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:

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.