darkness that once hung over the mind, and shrouded all its thoughts
and purposes, gives place, at length, to a chastened and subdued
sadness, that suffuses the past with a soft and mellow radiance. We
are ever moving on, swiftly, steadily, in the current of events, and
objects whose fearful magnitude, once, from their very nearness,
engrossed our whole attention as we passed into their deep shadow,
gradually diminish as they recede, until their dark outline is barely
discernible on the distant horizon.
§ III.--SYMPATHY WITH THE HAPPINESS AND SORROW OF OTHERS.
_In what Manner awakened._--Closely allied to the emotions of joy
and sorrow awakened by our own personal experience of good and of
evil, is the sympathy we feel with the joys and sorrows of others in
similar circumstances. Joy is contagious. So also is grief. We cannot
behold the emotions of others, without, in some degree, experiencing a
corresponding emotion. Nor is it necessary to be eye-witnesses of that
happiness, or sorrow. The simple description of any scene of happiness
or of misery affects the heart, and touches the chords of sympathetic
emotion. We picture the scene to ourselves, we fancy ourselves the
spectators, or, it may be, the actors and the sufferers; we imagine
what would be our own emotions in such a case, and in proportion to
the liveliness of our power of conception, and also of our power
of feeling, will be our sympathy with the real scene and the real
sufferers.
_Nature of this Principle._--The sympathy thus awakened, whether with
the joy or the sorrow of others, is a simple emotion, distinct in its
nature from both the affections and the desires, and it is, moreover,
instinctive, rather than rational--a matter of impulse, a principle
implanted in our nature, and springing into exercise, as by instinct,
whenever the occasion presents itself, rather than the result of
reason and reflection. It is a susceptibility which we possess, to
some extent, at least, in common with the brutes, who are by no means
insensible to the distresses or to the happiness of their fellows. It
is a susceptibility which manifests itself in early life, before habits
of reflection are formed, and under circumstances which preclude the
supposition that it may be the result of education, or in any manner
an acquired and not an original and implanted principle. So far from
being the result of reflection, reason and reflection are often needed
to check the emotion, and keep it within due bounds. There are times
when sympathy, for example, with the distresses of others, would stand
in the way of efficient and necessary action, and when it is needful
to summon all the resources of reason to our aid, in the stern and
resolute performance of a duty which brings us into conflict with
this instinctive principle of our nature. The judge is not at liberty
to regard the tears of the heart-broken wife or child, when he rises
to pronounce the stern sentence of violated law upon the wretched
criminal. The kind-hearted surgeon must for the time be deaf to the
outcries of his patient, and insensible to his sufferings, or his
ministrations are at an end.
_Usual Limitation of the Term._--The term sympathy is more frequently
used to denote the emotion awakened by the sufferings of others, than
our participation in their joys. There can be no doubt, however, of the
tendency of our nature to each of these results, and that it is, in
fact, but one and the same principle under a twofold aspect. Nor does
the word itself more properly belong to, and more truly express, the
one, than the other of these aspects. We as readily rejoice with those
who do rejoice, as we weep with those who weep, and in either case our
feeling is _sympathy_ ([Greek: sunpathos]).
_This Limitation accounted for._--The reason why the term is more
frequently applied to denote participation in the sorrows of others,
is obvious on a little reflection. Such, and so benevolent, are the
arrangements of a kind Providence, that happiness is the prevalent law
of being, and sorrow the exception to that general rule. It is diffused
as the sunshine, and the gentle air over all things that breathe, and
even inanimate objects, by a sort of sympathetic gladness, reflected
from our own minds, seem to share in the general joy. Calamity and
sorrow, at least in their more marked and definite forms, come, like
storm and tempest in nature, more seldom, and, when they do occur, are
the more remarkable and stand out more impressively from the common
experience of life, from their very rarity.
_More Need of Sympathy with Sorrow._--There is doubtless, also, more
occasion for sympathy with the sorrows of others, when those sorrows
do occur, than with their joys, and this may be another reason for
the more frequent use of the term in this connection. Sorrow _needs_
sympathy, as joy does not. It leans for support on some helping and
friendly arm. Joy is, in its nature, strong and self-sustaining, sorrow
the reverse. It is a wise and kind provision of the Author of our
nature, by which there is implanted in our constitution an instinctive
sympathy with sorrow and suffering in all their forms, even when we
ourselves are not directly the objects on which the calamity falls.
_Remark of Dr. Brown._--It is well remarked by Dr. Brown that "we
seem to sympathize less with the pleasures of others than we truly
do, because the real sympathy is lost in that constant air of
cheerfulness which it is the part of good manners to assume. If the
laws of politeness required of us to assume, in society, an appearance
of sadness, as they now require from us an appearance of some slight
degree of gayety, or, at least, of a disposition to be gay, it is
probable that we should then remark any sympathy with gladness, as
we now remark particularly any sympathy with sorrow; and we should
certainly, then, use the general name to express the former of
these, as the more extraordinary, in the same way as we now use it
particularly to express the feelings of commiseration. Joy," remarks
the same writer, "may be regarded as the common dress of society, and
real complacency is thus as little remarkable as a well-fashioned coat
in a drawing-room. Let us conceive a single ragged coat to appear in
the brilliant circle, and all eyes will be instantly fixed on it. Even
beauty itself, till the buzz of astonishment is over, will, for the
moment, scarcely attract a single gaze, or wit a single listener. Such,
with respect to the general dress of the social mind, is _grief_. It is
something for the very appearance of which we are not prepared."
_Not true that we sympathize only with Sorrow._--These reasons
sufficiently account for the almost exclusive attention paid by
moralists to this part of our sympathetic nature, as well as for the
almost exclusive use of the term itself to denote participation in the
sorrows, rather than in the joys of others. It is not necessary to
infer from this circumstance, as some have done, that our sympathies
are only with sorrow, that we do not experience a corresponding emotion
in view of the happiness of others, a view as unfavorable to our nature
as it is remote from truth.
_Distinction of Terms._--Sympathy, as usually employed, to denote a
fellowship with the sufferings of others, is synonymous with the more
specific term _commiseration_, and this again is interchangeable with
the terms pity and compassion. So far as use establishes a difference
between these terms, it is perhaps this: we more frequently employ the
word compassion where there is an ability and a disposition to relieve
the suffering; we pity and we commiserate what it is out of our power
to remedy.
_Strength of this Feeling._--The emotion of sympathy, especially in
that form more specially under consideration, is probably one of the
strongest and most marked in its effects upon the mind, of any of the
feelings of which we are susceptible. When fully aroused, it amounts
even to a passion, When the object that awakens it is exposed to
imminent danger and there is need of instant and efficient exertion
to avert the danger, and bring that relief which, if it comes at
all, must come speedily, then there is no prudent calculation of
consequences, no deliberation, no hesitation, no fear, but, regardless
of every danger, the sympathizer, forgetful of himself, and thinking
only of the object to be accomplished, plunges into the sea or into the
flames, faces the wild beast, or the more savage human foe, seizes the
assassin's arm, or rushes desperately between the murderous weapon and
its victim. This boldness and energy of action are, indeed, the result
of sympathy, rather than the direct exercise of the emotion itself, but
they show how powerful is the feeling from which they spring.
_Irrespective of moral Qualities._--It is worthy of note, moreover,
that the emotion of which we speak, is, in great measure, irrespective
of the moral qualities of the sufferer. He may be a criminal on the
rack or the gallows, the most hardened and abandoned of men, and the
suffering to which he is exposed may be the just punishment of his
crimes, still it is impossible for any one whose heart is not itself
hardened against all human suffering, to regard the miserable victim
with other than feelings of compassion. That must be a hard heart
that could witness the agony of even its worst enemy, in such a case,
without pity for the sufferer.
_Design of this Principle._--If we inquire, now, for what end this
feeling was implanted in our nature, its final cause is obvious. It
is a benevolent arrangement, the design of which is twofold:--first,
to prevent undue suffering, by keeping in check the excited passions
that would otherwise prompt to the infliction of immoderate and unjust
punishment when the object of our resentment is in our power; secondly,
to secure that relief to the sufferer which, in circumstances of peril,
might fail to be afforded were it not for the pressure and impulse of
so strong and sudden an emotion.
_Adaptation to Circumstances._--A further and incidental benefit
insulting from the possession of a lively sensibility to the joys and
sorrows of others, has been noticed by Cogan, in his treatise on the
passions, viz., that it disposes the mind to accommodate itself readily
to the tastes, manners, and dispositions of those with whom we have
occasion to associate. A mind of quick and ready sympathy easily enters
into the feelings and understands the conduct of others under given
circumstances, and is able to adapt itself to the same, easily, and by
a sort of instinct. It places itself at once in the same position, and
governs itself accordingly.
_Sympathy not to be traced to Self-love as its Origin._--The question
has arisen, whether sympathy, which, of all the sensibilities, would
seem to lie at the furthest remove from all admixture of selfishness,
is not, after all, to be traced ultimately to the principle of
self-love. Those philosophers who regard this principle as the
main-spring of all human action, and the parent source of all the
various emotions that agitate the human heart, are at some pains to
show that even the feeling of pity may be traced to the same origin. It
was the theory of Hobbes, that the sentiment of pity at the calamities
of others springs from the imagination, or fiction as he terms it, of
a similar calamity befalling ourselves. Adam Smith also maintains that
it is only from our own experience that we can form any idea of the
sufferings of others, and that the way in which we form such an idea
is by supposing ourselves in the same circumstances with the sufferer,
and then conceiving how we should be affected. All this is very true.
It is in this way, doubtless, that we get the idea of what another is
suffering. But the _idea_ of what he suffers is one thing, and our
_sympathy_ with that suffering is another. One is a conception, and the
other is the feeling awakened by that conception. Moreover, it does
not follow, as Mr. Stewart has well shown in his criticism upon this
theory, that the sympathy in this case arises from our conceiving or
believing, for the moment, those sufferings to be really our own. The
feeling which arises on the contemplation of our own real or fancied
distress, is quite another feeling in its character, from that of
pity or compassion. The two emotions are readily distinguished. The
mere uneasiness which we feel at the sight of another's suffering,
and the desire which we naturally feel to be rid of that uneasiness,
are not the chief elements in compassion. If they were, the sure and
simple remedy would be to run away from the distress which occasions
the uneasiness, to put it as quickly as possible out of sight and out
of mind. Such an emotion; prompting to such a course, might well be
termed selfish. But this is not the true nature of sympathy. It is not
a mere unpleasant sensation produced by observing the sufferings of
another, though such a sensation, doubtless, is produced in a sensitive
mind, and accompanies, or may even be said to form a part of, the
emotion which we term sympathy; there is, over and above this feeling
of uneasiness, a _fellowship_ of sorrow and of suffering, a bearing
of that suffering with him, as _his_, and not as our own, a pain
_for him_, and not for ourselves, the result and urgent prompting of
which is the impulse, the strong irrepressible desire to relieve, not
ourselves from uneasiness, but the sufferer from that which occasions
his distress.
_What follows from this Theory._--If compassion for others were the
offspring of fear for ourselves, then, as Butler has well said, the
most fearful natures ought to be the most compassionate, which is far
from being the case. It may be added, also, that if sympathy is, in
any respect, a _selfish_ principle, then they who are most completely
and habitually governed by selfish considerations ought, for the same
reason, to be the most keenly alive to the sufferings of others, which
is little less than a contradiction in terms.
CHAPTER II.
RATIONAL EMOTIONS.
§ I.--EMOTIONS OF JOY OR SADNESS ARISING FROM THE CONTEMPLATION OF OUR
OWN EXCELLENCE OR THE REVERSE.
_Nature and Objects of this Emotion._--Among those susceptibilities
which, while implanted in our nature, and springing into exercise by
their own spontaneous energy, imply in their operation the exercise
of the reflective powers, and in general, of the higher intellectual
faculties, and which on that account, we designate as _rational_,
in distinction from the _instinctive_ emotions, a prominent place
is due to those vivid feelings of pleasure, and pain, with which we
contemplate any real or supposed excellence, or defect, in ourselves.
The direct object of the emotions now under consideration, is self in
some form or aspect. The immediate cause of these emotions is some real
or fancied excellence which we possess, or, on the other hand, some
real or imagined deficiency. This excellence or deficiency may pertain
to our intellectual or to our moral qualities and attainments, or even
to our circumstances and condition in life, to any thing, in short,
which is _ours_, and which distinguishes us from our fellows. The
quality contemplated may be a real possession and attainment, or it may
exist only in our imagination and conceit. And so, also, of the defect;
that, too, may be real, or imaginary. In either case, vivid feelings
are awakened in the mind. It is impossible to contemplate ourselves
either as possessing or as lacking any desirable quality without
emotion, pleasing or painful, and that in a high degree.
_In what Manner awakened._--These emotions are awakened in either
of two ways: by the simple contemplation of the supposed excellence,
or defect, in _themselves_ considered as pertaining to us; or, more
frequently, by _the comparison of ourselves with others_ in these
respects. It is to the feelings awakened, in the latter case, by the
perceived superiority or inferiority of ourselves to others, as the
result of such comparison, that the terms pride and humility are
ordinarily applied. These terms are relative, and imply, always, some
process of comparison. There may be, however, the painful consciousness
of defect, or the pleasing consciousness of some high and noble
attainment, when the relation which we sustain to others, as regards
these points, forms no part of the object of contemplation. The
comparison is not of ourselves with others, but only of our present
with our former selves. We are satisfied and delighted at our own
progress and improvement, or humbled and cast down at our repeated
failure, and manifest deficiency.
_Not the same with moral Emotion._--The emotions now under
consideration must not be confounded with the satisfaction which arises
in view of moral worthiness, and the regret and disapprobation with
which we view our past conduct as morally wrong. The emotions of which
we now speak, are not of the nature of moral emotion, however closely
allied in some respects. It is not the verdict of an approving or
condemning conscience that awakens them. They have no reference to the
right as such. The object is viewed, not in the light of obligation or
duty, but merely as a _good_, a thing agreeable and desirable. Thus
viewed, its possession gives us pleasure, its absence, pain.
_Not blame-worthy in itself._--In the simple emotion thus awakened, the
satisfaction and pleasure with which we regard our own intellectual and
moral attainments, or even our external circumstances, there is nothing
blamable or unworthy of the true man. It is simply the working of
nature. The susceptibility to such emotion is part of our constitution,
implanted and inherent. As Dr. Brown has well remarked, it is
impossible to desire excellence, and not to rejoice at its attainment;
and if it is culpable to feel pleasure at attainments which have made
us nobler than we were before, it must, of course, have been culpable
to desire such excellence.
_In what Cases the Emotion becomes culpable._--It is only when the
emotion exists in an undue degree, or with regard to unworthy objects,
when the supposed excellence upon which we congratulate ourselves
really does not exist, or, when existing, we are disposed to set
ourselves up above others on account of it, and perhaps to look down
upon others for the lack of it, or even to make them feel by our manner
and bearing what and how great the difference is between them and us;
it is only under such forms and modifications, that the feeling becomes
culpable and odious. These it not unfrequently assumes. They are the
states of mind commonly denoted by the term _pride_, as the word is
used in common speech; and the censure usually and very justly attached
to the state of mind designated by that term, must be understood as
applicable to the disposition and feelings now described, and not to
the simple emotion of pleasure in view of our own real or supposed
attainments. That which we condemn in the proud man is not that he
excels others, or is conscious of thus excelling, or takes pleasure
even in that consciousness, but that, comparing himself with others,
and feeling his superiority, he is disposed to think more highly of
himself than he ought, on account of it, and more contemptuously of
others than he ought, and especially if he seeks to impress others with
the sense of that superiority.
_Different Forms which this Disposition assumes._--This he may do in
several ways. He may be fond of displaying his superiority, and of
courting the applause and distinction which it brings. Then he is the
_vain_ man. He may make much of that which really is worth little,
and plume himself on what he does not really possess. Then he is
the _conceited_ man. He may look with contempt upon and treat with
arrogance his inferiors. Then he is the _haughty_ man. Or he may have
too much pride to show in this way his own pride; too much self-respect
to put on airs, and court attention by display; too much sense to rate
himself very far above his real worth; too much good breeding to treat
others with arrogance and hauteur. In that case he contents himself
with his own high opinion and estimate of himself, and the enjoyment
of his own conscious superiority to those around him. He is simply
the proud man then, not the vain, the conceited, or the arrogant. The
difference, however, is not so much that he thinks less highly of
himself, and less contemptuously of others in comparison, but that he
does not so fully show what he thinks. The superiority is felt, but it
is not so plainly manifested.
_The Disposition, as thus manifested, reprehensible._--Of this
disposition and state of mind in any of its manifestations as now
described, it is not too much to say that it is worthy of the
censure which it commonly receives. It is not merely unamiable and
odious, but morally reprehensible. Especially is this the case where
the superiority consists, not in mental or moral endowments and
attainments, but in adventitious circumstances, such as beauty or
strength of person, station in society, wealth, or the accident of
birth--circumstances which imply no necessary worth in the possessor,
no real and inherent superiority to those on whom he looks down. In
such a case, pride is purely contemptible.
_Incompatible with the highest Excellence._--The highest excellence is
ever incompatible with the disposition to think highly of our present
attainments and excellence, and to place ourselves above others in
comparison. Emotions of pleasure may indeed arise in our minds, as
we view the unmistakable evidences of our own improvement. But the
noblest nature is that which looks neither at itself, to mark its
own acquirements, nor yet at others below itself, to mark its own
superiority, but whose earnest gaze is fixed only on that which is
above and superior to itself--the beau ideal ever floating before it of
an excellence not yet attained--in comparison with which all present
attainments seem of little moment. The truly great and noble mind is
ever humble, and conscious of its own deficiencies.
§ II.--ENJOYMENT OF THE LUDICROUS.
_Properly an Emotion._--Among the sources of rational enjoyment which
the constitution of our nature affords, must be reckoned the feeling
awakened by the perception of the _ludicrous_. We class this among the
emotions, inasmuch as it is a matter of feeling, and of pleasurable
feeling, differing in its nature not more from the intellectual
faculties, on the one hand, than from the affections and desires, on
the other. It is a species of joy or gladness, a pleasurable excitement
of feeling, awakened by a particular class of objects. Whatever else
may be true of the feeling in question, the character of agreeableness
is inseparable from it. It falls, therefore, properly into that class
of feelings which comprises the various modifications of joy and
sorrow, and which we have denominated simple emotions.
_Why rational._--We term it _rational_, rather than instinctive,
inasmuch as it implies, if I mistake not, the exercise of the higher
intellectual faculties. It is the prerogative of reason. The brute
nature has no perception, and of course no enjoyment, of the ludicrous.
The idiot has none. The uncultivated savage nature has it only in a
slight degree. In this respect the feeling under consideration is quite
analogous to the enjoyment of the beautiful and sublime, and also to
the feeling awakened in view of right or wrong action, the approbation
or disapprobation of our past conduct. All these, though founded in
our nature and constitution, are rational rather than instinctive,
as implying the exercise of those faculties which more peculiarly
distinguish man from the lower orders of being.
_In what Way to be defined._--To define precisely the emotion of the
ludicrous would be as difficult as to give an exact definition of any
other feeling. We must content ourselves, as in all such cases, by
determining the circumstances or conditions which give occasion for the
feeling. Though we cannot define the emotion itself, we can carefully
observe and specify the various objects and occasions that give rise to
it.
_The Question stated._--_Views of Locke and Dryden._--Under what
circumstances, then, is the feeling of the ludicrous awakened? What is
that certain peculiarity, or quality, of a certain class of objects,
which constitutes what we call _the ludicrous_, objectively considered?
Various answers have been given to this question, by writers not
unaccustomed to the careful observation of mental phenomena. Mr.
Locke's definition of wit is to this effect, that it consists in
"putting those ideas together with quickness and variety, wherein can
be found any resemblance or congruity, whereby to make up pleasant
pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy." This, it has been justly
remarked, is too comprehensive, since it includes the entire range
of eloquence and poetry. It comprends the sublime and the beautiful
as well as the witty. It applies to the most facetious passages of
Hudibras; it applies equally well to the most eloquent passages of
Burke or Webster, and to many of the finest passages of Paradise Lost.
Still more comprehensive is Dryden's definition, who says of wit,
that it is a propriety of thoughts and words, or thoughts and words
eloquently adapted to the subject, a definition which, it has been
jocosely remarked, would include at once Blair's Sermons, Campbell's
Pleasures of Hope, Cæsar's Commentaries, the Philippics of Cicero, and
the funeral orations of Bossuet, as peculiarly witty productions. It
should in justice be remarked, however, that neither Dryden nor Locke,
in their use of the term wit, seem to have had in mind what we now
understand by it, viz., facetiousness, or the mirth-provoking power,
but rather to have employed the word in that more general sense, in
which it was formerly almost exclusively used, to denote smartness and
vigor of the intellectual powers, good sense, sound judgment, quickness
of the apprehension, more particularly as these qualities are exhibited
in discourse or in writing.
_Definition of Johnson._--Johnson comes nearer the mark when he defines
wit as "a kind of _concordia discors_, a combination of dissimilar
images, a discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently
unlike." Not much removed from this, if not indeed derived from it,
is the definition of wit given by Campbell, in his Philosophy of
Rhetoric--"that which excites agreeable surprise in the mind, by the
strange assemblage of related images presented to it." To this, also,
applies the same objection as to the preceding definitions, that
it includes too much, the beautiful and sublime not less than the
ludicrous, eloquence as well as wit.
_Of Hobbes._--Hobbes defines laughter, which, so far as relates to the
mind, is merely the expression of the feeling of the ludicrous, to be
"a sudden glory, arising from a sudden conception of some eminency
in ourselves, by comparison with the infirmity of others, or our own
former infirmity." There can be little doubt, I think, that the object
which excites laughter, always present itself to the mind as in some
sense its inferior; and in so far, the definition involves an essential
element of the ludicrous. The person laughing is always, for the time
being, superior, in his own estimation at least, to the person or thing
laughed at. It is some awkwardness, some blunder, some defect of body,
mind, or manner, some lack of sharpness and sense, or of courage, or
of dignity, some perceived incongruity between the true character or
position of the individual and his present circumstances, that excites
our laughter and constitutes the ludicrous.
_Objections to this Theory._--It is not true, however, that the
laughter, or the disposition to laugh, arises from the simple
conception of our own superiority, or the inferiority of the object
contemplated, even in the cases supposed; for if that were so, then
wherever and whenever we discover such superiority, the feeling of
the ludicrous ought to be awakened, and the greater the superiority,
the stronger the tendency to mirth; which is far from being the case.
We are not disposed to laugh at the misfortunes of others, however
superior our own condition may be to theirs in that very respect. My
estate may be better than my neighbor's, or my health superior to
his, but I am not disposed to laugh at him on that account. On the
theory of Hobbes, no persons ought to be so full of merriment, even to
overflowing, as the proud, self-conceited, and supercilious, who are
most deeply impressed with the idea of their own vast superiority to
people and things in general. The fact is precisely the reverse. Such
persons seldom laugh, and when they do, the smile that plays for a
moment on the face is of that cold and disdainful nature which is far
removed from genuine and hearty merriment. It has little in it, as it
has been well said, "of the _full glorying and eminency_ of laughter,"
but is rather like the smile of Cassius.
"He loves no plays,
As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mocked himself, and scorned his spirit,
That could be moved to smile at any thing."
We cannot then resolve the ludicrous into the simple perception of some
inferiority of the object or person thus regarded, to ourselves, since
there are many kinds of inferiority which do not, in the least, awaken
the sense of the ludicrous, while, at the same time, those who are most
impressed by the consciousness of their superiority are not usually
most disposed to mirth.
_Incongruity the essential Element._--If we are required now to
specify in what consists the essential character of the ludicrous,
and of wit which may be regarded as the exciting or producing cause
of the same, we should detect it in _the grouping_, _or bringing
together in a sudden and unexpected manner_, _ideas or things that are
in their nature incongruous_. The _incongruity_ of the objects thus
brought into juxtaposition, and the _surprise_ felt at the _novel_ and
_unexpected_ relation thus discovered, are, it seems to me, the true
essential elements in the idea of the ludicrous. If we examine closely
the different objects that give rise to this emotion, we shall find,
I think, always something incongruous, and consequently unusual and
unexpected, in the relations presented, whether of ideas or of things.
It may be the result of accident, or of awkwardness, or of mental
obtuseness, or of design; it matters not in what mode or from what
source the thing proceeds; whenever these conditions are answered, the
sense of the ludicrous is awakened.
_Relation of Surprise to the ludicrous._--Surprise is an essential
concomitant of the ludicrous. This is the state of mind into which we
are thrown by the occurrence of any thing new, strange, out of the
usual course, and, therefore, unexpected. Whatever is incongruous,
is likely to be unusual, and of course unexpected, and hence strikes
the mind with more or less surprise. Not every thing that surprises
us, however, is witty. The sudden fall of a window near which we are
sitting, or the unexpected discharge of a musket within a few paces
of us, may cause us to start with surprise, but would not strike us
probably as particularly facetious. We are surprised to hear of the
death of a friend, or of some fearful accident, attended with loss
of life to many, but there is no mirthfulness in such surprise. It
is only that form of surprise which is awakened by the perception of
the incongruous, and not the surprise we feel in general at any thing
new and strange, that is related to the ludicrous. It is rather a
concomitant, therefore, than strictly an element of the emotion we are
now considering.
_Novelty as related to Wit._--How much novelty and suddenness add to
the effect of wit, every one knows. A story however witty, once heard,
loses its freshness and zest, and, often repeated, becomes not merely
uninteresting, but irksome, and at length intolerable. In the same
manner, and for the same reason, a witticism which we know to have
been premeditated produces little effect, as compared with the same
thing said in sudden repartee, and on the spur of the moment. That a
man should have studied out some curious relations and combinations of
things in his closet, does not surprise us so much, as that he should
happen to conceive of these relations at the very moment when they
would meet the exigency of the occasion. The epithets which we most
commonly apply to any witty production or facetious remark, indicate
the same thing; we call it lively, fresh, sparkling, full of vivacity
and zest--terms borrowed, perhaps, from the choicer wines, which will
not bear exposure but lose their flavor and life when once brought to
the air.
_Even the Incongruous not always ludicrous._--We come to this result,
then, in our own attempted analysis, that the incongruity of the ideas
or objects brought into relation with each other constitutes the
essential characteristic, the invariable element of the ludicrous, the
effect being always greatly heightened by the surprise we feel at the
novel and unexpected combinations thus presented. It must be remarked,
however, that even the incongruous and unexpected fail to awaken the
sense of the ludicrous, when the object or event contemplated is of
such a nature as to give rise to other and more serious emotions.
When the occurrence, however novel and surprising in itself, or even
ludicrous, is of such a nature as to endanger the life, or seriously
injure the well-being of ourselves or of others, in the one case fear,
in the other compassion, are at once awakened, and all sense of the
ludicrous is completely at an end. The graver passion is at variance
with the lighter, and banishes it from the mind. Should we see a well
dressed and portly man, of some pretension and bearing, accidentally
lose his footing and sprawl ingloriously in the gutter, our first
impulse undoubtedly would be to laugh. The incongruity of his present
position and appearance with his general neatness of person and dignity
of manner would appeal strongly to the sense of the ridiculous. Should
we learn, however, that in the fall he had broken his leg, or otherwise
seriously injured himself, our mirthfulness at once gives place to pity.
_Discovery of Truth not allied to the ludicrous._--It is for a
similar reason that the discovery of any new and important truth in
science, however strange and unexpected, never awakens the feeling of
the ludicrous. Its importance carries it over into a higher sphere
of thought and feeling. Kepler's law of planetary motion must have
been at first a strange and wonderful announcement; the chemical
identity of charcoal and the diamond presents, in a new and strange
relation, objects apparently most unlike and incongruous; yet, in all
probability, neither the astronomer, nor the chemist, who made and
announced these discoveries, were regarded by the men of the time as
having done any thing peculiarly witty. We look at the importance of
the results in such cases, and whatever of oddity or incongruity there
may be in the ideas or objects thus related, fails to impress the mind
in the presence of graver emotions.
_Various Forms of the ludicrous._--The incongruity that awakens the
feeling of the ludicrous may present itself in many diverse forms. It
may relate to _objects_, or to _ideas_. In either case, the grouping
or bringing together of the incongruous elements may be _accidental_,
or it may be _intentional_. If accidental, it passes for a blunder; if
intentional, it takes the name of wit.
_Accidental and intentional grouping of Objects incongruous._--Of
the _accidental_ grouping of _objects_ that are incongruous, we have
an instance in the case already supposed, of the well dressed and
dignified gentleman unexpectedly prostrate in the mud. If in place of
the dignified gentleman we have the dandy, or the Broadway exquisite,
fresh from the toilet, the incongruity is so much the greater, and so
much the greater our mirth. Let the hero of the scene, for instance, be
such a one as Hotspur so contemptuously describes as coming to parley
with him after battle:--
"When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new-reaped,
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took't away again;"
--imagine such a character, with all his finery, floundering in the
mud, and the ludicrousness of the scene would be such as to set at
naught all attempts at gravity, even on the part of those who seldom
smile.
When the incongruous objects are purposely brought into relation for
the sake of exciting mirth, the wit may be _at the expense of others_,
in which case we have either the practical joke, or simple buffoonery,
imitating the peculiarities and incongruities of others; or the joker
may play off his wit _at his own expense_, and act the clown or the
fool for the amusement of observers.
_Accidental grouping of incongruous Ideas._--When the incongruity is
that not of _objects_, but of _ideas_ brought into new and unexpected
relation, and when this is the result of accident or awkwardness,
rather than of design, we have what is termed a _blunder_ or a _bull_.
In such a case there is always involved some inconsistency between
the thing meant, and the thing said or done. There is an apparent
congruity, but a real incongruity of the related ideas. An instance of
this occurs in the anecdote related by Sydney Smith, of a physician,
who, being present where the conversation turned upon an English
nobleman of rank and fortune, but without children, remarked, with
great seriousness, that to be childless was a misfortune, but he
thought he had observed that it was _hereditary_ in some families.
Of this nature is most of the wit which we call Irish; the result of
accident rather than design--a blunder, a bull. It is said that during
the late rebellion in Ireland, the enraged populace, on a certain
occasion, vented their wrath against a famous banker, by solemnly
resolving to burn all his bank-notes which they could lay hands on;
forgetting, in their rage, that this was only to make themselves so
much the poorer, and him so much the richer. The instance given by Mr.
Mahan is also in point, of two Irishmen walking together through the
woods, the foremost of whom seizing a branch, as he passed along, and
holding it for a while, suddenly let it fly back, whereby his companion
behind was suddenly reduced to a horizontal position, but on recovering
himself, congratulated his associate on having held back the branch as
long as he did, since it must otherwise have killed him.
_Intentional grouping of incongruous Ideas._--The _intentional_
grouping of incongruous ideas, for the purpose of exciting the feeling
of the ludicrous, is more properly denominated _wit_. This, again,
may assume diverse forms. Where the ideas are entirely dissimilar,
but have a name or sound in common, which similarity of mere sound or
name is seized upon as the basis of comparison, the wit takes the name
of a _pun_. The more complete the incongruity of the two ideas, thus
brought into strange and unexpected relation, under cover of a word,
the more perfect the pun, and the more ludicrous the effect. This kind
of wit is deservedly reckoned as inferior. "By unremitting exertions,"
says a quaint writer, "it has been at last put under, and driven into
cloisters, from whence it must never again be suffered to emerge into
the light of the world." One invaluable blessing, adds the same author,
produced by the banishment of punning is, an immediate reduction of the
number of wits.
_The Burlesque._--When the wit is employed in debasing what is great
and imposing, by applying thereto figures and phrases that are mean and
contemptible, it takes the name of _burlesque_. The pages of Hudibras
afford abundant illustrations of this form of the ludicrous. The
battle of Don Quixote and the wind-mills is a burlesque on the ancient
tournaments.
_The Mock-Heroic._--The mock-heroic, by a contrary process, provokes
the sense of the ridiculous by investing what is inconsiderable and
mean with high-sounding epithets and dignified description. The battle
of the mice and frogs is an instance of this.
_The double Meaning._--Beside the varieties of intentional incongruity
of ideas already mentioned, there are certain less important forms
of witticism, which can perhaps hardly be classed under any of the
foregoing divisions. The whole tribe of _double entendres_, or double
meanings, where one thing is said and another thing is meant, or
at least where the apparent and honest is not the only or the real
meaning; _satire_, which is only a modification of the same principle,
drawn out into somewhat more extended and dignified discourse, and
which, under the form of apparent praise, hides the shafts of ridicule
and invective; _sarcasm_, which conveys the intended censure and
invective in a somewhat more indirect and oblique manner;--these are
all but various modes of what we have called intentional incongruity of
ideas.
_This Principle, in what Respects of dangerous Tendency._--Of the
value of this principle of our nature, I have as yet said nothing. To
estimate it at its true worth, is not altogether an easy thing. On
the one hand, there can be little doubt that, carried to excess, it
becomes a dangerous principle. The tendency to view all things, even
perhaps the most sacred, in a ludicrous light, and to discover fanciful
and remote relations between objects and ideas the most diverse and
incongruous, must exert an unhappy influence on the general tone and
character of both the mind and the heart. Where wit, or the disposition
to the ludicrous, becomes the predominant quality of the mind,
impressing the other and nobler faculties into its lawless service, it
must be to the detriment of the mind's highest energies and capacities;
to the detriment especially of that sincerity and honesty of purpose,
and that earnest love of truth, which are the foundation of all true
greatness. I speak in this of the excess and abuse of wit; I speak of
the _mere_ wit.
_Of use to the Mind._--On the other hand, the tendency to the ludicrous
has its uses in the economy and constitution of our nature, and they
are by no means to be overlooked. It gives a lightness and buoyancy, a
freshness and life, to the faculties that would otherwise be jaded in
the weary march and routine of life. It is to the mind what music is
to the soldier on the march. It enlivens and refreshes the spirits. A
hearty laugh doeth good like a medicine. A quick and keen perception
of the ludicrous, when not permitted to usurp undue control, but made
the servitor of the higher powers and propensities, and keeping its
true place, not in the fore-front, but in the background of the varied
and busy scene, is to be regarded as one of the most fortunate mental
endowments.
_Wit often associated with noble Qualities._--There is no necessary
connection, no connection of any sort, perhaps, between wisdom and
dullness, although a great part of mankind have always persisted in the
contrary opinion. The laughter-loving and laughter-provoking man is by
no means a fool. He who goes through the world, such as it is, and sees
in all its caprices, and inconsistencies, and follies, and absurdities,
nothing to laugh at, much more justly deserves the suspicion of a
lack of sense. "Wit," it has been justly remarked, "is seldom the
only eminent quality which resides in the mind of any man; it is
commonly accompanied by many other talents of every description, and
ought to be considered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior
understanding. Almost all the great poets, orators, and statesmen of
all times, have been witty."
_Wit as an Instrument for correcting Folly._--There is one important
use of the faculty under consideration, to which I have not as yet
alluded. I refer to its power as an instrument for keeping in check
the follies and vices of those who are governed by no higher principle
than a regard to the good opinion of society, and a fear of incurring
the ridicule of an observing and sharp-sighted world. To such, and such
there are in multitudes, "_the world's dread laugh_" is more potent
and formidable than any law of God or man. There are, moreover, many
lighter foibles and inconsistencies of even good men, for which the
true and most effective weapon is ridicule.
_Remarks of Sydney Smith._--I cannot better conclude my remarks upon
this part of our mental constitution, than by citing some very just
observations of Sydney Smith--himself one of the keenest wits of the
age.
"I have talked of the _danger_ of wit; I do not mean by that to enter
into common-place declamation against faculties, because they _are_
dangerous; wit is dangerous, eloquence is dangerous, a talent for
observation is dangerous, every thing is dangerous that has energy and
vigor for its characteristics; nothing is safe but mediocrity.... But
when wit is combined with sense and information; where it is softened
by benevolence, and restrained by strong principle; when it is in the
hands of a man who can use it and despise it, who can be witty and
something much _better_ than witty, who loves honor, justice, decency,
good nature, morality, and religion, ten thousand times better than
wit; wit is _then_ a beautiful and delightful part of our nature."
§ III.--ENJOYMENT OF THE NEW AND WONDERFUL.
_Surprise and Ennui._--Of that form of surprise which arises in view of
the incongruous, and which accompanies the feeling of the ludicrous, I
have already had occasion to speak, in treating of that emotion. Of the
feeling of surprise in general, its nature, and occasions, and also of
that feeling to which it stands opposed, and which for want of a better
term we may call _ennui_, I am now to speak.
_Definition and nature of Surprise._--Surprise may be defined as the
feeling awakened by the perception of whatever is new and wonderful. It
is, in itself considered, an agreeable emotion, rather than otherwise.
Variety and novelty are usually pleasing; our nature demands them,
and is gratified at their occurrence. Monotony, the unbroken thread,
and ever-recurring routine of ordinary life and duty, weary, and,
after a time, disgust us. Upon this listlessness and lethargy of the
mind, a new and unexpected event, as the arrival of a friend, or
the reception of some unlooked-for intelligence, breaks in with an
agreeable surprise. Hence the eagerness of men, in all ages and all
nations, to hear or see some new thing. It is only when the new event
or intelligence is of the nature of positive evil, when the news is
of some misfortune, real or imagined, when the experience of present,
or the fear of future suffering, is the direct and natural result of
the occurrence, that the surprise becomes a painful emotion. And even
in such cases, I am not quite sure that there is not in the first
excitement of the mind upon the reception of bad news, as of the death
of a friend, or the calamity of a neighbor, something for the moment,
of the nature of pleasure mingling with the pain. We deeply regret the
occurrence, but are pleased to have heard the news. The thing grieves
us, but not the hearing of it. It is not the surprise that pains us,
but the thing at which we are surprised. Surprise, like every other
form of mental excitement, is not, in itself, and within due bounds,
disagreeable, but the reverse.
_How awakened._--This emotion is awakened, as already stated, in view
of any thing unforeseen and unexpected. We naturally anticipate,
to some extent, the course of the future. We presume it will be
substantially as the past. We expect the recurrence of what has often
and usually occurred, and whenever any thing breaks in on this
established order of events, we are surprised at the interruption in
the ordinary train of sequences. Hence the new and the strange always
excite surprise.
_Differs from Wonder._--Surprise differs from wonder, in that the
latter involves an _intellectual_ element, the effort of the mind to
satisfy itself of the cause and proper explanation of the new and
strange phenomenon. Surprise is purely a matter of sensibility, of
feeling, and not of intellect. The mind is wholly passive under this
emotion. It may lead to action, as may any other emotion, but, like
every other emotion, it is, in itself, an influence exerted upon the
mind, and not by it, something passively received, and not actively put
forth.
_From Astonishment._--It differs from astonishment in that the latter
expresses a higher degree of mental excitement, as in view of some
occurrence exceedingly remarkable and strange, or of some object whose
magnitude and importance fills the mind.
_Design of this Principle._--The end to be accomplished by this
provision of our nature is sufficiently obvious. Our attention is
thereby called to whatever is out of the ordinary course, and which,
from the circumstance that it is something unusual, may be supposed to
require attention, and we are put on our guard against the approaching
danger, or roused to meet the present emergency. Surprise is the
alarm-bell that calls all our energies into action, or at least warns
them to be in present readiness for whatever service may be needed. The
same principle operates also as a stimulus to exertion in the ordinary
affairs of life. We seek new things, we are weary with the old, and
this simple law of our nature is often one of the strongest incitements
to effort.
_The opposite Feeling._--The opposite of surprise is that uneasy
feeling, of which we are conscious, from the constant recurrence of
the same objects in unvaried sequence; as, for instance, from the
continued repetition of the same sound, or series of sounds, the
uniform succession of the same or similar objects in the landscape,
and the like. Every one knows how tedious becomes a perfectly straight
and level road, with the same objects occurring at regular intervals,
and with nothing to break the dead monotony of the scene. The most
rugged passes of the Alps would be a relief in exchange, both to body
and mind. The repetition of the same song, or the same succession of
musical sounds, however pleasing in themselves, becomes in like manner,
after a time, intolerable. For want of a better term, for I am not sure
that we have in our own language any one word that exactly expresses
the feeling now under consideration, we may borrow of the French the
somewhat expressive term _ennui_, by which to designate this form of
the sensibility.
_Use of Ennui._--There can be little doubt that this feeling subserves
a valuable purpose in the constitution and economy of our nature. It
is the needed motive and stimulus to action, without which we should
settle down often into a sluggish indifference and contentment with
things as they are, instead of pressing forward to something worthier
and better.
§ IV.--ENJOYMENT OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND SUBLIME.
_The Enjoyment, as distinguished from the intellectual Perception of
the Beautiful._--Of the _idea_ of the beautiful, and of the action of
the mind as _cognizant_ of it, in so far as regards the intellectual
faculties, I have already treated in another connection. But it is not
the intellect alone that comes under the influence of the beautiful.
What the sense perceives, what the taste and judgment recognize and
approve, the sensibility is quick to feel. Emotion is awakened. No
sooner is a beautiful object perceived in nature or art, than we are
conscious of lively sensations of pleasure. So strong and so universal
are these feelings, that many writers have been led to speak of beauty
itself, as if it were an emotion, a merely subjective matter, an
affair of feeling merely. The incorrectness of this view has been
already shown, and we need not enter upon the discussion anew.
_The term Admiration._--The feeling awakened by the perception of the
beautiful, like some other feelings of which we are conscious, has not
a name that precisely designates it; hence the expression--ambiguous,
and, therefore, objectionable--emotions of beauty, employed by certain
writers to denote the feeling in question. The word _admiration_,
though often used in a somewhat wider sense, perhaps more nearly
expresses the emotion to which I refer, than any other word in our
language. We are surprised at what is new and strange. We admire what
is beautiful and sublime. The feeling is one of pure and unalloyed
pleasure, mingled with more or less of wonder or surprise, in case
the object contemplated is one which is new to us, or one of rare and
surpassing beauty. As the beautiful has its opposite--the deformed
or ugly--so the feeling which it awakens stands contrasted with an
opposite emotion, viz., _disgust_.
In connection with this form of sensibility, there are some questions
requiring consideration.
_Whether the Emotion is immediate._--It is a question somewhat debated,
whether the emotions awakened by the beautiful and sublime are
immediate, or reflective; whether they spring up at once on perception
of the object, or only as the result of reflection and reasoning.
Those who maintain that beauty consists in utility, or in order and
proportion, fitness, unity with variety, etc., must, of course, regard
the emotions awakened by it as not immediate, since, according to their
theory, time must be allowed for the understanding to convince itself,
in the first place, that the object _is_ useful, etc. The qualities
constituting the beauty must be first apprehended by the mind as
existing in the object, before there can be emotion, and to do this is
the work of reflection. If, however, beauty is but the expression of
the invisible under the visible and sensible forms, then all that is
necessary to produce emotion is simply the perception of the object
thus expressive, since the moment it is perceived, it is perceived as
expressing something, and thus, appealing to our own spiritual nature,
awakens immediate emotion.
_How to be decided._--The question must be decided by the observation
of facts, and the result will constitute an additional argument in
favor of one, or the other, of the general views of the beautiful now
named. What then are the facts in the case, as given by consciousness,
and observation?
_Testimony of Consciousness._--So far as I can judge, no sooner do we
find ourselves in presence of a beautiful object than we are conscious
of emotions of pleasure. There is no previous cross-questioning of
the object to find out whether it is adapted to this or that useful
end, or whether the rules of order, and proportion, are observed in
its construction. Before we have time to think of these things, the
sensibility has already responded to the appeal which beauty ever makes
to our sensitive nature, and the first distinct fact of which we are
conscious is an emotion of pleasure.
_Effect of Repetition._--Consciousness assures us, more over, that the
pleasure is usually quite as vivid at the first sight of a beautiful
object as ever after, which would indicate that it is not the result of
reflection. In truth, repetition is found, in most cases, to weaken the
emotion, and familiarity may even destroy it. Yet every repetition adds
to our opportunity for observation and reflection, and strengthens our
conviction of the utility, the order, the fitness, the proportion, of
that which we observe.
_Critical Reflection subsequent to Emotion._--It seems evident,
moreover, that whatever reflections of this nature we may choose to
indulge, are uniformly subsequent to the first emotion of pleasure
and delight, to the first impression made upon us by the beauty of
the object--after-thoughts readily to be distinguished from those
first impressions--and that they are usually the result of a special
volition to inform ourselves as to these matters; whereas the emotion
is spontaneous and involuntary. Doubtless a pleasure arises from the
perception of the qualities referred to, but it is a pleasure of
another kind from that which arises in view of the beautiful, as such.
We must think, then, that the emotions awakened by the beautiful are
immediate, not reflective.
_Further Question._--Closely allied to the preceding is the question,
Which precedes the other, the emotion which a beautiful object awakens,
or the judgment of the mind that the object is beautiful. Logically,
doubtless, the two things may be distinguished, but not, perhaps, in
order of time. No sooner is the object perceived, than it is both
perceived and felt to be beautiful. The emotion awakened and the mental
affirmation, "That is beautiful," are both immediate on the perception
of the object, synchronous events, so far as concerns at least our
ability to distinguish between them in point of time.
_Logically, Emotion precedes._--In point of logical relation, the
emotion, I think, must be allowed the precedence, although so high an
authority as Kant decides otherwise. Had we no emotion in view of the
beautiful, we should not know that it was beautiful. As, universally,
sensation is the indispensable condition of perception, and logically,
at least, its antecedent, so here the feeling of the beautiful is
the condition and source of the perception of the beautiful. The
object strikes us as being so, moves us, affects us, produces on us
the impression, and hence we say, "That is beautiful." Had we no
susceptibility of emotion in view of the beautiful, it may be seriously
questioned whether we should ever have the perception or impression
that any given object is beautiful.
_The Beautiful as distinguished from the Sublime._--There is still
another point deserving attention. In discussing the æsthetic emotions,
we have spoken as yet only of the feeling awakened by the _beautiful_.
How do these emotions differ--in degree merely--or in nature?
_The Opinion that they differ only in Degree._--Some have maintained
that sublimity is only a higher _degree_ of what we call beauty. A
little stream playing among the hills and tumbling over the rocks
is beautiful; a little further on, as it grows larger, and swifter,
and stronger, it becomes sublime. If this be so, it is a very simple
matter: the surveyor's chain, or a ten foot pole, will, at any time,
give us the difference, and enable us to determine at once whether a
river or a mountain is merely pretty, or sublime.
_Different Emotions excited by each._--If they differ in _kind_,
however, and not merely in quantity, it may not be so easy to tell just
what the difference is. We can best detect it, perhaps, by observing
carefully the difference of the emotions excited in us by the two
classes of objects. I contemplate an object, which, in common with all
the world, I call beautiful. What emotion does that object awaken in
me? An emotion of pleasure and delight, for which I can find, perhaps,
no better name than admiration. I contemplate now another object
which men call sublime. What now are my emotions? Admiration there
may be, but not, as before, a calm, placid delight; far otherwise. An
admiration mingled with awe, a sense of greatness and of power in the
object now oppresses me, and I stand as before some superior being,
or element, in whose presence I feel my comparative feebleness and
insignificance.
_The Sublime conveys the Idea of superior Power._--Accordingly we
find that the objects which men call sublime are invariably such as
are fitted to awaken such emotions. They are objects which convey the
idea of superior force and power--something grand in its dimensions
or in its strength--something vast and illimitable, beyond our
comprehension and control. The boundless expanse of the ocean, the
prairie, or the pathless desert, the huge mass of some lofty mountain,
the resistless cataract, the awful crash of the thunder, as it rolls
along the trembling firmament, the roar of the sea in a storm when
it lifteth up its waves on high, the movements of an army on the
battle-field--these, and such as these, are the objects we call
sublime. The little may be beautiful, it is never sublime. Nor is the
merely great always so, but only when it conveys the idea of superior
power. Montmorenci is beautiful, Niagara is sublime. A Swiss valley,
nestling among the hills, is beautiful; the mountains that tower above
it through the overhanging clouds into the pure upper sky, and in the
calm, serene majesty of their strength stand looking down upon the
slumbering world at their feet, and all the insignificance of man and
his little affairs, are sublime.
_The Sublime and the Beautiful associated._--Nor is the sublime always
unassociated with the beautiful. Niagara is not more sublime than
beautiful. The deep emerald hue of the waters as they plunge, the bow
on the mist, the foam sparkling in the abyss below, are each among
the most beautiful objects in nature. The sublime and the beautiful
are often mingled thus, distinct elements, but conjoined in the same
object. The highest æsthetic effect is produced by this combination.
The beauty tempers the sublimity; the sublimity elevates and ennobles
the beauty. It is thus at Niagara. It is thus when the sunrise flashes
along the summits of the snowy Alps.
_The Beautiful tranquilizes, the Sublime agitates._--The beautiful
pleases us; so, in a sense, does the sublime. Both produce agreeable
emotions. Yet they differ. In the enjoyment of the beautiful there
is a calm, quiet pleasure; the mind is at rest, undisturbed, can at
its leisure and sweet will admire the delicacy and elegance of that
which fills it with delight. But in the perception of the sublime it
is otherwise. The mind is agitated, is in sympathy with the stir, and
strife, and play of the fierce elements, or is oppressed with the
feeling of its own insignificance, as contrasted with the stern majesty
and strength of what it contemplates. Hence the sublime takes a deeper
hold on the mind than the merely beautiful, awes it, elevates it,
rouses its slumbering energies, quickens the slow course of thought,
and makes it live, in brief moments, whole hours and days of ordinary
life. The beautiful charms and soothes us; the sublime subdues us and
leads us captive. The one awakens our sympathy and love, the other
rouses in us all that is noble, serious, and great in our nature.
_Relation of the Sublime to Fear._--The relation of the sublime to
fear has been noticed by several writers. Memdelssohn, Ancillon, Kant,
Jouffroy, Blair, have spoken of it, as well as Burke. The latter was
not far from right in his theory of fear as an element of the sublime.
It were better to say _awe_ than fear, for the boldest and stoutest
hearts are fully susceptible of it; and it were better to speak of it
as an element of our emotion in view of the sublime, than as an element
of the sublime itself.
_Cultivation of æsthetic Sensibility._--I cannot, in this connection,
entirety pass without notice a topic requiring much more careful
consideration than my present limits will permit--the cultivation of
the æsthetic sensibility--of a love for the beautiful.
_This Culture neglected._--The love of the beautiful is merely one of
the manifold forms of the sensibility, and, in common with every other
feeling and propensity of our nature, it may be augmented, quickened,
strengthened to a very great degree by due culture and exercise. It
is an endowment of nature, but, like other native endowments, it may
be neglected and suffered to die out. This, unfortunately, is too
frequently the case with those especially who are engaged in the active
pursuits of life. The time and the attention are demanded for other
and more important matters, and so the merely beautiful is passed by
unheeded. It admits of question, whether it is not a serious defect
in our systems of education, that so little attention is paid to
the culture of the taste, and of a true love for the beautiful. The
means of such a culture are ever at hand. The great works and the
most perfect models in art are not, indeed, accessible to all. Not
every one can cross the seas to study the frescoes of Raphael and
Michael Angelo. But around us in nature, along our daily paths, are
the works of a greater Artist, and no intelligent and thoughtful mind
need be unobservant of their beauty. Nor is there danger, as some may
apprehend, that we shall carry this matter to excess. The tendencies of
our age and of our country are wholly the reverse. The danger is rather
that in the activity and energy of our new life, the higher culture
will be overlooked, and the love of the beautiful die out.
_Value of this Principle._--The love of the beautiful is the source
of some of the purest and most exquisite pleasures of life. It is the
gift of God in the creation and endowment of the human soul. Nature
lays the foundation for it among her earliest developments. The child
is, by nature, a lover of the beautiful. Nor is it in early life alone
that this principle has its natural and normal developments. On the
contrary, under favorable circumstances, it grows stronger and more
active as the mind matures, and the years pass on. Happy he who, even
in old age, keeps fresh in his heart this pure and beautiful fountain
of his youth; who, as days advance, and shadows lengthen, and sense
grows dull, can still look, with all the admiration and delight of his
childish years, on whatever is truly beautiful in the works of God or
man.
§ V.--SATISFACTION IN VIEW OF RIGHT CONDUCT, AND REMORSE IN VIEW OF
WRONG.
_The Feeling, as distinguished from the Perception of Right._--In the
chapter on the Idea and Cognizance of the Right, the notion of right,
in itself considered, and also the mind's action as cognizant of the
right, so far at least as concerns the _intellectual_ faculties thus
employed, were fully discussed. It is not necessary now to enter again
upon the investigation of these topics. But, as in the cognizance of
the beautiful, so in the cognizance of the right, not only is the
intellect exercised, but the sensibility also is aroused. As consequent
upon the perceptions of the intellect, _emotion_ is awakened; and
that emotion is both definite and strong. It is peculiar in its
operation. No emotion that stirs the human bosom is more uniform in
its development, more strongly marked in its character, or exerts a
deeper and more permanent influence on the happiness and destiny of
man, than the satisfaction with which he views the virtuous conduct
of a well-spent hour or a well-spent life, and the regret, amounting
sometimes to remorse, with which, on the contrary, he looks back upon
the misdeeds and follies of the past. Of all the forms of joy and
sorrow that cast their lights and shadows over the checkered scene and
pathway of human existence, there are none which, aside from their
ethical relations, are of deeper interest to the psychologist, or more
worthy his careful study, than the emotions to which I now refer.
_The moral Faculty not resolvable into moral Feeling._--So deeply have
certain writers been impressed with the importance of this part of
our nature, that they have not hesitated to resolve the moral faculty
itself into the emotions now under consideration, and to make the
recognition of moral distinctions ultimately a mere matter of feeling.
This, whether regarded ethically, or psychologically, is certainly a
great mistake, fatal in either case to the true science whether of
morals or of mind. Right and wrong, as also the beautiful and its
opposite, are not mere conceptions of the human mind. They have an
actual objective existence and reality and, as such, are cognized by
the mind, which perceives a given act to be right or wrong, and, as
such, obligatory or the opposite, and approves or condemns the deed,
and the doer accordingly. So far the intellect is concerned. But the
process does not stop here. Sensibility is awakened. The verdict and
calm decisions of the judgment are taken up by the feelings, and made
the basis and occasion of a new form of mental activity. It is with
this excitement of the sensibility in view of conduct as right or
wrong, that we are now concerned, and while we can by no means resolve
all our moral perceptions and judgments into this class of emotions,
we would still assign it an important place among the various forms of
mental activity.
_Not limited to our own Conduct._--The emotion of which we speak is
not limited to the occasions of our own moral conduct; it arises,
also, in view of the moral actions of others. A good deed, an act of
generosity, magnanimity, courage, by whomsoever performed, meets our
approbation, and awakens in our bosoms feelings of pleasure. If the act
is one of more than ordinary heroism and self-sacrifice, we are filled
with admiration. Instances of the opposite excite our displeasure and
disgust. No small part of the interest with which we trace the records
of history, or the pages of romance, arises from that constant play
of the feelings with which we watch the course of events, and the
development of character, as corresponding to or at variance with the
demands of our moral nature.
_A good Conscience an Object of universal Desire._--But it is chiefly
when we become ourselves the actors, and the decisions of conscience
respect our own good or evil deeds that we learn the true nature and
power of the moral emotions. A good conscience, it has been said, is
the only object of universal desire, since even bad men wish, though
in vain, for the happiness which it confers. It would perhaps be more
correct to say that an accusing conscience is an object of universal
dread. But in either case, whether for approval or condemnation, very
great is its power over the human mind.
_Sustaining Power of a good Conscience._--We all know something of
it, not only by the observation of others, but by the consciousness
of our own inner life. In the testimony of a good conscience, in its
calm, deliberate approval of our conduct, lies one of the sweetest and
purest of the pleasures of life; a source of enjoyment whose springs
are beyond the reach of accident or envy; a fountain in the desert
making glad the wilderness and the solitary place. It has, moreover, a
sustaining power. The consciousness of rectitude, the approval of the
still small voice within, that whispers in the moment of danger and
weakness, "_You are right_," imparts to the fainting soul a courage
and a strength that can come from no other source. Under its influence
the soul is elevated above the violence of pain, and the pressure of
outward calamity. The timid become bold, the weak are made strong.
Here lies the secret of much of the heroism that adorns the annals
of martyrdom and of the church. Women and children, frail and feeble
by nature, ill fitted to withstand the force of public opinion, and
shrinking from the very thought of pain and suffering, have calmly
faced the angry reproaches of the multitude, and resolutely met death
in its most terrific forms, sustained by the power of an approving
conscience, whose decisions were, to them, of more consequence than the
applause or censure of the world, and whose sustaining power bore them,
as on a prophet's chariot of fire, above the pains of torture and the
rage of infuriated men.
_Power of Remorse._--Not less is the power of an accusing conscience.
Its disapprobation and censure, though clothed with no external
authority, are more to be dreaded than the frowns of kings or the
approach of armies. It is a silent constant presence that cannot be
escaped, and will not be pacified. It embitters the happiness of life,
cuts the sinews of the soul's inherent strength. It is a fire in the
bones, burning when no man suspects but he only who is doomed to its
endurance; a girdle of thorns worn next the heart, concealed, it
may be, from the eye of man, but giving the wearer no rest, day nor
night. Its accusations are not loud, but to the guilty soul they are
terrible, penetrating her inmost recesses, and making her to tremble as
the forest trembles at the roar of the enraged lion, as the deep sea
trembles in her silent depths, when her Creator goeth by on the wings
of the tempest, and the God of glory thundereth. The bold bad man
hears that accusing voice, and his strength departs from him. The heart
that is inured to all evil, and grown hard in sin, and fears not the
face of man, nor the law of God, hears it, and becomes as the heart of
a child.
How terrible is remorse! that worm that never dies, that fire that
never goes out. We cannot follow the human soul beyond the confines of
its present existence. But it is an opinion entertained by some, and in
itself not improbable, that, in the future, conscience will act with
greatly increased power. When the causes that now conspire to prevent
its full development and perfect action, shall operate no longer; when
the tumult of the march and the battle are over; when the cares, the
pleasures, the temptations, the vain pursuits, that now distract the
mind with their confused uproar, shall die away in the distance, and
cease to be heard, in the stillness of eternity, in the silence of a
purely spiritual existence, the still small voice of conscience may
perhaps be heard as never before. In the busy day-time we catch, at
intervals, the sound of the distant ocean, as a low and gentle murmur.
In the still night, when all is hushed, we hear it beating, in heavy
and constant surges, on the shore. And thus it may be with the power of
conscience in the future.
SENSIBILITIES.
PART SECOND.
THE AFFECTIONS.
CHAPTER I.
BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS.
_Character of the Affections as a Class._--Of the three generic classes
into which the sensibilities were divided, viz., Simple Emotions,
Affections, and Desires, the first alone has, thus far, engaged our
attention. We now approach the second. It will be remembered that, in
our analysis of the sensibilities, the Affections were distinguished
from the Simple Emotions, as being of a complex character, involving,
along with the feeling of delight and satisfaction in the object, or
the reverse, the wish, more or less definite and intense, of good or
ill to the object that awakens the emotion. The feeling thus assumes
an active and transitive form, going forth from itself, and even
forgetting itself, in its care for the object.
_How divided._--The affections, it will also be remembered, were
further divided into the _benevolent_ and _malevolent_, according as
they seek the good or the ill of the object on which they fasten. As
the simple emotions are but so many forms of _joy_ and _sorrow_, so,
likewise, the affections are but so many modifications of the principle
of _love_ and its opposite, _hate_.
_Effects upon the Character in their marked Development._--When these
give tone to the general character of an individual, he becomes
the philanthropist or misanthropist, the man of kind and gentle
disposition, or the hater of his race, according as the one or the
other principle predominates.
Roused to more than ordinary activity, breaking away from the
restraints of reason, and the dictates of sober judgment, assuming
the command of the soul, and urging it on to a given end, regardless
of other and higher interests, these affections assume the name of
_passions_, and the spectacle is presented of a man driven blindly and
madly to the accomplishment of his wishes, as the ship, dismantled,
drives before the storm; or else, in stern conflict with himself and
the feelings that nature has implanted in his bosom, controlling with
steady hand his own restless and fiery spirit.
_Relation to the simple Emotions._--The relation which the affections,
as a class, bear to the simple emotions, deserves a moment's attention.
The one class naturally follows and grows out of the other. What we
enjoy, we come naturally to regard with feelings of affection, while
that which causes pain, naturally awakens feelings of dislike and
aversion. So love and hate succeed to joy and sorrow in our hearts, as
regards the objects contemplated. The simple emotions precede and give
rise to the affections.
_Enumeration._--The benevolent affections, to which we confine our
attention in the present chapter, assume different forms, according to
their respective objects.
The more prominent are, _love of kindred_, _love of friends_, _love of
benefactors_, _love of home and country_. Of these we shall treat in
their order.
§ I.--LOVE OF KINDRED.
_Includes what._--Under this head we may include the _parental_, the
_filial_, and the _fraternal_ affection, as modifications of the same
principle, varying according to the varying relations of the parties
concerned.
_Does not grow out of the Relations of the Parties._--That the
affection _grows out_ of the relations sustained by the parties to
each other, I am not prepared to affirm, although some have taken
this view; I should be disposed rather to regard it as an implanted
and original principle of our nature; still, that it is very much
influenced and augmented by those relations, and that it is manifestly
adapted to them, no one, I think, can deny.
_But adapted to that Relation._--How intimate and how peculiar the
relation, for example, that subsists between parent and child, and
how deep and strong the affection that binds the heart of the parent
to the person and well-being of his offspring. The one corresponds to
the other; the affection to the relation; and the duties which that
relation imposes, and all the kind offices, the care, and attention
which it demands, how cheerfully are they met and fulfilled, as
prompted by the strength and constancy of that affection. Without
that affection, the relation might still exist, requiring the same
kind offices, and the same assiduous care, and reason might point out
the propriety and necessity of their performance, but how inadequate,
as motives to action, would be the dictates of reason, the sense of
propriety, or even the indispensable necessity of the case, as compared
with that strong and tender parental affection which makes all those
labors pleasant, and all those sacrifices light, which are endured for
the sake of the helpless ones confided to its care. There was need of
just this principle of our nature to meet the demands and manifold
duties arising from the relation to which we refer; and in no part of
the constitution of the mind is the benevolence of the great Designer
more manifest. What but love could sustain the weary mother during
the long and anxious nights of watching by the couch of her suffering
child? What but love could prompt to the many sacrifices and privations
cheerfully endured for its welfare? Herself famished with hunger, she
divides the last morsel among those who cry to her for bread. Herself
perishing with cold, she draws the mantle from her own shoulders
to protect the little one at her side from the fury of the blast.
She freely perils her own life for the safety of her child. These
instances, while they show the strength of that affection which can
prompt to such privation and self-sacrifice, show, also, the end which
it was designed to subserve, and its adaptation to that end.
_This Affection universal._--The parental affection is universal, not
peculiar to any nation, or any age, or any condition of society. Nor is
it strong in one case, and weak in another, but everywhere and always
one of the strongest and most active principles of our nature. Nor is
it peculiar to our race. It is an emotion shared by man in common with
the lower orders of intelligence. The brute-beast manifests as strong
an affection for her offspring, as man under the like circumstances
exhibits. The white bear of the arctic glaciers, pursued by the hunter,
throws herself between him and her cub, and dies in its defence.
All these circumstances, the precise adaptation of the sensibility
in question to the peculiar exigencies it seemed designed to meet,
the strength and constancy of that affection, the universality of its
operation, and the fact that is common to man with the brute, all go to
show that the principle now under consideration must be regarded as an
instinctive and original principle, implanted in our nature by the hand
that formed us.
_Strengthened by Circumstances._--But though an original principle,
and, therefore, not derived from habit or circumstance, there can be
no doubt that the affection of which we speak is greatly modified, and
strengthened, by the circumstances in which the parent and child are
placed with respect to each other, and also by the power of habit.
Like most of our active principles, it finds, in its own use and
exercise, the law of its growth. So true is this, that when the care
and guardianship of the child are transferred to other hands, there
springs up something of the parent's love, in the heart to which has
been confided this new trust. It seems to be a law of our nature that
we love those who are dependent on us, who confide in us, and for whom
we are required to exert ourselves. The more dependent and helpless
the object of our solicitude, and the greater the sacrifice we make,
or the toil we endure, in its behalf, the greater our regard and
affection for it. If in the little group that gathers around the poor
man's scanty board, or evening fireside, there is one more tenderly
loved than another, one on whom his eye more frequently rests, or
with more tender solicitude than on the others, it is that one over
whose sick-bed he has most frequently bent with anxiety, and for whose
benefit he has so often denied himself the comforts of life. By every
sacrifice thus made, by every hour of toil and privation cheerfully
endured, by every watchful, anxious night, and every day of unremitting
care and devotion, is the parental affection strengthened. And to the
operation of the same law of our nature is doubtless to be attributed
the regard which is felt, under similar circumstances, by those who
are not parents, for the objects of their care. But it may reasonably
be doubted whether, in such case, the affection, although of the same
nature, ever equals, in intensity and fervor, the depth and strength of
a parent's love.
_Strongest in the Mother._--The parental affection, though common to
both sexes, finds its most perfect development in the heart of the
mother. Whether this is the natural result of the principle already
referred to, the care and effort that devolve in greater degree upon
the mother, and awaken a love proportionably stronger, or whether it
is an original provision of nature to meet the necessity of the case,
we can but see in the fact referred to a beautiful adaptation of our
nature to the circumstances that surround us.
_Stronger in the Parent than in the Child._--The love of the parent
for the child is stronger than that of the child for the parent. There
was need that it should be so. Yet is there no affection, of all those
that find a place in the human heart, more beautiful and touching than
filial love. Nor, on the contrary, is there any one aspect of human
nature, imperfect as it is, so sad and revolting as the spectacle
sometimes presented, of filial ingratitude, a spectacle sure to awaken
the indignation and abhorrence of every generous heart. When the son,
grown to manhood, forgets the aged mother that bore him, and is ashamed
to support her tottering steps, or leaves to loneliness and want the
father whose whole life has been one of care and toil for him, he
receives, as he deserves, the contempt of even the thoughtless world,
and the scorn of every man whose opinion is worth regarding.
There have not been wanting noble instances of the strength of the
filial affection. If parents have voluntarily incurred death to save
their children, so, also, though perhaps less frequently, have children
met death to save a parent.
_Value of these Affections._--The parental and filial affections lie at
the foundation of the social virtues. They form the heart to all that
is most noble and elevating, and constitute the foundation of all that
is truly great and valuable in character. Deprived of these influences,
men may, indeed, become useful and honorable members of society--such
cases have occurred--but rather as exceptions to the rule. It is
under the genial influences of home, and parental care and love, that
the better qualities of mind and heart are most favorably and surely
developed, and the character most successfully formed for the conflicts
and temptations of future life.
_Not inconsistent with the manly Virtues._--Nor is the gentleness
implied in the domestic affections inconsistent with those sterner
qualities of character, which history admires in her truly great and
heroic lives. Poets have known this, painters have seized upon it,
critics have pointed it out in the best ideal delineations, both of
ancient and of modern times. It softens the gloomy and otherwise
forbidding character of stern Achilles; it invests with superior
beauty, and almost sacredness, the aged Priam suing for the dead body
of Hector; it constitutes one of the brightest ornaments with which
Virgil knew how to adorn the character of the hero of the Æneid, while
in the affection of Napoleon for his son, and in the grief of Cromwell
for the death of his daughter, the domestic affection shines forth in
contrast with the strong and troubled scenes of eventful public life,
as a gentle star glitters on the brow of night.
§ II.--LOVE OF FRIENDS.
_Much said in Praise of Friendship._--Among the benevolent affections
that find a place in the human heart, friendship has ever been regarded
as one of the purest and noblest. Poets and moralists have vied with
each other in its praise. Even those philosophers who have derived all
our active principles from self-love have admitted this to a place
among the least selfish of our emotions. There can be no doubt that it
is a demand of our nature, a part of our original constitution. The man
who, among all his fellows, finds no one in whom he delights, and whom
he calls his friend, must be wanting in some of the best traits and
qualities of our common humanity, while, on the other hand, pure and
elevated friendship is a mark of a generous and noble mind.
_On what Circumstances it depends._--If we inquire whence arises this
emotion in any given case, on what principles or circumstances it is
founded, we shall find that, while other causes have much to do with
it, it depends chiefly on the _more or less intimate acquaintance_ of
the parties. There must, indeed, be on our part some perception of
high and noble qualities belonging to him whom we call our friend,
and some appreciation, also, of those qualities. We must admire his
genius, or his courage, or his manly strength and prowess, or his
moral virtues, or, at least, his position and success. All these
things come in to modify our estimate and opinion of the man, and may
be said to underlie our friendship for him. Still, it is not so much
from these circumstances, as from personal and intimate acquaintance,
that friendship most directly springs. Admiration and respect for the
high qualities and noble character of another, are not themselves
friendship, however closely related to it. They may be, and doubtless
are, to some extent, the foundation on which that affection rests, but
they are not its immediately producing cause. They may exist where no
opportunity for personal acquaintance is afforded, while, on the other
hand, a simple and long-continued acquaintance, with one whom we,
perhaps, should not, in our own candid judgment, pronounce superior to
other men, either in genius, or fortune, or the nobler qualities of the
soul, may, nevertheless, ripen into strong and lasting friendship.
_How Acquaintance leads to Friendship._--To what is this owing? Not
so much, I suspect, to the fact that acquaintance reveals always
something to admire, even in those whom we had not previously regarded
with special deference--although this, I am willing to admit, may be
the case--but rather to that simple law of mental activity which we
call association. The friend whom we have long and intimately known,
the friend of other, and earlier, and, it may be, happier years, is
intimately connected with our own history. His life and our own have
run side by side, on rather, like vines springing from separate roots,
have intertwined their branches until they present themselves as one
to the eye. It is this close connection of my friend with whatever
pertains to myself, of his history with my history, and his life with
my life, that contributes in great measure to the regard and interest I
feel for him. He has become, as it were, a part of myself. The thought
of him awakens in my mind pleasing remembrances, and is associated with
agreeable conceptions of the walks, the studies, the sports, the varied
enjoyments and the varied sorrows that we have shared together.
_Regard for inanimate Objects._--The same principle extends also to
inanimate objects, as places and scenes with which we have become
familiar, the meadows through which we roamed in childhood, the books
we read, the rooms we inhabited, even the instruments of our daily
toil. These all become associated with ourselves, we form a sort
of friendship for them. The prisoner who has spent long years of
confinement in his solitary cell, forms a species of attachment for
the very walls that have shut him in, and looks upon them for the last
time, when at length the hour of deliverance arrives, not without a
measure of regret. The sword that has been often used in battle is
thenceforth, to the old soldier, the visible representative of many a
hard-fought field, and many a perilous adventure. Uncouth and rusty
it may be, ill-formed, and unadorned, in its plain and clumsy iron
scabbard, but its owner would not exchange it for one of solid gold. It
is not strange that the principle of association, which attaches us so
closely even to inanimate objects, should enter largely as an element
into the friendships we form with our own species.
_Other Causes auxiliary._--I would by no means deny, however, that
other causes may, and usually do, contribute to the same result. Mere
acquaintance and companionship do not, of necessity, nor invariably,
amount to friendship. There must be some degree of sympathy, and
congeniality of thought and feeling, some community of interests,
pursuits, desires, hopes, something in common between the two minds,
or no friendship will spring up between them. Acquaintance, and
participation in the same scenes and pursuits, furnish, to some extent,
this common ground. But even where this previous companionship is
wanting, there may exist such congeniality and sympathy between two
minds, the tastes and feelings, the aims and aspirations of each may
be so fully in unison, that each shall feel itself drawn to the other,
with a regard which needs only time and opportunity to ripen into
strong and lasting friendship.
_Dissimilarity not inconsistent with Friendship._--Nor is it necessary,
in order to true friendship, that there should be complete similarity
or agreement. The greatest diversity even may exist in many respects,
whether as to qualities of mind, or traits of character. Indeed, such
diversity, to some extent, must be regarded as favorable to friendship,
rather than otherwise. We admire, often, in others, the very qualities
which we perceive to be lacking in ourselves, and choose for our
friends those whose richer endowments in these respects may compensate
in a measure for our own deficiencies. The strongest friendships are
often formed in this way by persons whose characters present striking
points of contrast. Such diversity, in respect to natural gifts and
traits of character, is not inconsistent with the closest sympathy
of views and feelings in regard to other matters, and therefore not
inconsistent with the warmest friendship.
_Limitation of the Number of Friends._--It was, perhaps, an idle
question, discussed in the ancient schools of philosophy, whether true
friendship can subsist between more than two persons. No reason can
be shown why this affection should be thus exclusive, nor do facts
seem to justify such a limitation. The addition of a new friend to the
circle of my acquaintance does not necessarily detract aught from the
affection I bear to my former friends, nor does it awaken suspicion or
jealousy on their part. In this respect, friendship is unlike the love
which exists between the sexes, and which is exclusive in its nature.
It must be admitted, at the same time, that there are limits to this
extension, and that he who numbers a large circle of friends is not
likely to form a very strong attachment for any one of them. Not
unfrequently, indeed, a friendship thus unlimited is the mark, as Mr.
Stewart suggests, of a cold and selfish character, prompted to seek
the acquaintance of others by a regard to his own advantage, and a
desire for society, rather than by any real attachment to those whose
companionship he solicits. True and genuine friendship is usually more
select in its choice, and is wholly disinterested in its character. A
cold and calculating policy forms no part of its nature. It springs
from no selfish or even prudential considerations. It burns with a pure
and steady flame in the heart that cherishes it, and burns on even when
the object of its regard is no longer on earth. Our friendships are not
all with the living. We cherish the memory of those whom we no longer
see, and welcome to the heart those whom we no longer welcome to our
home and fireside.
_Effect of adventitious Circumstances._--Reverses in life, changes in
fortune, the accidents of health and sickness, of wealth and poverty,
of station and influence, have little power to weaken the ties of true
friendship once formed. They test, but do not impair its strength.
True friendship only makes us cling the closer to our friend in his
adversity; and when fortune frowns, and the sunshine of popular favor
passes away, and "there is none so poor to do him reverence," whom once
all men courted and admired, we still love him, who, in better days,
showed himself worthy of our love and who, we feel, is none the less
worthy of it, now that we must love him for what he _is_, and not for
what he has. That is not worthy the name of friendship, which will not
endure this test.
_Changes in moral Character._--Much more seriously is friendship
endangered by any change of moral character and principle, on the part
of either of the friends. So long as the change affects merely the
person, the wealth, the social position, the power, the good name even,
we feel that these are but the external circumstances, the accidents,
the surroundings, and not the man himself, and however these things
may vary, our friend remains the same. But when the change is in the
heart and character of the man himself, when he whose sympathies and
moral sentiments were once in unison with our own, shows himself to
be no longer what he once was, or what we fondly thought him to be,
there is no longer that community of thought and feeling between us
that is essential to true and lasting friendship. Yet, even in such a
case, we continue to cherish for the friend of former years a regard
and affection which subsequent changes do not wholly efface. We think
of him _as he was_, and not as he is; as he was in those earlier and
better days, when the heart was fresh and unspoiled, and the feet had
not as yet turned aside from the paths of rectitude and honor.
§ III.--LOVE OF BENEFACTORS.
_As related to Friendship._--Closely allied to the affections we feel
for our friends is the emotion we cherish towards our benefactors. Like
the former, it is one of the forms of that principle into which all
kindly affection ultimately resolves itself, namely, love, differing as
the object differs on which it rests, but one in nature under all these
varieties of form. The love which we feel for a benefactor, differs
from that which we feel for a friend, as the latter again differs from
that which we feel for a parent or a child. It differs from friendship,
in that the motive which prompted the benefaction, on the part of the
giver, may be simple benevolence, and not personal regard; while, on
our part, the emotion awakened may be simple gratitude to the generous
donor, a gratitude which, though it may lead to friendship, is not
itself the result of personal attachment.
_Nature of this Affection._--If we inquire more closely into the
nature of this affection, we find that it involves, as do all the
benevolent affections, a feeling of pleasure or delight, together with
a benevolent regard for the object on which the affection rests. The
pleasure, in this case, results from the reception of a favor. It is
not, however, merely a pleasure in the favor received, as in itself
valuable, or as meeting our necessities; it is, over and beyond this, a
pleasure in the giver as a noble and generous person, and as standing
in friendly relations to us. Such conceptions are always agreeable to
the mind, and that in a high degree. The benevolent regard which we
cherish for such a person, the disposition and wish to do him good in
turn, are the natural result of this agreeable conception of him; and
the two together, the pleasure, and the benevolent regard, constitute
the complex emotion which we call gratitude.
_Regards the Giver rather than the Gift._--If this be the correct
analysis of the affection now under consideration, it is not so much
the _gift_, as the _giver_, that awakens the emotion; and this view is
confirmed by the fact that when, from any circumstances, we are led to
suspect a selfish motive on the part of the donor, that the gift was
prompted, not so much by regard to us, as by regard to his own personal
ends, for favors thus conferred we feel very little gratitude. The gift
may be the same in either case, but not the giver.
_Modes of manifesting Gratitude._--Philosophers have noticed the
different manner in which persons of different character, and mental
constitution, are affected by the reception of kindness from others,
and the different modes in which their gratitude expresses itself.
Some are much more sensibly affected than others by the same acts of
kindness; and even when gratitude may exist in equal degree, it is
not always equally manifested. We naturally look, however, for some
exhibition of it, in all cases, where favors have been conferred; its
due exhibition satisfies and pleases us; its absence gives us pain, and
we set it down as indicative of a cold and selfish nature.
_A disordered Sensibility indicated by the Absence of this
Principle._--One of the most painful forms of disordered
sensibility--the insanity, not of the intellect, but of the
feelings--is that which manifests itself in the entire indifference and
apathy with which the kindest attentions are received, or even worse,
the ill-concealed and hardly-suppressed hatred which is felt even for
the generous benefactor. A case of this sort is mentioned by Dr. Bell,
the accomplished superintendent of the MacLean Asylum for the insane,
as coming under his notice, in which the patient, a lady, by no means
wanting in mental endowments, seemed utterly destitute and incapable
of natural affection. Having, on one occasion, received some mark of
kindness from a devoted friend, she exclaimed, "I suppose I ought to
love that person, and I should, if it were possible for me to love any
one; but it is not. I do not know what that feeling is." A more sad
and wretched existence can hardly be conceived than that which is thus
indicated--the deep night and winter of the soul, a gloom unbroken by
one ray of kindly feeling for any living thing, one gleam of sunshine
on the darkened heart. Happily such cases are of rare occurrence. The
kindness of men awakens a grateful response, in every human heart,
whose right and normal action is not hindered by disorder, or prevented
by crime.
_Disorder of the moral Nature._--Is it not an indication of the
imperfect and disordered condition of our moral nature, that while
the little kindnesses of our fellow men awaken in our breasts lively
emotions of gratitude, we receive, unmoved, the thousand benefits which
the great Author of our being is daily and hourly conferring, with
little gratitude to the giver of every good and perfect gift?
§ IV.--LOVE OF HOME AND COUNTRY.
_Its proper Place._--Among the emotions which constitute our sensitive
nature, the love of home and of country, or the patriotic emotion,
holds a prominent rank. It falls into that class of feelings which
we term affections, inasmuch as it involves not only an emotion of
pleasure, but a desire of good towards the object which awakens the
feeling.
_Founded on the Separation of the Race._--The affection now to be
considered implies, as its condition, the separation of the human
race into families, tribes, and nations, and of its dwelling-places
into corresponding divisions of territory and country, a division
founded not more in human nature, than in the physical conditions and
distributions of the globe, broken as it is into different countries,
by mountain, river, and sea. No one can fail to perceive, in this
arrangement, a design and provision for the distribution of the race
into distinct states and nations. To this arrangement and design the
nature of man corresponds. To him, in all his wanderings, there is no
place like home, no land like his native land. It may be barren and
rugged, swept by the storms, and overshadowed by the frozen hills, of
narrow boundary, and poor in resources, where life is but one continued
struggle for existence with an inhospitable climate, unpropitious
seasons, and an unwilling soil; but it is his own land, it is his
father-land, and sooner than he will see its soil invaded, or its name
dishonored, he will shed the last drop of blood in its defence.
_Other Causes auxiliary._--The strong tendency to rivalry and war,
between different tribes, tends, doubtless, to keep alive the patriotic
sentiment, by binding each more closely to the soil, which it finds
obliged to defend at the sacrifice of treasure, and of life. The great
diversity of language, manners, and customs, which prevails among
different nations, must also tend very strongly to separate nations
still more widely from each other, and bind them more closely to their
own soil, and their own institutions.
_Effect of Civilization._--Such are some of the causes which give
rise to the patriotic sentiment. Civilization tends, in a measure,
doubtless, to diminish the activity of these causes. In proportion
as society advances, as national jealousies and rivalries diminish,
as wars become less frequent, as nations come to understand better
each other's manners, laws, and languages, and to learn that their
interests, apparently diverse, are really identical, this progress of
civilization and culture, removing, as it does, in great measure, the
barriers that have hitherto kept nations asunder, must tend, it would
seem, to weaken the influence of those causes which contribute to keep
alive the patriotic feeling. And such we believe to be the fact. It
is in the early period of a nation's existence, the period of its
origin and growth, of its weakness and danger, that the love of country
most strongly developes itself. It is then that sacrifices are most
cheerfully made, and danger and toil most readily met, and life most
freely given, for the state whose foundations can no other way be laid.
As the state, thus founded in treasure and in blood, and vigilantly
guarded in its infancy, gains maturity and strength, becomes rich, and
great, and powerful, comes into honorable relation with the surrounding
states and nations, the love of country seems not to keep pace with its
growth in the hearts of the people, but rather to diminish, as there is
less frequent and less urgent occasion for its exercise.
_National Pride._--There is, however, a counteracting tendency to
be found in the national pride which is awakened by the prosperity
and power of a country, and especially by its historic greatness.
The citizen of England, or of France, at the present day, has more
to defend, and more to love, than merely his own home and fireside,
the soil that he cultivates, and the institutions that guarantee his
freedom and his rights. The past is intrusted to him, as well as
the present. The land whose honor and integrity he is determined to
maintain, at all hazard and personal sacrifice, is not the England,
or the France, of to-day merely, but of the centuries. He remembers
the glories of the empire, the armies, and the illustrious leaders
that have carried his country's flag with honor into all lands, the
monarchs that, in succession, from Clovis and Charlemagne, from Alfred
and Harold the dauntless, have sat in state upon the throne that claims
his present allegiance, the generations that have contributed to make
his country what it now is; and he feels that not merely the present
greatness and power of his country, but all its former greatness and
glory, are intrusted to his present care and keeping.
_Depends upon Association._--If we inquire more closely into the
philosophy of the matter, we shall find, I think, that the principle
of _association_ is largely concerned as the immediately producing
cause of the emotion now under consideration. We connect with the idea
of any country the history and fortunes, the virtues and vices of its
inhabitants, of those who, at any time, recent or remote, have passed
their brief day, and acted their brief part, within its borders, and
whose unknown dust mingles with its soil. They have long since passed
away, but the same hills stand, the same rivers flow along the same
channels, the same ocean washes the ancient shores, the same skies look
down upon those fields and waters, and with these aspects and objects
of nature we associate all that is great and heroic in the history of
the people that once dwelt among those hills, and along those shores.
Every lofty mountain, every majestic river, every craggy cliff and
frowning headland along the coast, stand as _representative_ objects,
sacred to the memory of the past, and the great deeds that have been
there performed. How much this must add to the force and power of the
patriotic emotion is obvious at a glance.
_Same Principle concerned in the Love of Home._--In like manner, by the
same principle of association, we connect our own personal history with
the places where we dwell, and the country we inhabit. They become,
in a measure, identified with ourselves. To love the home of our
childhood, and our native land, is but to love our former selves, since
it is here that our little history lies, and whatever we have wrought
of good or ill.
_An original Principle._--With respect to the character of this
emotion, while it is doubtless awakened and strengthened by the law
of association, still I cannot but regard it as an original provision
and principle of our nature, springing up instinctively in the bosom,
showing itself essentially the same under all conditions of society,
and in all ages and countries. It waits not for education to call it
forth, nor for reason and reflection to give it birth; while at the
same time, reason and reflection doubtless contribute largely to its
development and strength.
_Strongest where it might be least expected._--It has been frequently
observed, by those who have made human nature their study, that the
patriotic feeling is not confined to the inhabitants of the most
favored climes and countries, but, on the contrary, is often most
strongly developed in nations less populous, and in countries little
favored by nature. The inhabitants of wild, mountainous regions, of
sterile shores, of barren plains, manifest as strong a love of home and
country, as any people on the globe. It is thus with the Swiss among
their mountain fastnesses, and with the poor Esquimaux of northern
Greenland, where, beyond the arctic circle, cold and darkness reign
undisturbed the greater part of the year. Even in those dreary realms,
and in those bosoms little refined, the voice of nature is heard, and
the love of home and of country is strong. Even beggars have been known
to die of nostalgia, or home-sickness.
CHAPTER II.
MALEVOLENT AFFECTIONS.
_As distinguished from the Benevolent._--The affections have already
been distinguished from other forms of the sensibility, by the
circumstance that they involve, along with the feeling of pleasure or
pain, some feeling of kindness or the opposite, toward the object;
in the one case we term them benevolent, in the other, malevolent
affections. Of the former, I have treated in the preceding chapter; of
the latter, I am now to speak.
_Resentment the generic Name._--These affections may be comprised under
the general name _resentment_, as that which underlies and constitutes
the basis of them all. Envy, jealousy, revenge, etc., may be regarded
as but so many modifications, or perversions, of this general
principle. As the benevolent affections are all so many forms of love,
going forth toward diverse objects, and varying as the objects vary, so
the malevolent affections are so many forms of the opposite principle,
_i. e._, aversion, varying, likewise, with the objects.
_Founded in Nature._--As the benevolent, so likewise the malevolent
or irascible feelings are, as to their principle, instinctive; they
have their foundation in our nature. They are, as such, universally
exhibited under the appropriate circumstances; they are early in their
development, showing themselves often prior to the exercise of the
reflecting and reasoning powers; they are, also, to some extent, common
to man with the brutes.
_Capable, however, of rational Exercise and Control._--While we
pronounce them instinctive, however, we would by no means imply that
they are not capable of being deliberately and intelligently exercised,
or that they are not in fact, frequently so exercised. What instinct
originally teaches, reason and reflection, when, at a later date, they
come into play, may sanction and confirm. On the other hand, they may
repress and forbid what instinct prompts. In the former case, the
emotion, affection, passion, is none the less an instinctive principle
in its nature and origin, although it has now passed from the domain
of mere instinct to the higher sphere of reason and intelligence. What
was done in the first instance from sudden impulse, blindly, without
thought, is now done deliberately and intelligently. This may be the
case with all our instinctive principles of action, as well as with
those now particularly under consideration. Instinct and reason,
or intelligence, though _distinguished_ from, are not necessarily
_opposed_ to each other, in the sense that one and the same mental act
may not proceed, now from one, now from the other, of these principles.
The love which I cherish for my friends, or my kindred, may be purely
instinctive, it may be strictly rational, a matter of reflection, the
result of deliberate purpose.
_Existence of such a Principle denied by some._--The existence of
such a principle as resentment, among the original and constitutional
elements of our nature, has been called in question by some writers. It
has been thought derogatory to the divine character, that the Creator
should implant the principle of resentment in the human heart. He
commands us to love, and not to hate, and what he expressly forbids, he
cannot have made provision for in the very constitution of the mind.
Such a principle, it is also maintained, is altogether unnecessary.
This is the ground taken by Mr. Winslow, in his work on moral
philosophy.
_The Question at Issue._--There is certainly much force in the view
thus presented. The question before us, however, is not, what we might,
à priori, have _supposed_ the nature of man to be, nor, what it _ought_
to be, but simply, what _is_ that nature as a matter of fact? Whether
such a principle as resentment is _necessary_ in a well-constituted
mind, is not now the question; nor yet whether the Creator could
consistently implant such a principle within us; nor, again, what may
be the moral character of such a principle; but simply, Is there such a
principle among the native elements of human character? If it be found
there, we may conclude, either, that the Creator has placed it there
for some wise purpose, or else, that the nature with which man comes
into the world is no longer an adequate expression of the will of the
Creator concerning him, but has, in some way, lost its original purity
and integrity.
_Existence of such a Principle._--Now that there are certain irascible
feelings which find a place, under certain circumstances, in the human
bosom, whenever the fitting occasion calls them forth, can hardly be
denied; nor yet that they have their foundation in the nature of man.
We have the same evidence of this, that we have of the existence of any
other original and native principle. It manifests itself universally,
uniformly, under all the varieties of social condition, among all
nations, in all ages of the world. It developes itself at an early
period of life, before education or example can have come in to account
for its existence. Reason may subsequently control and restrain it,
or it may fail to do so; but the principle exists before it can be
either indulged or restrained. When the occasion which calls it forth
is some injury or evil inflicted upon ourselves, the feeling takes the
name of _resentment_; when others are the objects of that injustice,
the feeling awakened is more properly termed _indignation_. We resent
our own wrongs, we are indignant at those of others. The principle
is, in either case, the same, and is as truly a part of our nature,
as gratitude for favors received, or sympathy with the sorrows of the
afflicted.
_Term Malevolent, how employed._--The term _malevolent_, as used to
designate this class of affections, is, it must be confessed, liable to
serious objection. It has come into use as a convenient term, in place
of, and for the want of, something better, to mark the distinction
between the feelings now under consideration, and those of the opposite
character, already considered; and as we call those _benevolent_, so we
call these _malevolent_, merely by way of contrast, and not as implying
any thing _criminal_ in the character of the emotions themselves. The
term, however, is unfortunate, as seeming to involve a meaning not
intended. The moral character of the affections thus designated, is
an open question, to be decided upon its own merits, and not to be
considered as settled, one way or the other, by the use of the term now
under consideration. This question we shall presently discuss. For the
present, we have to consider, more particularly, the several forms in
which the malevolent or irascible feeling presents itself.
_Nature of Resentment._--_Resentment_ is the feeling awakened in view
of injury received. It is precisely the opposite of gratitude, which is
the feeling awakened by benefits conferred. As, in the latter case,
there springs up at once in the heart an affectionate regard for the
generous donor, so, in the former there is awakened, at once a feeling
of resentment against those who have done us the wrong. It is an
instinctive emotion. No sooner are we conscious of the injury than we
are conscious also of the feeling of resentment.
_Design of this Principle._--The design of this principle of our nature
is evident. It arms us against those sudden dangers and assaults, which
no foresight can anticipate, nor prudence prevent, and which, when
they occur, require instant action, and prompt redress. In such cases,
reason and reflection would come to our aid too late; were we left to
their counsels, however wise those counsels might be, we should already
have suffered the injury from which they would seek to protect us.
Something is needed that shall prompt to speedier action; some watchman
vigilant and armed, ready on the first approach of danger to strike
his alarm-bell, and summon the garrison to action. This we have in the
principle of resentment. Were it not for this principle, moreover,
a cautious and timid policy might often prevail over the sense of
justice, and honor, and right, or a selfish policy might keep us back
from interfering, at our own peril, for the protection of the injured,
and the punishment of the aggressor. Instinct sets us right in such
matters, before reason has time to act.
_Necessary to the Punishment of Crime._--The malevolent feeling, at
least in the form now under consideration, seems to be, in some degree,
necessary for the punishment of crime, and the protection of society.
It may be doubted whether, without it, we should act with sufficient
energy, and promptness, for the redress of wrong, when that wrong is
not inflicted upon ourselves. Nature has guarded against this danger,
by planting in the human bosom an innate sense of justice, a hatred of
wrong and injury wantonly inflicted, and a quick resentment against
the perpetrator, which leads us to seek his detection and punishment,
silences the pleadings of compassion in his behalf, and arms us
to inflict the merited blow. That is but a weak and short-sighted
benevolence, that is incapable of hatred of crime, and criminals; and
that, under the flimsy pretence of compassion for the unfortunate,
and humanity, would shield from justice, and due punishment, those
who strike at the highest interests of society, and put in jeopardy
all that is most dear and sacred to man. There are cases, in which
compassion becomes malice aforethought, and stern resentment is the
only true benevolence. It is one of the sublimest and most glorious
attributes of deity, as portrayed in the Scriptures, that with the
highest benevolence he combines the stern, inflexible hatred of wrong,
so that, while it can with truth be said, "God is love," it can with
equal truth be affirmed, "our God is a consuming fire."
_Liable to abuse._--While, however, the principle now considered has
its uses, and must be regarded as a most important provision of nature
for the necessities of our race, it must also be conceded that it is a
principle liable to abuse, and requiring to be kept in careful check.
Especially in its sudden and instinctive action, upon the reception of
personal harm or danger, are we liable to be carried to extremes, and
indulge a resentment out of proportion to the merits of the case.
_A Check on excessive Resentment._--Against this excessive resentment
of injuries, real or imaginary, nature has provided a check needful
and salutary, in the indignation with which any such manifestation
is sure to be regarded by others, and the loss of that sympathy,
otherwise on our side, but now turned in favor of the object of our
too great resentment. The wise and prudent man will carefully avoid
such a result, and this prudence will act as a powerful curb on his
anger. To the man of virtuous and honorable sentiments there is also
another restraint, hardly less powerful, upon the exercise of the
malevolent feeling in any undue degree, and that is, the feeling of
self-degradation and humiliation which such a man must feel, in
consequence of his excessive resentment, when the heat of passion
cools, and the moments of calmer reflection ensue. Even as exercised
within due bounds, the malevolent affection is, from its very nature, a
painful one. Not only the first emotion on the reception of injury or
insult is one of a disagreeable nature, but the wish or desire, which
instantly follows and accompanies it, of inflicting in return some ill
upon the aggressor, is also a feeling which disturbs and disquiets the
mind, and inflicts a species of suffering upon the mind that cherishes
it, that may not improperly be termed its own punishment. And this
again may be regarded, and doubtless is, to some extent, a check upon
the indulgence of the malevolent affection.
_Violent Exhibitions of this Feeling, where found._--It is accordingly
in natures uncultivated and rude, little accustomed to self control,
and the restraints of reason and religion, that we naturally look
for the violent and excessive outbursts of passion. A regard for our
own happiness, a due sense of our own dignity and moral worth, and a
decent respect for the opinions of those about us, whose approbation
and sympathy we desire, contribute, if not to diminish the strength,
at least to repress the manifestation, in any considerable degree,
of the feeling of resentment, in those who have arrived at years of
discretion, and have profited by the lessons of experience. The child
is angry with the stone against which he strikes his foot, and vents
his resentment for any injury upon the unconscious instrument, which
was the means of its infliction. The savage tears from his flesh the
arrow that has wounded him, and breaks it into fragments. This is
undoubtedly the instinct of nature, untaught by reason and reflection.
It is probably the first impulse of every man, on the reception of
any injury, and before he has time to reflect on the folly of such a
course, to express in some manner his resentment against the immediate
instrument of his suffering.
_Deliberate Form of Resentment._--When the first impulse has passed,
and time gives opportunity for reflection, this instinctive resentment
dies away, or gives place to a deliberate and rational form of the same
emotion. Thus affected, the mind casts about it to ascertain the real
extent of its injury, and the best means of redress; it distinguishes
between the conscious agent, and the unconscious instrument of its
wrong, between the intentional injury and the unintentional, and,
it may be, accidental harm; it takes into view the circumstances of
the case, and the probable motives of the doer, and graduates its
resentment accordingly.
_Illustration of deliberate Resentment._--The law of retaliation which
prevails among savage tribes, and which demands blood for blood, life
for life, and exacts the fearful penalty with a justice inexorable
and sure, though often long delayed, and which never loses sight of
its victim, though years, and broad lands, and wide waters intervene,
affords an illustration of deliberate in distinction from instinctive
resentment. The law of honor, so called, as it exists among civilized
nations, also illustrates the same principle.
_Pointed out by Butler and others._--The distinction which we have
indicated between the instinctive and deliberate form of this emotion,
was clearly pointed out by Butler, though by no means original with
him, as some writers have supposed; it is quite too obvious and
important a distinction to have escaped the notice of earlier, and
even of ancient philosophers, nor is it at all peculiar to this one
affection, but common to all the sensibilities as I have already said.
_Modifications of the general Principle._--There are certain
modifications of the malevolent affection, which require a passing
notice in this connection. I refer to those emotions commonly known as
_envy_, _jealousy_, and _revenge_. These are all but different forms of
the same general principle, varying as the different circumstances and
objects vary which call them forth.
_Nature of Envy._--_Envy_ is that form of resentment which too often,
and too easily, finds a place in the human bosom, when another is more
fortunate, more successful, more honored and esteemed, than ourselves.
Especially is this the case, when the fortunate one is from our own
circle of companionship, and our own rank in life, and when the honors
and distinctions, or the wealth and power, that fall to his lot are
such as we might ourselves have aspired to reach. We never, I suspect,
envy those whose condition is, and originally was, very far removed
from our own. The peasant envies not the lord of the realm, nor the
beggar the king, but rather his fellow-peasant, or fellow-beggar, whose
hut is warmer, and whose ragged garment not so ragged, as his own. It
is the passion of a weak and narrow mind, a mean and degrading emotion,
the opposite of every thing noble and generous.
_Nature of Jealousy._--_Jealousy_ is that form of the malevolent
affection which has relation more particularly, though not exclusively,
to the attachment which exists between the sexes, and which is awakened
by the supposed rivalry of another. It is one of the most painful
of the malevolent affections, and, when thoroughly roused, one of
the strongest and most powerful principles of our nature. It is the
peculiarity of this passion, that the object of its suspicion, and
resentment, is, at the same time, the object of the heart's deepest
love, and, it may be, adoration; the strength and bitterness of the
passion being in proportion to the fervor and earnestness of that
affection. In the character of Othello, we have a fine delineation of
the working and development of this trait of human character, as in
Cassius we have a portraiture of the corresponding affection of envy.
_Nature of Revenge._--_Revenge_ is resentment in its most deliberate
form, planned and carried into execution, not for the prevention of
crime or injury, nor yet with reference to the ends of justice, but for
the simple gratification of personal hatred. As such, and springing
from such a motive, it is usually excessive in degree, and malicious
in character. It is a dark and deadly passion, not more dangerous to
society than degrading to the bosom that harbors it. It has not one
redeeming quality to recommend it. It is neither the mark of a noble
and generous, nor yet of a manly and brave spirit. It is the offspring
of fear, rather than of courage. It usually seeks to accomplish, by
secret and unlawful means, what it is ashamed or afraid to do openly,
and by fair and honorable measures. It is a passion closely allied to
those which may be supposed to reign in the bosom of a fiend.