_Qualifying Remark._--I have spoken of envy, jealousy, and revenge,

as modifications or different forms of the general principle of

resentment, or the irascible propensity. There is, however, one

important respect in which they all differ from the parent principle

from which they spring. The latter, resentment, while founded in our

nature, may, in exercise, be either instinctive or deliberate, as

already shown; the former imply, I suspect, always some degree of

deliberation, some element of choice. They are natural, in so far as

there is a tendency in our nature to the exercise of these feelings

under given circumstances, and, inasmuch as the principle from which

they spring is founded in our nature, as one of its original elements;

but they are not, like that principle, sometimes instinctive in their

operation, but always, on the contrary, involve, as it seems to me,

some process of thought, reflection, deliberation, choice.

_Moral Character of the malevolent Affections._--It has been a

question, much discussed, whether the class of feelings under

consideration, in the present chapter, has _any moral character_, and

if so, _what_? The question pertains, perhaps, more properly, to moral

than to mental science, but we cannot pass it entirely without notice

in this connection. So far as regards those forms of the malevolent

emotion last considered, envy, jealousy, and revenge, there can be

little doubt. Their exercise involves, as already stated, something of

reflection and choice. They are not instinctive, but voluntary in their

operation, capable, therefore, of control, and if not subjected to the

stern dominion of reason, if not checked and subdued by the higher

principles that should ever govern our conduct, we are reprehensible.

Their indulgence in any form, and to any degree, must be regarded as

blameworthy. They are _perversions_ of that principle of resentment,

which, for wise reasons, nature has implanted in our bosoms. Their

tendency is evil, and only evil. They are _malevolent_ in the full and

proper sense of that term.

_Of simple Resentment._--As to the primary principle of resentment in

its simple and proper form, in so far as its operation is deliberate

and voluntary, rather than purely instinctive, implying the exercise of

reflection and reason, it must possess, in common with all other mental

acts of that nature, some moral character. Within due limits, and on

just occasions, it is a virtue; when it passes those limits, when it

becomes excessive, or is uncalled for, by the circumstances of the

case, it becomes a vice.

_Of Resentment as instinctive._--The question before us properly

relates to that form of resentment which is purely instinctive,

unaccompanied by the exercise of reason and the reflective powers.

Has such an emotion, strictly speaking, any moral character? How far

are we responsible for its exercise? It seems to be a principle of

manifest justice, and accordant with the common sense of mankind, that

a man should be held responsible only for his rational and voluntary

acts, for such things as it lies in his power to do, or not to do,

according as he chooses. But that which is purely instinctive, is

certainly not of this character. It may be in my power to repress the

feeling of resentment that arises in my bosom on the reception of

manifest injustice and wrong; I may refuse to harbor such a feeling; I

may struggle to rise above it; but the feeling itself is instinctive,

and I can no more prevent its first awakening and impulse, than I can

prevent the involuntary contraction of the muscles upon the incision of

the surgeon's knife.

_Views of others--Upham, Reid, Chalmers._--Such is the view now

generally entertained, we believe, by psychologists. "Instinctive

resentment," says Mr. Upham, "has no moral character." "A moral

character attaches only to the voluntary form of resentment." The same

may be said of other affections, and of the sensibilities generally. In

so far as they are purely instinctive, they have no moral character.

Dr. Reid, in his Active Powers of the Human Mind, holds this language,

"Nothing in which the will is not concerned can justly be accounted

either virtuous or immoral." The practice of all criminal courts, and

all enlightened nations, he adds, is founded upon this principle;

insomuch, "that if any judicature in any nation should find a man

guilty, and the object of punishment, for what they allow to be

altogether involuntary, all the world would condemn them as men who

knew nothing of the first and most fundamental rules of justice."

Dr. Chalmers claims for the principle now under consideration a place

among the primary and universal moral judgments of mankind. "It is in

attending to these popular, or rather universal decisions, that we

learn the real principles of moral science. And the first, certainly,

of these popular, or rather universal decisions is, that nothing is

moral or immoral that is not voluntary.

"That an action, then, be the rightful object either of moral censure

or approval, it must have had the consent of the will to go along with

it. It must be the fruit of a volition, else it is utterly beyond the

scope, either of praise for its virtuousness, or of blame for its

criminality. If an action be involuntary, it is as unfit a subject for

any moral reckoning, as are the pulsations of the wrist."

(Sketches of Moral and Mental Philosophy, Chapter V. _On the Morality

of the Emotions_.)

SENSIBILITIES

PART THIRD.

DESIRES.

CHAPTER I.

NATURE AND CLASSIFICATION OF DESIRES.

_General Character of Desire._--What we enjoy we love, and what we

enjoy and love, becomes, when no longer present, or when, although

yet present, its future absence is regarded as probable, an object

of _desire_. In the latter case it is perhaps more properly the

continuance of the loved object, rather than the object itself, that

is desired. Strictly speaking, we desire only that which is not

in possession, and which is regarded as good and agreeable. More

frequently the objects of desire are those things which, in some

measure, we have actually enjoyed, and learned by experience how to

prize. In many cases, however, we learn in other ways than by our own

experience the value of an object; we gather it from observation,

from the testimony of others, partly, perhaps, from imagination; and

in such cases what is known or supposed to be agreeable and a good

thing, though never, perhaps, actually enjoyed by ourselves, may be an

object of desire. Thus I may desire wealth, or power, long before they

come into my possession to be enjoyed. The felicities which await the

righteous in the future may be distinct and definite objects of desire,

while yet we are pilgrims on the earth, and have not seen "the land

that is very far off." Even in the cases supposed, however, we have

enjoyed, to some extent, if not the very same, yet similar objects; we

have experienced something, though it may be on a small scale, of the

advantages which wealth and power confer, while in our enjoyment of

earthly happiness there is doubtless something on which the imagination

can build its more glorious anticipations of the future, and it is this

enjoyment and realization of a present or a past good, that constitutes

the foundation of our desires. If we had never enjoyed aught, it may be

doubted whether we should ever desire aught.

_Law of the Sensibility._--The great law of the sensibility, then,

may be thus stated, as regards the order and relation of the several

classes of emotion to each other: I _enjoy_, I _love_, I _desire_; and

the reverse, I _suffer_, I _dislike_, I cherish _aversion_. That such

is the order or law of mental operation has been ably shown by Damiron

in his Cours de Philosophie, and also, before him, by Jouffroy.

_Conditions of Desire._--Desire is a feeling simple and indefinable.

We can merely specify the conditions which it observes, and the

occasions on which it is awakened. These conditions or occasions are

the two already mentioned; the previous enjoyment, in some degree, of

an agreeable object, and the present or contemplated absence of that

object. Where these conditions are fulfilled, desire springs up at

once in the mind, a desire proportioned to the degree of that previous

enjoyment, and the strength of the affection thereby awakened in our

minds for the object of our regard.

_Opposite of Desire, Aversion._--The opposite of desire is aversion,

the feeling that arises in view of an object not as agreeable but as

disagreeable, not as a good but as an ill. This, too, like desire,

is based upon some measure of experience; we have suffered somewhat

of real or imagined ill, which, while it continues, is an object of

dislike or hatred, and regarded as something which, though now absent,

may possibly be realized in the future, becomes an object of aversion.

Aversion, as well as its opposite, desire, finds its object in the

future, while its basis lies in the past.

It will not be necessary to treat particularly of our aversions as a

distinct class of emotions, since they are, for the most part, simply

the counterparts of our desires, the desire of life, or happiness,

having its equivalent in the aversion which we feel to suffering, and

to death; so of other desires.

_Desire always preceded by Emotion._--With regard to the nature of

desires, it may further be remarked that while they imply always an

object, an agreeable object, and that an absent one; while they imply,

also, some previous enjoyment of that now absent object, or, at least,

some knowledge of its existence and adaptation to our wants, as the

foundation on which they rest, they do not take their rise immediately

from the simple perception or intellectual contemplation of that

absent object, as presented again merely to thought or imagination,

but always some emotion or affection is first awakened by such thought

or perception, and the desire succeeds to, and springs out of, that

emotion. The mere perception of the object which formerly pleased me,

does not, of itself, awaken in me immediately a desire for the object,

but first an emotion or affection, and from that arises the desire.

_Permanence of the Desires._--The greater permanence which our

desires seem to possess, as compared with other simple emotions and

affections, and which has been sometimes regarded as a distinguishing

characteristic of this class of feelings, is owing, probably, not so

much to the nature of desire, in itself considered, as to the fact

that the object desired is always an absent object, and so long as it

so remains, the desire for it is likely to continue. Were our desires

always gratified as soon as they are definitely known, they would be no

more permanent than any other state of mind.

_Desire a motive Power._--The desires, it is to be noticed, moreover,

are, in their nature, motive powers, springs of action to the mind.

They are, if not the only, at least the chief source of mental

activity. They prompt and excite the mind to action. The faculties,

both physical and mental, are, in a manner, subject to their control.

The intellect itself leads not to action; nor do the emotions; they

agitate the mind, but it is only as they awaken desire, and that desire

fixes upon a definite object, possible, but not in possession, that

mind and body are both aroused to go forth for the attainment of the

absent object of desire.

_Classification of Desires._--Our desires may be classed according to

their objects. These are of two sorts or classes: those which pertain

to the physical nature and constitution, and those which relate to the

wants of the mind rather than of the body. The desires, accordingly,

may be classed as twofold--the _animal_, and the _rational_; the former

having their source in the physical constitution of man, the latter

in the nature and wants of the mind, rather than of the body. Of the

former class are the desire of food, of sex, of exertion, of repose,

of whatever, in a word, is adapted to the animal nature and wants. Of

the latter class, the more prominent are the desire of happiness, of

knowledge, of power, of society, of the esteem of others.

In connection with our desires are to be considered also those emotions

which are known under the name of hope and fear, and which, as was

stated in our previous analysis of the sensibilities, are to be

regarded rather as modifications of desire, than as distinct principles

or modes of mental activity.

CHAPTER II.

DESIRES ARISING FROM THE PHYSICAL CONSTITUTION.

_Nature of Appetite as compared with other Forms of Desire._--These are

usually called _appetites_, in distinction from those desires which

are founded in the nature of the mind. They are, however, properly, a

class of desires though not always so ranked by philosophical writers.

They are feelings which arise always in view of some good, real, or

supposed, which has its adaptation to the wants of our nature, but

which is not in present possession. This absence creates a longing for

the object, which longing, so far as it relates to the mind at all, and

not merely to the muscular sensation--as of hunger, etc.--is purely a

_desire_. It differs from the other desires, in the respect mentioned,

that it takes its rise from the constitution and wants of the body,

rather than of the mind. It is not, however, on this account, the less

a mental state, a psychological phenomenon.

_Ambiguity of the Term._--The term _appetite_ is ambiguous; sometimes

denoting the uneasy physical sensations, as hunger, thirst, etc., which

are conditions of the muscular and nervous systems, and not states

of the mind; sometimes the mental condition which results from this,

and which is properly called desire. It is only with the latter that

psychology has to do; the former fall within the province of physiology.

_Enumeration of the more important, and the End accomplished by

each._--The desires, of the class to which we now refer, are various,

comprehending all those which immediately relate to, and arise from,

the various bodily wants. The more important are the desire of food,

and of sex, to which may be added the desire of action, and of

repose. The constitution of our physical system is such as to lay

the foundation of these desires. They pertain to our animal nature,

and, as such, have a most important part to perform in the economy of

life. They all relate, directly or indirectly, to the continuance of

life, whether that of the individual, or of the species. Each of the

appetites, or animal desires, as we prefer to call them, has its own

specific object to accomplish, with reference to this general end.

The desire of food looks to the preservation of individual life and

vigor, by repairing the waste which the physical system is continually

undergoing. The desire of muscular exertion and repose has the same

general design. The desire of sex has for its object the preservation

of the species.

_Importance of these Principles._--Not only has each of these desires

a specific end to accomplish, but it is an end which, so far as we

can see, would not otherwise be accomplished. Reason might suggest

the expediency of taking food to sustain the system, or of resting at

intervals from exertion, in order to recruit our exhausted energies;

but were it not for the desires that nature has implanted in us

demanding positive gratification, and reminding us when we transgress

those laws which govern our physical being, how often, in the pressure

of business, should we neglect the due care of the body, and deprive

ourselves of needed food, or needed rest, or needed muscular exertion.

Were it not for the demands of appetite, how imperfectly should we

judge either as to the proper proportion, or the proper quantity, and

quality, of that refreshment which the body needs, and which food, and

rest, and muscular exercise supply. And the same may be said of the

other animal desires. They are necessary to the economy of life, by

supplying a motive which would not otherwise exist, and thus securing

a result not otherwise obtained. The principles to which we refer, are

not, therefore, to be regarded as of little importance because relating

to the wants of the body, and common to man with the animal races,

generally; or the contrary, they are of the highest importance and

value; a due regard to them is essential to the highest well-being, and

the neglect or abuse of them brings its own sure and speedy punishment.

To be ashamed of our animal nature, is to be ashamed of ourselves,

and of the constitution that God gave us; to think lightly of it, is

to despise the divine wisdom and benevolence. It is no part of an

intelligent and rational nature to contemn the casket that contains

all its treasure. Even were that casket worthless in itself, it would

be valuable for the office it performs; much more when it is itself a

piece of rare workmanship, curiously and wonderfully wrought.

_Not selfish._--The appetites are not to be regarded as essentially

selfish, in their nature. They relate, indeed, to our own personal

wants; so do all our desires, and, in some measure, all our

sensibilities. But when exercised within due bounds, they are not

inconsistent with the rights and happiness of others, but the rather

promotive of these results; and, therefore, not in the proper sense of

the term are they _selfish_ propensities. Their ultimate aim is not

the securing of a certain amount of enjoyment to the individual by

their gratification, but the securing of a certain end, not otherwise

reached, by means of that enjoyment. They are to be set down as

original and implanted principles of our nature, rather than as selfish

and acquired propensities.

_Dangerous Tendency._--I would, by no means, however overlook the fact

that the animal desires are of dangerous tendency when permitted to

gain any considerable control over the mind, and that they require to

be kept within careful bounds. They are liable to abuse. When suffered

to become predominant over other and higher principles of action,

when, from subjection and restraint, they rise to the mastery, and

govern the man, then sinks the man to the level of the brute, and

there is presented that saddest spectacle of all that the sun beholds

in his course about the earth, a mind endowed with capacity of reason

and intelligence, but enslaved to its own base passions. There is no

slavery so degrading as that, none so hopeless. The most earnest

efforts, the best and most sincere purposes and resolutions are too

often made in vain, and the mind, struggling, to little purpose, with

its own propensities, and its own vitiated nature, is swept on by the

fearful current of its ungoverned, and now ungovernable, appetites, as

the ship over which neither sail nor helm have any further power, is

swept along in swift and ever lessening circles by the fatal maëlstrom.

_Curious Law of our Nature._--It seems to be the law of our nature,

that while our active principles gain strength by exercise, the degree

of enjoyment or of suffering which they are capable of affording,

diminishes by repetition. This has been clearly stated by Mr. Stewart.

It follows from this, that while by long and undue indulgence of any

of the animal desires, the gratification originally derived from such

indulgence is no longer capable of being enjoyed, the desire itself

may be greatly increased, and constantly increasing, in its demands.

It is hardly possible to conceive a condition more wretched and

miserable, than that of a mind compelled thus to drain the bitter dregs

of its cup of pleasure, long since quaffed, and to repeat, in endless

round, the follies that no longer have power to satisfy, even for the

brief moment, the poor victim of their enchantment. The drunkard, the

glutton, the debauchee, afford illustrations of this principle.

_Acquired Appetites._--Beside the natural appetites of which I have

hitherto spoken, and which are founded in the constitution of the

physical system, there are certain appetites which must be regarded

as artificial and acquired, such as the desire, so widely and almost

universally prevalent, in countries both savage and civilized, for

narcotic and stimulating drugs of various kinds, and for intoxicating

drinks.

CHAPTER III.

DESIRES ARISING FROM THE CONSTITUTION OF THE MIND.

§ I.--DESIRE OF HAPPINESS.

_Propriety of the Designation Self-love._--Among that class of desires

that have their foundation in the mental rather than in the physical

constitution, one of the most important is the _desire of happiness_,

or, as it is frequently called, _self-love_. The propriety of this

designation has been called in question. "The expression," says Mr.

Stewart, "is exceptionable, for it suggests an analogy (where there

is none, in fact) between that regard which every rational being must

necessarily have to his own happiness, and those benevolent affections

which attach us to our fellow-creatures. There is surely nothing in

the former of these principles analogous to the affection of _love_;

and, therefore, to call it by the appellation of _self-love_, is to

suggest a theory with respect to its nature, and a theory which has no

foundation in truth."

_This Position questionable._--I apprehend that in this remark, Mr.

Stewart may have gone too far. The regard which we have for our own

happiness certainly differs from that which we entertain for the

happiness of others, as the objects differ on which, in either case,

the regard is fixed. That the emotion is not essentially of the same

_nature_, however, psychologically considered, is not so clear. Love

or affection, as it has been defined in the preceding chapters, is

the enjoyment of an object, mingled with a wish or desire of good to

the same. Love of friends is the pleasure felt in, and the benevolent

regard for, them. Love of self, in like manner, is the enjoyment of,

and the desire of, good to self. Whoever, then, enjoys himself, and

wishes his own good, exercises self-love; and the essential ingredient

of this affection is the desire for his own happiness. Not only, then,

is there an _analogy_ between the two principles, the desire of our

own happiness, and the regard which we feel for others, but _something

more_ than an analogy; they are essentially of the same nature so far

as regards the mental activity exercised in either case, and the term

love as properly designates the one, as the other, of these states of

mind. I may love myself, as truly as I love my friend, nor is it the

part of a rational nature to be destitute of the principle of self-love.

_Not to be confounded with Selfishness._--There is more force in the

objection, also urged by Mr. Stewart, against the phrase _self-love_,

used to denote the desire of happiness, that it is, from its etymology,

liable to be confounded, and in fact, often is confounded, with the

word _selfishness_, which denotes a very different state of mind. The

word selfishness is always used in an unfavorable sense, to denote

some disregard of the happiness and rights of others; but no such idea

properly attaches to self-love, or the desire of happiness, which, as

Mr. Stewart justly remarks, is inseparable from our nature as rational

and sensitive beings.

_Views of Theologians._--Misled, perhaps, by the resemblance of the

words, many theological writers, both ancient and modern, have not only

represented self-love as essentially sinful, but even as the root and

origin of evil, the principle of original sin.

So Barrow expressly affirms, citing Zuingle as authority. English

moralists have sometimes taken the same view, and the earlier American

divines very generally held it.

_Self-love not criminal._--It can hardly be that a principle, which

seems to belong to our nature as intelligent and rational beings,

should be essentially criminal in it nature. The mistake, doubtless,

arises from overlooking the distinction, already indicated, between

self-love and selfishness The love of self, carried to the extreme of

disregarding the happiness of others, and trespassing upon the rights

of others, in the way to self-gratification, is indeed a violation of

the principles of right, and is equally condemned by nature, speaking

in the common sense and reason of man, and by divine revelation. But

neither reason, nor the divine law, forbid that regard to our own

happiness which self-love, in its true and proper sense, implies,

and which exists, it may safely be affirmed, in every human bosom in

which the light of intelligence and reason has not gone out in utter

darkness. The sacred Scriptures nowhere forbid this principle. They

enjoin upon us, indeed, the love of our neighbor; but the very command

to love him as myself, so far from forbidding self-love, implies its

existence as a matter of course, and presents that as a standard by

which to measure the love I ought to bear to others.

_Opinion of Aristotle._--Much more correct than the opinions to which

I have referred, is the view taken by Aristotle in his Ethics, who

speaks of the good man as necessarily a lover of himself, and, in _the

true sense, preëminently_ so. "Should a man assume a preëminence in

exercising justice, temperance, and other virtues, though such a man

has really _more true self-love_ than the multitude, yet nobody would

impute his affection to him as a crime. Yet he takes to himself the

fairest and greatest of all goods, and those the most acceptable to

the ruling principle in his nature, which is, properly, himself, in

the same manner as the sovereignty in every community is that which

most properly constitutes the state. He is said, also, to have, or

not to have, the command of himself, just as this principle bears

sway, or as it is subject to control; and those acts are considered

as most voluntary which proceed from this legislative or sovereign

power. Whoever cherishes and gratifies this ruling part of his nature,

is _strictly and peculiarly a lover of himself_, but in quite a

different sense from that in which self-love is regarded as a matter of

reproach." (Ethic. Nic., lib. ix., cap. viii.) This view appears to me

eminently just.

That man is not, in the true and proper sense, a self-lover who seeks

his present at the expense of his future and permanent well-being, or

who tramples upon the rights and happiness of others, intent only upon

his gratification. The glutton, the drunkard, the debauchee, are not

the truest lovers of self. They stand fairly chargeable, not with too

much, but _too little_ regard for their own happiness and well-being.

_Not the only original Principle._--But while the desire of happiness

is a principle which has its foundation in the constitution of the

mind, and which is characteristic of reason and intelligence, it is by

no means to be regarded as the only original principle of our nature.

Certain moralists have sought to resolve all other active principles

into self-love, making this the source and spring of all human conduct,

so that, directly or indirectly, whatever we do finds its origin and

motive in the love of self. According to this view, I love my friends,

my kindred, my country, only because of the intimate connection between

their well-being and my own; I pity and relieve the unfortunate only

to relieve myself of the unpleasant feelings their condition awakens;

I sacrifice treasure, comfort, health, life itself, only for the sake

of some greater good that is to be thus and only thus procured; even

the sense of right, and the obligations of a religious nature, which

bind and control me, find their chief strength, as principles of

action, in that regard for my own happiness which underlies all other

considerations.

_Such a View indefensible._--This is a view not more derogatory to

human nature than inconsistent with all true psychology. That the

principle under consideration is one of the most powerful springs of

human conduct, that it enters more largely than we may ourselves,

at the time, be aware, into those motives and actions that wear the

appearance of entire disinterestedness, I am disposed to admit, nor

would I deny that our sense of right, and of religious obligation,

finds a strong support in that intimate and inseparable connection

which exists between duty and happiness. The Scriptures constantly

appeal to our love of happiness as a motive to right action. Their

rewards and promises on the one hand, and their warnings and

threatenings on the other, all rest on this assumed law of human

nature, that man everywhere and always desires his own well-being. But

that this is the only and ultimate ground of human action, that all the

benevolent affections, all honor, and virtue, all sense of duty and

right, all religious emotion and religious principle resolves itself

into this, neither reason, nor revelation, nor the closest observation

of the human mind, do either teach or imply.

_This Desire, in what Sense rational._--_Stewart's View._--We have

spoken, thus far, of the desire of happiness as a rational principle.

Is it, in such a sense, peculiar to a rational and intelligent nature?

Does it so imply and involve the exercise of reason, that it is not

to be found except in connection with, and as the result of, that

principle? If so, it can hardly be called an original and implanted,

or, at least, an _instinctive_ principle. And such is the view taken

by Mr. Stewart, in his Philosophy of the Active and Moral Powers.

The desire of happiness implies, in his estimation, a deliberate and

intelligent survey of the various sources of enjoyment, a looking

before and after, to ascertain what will, and what will not, contribute

to ultimate and permanent well-being; and this it is the part of reason

to perform.

_Not exclusively so._--That the desire of happiness, as exercised by

a rational nature, involves something of this process, some general

idea of what constitutes happiness, or what is good on the whole

and not merely for the present, some perception of consequences,

some comprehensive view and comparison of the various principles of

action and courses of conduct, as means to this general end, may,

indeed, be admitted. And, so far as the exercise of self-love is of

the nature now indicated, it is certainly a rational rather than an

instinctive act. But I see no reason why one and the same emotion,

or mental activity of any sort, may not be, at one time, the result

of reflection, at another, of impulse; now deliberate and rational,

and now, instinctive in its character. We know this to be the case,

for example, with the affections, both benevolent and malevolent. A

principle of action may be none the less instinctive, and originally

implanted in man's nature, from the fact that, when he arrives at

years of discretion, his reason confirms and strengthens what nature

had already taught, or even adopts it as one of its own cardinal

principles. It is not necessary, in order to _all_ desire of good, that

I should know, completely and comprehensively, in what good consists,

and I may still desire my own happiness, according to the measure of

my knowledge and capacity, when I simply know that I am happy at the

present moment.

_Desire of continued Existence._--Closely analogous to the principle

now under consideration, if not, indeed, properly a form or

modification of it, is the desire of _continued existence_. No desire

that finds a place in the human bosom, perhaps, is stronger or more

universal than this. Life is valued above all other possessions;

riches, honors, place, power, ease, are counted as of little worth

in comparison. There are, indeed, occasions when life is willingly

sacrificed, rather than to incur dishonor and reproach, or for the

defence of the innocent and helpless who depend on us for protection,

or for some great and good cause that demands of the good and true man

such service as may cost life. Even in such cases, the importance of

the interests which demand and receive such a sacrifice, show the value

we attach to that which is laid upon the altar.

_Increases with Age._--The desire of continued existence seems to

increase, as age advances, and life wears away. We always value that

the more of which we have but little. It is a striking proof of the

divine benevolence, that, in a world so full of care, and toil,

and sorrow, as the present is, and must be, to the multitude of its

inhabitants, there are few so miserable as not to regard continued

existence as a boon to be purchased at any price.

§ II.--DESIRE OF KNOWLEDGE.

_An original Principle._--Among the various principles that enter

into the composition of our nature, and are the motive powers of the

human mind, awakening and calling forth its energies, and impelling

it to action, the desire of knowledge holds an important place. From

its early manifestation, before reason and reflection have as yet, to

any extent, come into play, and from its general, if not universal

existence, we infer that it is one of those principles originally

implanted in our nature by the great Author of our being.

_Not Curiosity._--The desire of knowledge, though often spoken of as

synonymous with _curiosity_, is not altogether identical with it.

Curiosity has reference rather to the novelty and strangeness of that

which comes before the mind. It is the feeling awakened by these

qualities, rather than the general desire to know what is yet unknown.

It is of more limited application, and while it implies a desire to

understand the object in view of which it is awakened, implies also

some degree of wonder, at the unusual and unexpected character of the

object as thus presented. While, then, curiosity is certainly a most

powerful auxiliary to the desire of learning, and stimulates the mind

to exertions it might not otherwise put forth, it is hardly to be

viewed as identical with the principle under consideration.

_Manifested in early Life._--The desire of knowledge is never, perhaps,

more strongly developed than in early life, and never partakes more

fully of the character of curiosity than then. To the child, all things

are new and strange. He looks about him upon a world as unknown to him

as he is to it, and every different object that meets his eye is a new

study, and a new mystery to him. The desire to acquaint himself with

the new and unknown world around him, keeps him constantly employed,

constantly learning.

_In later Years._--As he grows up, and the sphere of his intellectual

vision enlarges, every step of his progress only opens new and

wider fields to be explored, beyond the limits of his previous

investigations. If there is less of childish curiosity, there is more

of earnest, manly, irrepressible desire and determination to know. His

studies assume this or that direction, according to native taste and

temperament, early associations, or the force of circumstances; he

becomes a student of science, or a student of letters, or of art, or

of the practical professions and pursuits of life; but turn in what

direction and to what pursuits he will, the desire to know still lives

within him, as a sacred lamp ever burning before the shrine of truth.

_Explains the Love of Narrative._--Every one has remarked the eagerness

with which children listen to stories, histories, and fables. This is

owing not more to the love of the ideal, which is usually very strongly

developed in early life, than to the desire of knowing what presents

itself to the mind as something new and unknown, yet with the semblance

of reality. Nor does this love of narrative forsake us as we grow

older. We have still our romances, our histories, our poems, epic and

tragic, to divert us amid the graver cares of life; and the old man

is, perhaps, as impatient as the child, to go on with the story, and

comprehend the plot, when once his interest and curiosity are awakened.

_A benevolent Provision._--We cannot but regard it as a benevolent

provision of the Creator, so to constitute the human mind, that not

only knowledge itself, but the very process of its acquisition, should

be a pleasure. And when we consider how great is the importance to

man of this desire of knowledge, and how great is the progress of

even the humblest mind, from the dawn of its intelligence, on to the

period of its full maturity and strength; how, under the influence

of this desire, the mind of a Newton, a Kepler, a Bacon, a Descartes,

a Leibnitz, moves on, from the slow and feeble acquisitions of the

nursery, to the great and sublime discoveries that are to shed a light

and glory, not only on the name of the discoverer, but on the path of

all who come after him, we can hardly attach too high an importance to

this part of our mental constitution.

_A rational, though an instinctive Principle._--The desire of

knowledge, like many of the active principles which have already fallen

under our notice, is capable of rational exercise and control, while,

at the same time, an implanted and instinctive principle. It operates,

at first, rather as a blind impulse, impelling the mind to a given end;

when reason assumes her sway of the mind and its restless energies,

what was before a mere impulse and instinct of nature, now becomes a

deliberate and rational purpose.

_Moral Character._--As to moral character, it may, or may not, pertain

to the exercise of the principle under consideration. The desire

of knowledge is not of necessity a virtuous affection of the mind.

Characteristic as it is of a noble and superior nature, more elevated

and excellent, as it certainly is, than the merely animal desires and

impulses, it is not inseparably connected with moral excellence.

As rationally exercised it is laudable and virtuous, provided we seek

knowledge with proper motives, and for right ends; otherwise, the

reverse. Inasmuch, however, as we are under obligation to act in this,

as in all other matters, from pure motives, and for right ends, the

mere absence of such a motive, the desire and pursuit of knowledge in

another manner, and from other motives, becomes blameworthy.

§ III.--DESIRE OF POWER.

_A native Principle._--The desire of power must be regarded as an

original principle of our nature. Like the desire of happiness, and of

knowledge, it is both early in its development, and powerful in its

influence over the mind. It is also universally manifest.

_In what Manner awakened._--Of the idea of power or cause, and of the

manner in which the mind comes, in the first instance, to form that

idea, I have already spoken, under the head of original conception.

We see changes taking place in the external world. We observe these

changes immediately and invariably preceded by certain antecedents. The

idea of cause is thus suggested to the mind, and cause implies power of

one thing over another to produce given effects. We find, also, our own

volitions attended with corresponding effects upon objects external,

and thus learn, still further, that we ourselves possess power over

other objects. The idea thus awakened in the mind, there springs up,

also, in connection with the idea, an activity of the sensibilities.

The power which we find ourselves to have over objects about us affords

us pleasure; what we enjoy we love, and what we love we desire; and

so there is awakened in the mind a strong and growing desire for the

possession of power.

_Pleasure of exerting Power._--The pleasure which we derive from

producing, in any instance, a manifest effect, and from the

consciousness that we have in ourselves the power to produce like

effects whenever we will, is one of the highest sources of enjoyment of

which nature has made as capable. It is, to a great extent, the spring

and secret of the constant activity of which the world is full. It

shows itself in the sports of childhood, and in the graver pursuits of

maturer years. The infant, when it finds that it can move and control

its own little limbs, the boy learning the art of such athletic sports

as he perceives his fellows practise, the man when he finds that he

can control the action of his fellow-man, and bend the will of others

to his own, are each, and perhaps equally, delighted at the acquisition

of this new power; and the pleasure is generally in proportion to the

novelty of the acquisition, and the apparent greatness of the effect

produced.

_Strength and Influence of this Principle._--The love of power is one

of the strongest of the ruling principles of the human mind. It has its

seat in the deepest foundations of our nature. I can _do_ something;

I can do what others do; I can do more than they; such is the natural

order and progression of our endeavors, and such also the measure and

increase of our delight. What, but the love of power, leads to those

competitions of strength with strength, which mark the athletic games

and contests of all nations, civilized and savage? What, but the love

of power, impels the hunter over the pathless mountains, and deserts,

in quest of those savage denizens and lords of nature, whose strength

is so far superior to his own? What, but the love of power, leads the

warrior forth, at the head of conquering armies, to devastate and

subdue new realms?

_Seen also in other Pursuits._--And in the peaceful pursuits of life,

how largely does the same impulse mingle with the other, and perhaps

more apparent, motives of human action? The man of science, as he

watches the nightly courses of the stars, or resolves the stubborn

compounds of nature into their simple and subtle elements, as he

discovers new laws, and unlocks the secrets that have long baffled

human inquiry, derives no small part of his gratification from the

consciousness of that power which he thus exercises over the realm of

matter subjected to his will. And when, in like manner, the orator, on

whose words depend the lives of men, and the fate of nations, stands

forth to accuse or defend, to arouse the slumbering passions, and

inflame the patriotism, the courage, the resentment of his audience,

or to soothe their anger, allay their prejudice, awaken their pity or

their fears, how does the consciousness of his power over the swaying,

agitated multitude before him, mingle with the emotions that swell his

bosom, and augment the fierce delight of victory?

_Auxiliary to desire of knowledge._--The desire of power is accessory

to, and in some cases, perhaps, the foundation of certain other

principles of action. It is especially auxiliary to the desire of

knowledge, inasmuch as every new acquisition of truth is an accession

of power to the mind, and is, therefore, on that account, as well as

for its own sake, desirable. As a general thing, the more we know, the

more and the better we can do. Every mental acquisition becomes, in

some sense, an instrument to aid us in further and larger acquisitions.

We are enabled to call to our aid the very forces and elements of

nature which our discoveries have, in a manner, subjected to our sway,

and to conform our own conduct to those established laws which science

reveals. The mind is thus stimulated, in all its investigations, and

toilsome search for truth, by the assurance that every increase of

knowledge is, in some sense, an increase, also, of power. Hence the

aphorism so current, and generally attributed to Bacon, which affirms

that knowledge _is_ power.

_Auxiliary also to love of Liberty._--The _love of liberty_, according

to some writers, proceeds also, in part, at least, from the desire

of power, the desire of being able to do whatever we like. Whatever

deprives us of liberty trenches upon our power. In like manner, writers

upon morals have noticed the fact that the _pleasure of virtue_ is in

a measure due to the same source. When evil habits predominate and

acquire the mastery, we lose the power of self-control, the mind is

subjected to the baser passions, and this loss of power is attended

with the painful consciousness of degradation. On the other hand, to

the mind that is bent on maintaining its integrity, though it be by

stern and determined conflict with the evil influences that surround

it, and its own natural propensities to a course of sinful indulgence,

every fresh struggle with those adverse influences becomes a pledge of

final success, and the hour of victory, when it comes at last, as come

it will, is an hour of triumph and of joy.

§ IV.--CERTAIN MODIFICATIONS OF THE DESIRE OF POWER;--AS, THE DESIRE OF

SUPERIORITY, AND OF POSSESSION.

_General Statement._--There are certain desires to which the human

mind is subject, and which seem to have a foundation in nature, which,

though frequently regarded as distinct principles of action, are more

properly, perhaps, to be viewed as but modifications of the principle

last considered. I refer to the _desire of superiority_, and _the

desire of possession_; or, as they are more succinctly termed, ambition

and avarice.

_The Desire to excel, universal._--The desire to excel is almost

universal among men. It shows itself in every condition of society, and

under all varieties of character and pursuit. It animates the sports of

childhood, and gives a zest to the sober duties and realities of life.

It penetrates the camp, the court, the halls of legislation, and of

justice; it enters alike into the peaceful rivalries of the school, the

college, the learned professions, and into those more fearful contests

for superiority which engage nations in hostile encounter on the field

of strife and carnage. What have we, under all these manifestations,

but the desire of superiority, and what is that but the desire of power

in one of its most common forms?

_Not peculiar to Man._--This is a principle not peculiar to human

nature, but common to man with the brute. The lower animals have also

their rivalries, their jealousies, their contests for superiority in

swiftness, and in strength, and he is the acknowledged leader who

proves himself superior in these respects to his fellows.

_Not the same with Envy._--The desire to excel, or the principle of

emulation, is not to be confounded with envy with which it is too

frequently, but not necessarily, associated. Envy is pained at the

success of a rival; a just and honorable emulation, without seeking

to detract from the well-merited honors of another, strives only

to equal and surpass them. This distinction is an important one,

and has been very clearly pointed out by _Mr. Stewart_, and also by

_Bp. Butler_, and, still earlier, by _Aristotle_. "Emulation," says

Butler, "is merely the desire of superiority over others, with whom we

compare ourselves. To desire the attainment of this superiority by the

particular means of others being brought down below our own level, is

the distinct notion of envy." To the same effect, Aristotle, as quoted

by Stewart: "Emulation is a good thing, and belongs to good men; envy

is bad, and belongs to bad men. What a man is emulous of he strives to

attain, that he may really possess the desired object; the envious are

satisfied if nobody has it."

_Not malevolent of Necessity._--Dr. Reid has classed emulation with the

malevolent affections, as involving a sentiment of ill-will toward the

rival; but, as Mr. Stewart very justly remarks, this sentiment is not

a _necessary_ concomitant of the desire of superiority, though often

found in connection with it; nor ought emulation to be classed with the

affections, but with the desires, for it is the desire which is the

active principle, and the affection is only a concomitant circumstance.

_View maintained by Mr. Upham._--Mr. Upham denies emulation a place

among the original and implanted principles of our nature, on this

ground. All our active principles, he maintains, from instinct upward,

are subordinate to the authority and decisions of conscience, as a

faculty paramount to every other. But the desire of superiority he

supposes to be utterly inconsistent with the law of subordination.

Whenever man perceives a superior, he perceives one with whom, by this

law of his nature, if such it be, he is brought into direct conflict

and collision, and as he is surrounded by those who, in some respect,

are his superiors, he is really placed in a state of perpetual warfare

and misery; nor can he regard even the Supreme Being with other

feelings than those of unhallowed rivalry. A principle that would lead

to such results, he concludes, cannot be founded in the constitution of

our nature. He accordingly resolves the desire of superiority into the

principle of imitativeness.

_The Correctness of this View called in Question._--It is difficult

to perceive the force of this reasoning. The desire of superiority,

it is sufficient to say, whatever be its origin, leads to no such

results. As actually manifest in human character and conduct, it does

not show itself to be inconsistent with due subordination to authority,

nor does it involve man in necessary and perpetual conflict with

his fellows, nor does it present the Supreme Being as an object of

unhallowed rivalry. We have only to do with facts, with the phenomena

actually presented by human nature; and we do not find the facts to

correspond with the view now given. Nor can we perceive any reason, in

the nature of the case, why the desire in question _should_ lead, or be

supposed to lead, to such results. The desire of superiority does not

necessarily imply the desire to be superior to every body, and every

thing, in the universe. It may have its natural and proper limits; and

such we find to be the fact.

_Actual Limitations of this Principle._--We desire to excel not,

usually, those who are far above us in rank and fortune, but our

fellows and companions; our rivals are mostly those who move in the

same sphere with ourselves. The artist vies with his brother artist,

the student with his fellow student, and even where envy and ill-will

mingle, as they too often do, with the desire, still, the object of

that envy is not every one, indiscriminately, who may happen to be

superior to ourselves, but only our particular rival in the race

before us. The child at school does not envy Sir Isaac Newton, or the

illustrious Humboldt, but the urchin that is next above himself in

the class. The desire of superiority, like every other desire of the

human mind, looks only at what is possible to be accomplished, at what

is probable, even; it aims not at the clouds, but at things within our

reach, things to be had for the asking and the striving. But whatever

view we take of the matter, the desire of superiority certainly exists

as an active principle in the human mind; nor do we see any reason

why it should not be admitted as an original principle founded in the

constitution of our nature, or, at least, as one of the forms and

modifications of such a principle, viz., the love of power.

_This Principle requires Restraint._--I would by no means deny,

however, that the desire now under consideration is one which is liable

to abuse, and which requires the careful and constant restraints

of reason and of religious principle. The danger is, that envy and

ill-will, toward those whom we regard as rivals and competitors with

us, for those honors and rewards which lie in our path, shall be

permitted to mingle with the desire to excel. Indeed, so frequently

are the two conjoined, that to the reflecting and sensitive mind,

superiority itself almost ceases to be desirable, since it is but too

likely to be purchased at the price of the good-will, and kind feeling,

of those less fortunate, or less gifted, than ourselves.

_Another Form of the same Desire._--_The desire of possession_ may

be regarded, also, as a modification of the desire of power. That

influence over others which power implies, and which is, to some

extent, commanded by superiority of personal strength or prowess, by

genius, by skill, by the various arts and address of life, or by the

accident of birth and hereditary station, is still more directly and

generally attainable, by another, and perhaps a shorter route--the

possession of wealth. This, as the world goes, is the key that unlocks,

the sceptre that controls, all things. Personal prowess, genius,

address, station, the throne itself, are, in no inconsiderable degree,

dependent upon its strength, and at its command. He who has this can

well afford to dispense with most other goods and gifts of fortune; so

far, at least, as concerns the possession of power. He may be neither

great, nor learned, nor of noble birth; neither elegant in person,

nor accomplished in manners, distinguished neither for science, nor

virtue; he may command no armies, he may sit upon no throne; yet with

all his deficiencies, and even his vices, if so he have wealth, he has

power. Unnumbered hands are ready to task their skill at his bidding,

unnumbered arms, to move and toil and strive in his service, unnumbered

feet hasten to and fro upon his errands. He commands the skill and

labor of multitudes whom he has never seen, and who know him not. In

distant quarters of the globe, the natives of other zones and climes

hasten upon his errands; swift ships traverse the seas for him; the

furs of the extreme North, the rich woods and spices of the tropics,

the silks of India, the pearls and gems of the East--whatever is

costly, and curious, and rare, whatever can contribute to the luxury

and the pride of man--these are his, and for him. No wonder that he who

desires power, should desire that which is one of the chief avenues and

means to the attainment of power, and that what is valued, at first,

rather as an instrument than as an end, should presently come to be

regarded and valued for its own sake.

_A twofold Aspect--Covetousness, Avarice._--There are, if I mistake

not, two forms which the desire of possession assumes. The one is the

simple desire of acquiring, that there may be the more to spend; the

other of accumulating, adding to the heaps already obtained--which may

be done by keeping fast what is already gotten, as well as by getting

more. The one is the desire of getting, which is not inconsistent with

the desire of spending, but, in fact, grows out of that in the first

instance; the other is the desire of increasing, and the corresponding

dread of diminishing, what is gotten, which, when it prevails to

any considerable degree, effectually prevents all enjoyment of the

accumulated treasure, and becomes one of the most remarkable and most

odious passions of our perverted nature. The term _covetousness_

answers somewhat nearly to the one, _avarice_ to the other, of these

forms of desire. It must be added, also, that it seems to be the

natural tendency of the primitive and milder form of this principle,

to pass into the other and more repulsive manifestation. He who begins

with desiring wealth as a means of gratifying his various wants, too

frequently ends with desiring it for its own sake, and becomes that

poorest and most miserable of all men, the miser.

_The inordinate love of Money not owing wholly to Association._--Whence

arises that inordinate value which the miser attaches to money, which,

in reality, is but the mere representative of enjoyment, the mere

means to an end? Why is he so loth to part with the smallest portion

of the representative medium, in order to secure the reality, the end

for which alone the means is valuable? Is it that, by the laws of

association, the varied enjoyments which gold has so often procured,

and which have a fixed value in our minds, are transferred with all

their value to the gold which procured them? Doubtless this is, in

some measure, the case, and it may, therefore, in part, account for

the phenomenon in question. The gold piece which I take from my

drawer for the purchase of some needful commodity, has, it may be,

an increased value in my estimation, from the recollection of the

advantages previously derived from the possession of just such a sum.

But why should such associations operate more powerfully upon the

miser, than upon any other person? Why are we not _all_ misers, if such

associations are the true cause and explanation of avarice? Nay, why

is not the spendthrift the most avaricious of all men, since he has

more frequently exchanged the representative medium for the enjoyment

which it would procure, and has, therefore, greater store of such

associations connected with his gold?

_The true Explanation._--Dr. Brown, who has admirably treated this

part of our mental constitution, has suggested, I think, the true

explanation of this phenomenon.

So long as the gold itself is in the miser's grasp, it is, and is felt

to be, a permanent possession; when it is expended, it is usually

for something of a transient nature, which perishes with the using.

It seems to him afterward as so much utter loss, and is regretted as

such. Every such regretted expenditure increases the reluctance to

part with another portion of the treasure. There is, moreover, another

circumstance which heightens this feeling of reluctance. The enjoyment

purchased is one and simple. The gold with which it was purchased is

the representative, not of that particular form of enjoyment alone, but

of a thousand others as well, any one of which might have been procured

with the same money. All these possible advantages are now no longer

possible. Very great seems the loss. Add to this the circumstance

that the miser, in most cases, probably, has accumulated, or set his

heart upon accumulating, a certain round sum, say so many thousands

or hundreds of thousands. The spending a single dollar breaks that

sum, and, therewith, the charm is broken, and he who was a millionaire

before that unlucky expenditure, is a millionaire no longer. It is

mainly in these feelings of regret, which attend the necessary expenses

of the man who has once learned to set a high value upon wealth, that

avarice finds, if not its source, at least its chief strength and

aliment.

_Odiousness of this Vice._--There is, perhaps, no passion or vice

to which poor human nature is subject, that is, in some respects,

more odious and repulsive than this. There is about it no redeeming

feature. It is pure and unmingled selfishness, without even the poor

apology that most other vices can offer, of contributing to the present

enjoyment and sensual gratification of the criminal. The miser is

denied even this. He covets, not that he may enjoy, but that he may

refrain from enjoying.

_Strongest in old Age._--"In the contemplation of many of the passions

that rage in the heart with greatest fierceness," says Dr. Brown,

"there is some comfort in the thought that, violent as they may be for

a time, they are not to rage through the whole course of life, at least

if life be prolonged to old age; that the agitation which at every

period will have some intermissions, will grow gradually less as the

body grows more weak, and that the mind will at last derive from this

very feebleness a repose which it could not enjoy when the vigor of

the bodily frame seemed to give to the passion a corresponding vigor.

It is not in avarice, however, that this soothing influence of age is

to be found. It grows with our growth and with our strength, but it

strengthens also with our very weakness. There are no intermissions

in the anxieties which it keeps awake; and every year, instead of

lessening its hold, seems to fix it more deeply within the soul itself,

as the bodily covering around it slowly moulders away.... The heart

which is weary of every thing else is not weary of coveting more gold;

the memory which has forgotten every thing else, continues still, as

Cato says in Cicero's dialogue, to remember where its gold is stored;

the eye is not dim to gold that is dim to every thing beside; the hand

which it seems an effort to stretch out and fix upon any thing, appears

to gather new strength from the very touch of the gold which it grasps,

and has still vigor enough to lift once more, and count once more,

though a little more slowly, what it has been its chief and happiest

occupation thus to lift and count for a period of years far longer than

the ordinary life of man. When the relations or other expectant heirs

gather around his couch, not to comfort, nor even to seem to comfort,

but to await, in decent mimicry of solemn attendance, that moment

which they rejoice to view approaching; the dying eye can still send

a jealous glance to the coffer near which it trembles to see, though

it scarcely sees, so many human forms assembled; and that feeling

of jealous agony, which follows and outlasts the obscure vision of

floating forms that are scarcely remembered, is at once the last misery

and the last consciousness of life."

§ V.--DESIRE OF SOCIETY

_A natural Principle._--There can be little doubt that the desire of

society is one of the original principles of our nature. It shows

itself at a very early period of life, and under all the diverse

conditions of existence. Its universal manifestation, and that under

circumstances which preclude the idea of education or imitation in

the matter, proves it an implanted principle, having its seat in the

constitution of the mind.

_Manifested by Animals of every Species._--The child rejoices in the

company of its fellows. The lower animals manifest the same regard for

each other's society, and are unhappy when separated from their kind.

Much of the attachment of the dog to his master may, not improbably, be

owing to the same source. The beast of labor is cheered and animated by

his master's presence, and the patient ox as he toils along the furrow,

or the highway, moves more willingly when he hears the well-known step

and voice of his owner trudging by his side. Every one knows how much

the horse is inspirited by the chance companionship, upon the way, of a

fellow-laborer of his own species. Horses that have been accustomed to

each other's society on the road, or in the stall, frequently manifest

the greatest uneasiness and dejection when separated; and it has been

observed by those acquainted with the habits of animals, that cattle

do not thrive as well, even in good pasture, when solitary, as when

feeding in herds.

_Social Organizations of Animals._--Accordingly we find most animals,

when left to the instinct of nature, associating in herds, and tribes,

larger or smaller, according to the habits of the animal. They form

their little communities, have their leaders, and, to some extent,

their laws, acknowledged and obeyed by all, their established customs

and modes of procedure--in which associations, thus regulated, it is

impossible not to recognize the essential feature and principle of

what man, in his political associations of the same nature, calls the

_state_. What else are the little communities of the bee, and the ant,

and the beaver, but so many busy cities, and states, of the insect and

animal tribes?

_The social State not adopted because of its Advantages merely._--It

may be said that man derives advantages from the social state, and

adopts it for that reason. Unquestionably he does derive immense

advantages from it; but is that the reason he desires it? Is the desire

of society consequent upon the advantages, experienced or foreseen,

which accrue from it, or are the advantages consequent upon the desire

and the adoption of the state in question? Is it matter of expediency

and calculation, of policy and necessity, or of native instinct and

implanted constitutional desire? What is it with the lower animals? Has

not nature provided in their very constitution for their prospective

wants, and, by implanting in them the desire for each other's society,

laid the foundation for their congregating in tribes and communities?

Is it not reasonable to suppose that the same may be true of man? The

analogy of nature, the early manifestation of the principle prior

to education and experience, the universality and uniformity of its

operation, and the fact that it shows itself often in all its strength

under circumstances in which very little benefit would seem to result

from the social condition, as with the savage races of the extreme

North, and with many rude and uncultivated tribes of the forest and

the desert--all these circumstances go to show that the desire of

society is founded in the nature of man, and is not a mere matter of

calculation and policy.

_Man's Nature deficient without this Principle._--And this is a

sufficient answer to the theory of those who, with Hobbes, regard the

social condition of man as the result of his perception of what is for

his own interest, the dictate of prudence and necessity. The very fact

that it is for his interest would lead us to expect that some provision

should be made for it in his nature; and this is precisely what we

find to be the case. Were it otherwise, we should feel that, in one

important respect, the nature of man was deficient, inferior even to

that of the brute. But the truth is, the whole history of the race is

one complete and compact contradiction of the theory of Hobbes, and

shows with the clearness of demonstration, that the _natural_ condition

of man is not that of seclusion, and isolation from his fellows, but of

society and companionship.

_Strength of this Principle._--So strongly is this principle rooted in

the very depths of our nature, that when man is for a length of time

shut out from the society of his fellow men, he seeks the acquaintance

and companionship of brutes, and even of insects, and those animals

for whom, in his usual condition, he has a marked repugnance, as a

relief from utter loneliness and absolute solitude. Mr. Stewart relates

the instance of a French nobleman, shut up for several years a close

prisoner in the Castle of Pignerol, during the reign of Louis XIV.,

who amused himself, in his solitude, by watching the movements of

a spider, to which he at length became so much attached, that when

the jailor, discovering his amusement, killed the spider, he was

afflicted with the deepest grief. Silvio Pellico, in his imprisonment,

amused himself in like manner. Baron Trench sought to alleviate the

wretchedness of his long imprisonment, by cultivating the acquaintance

or friendship of a mouse, which in turn manifested a strong attachment

to him, played about his person, and took its food from his hand. The

fact having been discovered by the officers, the mouse was removed to

the guard-room, but managed to find its way back to the prison door,

and, at the hour of visitation, when the door was opened, ran into the

dungeon, and manifested the greatest delight at finding its master.

Being subsequently removed and placed in a cage, it pined, refused all

sustenance, and in a few days died. "The loss of this little companion

made me for some time quite melancholy," adds the narrator.

_Case of Silvio Pellico._--How strongly is the desire for society

manifested in these words of Silvio Pellico, when forbidden to converse

with his fellow-prisoner. "I shall do no such thing. I shall speak as

long as I have breath, and invite my neighbor to talk to me. If he

refuse, I will talk to my window-bars. I will talk to the hills before

me. I will talk to the birds as they fly about. I _will_ talk."

Facts of this nature clearly indicate that the love of society is

originally implanted in the human mind.

_Illustrated from the History of Prison Discipline._--The same thing is

further evident from the effects of entire seclusion from all society,

as shown in the history of prison discipline. For the facts which

follow, as well as for some of the preceding, I am indebted to Mr.

Upham.

The legislature of New York some years since, by way of experiment,

directed a number of the most hardened criminals in the State prison at

Auburn, to be confined in solitary cells, without labor, and without

intermission of their solitude. The result is thus stated by Messrs.

Beaumont and Tocqueville, who were subsequently appointed commissioners

by the French government to examine and report on the American system

of prison discipline. "This, trial from which so happy a result had

been anticipated, was fatal to the greater part of the convicts; in

order to reform them, they had been subjected to complete isolation;

but this absolute solitude, if nothing interrupts it, is beyond the

strength of man; it destroys the criminal, without intermission, and

without pity; it does not reform, it kills. The unfortunates on whom

this experiment was made, fell into a state of depression so manifest

that their keepers were struck with it; their lives seemed in danger

if they remained longer in this situation; five of them had already

succumbed during a single year; their moral state was no less alarming;

one of them had become insane; another, in a fit of despair, had

embraced the opportunity, when the keeper brought him something, to

precipitate himself from his cell, running the almost certain chance

of a mortal fall. Upon those, and similar effects, the system was

finally judged." The same results substantially have followed similar

experiments in other prisons. It is stated by Lieber, that in the

penitentiary of New Jersey, ten persons are mentioned as having been

killed by solitary confinement. Facts like these show how deeply-rooted

in our nature is the desire of society, and how essential to our

happiness is the companionship of our fellow-beings.

§ VI.--DESIRE OF ESTEEM.

_An important and original Principle._--Of the active principles of our

nature, few exert a more important influence over human conduct, few

certainly deserve a more careful consideration, than the regard which

we feel for the approbation of others. The early period at which this

manifests itself, as well as the strength which it displays, indicate,

with sufficient clearness, that it is an original principle, founded in

the constitution of the mind.

_Cannot be regarded as an acquired Habit._--When we see children of

tender age manifesting a sensitive regard for the good opinion of their

associates, shrinking with evident pain from the censure of those

around them, and delighted with the approbation which they may receive;

when, in maturer years, we find them--children no longer--ready to

sacrifice pleasure and advantage in every form, and to almost any

amount, and even to lay down life itself to maintain an honorable

place in the esteem of men, and to preserve a name and reputation

unsullied--and these things we do see continually--we cannot believe

that what shows itself so early, and so uniformly, and operates

with such strength, is only some acquired principle, the result of

association, or the mere calculation of advantage, and a prudential

regard to self-interest. In many cases we know it cannot be so. It

is not the dictate of prudence, or the calculation of advantage, that

influences the little child; nor is it the force of such considerations

that induces the man of mature years to give up ease, fortune,

and life itself, for the sake of honor and a name. Even where the

approbation or censure of those who may pass an opinion, favorable,

or unfavorable, upon our conduct, can be of no benefit or injury to

us, that approbation is still desired, that censure is still feared.

We prefer the good opinion of even a weak man, or a bad man, to his

disesteem; and even if the odium which, in that case, we may chance to

incur in the discharge of duty, is felt to be unjust and undeserved,

and our consciousness of right intention and right endeavor sustains

us under all the pressure of opinion from without, it is impossible,

nevertheless, not to be pained with even that unjust and undeserved

reproach. We feel that, in losing the confidence and esteem of others,

we incur a heavy loss.

Want and wretchedness may drive a man to desperate and reckless

courses; yet few, probably, can be found, so wretched and desperate,

who, in all their misery, would not prefer the good opinion and the

good offices of their fellow-man.

_Accounted for neither by the selfish nor the associative

Principle._--It can hardly be, then, a _selfish_ and prudential

principle--this strong desire of esteem; nor yet can it be the result

of association, as some have inferred; since it shows itself under

circumstances where a selfish regard for one's own interests could not

be supposed to operate, and with a power which no laws of association

can explain.

_Hume's Theory._--Hardly better is it accounted for on the principle

which Hume suggests, that the good opinion of others confirms our good

opinion of ourselves, and hence is felt to be desirable. Doubtless

there is need enough, in many cases, perhaps in most, of some such

confirmation. Nor would I deny that this may be one element of the

pleasure which we derive from the esteem of others. Dr. Brown, in his

analysis of the principle under consideration, has very justly included

this among the components of the pleasure thus derived. But it by no

means accounts for the origin, nor explains the nature, of this desire.

It is rather an incidental circumstance than the producing cause.

_This Principle as it relates to the Future._--Perhaps in no one of its

aspects is the desire of esteem more remarkable, than when it relates

to the future--the desire to leave a good name behind us, when we are

no longer concerned with the affairs of time. It would seem as if the

good or ill opinion of men would be of no moment whatever to us, when

once we have taken our final departure from the stage of life. We

pass to a higher tribunal, and the verdict of approving or reproving

millions, the applause of nations, the condemnation of a world in arms

against us, will hardly break the silence or disturb the deep repose of

the tomb. These approving and condemning voices will die away in the

distance, or be heard but as the faint echo of the wave that lashes

some far-off shore.

Yet, though the honors that may then await our names will be of as

little moment to us, personally, as the perishing garlands that the

hand of affection may place upon our tombs, we still desire to leave

a name unsullied at least, if not distinguished, even as we desire to

live in the memory and affections of those who survive us.

_How to be explained._--To what, then, can be owing this desire of

the good opinion and esteem of those who are to come after us, and

whose opinion, be it good or ill, can in no way affect our happiness?

Philosophers have been sadly at a loss to account for it, especially

those who trace the desire of esteem to a selfish origin. Some,

with Wollaston and Smith, have referred it to the illusions of the

imagination, by which we seem, to ourselves, to be present, and to

witness the honors, and listen to the praises, which the future is to

bestow. Such an illusion may possibly arise in some hour of reverie,

some day-dream of the mind; but it is impossible to suppose that any

one of sound mind should be permanently influenced by such an illusion,

or fail to perceive, when reason resumes her sway, that it _is_ an

illusion, and that only.

_Admits of Explanation in another Way._--If, however we regard the

desire of the good opinion of others as an original principle of our

nature, and not as springing from selfish considerations, it is easy to

see how the same principle may extend to the future. If, irrespective

of personal advantage, we desire the esteem of our fellow-men while we

live, so, also, without regard to such advantage, we may desire their

good opinion when we are no longer among them.

True, it is only a name that is transmitted and honored, as Wollaston

says, and not the man himself. _He_ does not live because his _name_

does, nor is _he_ known because his name is known. As in those lines of

Cowley, quoted by Stewart:

"'Tis true the two immortal syllables remain,

But, O! ye learned men, explain

What essence, substance, what hypostasis

In five poor letters is?

In these alone does the great Cæsar live--

'Tis all the conquered world could give."

Yet reason as we may, it is no trait of a noble and ingenuous mind to

be regardless of the opinions of the future. The common sentiment of

men, even the wisest and the best, finds itself, after all, much more

influenced by such considerations than by any reasoning to the contrary.

_Not unworthy of a noble Mind._--Nor is it altogether unworthy of the

ambition of a noble and generous mind to leave a good name as a legacy

to the future; in the language of Mr. Stewart, "to be able to entail on

the casual combination of letters which compose our name, the respect

of distant ages, and the blessings of generations yet unborn. Nor is it

an unworthy object of the most rational benevolence to render these

letters a sort of magical spell for kindling the emulation of the wise

and good whenever they shall reach the human ear."

_Desire of Esteem not a safe Rule of Conduct._--I would by no means be

understood, however, to present the desire of esteem as, on the whole,

a safe and suitable rule of conduct, or to justify that inordinate

ambition which too frequently seeks distinction regardless of the means

by which it is acquired, or of any useful end to be accomplished.

The mere love of fame is by no means the highest principle of action

by which man is guided--by no means the noblest or the safest. It is

ever liable to abuse. Its tendencies are questionable. The man who

has no higher principle than a regard to the opinions of others is

not likely to accomplish any thing great or noble. He will lack that

prime element of greatness, _consistency_ of character and purpose.

His conduct and his principles will vary to suit the changing aspect

of the times. He will, almost of necessity, also lack firmness and

strength of character. It is necessary, sometimes, for the wise and

good man to resist the force and pressure of public opinion. He must

do that, or abandon his principles, and prove false at once to duty,

and to himself. To do this costs much. It requires, and, at the same

time, imparts, true strength. Such strength comes in no other way. That

mind is essentially weak that depends for its point of support on the

applause of man. In the noble language of Cicero, "To me, indeed, those

actions seem all the more praiseworthy which we perform without regard

to public favor, and without observation of man.. The true theatre for

virtue is conscience; there is none greater." The praise of man confers

no solid happiness, unless it is felt to be deserved; and if it _be_

so, that very consciousness is sufficient.

_Disregard of public Opinion equally unsafe._--It must be confessed,

however, that if a regard to the opinions of others is not to be

adopted as a wise and safe rule of conduct, an entire disregard of

public opinion is, on the other hand, a mark neither of a well ordered

mind, nor of a virtuous character. "Contempta fama," says Tacitus,

"contemnantur virtutes."

Accordingly we find that those who, from any cause, have lost their

character and standing in society, and forfeited the good opinion of

their fellow-men, are apt to become desperate and reckless, and ready

for any crime.

CHAPTER IV.

HOPE AND FEAR.

_Nature of these Emotions._--In the analysis of the sensibilities,

which was given in a preceding chapter, _hope and fear_ were classed

as modifications of _desire and aversion_, having reference to the

probability that the object which is desired or feared may be realized.

Desire always relates to something in the future, and something that

is agreeable, or viewed as such, and also something possible, or that

is so regarded. Add to this future agreeable something the idea or

element of _probability_, let it be not only something possible to be

attained, but not unlikely to be, and what was before but mere desire,

more or less earnest, now becomes _hope_, more or less definite or

strong, according as the object is more or less desirable, and more or

less likely to be realized. And the same is true of fear; an emotion

awakened in view of any object regarded as disagreeable, in the future,

and as more or less likely to be met.

As desire and aversion do not necessarily relate to different objects,

but are simply counterparts of each other, the desire of any good

implying always an aversion to its loss, so, also, hope and fear may

both be awakened by the same object, according as the gaining or losing

of the object becomes the more probable. What we hope to gain we fear

to lose. What we fear to meet, we hope to escape.

_The Strength of the Feeling dependent, in part, on the Importance of

the Object._--The _degree_ of the emotion, however, in either case,

the readiness with which it is awakened, and the force and liveliness

with which it affects the mind, are not altogether in proportion to

the probability merely that the thing will, or will not, be as we

hope or fear, but somewhat in proportion, also, to the importance of

the object itself. That which is quite essential to our happiness is

more ardently desired, than what is of much less consequence, though,

perhaps, much more likely to be attained; and because it is more

important and desirable, even a slight prospect of its attainment, or

a slight reason to apprehend its loss, more readily awakens our hopes,

and our fears, and more deeply impresses and agitates the mind, than

even a much stronger probability would do in cases of less importance.

What we very much desire, we are inclined to hope for, what we are

strongly averse to, we are readily disposed to fear. Nothing is more

desirable to the victim of disease than recovery, and hence his hope

and almost confident expectation that he shall recover, when, perhaps,

to every eye but his own, the case is hopeless. Nothing could be more

dreadful to the miser than the loss of his treasure, and nothing,

accordingly, does he so much fear. Poverty would be to him the greatest

of possible calamities, and of this, accordingly, he lives in constant

apprehension. Yet nothing is really more unlikely to occur. It is the

tendency of the mind, in such cases, to magnify both the danger of the

evil, on the one hand, and the prospect of good on the other.

_Illustration from the case of a Traveller._--"There can be no

question," says Dr. Brown, "that he who travels in the same carriage,

with the same external appearances of every kind, by which a robber

could be tempted or terrified, will be in equal danger of attack,

whether he carry with him little of which he can be plundered, or

such a booty as would impoverish him if it were lost. But there can

be no question, also, that though the probabilities of danger be the

same, the fear of attack would, in these two cases, be very different;

that, in the one case, he would laugh at the ridiculous terror of any

one who journeyed with him, and expressed much alarm at the approach

of evening;--and that, in the other case, his own eye would watch,

suspiciously, every horseman who approached, and would feel a sort of

relief when he observed him pass carelessly and quietly along, at a

considerable distance behind."

_Uneasiness attending the sudden Acquisition of Wealth._--This tendency

of the imagination to exaggerate the real, and conjure up a thousand

unreal dangers, when any thing of peculiar value is in possession,

which it is certainly possible, and it may be slightly probable, that

we may lose, may, perhaps, account for the uneasiness, amounting often

to extreme anxiety, that frequently accompanies the sudden acquisition

of wealth. The poor cobbler, at his last, is a merry man, whistling at

his work, from morning till night. Bequeath him a fortune, and he quits

at once his last and his music; he is no longer the light-hearted man

that he was; his step is cautious, his look anxious and suspicious; he

grows care-worn and old. He that was never so happy in his life as when

a poor man, now dreads nothing so much as poverty. While he was poor,

there was nothing to fear, but every thing to hope, from the future;

now that he is rich, there is nothing further to hope, but much to

fear, since if the future brings any change in his condition, as it

is not unlikely to do, it will, in all probability, be a change, not

from wealth to still greater wealth, but from present affluence to his

former penury.

_The Pleasure of Hope surpasses the Pleasure of Reality._--It will,

doubtless, be found generally true, that the pleasure of hope surpasses

the pleasure derived from the realization of the object wished and

hoped for. The imagination invests with ideal excellence the good that

is still future, and when the hour of possession and enjoyment comes,

the reality does not fully answer the expectation. Or, as in the case,

already supposed, of the acquisition of wealth, there come along with

the desired and expected treasure, a thousand cares and anxieties that

were not anticipated, and that go far to diminish the enjoyment of the

acquisition. From these, and other causes, it happens, I believe, not

unfrequently, that those enjoy the most, who have really the least,

whether of wealth, or of any other good which the mind naturally

desires as a means of happiness; nor can we fail to see in this a

beautiful provision of divine benevolence for the happiness of the

great human family.

_Influence on the Mind._--The influence of hope, upon the human mind,

is universally felt, and recognized, as one of the most powerful and

permanent of those varied influences, and laws of being, that make us

what we are. It is limited to no period of life, no clime and country,

no age of the world, no condition of society, or of individual fortune.

It cheers us, alike, in the childhood of our being, in the maturity of

our riper years, and in the second childhood of advancing age. There is

no good which it cannot promise, no evil for which it cannot suggest a

remedy and a way of escape, no sorrow which it cannot assuage. It is

strength to the weary, courage to the desponding, life to the dying,

joy to the desolate. It lingers with gentle step about the couch of

the suffering, when human skill can do no more; and, upon the tombs

of those whose departure we mourn, it hangs the unfading garland of a

blessed immortality.

"Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore

Earth's loveliest bounds, and ocean's widest shore."

The same poet who sang so well the pleasures of hope, has depicted the

influence of this emotion, on the mind which some great calamity has

bereft of reason.

"Hark, the wild maniac sings to chide the gale

That wafts so slow her lover's distant sail;

* * * * *

Oft when yon moon has climbed the midnight sky

And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry,

Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burn

To hail the bark that never can return;

And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep,

That constant love can linger on the deep."

It is, indeed, a touching incident, illustrative not more of the

strength of this principle of our nature, than of the benevolence which

framed our mental and moral constitution, that when, under the heavy

pressure of earthly ills, reason deserts her empire, and leaves the

throne of the human mind vacant, _Hope_ still lingers to cheer even

the poor maniac, and calmly takes her seat upon that vacant throne,

even as the radiant angels sat upon the stone by the door of the empty

sepulchre.

MENTAL PHILOSOPHY

DIVISION THIRD

THE WILL

PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS.

_Leading Divisions._--In our analysis and distribution of the powers

of the mind, they were divided into three generic classes, viz.,

Intellect, Sensibility, and Will. Of these, the two former have been

discussed in the preceding pages; it now remains to enter upon the

examination of the third.

_Importance and Difficulty of this Department._--This is, in many

respects, at once the most important and the most difficult of

the three. Its difficulty becomes apparent when we consider what

questions arise respecting this power of the mind, and what diverse

and conflicting views have been entertained, not among philosophers

only, but among all classes of men, and in all ages of the world,

concerning these matters. Its importance is evident from the relation

which this faculty sustains to the other powers of the mind, and from

its direct and intimate connection with some of the most practical

and personal duties of life. Whatever control we have over ourselves,

whether as regards the bodily or the mental powers, whatever use and

disposition it is in our power to make of the intellectual faculties

with which we are endowed, and of the sensibilities which accompany

or give rise to those intellectual activities, and of the physical

organization which obeys the behests of the sovereign mind, whatever

separates and distinguishes us from the mere inanimate and mechanical

forces of nature on the one hand, or the blind impulses of irrational

brute instinct on the other; for all this, be it more or less, we are

indebted to that faculty which we call the Will. And hence it happens

that in this, as in many other cases, the most abstract questions of

philosophy become the most practical and important questions of life.

In every system of mental philosophy the Will holds a cardinal place.

The system can no more be complete without it, than a steamship without

the engines that are to propel her. As is the view taken of the Will,

such is essentially the system.

_Relation to Theology._--Nor is it to be overlooked that the doctrine

of the Will is a cardinal doctrine of theology, as well as of

psychology. Inasmuch as it has a direct and practical bearing upon the

formation of character, and upon the moral and religious duties of

life, it comes properly within the sphere of that science which treats

of these duties, and of man's relation to his Maker. Hence every system

of theology has to do with the Will; and according to the view taken of

this faculty, such essentially is the system. If in psychology, still

more in theology, is this the stand-point of the science.

_Not, therefore, to be treated as a theological Doctrine._--Not,

however, on this account, is the matter to be treated as theological

and not strictly psychological. It is a matter which pertains properly

and purely to psychology. It is for that science which treats of the

laws and powers of the human mind to unfold and explain the activity

of this most important of all the mental faculties. To this science

theology must come for her data, so far as she has occasion to refer to

the phenomena of the Will. The same may be said of ethical, as well as

of theological science. In so far as they are concerned with the moral

powers, and with the human will, they must both depend on psychology.

With in her proper sphere they stand, not as teachers, but as learners.

_The more Care requisite on this Account._--For this reason all the

more care is necessary, in the study and explanation of the present

theme. An error in this part of the investigation is likely to extend

beyond the bounds of the science itself, into other and kindred

sciences. The most serious consequences may flow from it, in other and

wider fields of thought.

_Sources of Information._--The sources of our information are

essentially the same in this as in the preceding divisions of the

science. They are twofold; the consciousness of what passes in our

own minds, and the observation of others. Our single business is to

ascertain facts, actual phenomena; not to inquire what might be, or

what _ought_ to be, according to preconceived notions and theories,

but what _is_. This is to be learned, not by reasoning and logical

argument, but by simple observation of phenomena. Having once

ascertained these, we may infer, and conclude, and reason from them,

as far as we please, and our conclusions will be correct, provided

the data are correct from which we set forth, and provided we reason

correctly from these principles.

_Method to be pursued._--In treating of this department of mental

activity, it will be our first business, then, to point out the well

established and evident facts pertaining to the matter in hand, viewed

simply as psychological phenomena, as modes in which the human mind

manifests itself in action, according to the laws of its constitution.

These being ascertained, we shall be prepared to consider some of the

more difficult and doubtful matters respecting the will, on which the

world has long been divided, and which can never be intelligently

discussed, much less settled, without a clear understanding, in the

first place, of the psychological facts in the case, about which there

need be, and should be, no dispute.

CHAPTER I.

NATURE OF THE WILL.

_What the Will is._--I understand, by the will, that power which the

mind has of determining or deciding what it will do, and of putting

forth volitions accordingly. The will is the _power_ of doing this;

willing, is the exercise of the power; volition, is the deed, the thing

done. The will is but another name for the executive power of the mind.

Whatever we do intelligently and intentionally, whether it implies an

exercise of the intellect, or of the feelings, or of both, that is an

act of the will. All our voluntary, in distinction from our involuntary

movements of the body, and movements of mind, are the immediate results

of the activity of the Will.

_Condition of a Being destitute of Will._--We can, perhaps, conceive of

a being endowed with intellect and sensibility, but without the faculty

of will. Such a being, however superior he might be to the brutes in

point of intelligence, would, so far as regards the capacities of

action, be even their inferior, since his actions must be, as theirs,

the result of mere sensational impulse, without even that unerring

instinct to guide him, which the brute possesses, and which supplies

the place of reason and intelligent will. To this wretched condition

man virtually approximates when, by any means, the will becomes so far

enfeebled, or brought under the dominion of appetite and passion, as

to lose the actual control of the mental and physical powers. _Will

not distinct from the Mind._--It must be borne in mind, of course, as

we proceed, that the will is nothing but the mind itself willing, or

having power to will, and not something distinct from the mind, or even

a _part_ of the mind, as the handle and the blade are distinct parts

of the knife. The power to think, the power to feel, the power to will,

are distinct powers, but the mind is one and indivisible, exercising

now one, now another, of these powers.

§ I.--ELEMENTS INVOLVED IN AN ACT OF WILL.

_Proposed Analysis._--In order to the better understanding of the

nature of this faculty, let us first analyze its operations, with a

view to ascertain the several distinct stages or elements of the mental

process which takes place. We will then take up these several elements,

one by one, for special investigation.

_Observation of an Act of Will._--What, then, are the essential

phenomena of an act of the will? Let us arrest ourselves in the process

of putting forth an act of this kind, and observe precisely what it is

that we do, and what are the essential data in the case. I am sitting

at my table. I reach forth my hand to take a book. Here is an act of

my will. My arm went not forth self-moved and spontaneously, it was

sent, was bidden to go; the soul seated within, animating this physical

organism, and making it subservient to her will, moved that arm. Here,

then, is clearly an act of will. Let us subject it to the test of

observation.

_The first Element._--First of all, then, there was evidently, in this

case, _something to be done_--an end to be accomplished--a book to be

reached. The action, both of body and of mind, was directed to that

end, and but for that the volition would not have been put forth. It

is to be observed, moreover, that the end to be accomplished, in this

case, was a _possible_ one--the book was, or was supposed to be, within

my reach. Otherwise I should not have attempted to reach it.

_A second Element._--I observe, furthermore, in the case under

consideration, a motive, impelling or inducing to that end; a _reason

why_ I willed the act. It was curiosity, perhaps, to see what the

book was, or it may have been some other principle of my nature, which

induced me to put forth the volition.

_A further Step in the Process._--But the motive does not, itself,

produce the act. It is merely the _reason why_ I produce it. It has

to do not directly with the action, but with me. Its immediate effect

terminates on me, and it is only indirectly that it affects the final

act. The next step in the process, then, is to be sought, not in the

final act, but in my mind as influenced by motive; and that step is my

_choice_. Previous to my putting forth the volition to move my arm,

there was a choice or decision to do so. In view of the end to be

accomplished, and influenced by the motive, I _made up my mind_--to use

a common but not inapt expression--to perform the act. The question

arose, for the instant, Shall I do it? The very occurrence of a thing

to be done, a possible thing, and of a motive for doing it, raises, of

itself, the question, Shall it be done? The question may be at once

decided in the affirmative, in the absence of reasons to the contrary,

or, in the absence of reflection, so quickly decided, that, afterward,

we shall hardly be conscious that it was ever before the mind. Or it

may be otherwise. Reasons to the contrary suggest themselves--counter

influences and motives--in view of which we hesitate, deliberate,

decide; and that decision, in view of all the circumstances, is our

_preference_, or _choice_. In most cases the process is so rapid as to

escape attention; but subsequent reflection can hardly fail to detect

such a process, more or less distinctly marked.

_The final Stage of the Act._--We have reached now the point at which

it is decided, in our own minds, what course to pursue. In the case

supposed, I have decided to take up the book. The volition is not yet

put forth. Nothing now remains, however, but to put forth the volition,

and at once the muscular organism, if unimpeded and in health, obeys

the will. The thing is done, and the experiment concluded.

_Summary of Results._--I repeat now the experiment ten or a hundred

times, but always with like results. I find always, where there is an

act of the will, some end to be obtained, some motive, a choice, an

executive volition. I conclude that these are the essential phenomena

of all voluntary action.

Of these, the two former, viz., the end to be accomplished, and the

motive, may be regarded as more properly _conditions_ of volition,

than constituent elements of it. Still, so intimately is the volition

connected with one, at least, of these conditions, viz., the motive,

that it claims special consideration. The ends to be accomplished by

volition are as numerous as the infinite variety of human purposes

and actions, and, of course, admit of no complete enumeration or

classification. We confine our further attention, then, to these

elements--the motive, the choice, the executive volition--and proceed

to their more careful investigation as phenomena of the will.

§ II.--INVESTIGATION OF THESE ELEMENTS.

_The first of these Elements, Motive, always implied in Action._--I.

THE MOTIVE--that which incites the mind to action--the reason why it

acts, and acts as it does. We never act without some such incitement,

some reason for acting; at least this is true of all our intelligent

and voluntary actions, of which, alone, we now speak. It may be nothing

more than mere present impulse, mere animal appetite or passion, even

that is a motive, a reason why we act. We cannot conceive of any being

having the power of voluntary action, and exerting that power without

_any reason whatever_ why he did it. The reason may, or may not, be

clearly apprehended by his own mind--that is another question; but

whether distinctly and clearly recognized as such, or not, by our own

minds, a reason there always is for what we do.

_In what Sense this Term employed._--Strictly speaking, the motive

is not any and every influence which may bear upon the mind as an

inducement to action, but only the _prevailing_ inducement, that which

_actually moves_ or induces us to perform the proposed act. In this

sense, there may be many different inducements, but only one motive.

Such, however, is not the ordinary use of the term. That is usually

called a motive which is of a nature to influence the mind, and induce

volition, whether it is, in the given case, effective, or not. To avoid

confusion, I adopt the general use.

_Nature of Motives._--As to the nature of the motives from which we

act, they are manifestly of two kinds, and widely distinct. There

is desire, and there is the sense of moral obligation or duty;--the

agreeable, and the right; each of these constitutes a powerful motive

to action. We find ourselves, under the influence of these motives,

acting, now from desire, now from sense of duty, now in view of what is

in itself agreeable, and now in view of what is right; and the various

motives which influence us and result in action, may be resolved into

one or the other of these powerful elements.

_These Elements distinguished._--These are quite _distinct_ elements,

never to be confounded with, nor resolved into each other. _Desire_

is the feeling which arises in view of some good not in present

possession, something agreeable, and to be obtained; it looks forward

to that; its root and spring is that grand principle of our nature, the

love of happiness. Its appeal is to that. Its strength lies in that

_Duty_, as we have already shown--that sense of obligation which is

implied in the very idea of _right_--is quite another principle than

that, not founded in that; springs not from self-love, or the desire of

happiness; is, on the contrary, a simple, primitive, fundamental idea

of the human mind, based in the inherent, essential, eternal nature of

things. Given the right, the perception of right, and there is given,

also along with it, the sense of _obligation_.

_Their Action not always in Unison._--These two motives may act

in different directions; they frequently do so. Desire impels me

one way, duty another. Conflict then arises. Which shall prevail,

desire or duty, depends on circumstances, on my character already

formed, my habits of thought and feeling, my degree of self-control,

my conscientiousness, the strength of my native propensities, the

clearness with which, at the time, I apprehend the different courses

of conduct proposed, their character and their consequences. Desire

may prevail, and then I go counter to my sense of obligation. Remorse

follows. I am wretched. I suffer penalty. Duty prevails, and I do that

which I believe to be right, regardless of consequences. I suffer

in property, health, life, external good, but am sustained by that

approving voice within, which more than compensates for all such losses.

That there are these two springs or motives of human action, and that

they are _distinct_ from each other, is what I affirm, and what no one,

I think, who reflects on what consciousness reveals, will be disposed

to deny.

_Motives of Duty not resolvable into Motives of Interest._--Should any

still contend that this very approval of conscience, this peace and

happiness which result from doing right, are, themselves, the motive to

action, in the case supposed, and so, self-love, a desire of happiness,

is, after all, the _only motive_, I reply, this is an assumption

utterly without proof. Consciousness contradicts it. The history of the

human race contradicts it. There is such a thing as doing right for its

own sake, irrespective of good to ourselves. Every man is conscious

of such distinction, and of its force as a motive of conduct. Every

_virtuous_ man is conscious of acting, at times, at least, from such a

motive.

_Coincidence of Desire and Duty._--It is only when desire and duty

coincide, that the highest happiness can be reached, when we no longer

desire and long for, because we no longer view as agreeable, that which

is not strictly right. This is a state never fully realized in this

life. It implies perfection of character, and a perfect world.

_Desires, as Motives of Action, further distinguished._--Desire, and

the feeling of obligation, I have spoken of as motives of conduct. The

former, again, is not always of one sort. Desire is, indeed, in itself,

a simple element, springing from one source, but not always directed

to the same object. We desire now one thing, now another. There are

two classes, at least, of desires quite easy to be distinguished,

the physical and the psychical, the one relating to the wants of the

body, the other to the craving of the higher nature; the mere animal

instincts, propensities, passions, looking to animal gratification;

and the higher rational self-love, which seeks the true and permanent

well-being, under the guidance of reason. Each of these furnishes a

powerful motive, or class of motives, to human action. They are each,

however, but different forms of _desire_.

_The second Element, Choice, always involved in Volition._--II.

CHOICE.--This is an essential element in volition, and next in order.

As, setting aside such acts as are purely spontaneous and mechanical,

we never, intelligently and purposely, do any thing without a volition

to do it, so we never put forth volition without exercising _choice_.

The act performed is not a _voluntary_ act, unless it is something

which I _choose_ to do. True, my choice may be influenced by extraneous

causes--may even be constrained--circumstances may virtually compel

me to choose as I do, by shutting me up to this one course, as being

either the only right, or the only desirable course. And these

circumstances, that thus influence my decisions, may be essentially

beyond my control, as they not unfrequently are. Yet, all things

considered, it is my _choice_ to do thus and not otherwise, and so long

as I do choose, and am free to act accordingly, the act is voluntary.

_The Position illustrated._--This may be illustrated by the case of

the soldier who, in the bombardment of his native city, is ordered to

point his piece in the direction of his own dwelling. To disobey, is

death. To obey, is to put in jeopardy those who are dear to him. He

hesitates, but finally chooses to obey orders. He aims his piece as

directed, sadly against his inclination; yet, on the whole, it is his

_choice_ to do it. He prefers that to the certainty of dishonorable

death, a death which would in no way benefit or protect those whom he

wishes to save. A man, of his own accord, lies down upon the surgeon's

operating table, and stretches out his arm to the knife. It is his

choice--a hard choice, indeed, but, nevertheless, decidedly his choice.

He prefers that to still greater suffering, or even death. In these

cases--and they are only instances and illustrations of what, in a less

marked and decided way, is continually occurring--we see the utmost

strain and pressure of circumstances upon a man's choice, making it

morally certain that he will decide as he does, shutting him up to that

decision, in fact, yet his choice remaining unimpaired, and his act a

_free_ act; free, because he does as he, on the whole, and under the

circumstances, chooses to do. He does the thing voluntarily.

_Another Case supposed._--Suppose, now, the man were forcibly seized,

and borne by sheer strength to the table, and placed upon it, and held

there while the operation was performed. In that case, he no longer

acts, is only acted upon, no longer chooses and wills to go there, nay,

chooses and wills directly the contrary. The difference in the two

cases, is the difference between a voluntary act, chosen reluctantly,

indeed, and under the pressure of an exigency, but still _chosen_, and

the passive suffering of an action which, so far from being voluntary,

was, in no sense, an act of his own.

_Choice always influenced by Circumstances._--Now, as regards

the actual operation of things, our choices are, in fact, always

influenced by circumstances, and these circumstances are various and

innumerable; a thousand seen and unseen influences are at work upon

us, to affect our decisions Were it possible to estimate aright all

these influences, to calculate, with precision, their exact weight

and effect, then our choice, under any given circumstances, might be

predicted with unerring certainty. This can never be exactly known

to man. Sagacity may approximate to it, and may, so far, be able to

read the future, and predict the probable conduct of men in given

circumstances. To the omniscient, these things _are_ fully known, and

to his eye, therefore, the whole future of our lives, our free choices

and voluntary acts, lie open before they are yet known to ourselves.

_Conclusion stated._--From what has been said, it appears that it is

not inconsistent with the nature of choice, to be influenced, nay,

decided by circumstances, even when circumstances are beyond our

control.

_Diversity of Objects essential to Choice._--What is _implied_ in

an act of choice? Several things. In order to choice, there must,

of course, be _diversity of objects_ from which to choose. If there

were but one possible course to be pursued, it were absurd to speak

of choice. Hence, even in the cases just now supposed, there was a

diversity of objects from which to choose--death, or obedience to

orders, suffering from the surgery, or greater suffering and danger

without it, and between these the man made his choice.

_Liberty of Selection also essential._--As a further condition of

choice, there is implied _liberty_ of selection from among the

different objects proposed. It were of no use that there should be

different courses of conduct--different ends, or different means of

attaining an end--proposed to our understanding, if it were not in our

power to select which we pleased, if we were not free to go which way

we will. Choice always implies that different actions and volitions are

possible, and are, as such, submitted to our decision and preference.

There can be no volition without choice, and no choice without liberty

to choose. Whatever interferes, then, with that liberty, and diminishes

or takes it away, interferes, also, with my choice, and diminishes or

destroys that. The very _essence_ of a voluntary act consists in its

being an act of choice, or a free-will act. No tyranny can take this

away, except such as destroys, also, all voluntary and responsible

action. You may command me to burn incense on a heathen altar. The very

command leaves it optional with me whether to obey. If I do not, the

penalty is death. Very well--I may _choose_ the penalty, rather than

the crime, and no power on earth can _compel_ me to choose otherwise. I

die, but I die a _free_ man. True, you may bind me, and by mechanical

force urge me to the altar, and by superior strength of other arms, may

cause my hand to put incense there, but it is not _my_ act then; it is

the act of those who use me as a mere passive instrument; it is no more

my act, than it would be the act of so much iron, or wood, or other

instrument.

_Deliberation implied._--Choice, moreover, implies deliberation, the

balancing and weighing of inducements, the comparison and estimate of

the several goods proposed, the several ends and objects, the various

means to those ends; the exercise of reason and; judgment in this

process. I see before me different courses, different ends proposed to

my understanding, am conscious of diverse inducements and reasons, some

urging me in one direction, some in another. Native propensities impel

me toward this line of conduct. Rational self-love puts in a claim for

quite another procedure. Benevolence, and a sense of duty, it may be,

conspire to urge me in still another direction. I am at liberty to

choose I must choose. I can go this way or that, must go in one or the

other. I hesitate, deliberate, am at a loss.

Now there is no choice which does not virtually involve some process of

this kind. It may be very rapid; so rapid as to escape detection, in

many cases, so that we are hardly conscious of the process. In other

cases, we are painfully conscious of the whole scene; we hesitate long,

are in doubt and suspense between conflicting motives and interests.

Desire and duty wage a fierce contest within us. Shall we choose the

agreeable? Shall we choose the right? And then, again, which is really

the agreeable, and which is truly the right?

_Final Decision._--As the result of this deliberation, we finally

decide, one way, or the other. This decision is our _preference_, our

choice. Our minds, as we say, are made up what to do, what course

to pursue. When the time comes, we shall act. Something may prevent

our having our way; opportunity may not offer, or we may see fit,

subsequently to reconsider and revoke our decision. Otherwise, our

choice is carried out in action.

Choice implies, then, these things: diversity of objects, liberty of

selection, deliberation, decision, or preference.

_The final Element._--III. EXECUTIVE VOLITION.--In our investigation

of the several elements or momenta of an act of the Will, we have as

yet considered but two, viz., _motive_ and _choice_--the first, more

properly a _condition_ of voluntary action, than itself a constituent

part of it, yet still, a condition so indispensably connected with

volition, as to require investigation in connection with the latter.

It only remains now to notice the last stage of the process, the final

element, which added, the process is complete--that is, the _executive

act of the mind_, _volition_ properly so called. When the objects to be

attained have been presented, when the motives or inducements to action

have been considered, when, in view of all, the choice or preference

has been made, it still remains to put forth the volition, or the act

will not be performed. This may never happen. Opportunity may never

offer. But suppose it does. We _will_. This done, the bodily mechanism

springs into play, obedient to the call and command of the soul.

Even now, the action does not of necessity correspond to the volition.

Even now, we may be disappointed. Other wills may be in action in

opposition to ours. Other arms may move in obedience to those other

wills. Or we may find the thing too much for us to do, impracticable,

beyond our strength and means, or disease may palsy the frame,

so that it shall not obey the mandate of the spirit. Nevertheless

the _volition_ is complete. That depends not on the success of the

exertion. We have _willed_, and with that our mental action ceases.

What remains is physical, not psychological. If we succeed, if the

volition finds itself answered in execution, then, also, the act once

performed is thenceforth out of our power. It is done, and stands a

permanent historic event, beyond our control, beyond our decision or

revocation. Our power over it ceases in the moment of volition. Our

connection with it may never cease. It moves on in its inevitable

career of consequences, and, like a swift river, bears us along with

it. We have no more to do with it, but it has to do with us; it may be

to our sorrow, it may be, forever.

Such are, in brief, the main psychological facts, relating to the will,

as they offer themselves to our consciousness and careful inspection.

CHAPTER II.

RELATION OF THE WILL TO OTHER POWERS OF THE MIND

_Activity of the Intellect in Volition._--It is a matter of some

importance to ascertain the relation which the will sustains to the

other mental powers. There can be no doubt that the activity of the

will is preceded, in all cases by that of the intellect. I must first

perceive some object presented to my understanding, before I can will

its attainment. In the case already supposed, the book lying on my

table is an object within the cognizance of sense, and to perceive

it is an act of intellect. Until perceived, the will puts not forth

any volition respecting it. Nor does the mere perception occasion

volition. In connection with the perception of the book, ideas present

themselves to the mind, curiosity is awakened, the mind is set upon

a train of thought, which results in the desire and the volition

to take the book. In all this the intellect is active. In a word,

whatever comes in as a motive to influence the mind in favor of, or

against a given course, must in the first instance address itself to

the understanding, and be comprehended by that power, before it can

influence the mental decisions. A motive which I do not comprehend is

no motive; a reason which I do not perceive, or understand, is, to me,

no reason.

_Activity of the Sensibilities also involved._--But does volition

immediately follow the action of the intellect in the case supposed? Do

we first understand, and then will; or does something else intervene

between the intellectual perception and the volition? Were there no

_feeling_ awakened by the intellectual perception, would there be any

volition with regard to the object perceived? I think, I _feel_, I

will; is not that the order of the mental processes? "We can easily

imagine," says Mackintosh, "a percipient and thinking being without a

capacity of receiving pleasure or pain. Such a being might perceive

what we do; if we could conceive him to reason, he might reason justly;

and if he were to judge at all, there seems no reason why he should not

judge truly. But what could induce such a being to _will_ or to _act_?

It seems evident that his existence could only be a state of passive

contemplation. Reason, as reason, can never be a motive to action. It

is only when we superadd to such a being sensibility, or the capacity

of emotion, or sentiment of desire and aversion, that we introduce him

into the world of action."

_Opinion of Locke._--To the same effect, Locke: "Good and evil, present

and absent, it is true, work upon the mind, but that which immediately

determines the will from time to time, to every voluntary action, is

the uneasiness of _desire_, fixed on some absent good, either negative,

as indolence to one in pain, or positive, as enjoyment of pleasure.

That it is this uneasiness that determines the will to the successive

voluntary actions, whereof the greatest part of our lives is made up,

and by which we are conducted through different courses to different

ends, I shall endeavor to show both from experience and the reason of

the thing." Elsewhere again: "For good, though appearing and allowed

ever so great, yet till it has raised desires in our minds, and thereby

made us uneasy in its want, it reaches not our wills; we are not within

the sphere of its activity."

_Testimony of Consciousness._--The general opinion of philosophical

writers is now in accordance with the views thus expressed. The

intellect they regard as acting upon the will not directly, but through

the medium of the sensibilities, the various emotions and desires which

are awakened by the perceptions of the intellect. That this is the

correct view, admits of little doubt. The question is best settled by

an appeal to consciousness. In the case supposed, the perception of the

book upon the table does not, of itself, directly influence my will. It

is not until some feeling is aroused, my curiosity excited, or desire,

in some form, awakened, that my will acts. The object must not only be

perceived, but perceived as agreeable, and the wish to possess it be

entertained, before the volition is put forth.

_Whether this Rule applies in all Cases._--That this is so as regards

a large class of our volitions, will hardly be denied. When the motive

to action is of the nature of _desire_, it is the sensibility, and not

the intellect, that is directly, concerned in shaping the action of

the will. I first perceive the object to be agreeable; I next desire

its possession, as such; then I will its attainment. The intellectual

activity gives rise to emotion, and the latter leads to volition.

It may be supposed, however, that when the motive which influences

the will is not of the nature of desire, but rather of a sense of

obligation or duty, then the case is otherwise, the intellectual

perception of the right, and of the obligation to do the right,

being sufficient of themselves to lead the mind to action. But as

the intellectual perception of the agreeable is followed by emotion

or desire in view of the same, so the intellectual perception of the

right is followed, in like manner, by a certain class of feelings or

emotions, usually called moral sensibilities; and it is the _feeling_,

in either case, and not the _knowing_, the sensibility, and not the

intellect, that is directly in contact with the will. I know that I

ought, and I feel that I ought, are states of mind closely connected,

indeed, but not identical; and it is the latter which leads directly to

volition.

_Desire and Volition not always distinguished._--Another point

requiring investigation, is the precise relation between volition and

_desire_. Are they the same thing, and if not, wherein do they differ?

It has been the custom of certain writers not to distinguish between

desire and volition, as states of mind, or to regard them as differing,

if at all, only in degree. Thus Condillac, and writers of the French

school, as also Brown, Mill, and others, in Great Britain, have treated

of volition as only a stronger degree of desire, which, again, is only

a form of emotion. Even McCosh, in his treatise on moral government,

while insisting on the distinction between emotions and desires,

regards wishes, desires, and volitions, as belonging essentially to

the same class of mental states. "Appealing to consciousness," says

that able and elegant writer, "we assert that there is a class of

mental states embracing wishes, desires, volitions, which cannot be

analyzed into anything else. These mental states or affections are

very numerous, and occupy a place in the human mind second to no

other. They differ from each other in degree, and possibly even in

some minor qualities but they all agree in other and more important

respects and so are capable of being arranged under one head." And in

a subsequent paragraph he remarks to the same effect, "Later mental

inquirers are generally disposed to admit that the volition the

positive determination to take a particular step, the resolution, for

instance, to give a sum of money to take our friend to a warmer climate

for the restoration of his health, is more than a mere emotion. But

if we are thus to constitute a separate attribute to which to refer

volition, it is worthy of being inquired whether we should not arrange,

under the same head, wishes, desires, and the cognate states, as being

more closely allied in their nature to volitions than to the common

emotions."

_The Difference generic._--It is on this latter point that we are

compelled to join issue with the writer just quoted. A wish, a desire,

are forms of _feeling_; a volition is not. The difference is generic,

and not one of degree merely. A desire differs from any other form of

feeling, not so much, not so radically, as it differs from a volition.

A wish or desire may _lead_ to volition, or it may not. We often wish

or desire what we do not will. The object of our desires may not be

within the sphere of our volitions, may not be possible of attainment,

may not depend, in any sense, upon our wills. Or it may be something

which reason and the law of right forbid, yet, nevertheless, an object

of natural desire. And so, on the other hand, we may, from a sense

of duty, or from the dictates of reason and prudence, will what is

contrary to our natural inclinations, and our volitions, so far from

representing our desires, in that case, may be directly contrary to

them.