metaphysicians, pronouncing upon it with dogmatists, or deducing it
from creeds, or creeds from it, I behold in it the same unwritten
revelation which we call instinct. Vague and undefined as is this
law, and questioned by some as is even its existence, it announces
to us one of the most impressive and beautiful homilies upon the
truth and goodness of the Author of our being. It may be called
the scripture of the lower orders, guiding them, with unerring
certainty, to their enjoyments and their end. Beasts feel it, and
graze the plain. Birds feel it, and soar in the air. Fishes feel
it, and dart along their liquid domain; each feeding, moving,
resting, playing and perpetuating its kind, according to its
organic laws. Winter comes upon the gregarious tribes of water
fowls enjoying themselves in the Canadian lakes. They listen to
this call from heaven, and mount the autumnal winds; and without
chart or compass, by a course to which that of circumnavigators
is devious, they sail to the shores of the south, where a softer
atmosphere and new supplies of food await them. It leads the young
one of these animals, scarcely yet disengaged from the shell, to
patter its bill in the dry sand, impatiently to search for water
before it has yet seen it. It creates in the new born infant a
purpose to search for its supplies in the yet untasted fountains of
the maternal bosom. It guides all the lower orders of being through
the whole mysterious range of their peculiar habits and modes of
life. Under its influence, animals and men exercise powers which
transcend the utmost efforts of our reason. Who can tell me why the
duckling plunges into the water with the shell on its head? Who can
inform me how the affectionate house dog, blindfolded and conveyed
in utter darkness in a carriage to a distance of fifty leagues,
the moment he is emancipated, returns by a more direct route than
that by which he came? There would be no use in presenting the
most extended details of these developments of instinct through
the whole range of animated nature. Every one knows that wherever
we discern them, either in the structure or habits of the animal,
or both, they are indications of unerring guidance, the voice of
eternal and unswerving truth, which, as soon as promulgated, is
received as the parental counsel of the Author of nature.
He who could interpret the language and the gestures of the lower
orders would see in the structure and manifested wants of fishes,
that water was provided as a home for them, had he seen them in the
air. When he had noted the movements and heard the cries of the new
born infant, he would be in no doubt, that the nutriment in the
maternal bosom was stored for it somewhere. Seeing the structure,
the starting pinions and plumage of the unfledged bird in its nest,
he could be at no loss in reasoning, that as these indications of
contrivance for other modes of life were lost in its present manner
of existence, it was intended for movements, where pinions and
plumage would avail it.
As certain as these instincts and indications are the pledged
verity of the Author of nature, that a sphere is provided for
the exercise of these undeveloped powers, and a corresponding
gratification for these instinctive desires, so sure as they
point out, in a language, which can neither deceive nor be
mistaken, the aim and end of the animal to which they belong,
so sure, if religion be an instinctive sentiment, and the hope,
and the persuasion of another existence result from the organic
constitution of our nature, there must be another life. That it is
so, the usages and modes of all people that have yet been known,
the people of the first ages, and the last, the people of the
highest refinement, and those, who scarcely know the use of fire,
have concurred to prove to us. Superficial travellers, indeed, have
told us of newly discovered tribes, who had no visions of a God--a
worship, or an hereafter. Other travellers have followed them, and
observed better, and discovered, that their predecessors based the
fact on their own ignorance. They have been found to belong to the
general analogy, and to look to
‘Some happier land in depth of woods embraced;
Some lovelier island in the watery waste.’
It seems to me, that this universal agreement of religious ideas is
the most unequivocal manifestation, that the sentiment of religion
is an instinct, that is exhibited in the whole range of animated
nature. If so, it is the offered pledge of the divine veracity,
that the soul is immortal; and that as certain as the instinct of
migrating birds is proof, that the milder skies which they seek,
exist, and are prepared for them, so surely the undeveloped powers
of the spirit, which have no range on the earth, have a country
prepared also for them. Our aspirations, our _longings after
immortality_, every mode of worship, and every form of faith--are
the rudiments, the germs, the starting pinions of the embryo
spirit, which is to escape from its nest at death, and fly in the
celestial atmosphere, in which it was formed to move.
To me these universal religious manifestations are proofs, that
religion springs not, as some suppose, from tradition; or, as
others think, from reasoning. It is a sentiment. It is an inwrought
feeling in our mental constitution, an unwritten, universal, and
everlasting gospel, pointing to God and immortality. Bring the most
uninstructed peasant, who has seen nothing of the earth, but its
plains, in sight of Chimborazo. The thrill of awe and sublimity,
that springs within him at the view, and lifts his spirit above
the blue summits to the divinity, is one of the forms, in which
this sentiment acts. The natural mental movements, in view of the
illimitable main, of the starry firmament, of elevated mountains,
of whatever is vast in dimension, irresistible in power, terrible
in the exercise of anger, in short, all those emotions, which we
call the sublime, are modified actings of the religious sentiment.
Justly has the author pronounced the universality of these ideas
the highest testimony to the elevation of human nature. It is the
most impressive and interesting attribute of the soul, that it is
subject to these impulses. It is a standing index, that the godlike
stranger, imprisoned in clay, has, inwrought in its consciousness,
indelible impressions of its future destiny.
Note 25, page 101.
Whoever philosophically considers the constitution of the human
mind--how much we are the creatures of our circumstances, how much
we are blown about by impulse and passion, the dimness of our own
mental vision upon most subjects, the narrow limit, which separates
between truth and falsehood, right and wrong, and moreover, that
we ourselves view everything through the coloring of our own pride
and prejudice--will perceive at once, that, under all circumstances
of error and even of crime, men are quite as worthy of pity, as
of vindictive blame. A little, cold and selfish mind invariably
finds much matter for bitter censure in every act, that, according
to its own chart, is an aberration. On the contrary, nothing, in
my estimate, so decidedly marks a generous and noble, as well as
an enlightened and a philosophic spirit, as the disposition to be
indulgent in its construction of the views and conduct of others,
and to interpret all by the comment of palliation and kindness,
whenever the case will admit of them. Great minds fail not to be
conscious what a weak, miserable compound of vanity, impulse,
ignorance and selfishness is that lord of creation, that passive
molding of circumstances, which we call man. Of course in calmly
scanning his views and conduct, all other sensations than those
of pity and kindness, die away within him. As the human mind is
exalted by its light, and its intrinsic elevation towards the
divinity, in the same proportion it soars above the mists of its
own passions and prejudices, and sees little in humanity to inspire
other feelings, than those of compassion and benevolence. What is
the view of human nature, presented to a wise and good man?
‘’Tis but to know how little can be known,
To see all others’ faults, and feel our own.’
Note 26, page 102.
I am not certain, that the real spirit of tolerance has made so
much progress in this age, as is commonly imagined. Who among us
admits in practice, as well as theory, that the mind is passive in
receiving evidence, and forming conclusions, which it cannot shape,
except according to impressions, which it has much less power to
exclude, or evade, than is generally believed? Who among us acts
on the conviction, that errors of opinion are almost invariably
involuntary? Every view of human nature, and the laws of the human
mind ought to inspire us with an unlimited feeling of tolerance
towards those who differ from us in opinion, howsoever widely. We
cannot fail so to feel, if we reflect that, had we been in their
situation, and under their circumstances, and they in ours, our
views might have been reversed. Yet it is scarcely possible to
converse with any one a few moments, without starting them by
some opposing opinion, that jars with their excited feelings and
a certain amount of estrangement is the result. Who can conduct a
disputed point, in politics or religion, with an unruffled temper?
Angry disputation is only another form of intolerance. If we
narrowly inspect the actings of human nature, we shall discover,
that the whole world is composed of individuals, almost every one
of whom thinks he has a right to be offended with every other one,
who does not adopt his opinions.
It is very true, that the age of actual persecution, by fines,
imprisonment and death, is gone by. But this results rather
from practical political progress of ideas, than from a settled
conviction that no one mind has a right to find, in the opinions
of another mind, cause of offence. Whoever cannot look upon the
most opposite faith and opinions of his neighbor, in religion, in
politics, and the ordinary concerns of life, without any feeling of
temper and bitterness, in view of that difference, is in heart and
spirit intolerant. In this view, who can justly and fully lay claim
to toleration? The whole world is divided into millions of little
parties and sects, often finding the bitterest germs of contention
in the smallest differences. Scarcely one in ten thousand, of all
these sects and parties, has real philosophic magnanimity enough to
perceive, that all other men have as much claim for indulgence to
their opinions, as he exacts for his own.
Note 27, page 102.
It would be amusing, if such important consequences did not flow
from the error, to perceive, how much weight most people attach
to the sect and party to which the persons, about whom they are
forming an estimate, belong. The externals, the deportment, dress
and manner are often strongly influenced by these matters; but
the mental complexion or temperament far less than is commonly
supposed. We meet with people, every day, of the most exclusive and
bigoted creeds, who act liberally: and again with people, who have
much liberality and catholicism in their mouths, and very little
in their temper and spirit. I have met with liberal and illiberal
people, in almost equal proportions, in all the sects, parties
and denominations, with which I have been acquainted. Still, I do
not, as from these remarks it might be inferred that I do, deem
error, even in abstract opinions, such as those which appertain
to religious and metaphysical subjects, as of no consequence. But
I have not time, nor have I place, in a note, for explaining my
convictions on this subject.
Note 27a, page 104.
An indiscreet and exaggerating zeal often injures the cause it
would wish to serve. The gospel is best sustained by its own
unborrowed glory, and is prejudiced by adventitious appendages.
I have often heard ministers declare, from the pulpit, that the
duty of forgiveness, and of loving and doing good to enemies was
a peculiar discovery of the gospel, a precept unknown before. We
have never considered it among the objects of the mission of our
Lord, to reveal a new code of morals. The grand eternal principles
of this science were originally engraven on the heart. Man could
not have existed in society without them. Whoever has read the
elaborate and eloquent treatises of heathen moralists, will
perceive, that there was little left incomplete in the code; and
that these sublime virtues were eulogized, as beautiful and just
in theory, if not to be expected in practice. It is the spirit,
unction and tenderness of gospel inculcation, that is unique and
original. The heathen ethical writers had not failed to enjoin it
upon the members of communities, to aid and love one another. But
it is only necessary to glance upon the apostolic epistles, to see
that Christians were a new and peculiar people, bound together by
cords of affection, altogether unknown in the previous records of
the human heart. What tenderness, what love, _stronger than death_,
what sublime disinterestedness! How reckless to the sordid motives
of ambition and interest, which ruled the surrounding world! We
scarcely need other evidence, that this simplicity of love, so
unlike aught the world had seen before, was not an affection of
earthly mold; and that this new and strong people were not bound
together by ties, which had relation to the grossness of earthly
bonds. To me there is something inexpressibly delightful and of
which I am never weary, in contemplating the originality and
simplicity of early Christian affection, nor is it one of the
feeblest testimonies to the glory and divinity of the gospel.
For the rest, I have much abridged the paragraphs, to which this
note alludes, and have interpolated some expressions, not found in
the original--because I would not allow myself to leave anything
equivocal, touching my own views of the importance of Christian
morals and example.
It would be useless to add to the beautiful views, presented by
the author, of the disposition to oblige, and the necessity of
cultivating modesty, and an equal and serene temper. One cannot
enlarge upon these beaten topics, as he has foreseen, without
running into common-places. These virtues are preëminently their
own reward. Whoever chooses to indulge the opposite tempers has
only to reflect, that he assumes the thankless office of becoming
a self-tormentor, and injures no one so much as himself. Of these
fierce passions, the heathen poets have given us an affecting
emblem in the undying vultures, gnawing upon the ever growing
entrails of Tityus. If you would form the sublimest conceptions
of the eternal and underived satisfaction of the divinity,
cultivate dispositions to oblige, and seize occasions to practise
beneficence. If you would image more impressive ideas of the
torment of demons than poets have dreamed, muse upon injuries;
cultivate envy and revenge, and wish that you had the bolts of the
thunderer, only that you might hurl them upon your foes. If you
would experience the eternal gnawing of the vulture allow yourself
in the constant indulgence of your temper.
Note 28, page 109.
To those, who have already assumed this tie, or contemplate
assuming it, not a word need be said upon the most worn of all
themes, the paramount influence of marriage, beyond all other
relations, in imparting the coloring of brightness or gloom to
all subsequent life. The place, in which the only satisfactions
of life, that are worth any serious pursuit, are to be found, is
within the domestic walls. Honor, fame, wealth, luxury, literary
distinction, everything is extrinsic, and hollow, everything the
mere mockery and shadow of joy, but the comfort of a quiet and
affectionate home. Whoever does not share this faith with me, will
hardly be enlightened to the true sources of enjoyment by any
lucubrations of mine. Instead of details and declamation upon this
truth, I present an unvarnished, unexaggerated view, an abstract,
if I may so say, of the circumstances, under which the greater
number of marriages are consummated in our country, and I imagine,
in most civilized countries. It may not embrace the exact train of
the incidents connected with every case; but will serve, in the
phrase of the makers of calendars, ‘without material variation,’
as an outline of the history of those courtships that terminate in
matrimony. What wonder, that wedded life is so often unhappy!
I am compelled to believe, that very few marriages take place in
consequence of such an intimate acquaintance of the parties with
each other’s unsophisticated and interior character, as to justify
the chances of affection and domestic happiness. The first adverse
circumstance is, that both are constantly on such a trial to make
a show of wit, good temper, and manners, as to render the whole
scene, from commencement to close, a drama, in which all is acting;
in which there is no admission to the real life behind the scenes,
until after marriage. How often does the actor or actress, who
successfully personated a wit, and an angel, detect in the other
party a simpleton, a brute, or a termagant! The walk of life, in
which they are found, may vary the shades, but it changes not the
natural circumstances of a picture, which, in its broader features,
applies alike to elevated and humble life.
The parties, in the bloom of life, in all the excitement of
juvenile buoyancy, moving in the illumined atmosphere of
imagination, meet at the party, ball-room, assembly, church, or
other place of concourse, for which the young dress, to look
around, and be gazed upon. They are clad in their gayest, and stand
on their best. No airs, or graces, that mothers, or friends, or
society, or their Chesterfield, or their imaginations can suggest,
are pretermitted. No attempted inflictions are spared from any
relentings of mercy. Many gratuitous nods and smiles and remarks,
and much odious affectation, inspired by the love of conquest, pass
well enough in the tinsel illusion of the scene and circumstances.
Accident brings the couple into contact. They sing, dance, walk,
converse, or, in some of these ways, are thrown together. Or,
perhaps, some officious mediator reports, to the one, flattering
remarks made by the other. The first impulses to the acquaintance
are those of vanity, and the instinctive attraction of persons,
so situated, towards each other. A vague and momentary liking,
which might be effaced, as easily as mists vanish in the sun, is
the result. The lady, from the delicacy of her organization, and
the quickness of her perceptions, is the first aware of the new
state of mutual feeling; and by conjoining a happy combination of
coquetry, shyness, and encouragement, adds fuel to the kindling
spark. They converse apart, and the masonic pressure of hands
is interchanged. Compliments ensue, more or less polished, and
eloquent, according to their native readiness and artificial
training. Vanity comes in with her legion of auxiliaries, and,
in the same proportion as memory invests this intercourse with
pleasant sensations and agreeable associations, conversation with
other persons, between whom and themselves these processes have
not commenced, becomes tasteless and irksome; and ennui in all
other society does its part to put imagination in action. They
find themselves weary and sad in separation. Fancy runs riot and
begins to weave her fairy tissue, and to build her oriental bowers.
The parties are now in love, as they believe, and as the world
pronounces. Now commence the hours of poetry and sentimentality;
and the spring time of their new born passion. Not a moment, for
discriminating observation of each other’s character, has yet
occurred.
The freshness of the vernal inclination acquires the fervor
of settled and summer passion. The preliminaries of form are
commenced; and under such associations, and with such mutual
inclinations, incompatibility, unfitness, opposition of friends,
all obstacles that are not absolutely insurmountable, disappear.
What parent can resist the impassioned eloquence of a child, or
contemplate for a moment the prospect of inflicting the agony of
a disappointed and hopeless love! Have they measured each other’s
understanding and good sense? No: this requires a discrimination,
for which in the fever, the delirium of the senses, they have
no capacity. Know they aught of each other’s worth and good
temper? No. Lovers find nothing to jar their temper, or try their
disposition. Surrounded by a halo of imagination, everything about
them is invested with its brilliancy. The silliest remark of the
_inamorata_ sounds in the ears of the lover, like the response of
an oracle; and he is astonished and enraged that all others do not
see, and hear with him. Everything that is said becomes wisdom,
and everything done noble and graceful. Who has not heard all
these ascriptions, all these extravagant eulogies, applied to a
fair female, uttering nothing, and incapable of uttering anything,
but voluble and vapid nonsense; or worse, ebullitions of envy,
detraction and bad feeling! Meanwhile, the parties, enveloped in
illusion, would not see real character, if they could; and could
not, if they would. Is this extravagant, or exaggerated? Let the
well known fact, that sensible men oftener marry fools, and gifted
women coxcombs, than otherwise, be received as evidence, that this
great transaction is generally commenced, and terminated under a
spell, in which the actors see nothing, as it really is, and as
it appears to disinterested spectators. After having united many
hundred pairs myself, and seen all aspects of society, such seem
to me the most common circumstances appended to the beginning,
progress and issue of courtship, in its common forms.
When ambitious views, the lust of wealth, and purposes of
aggrandizement, are the prompting incitements, the order of
circumstances indeed may be essentially varied, without much
altering the result. The excitement of the senses and the illusions
of the imagination give place to these more sordid motives. They
are, however, equally absorbing with the former. The faculties,
having converged to the point of cautious and keen speculation,
allow no greater scope, and furnish no happier facilities, for
noting the development of understanding, character and temper,
than in the other predicament. The appetite for money, and the
burning of ambition may as effectually blind the aspirant to the
silliness and bad temper of her who is seen through the flattering
medium of his plans and his hopes, as could his vanity and his
youthful inclinations. How can a person be expected to compare,
and discriminate traits, and the almost imperceptible lights and
shades of character, whose whole mind is intensely concentrated
on the chances of his speculation, the fear of rivals, the danger
of mishap, and the means of hastening the issue? Who, under such
circumstances, inquires about the elements of happiness or misery,
the good sense, the regulated temper, the discretion, health,
temperament, and habits, that appertain to the means, by which a
fortune and a name are to be obtained? These are passed by, as
subordinate considerations. Suppose inquiries touching these points
to glance through the mind. Suppose the speculator to have lucid
glimpses, and some startling premonitions of the importance of
settled and discriminating views, in relation to these matters;
contemplated through golden associations and in the glare of
ambitious hopes, they will be hardly likely to undergo a very
severe or sifting scrutiny.