have other pursuits and avocations that draw off
his attention from the sole objects of our idolatry, and which seem to
us mere impertinences and waste of time? In that case, we at once lose
all patience, and exclaim indignantly, 'Give us back our taste, and
keep your pictures!' It is not we who should envy them the possession
of the treasure, but they who should envy us the true and exclusive
enjoyment of it. A similar train of feeling seems to have dictated
Warton's spirited _Sonnet on visiting Wilton House_:
'From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic art
Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bowers,
Its living hues where the warm pencil pours,
And breathing forms from the rude marble start,
How to life's humbler scene can I depart?
My breast all glowing from those gorgeous towers,
In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours?
Vain the complaint! For fancy can impart
(To fate superior and to fortune's power)
Whate'er adorns the stately storied-hall:
She, 'mid the dungeon's solitary gloom,
Can dress the Graces in their attic-pall;
Did the green landscape's vernal beauty bloom;
And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall.'