Sensibilities
Part Second
The Affections
Chapter I
Benevolent Affections
Character of the Affections as a Class.—Of the three generic classes into which the sensibilities were divided, viz., Simple Emotions, Affections, and Desires, the first alone has, thus far, engaged our attention. We now approach the second. It will be remembered that, in our analysis of the sensibilities, the Affections were distinguished from the Simple Emotions, as being of a complex character, involving, along with the feeling of delight and satisfaction in the object, or the reverse, the wish, more or less definite and intense, of good or ill to the object that awakens the emotion. The feeling thus assumes an active and transitive form, going forth from itself, and even forgetting itself, in its care for the object.
How divided.—The affections, it will also be remembered, were further divided into the benevolent and malevolent, according as they seek the good or the ill of the object on which they fasten. As the simple emotions are but so many forms of joy and sorrow, so, likewise, the affections are but so many modifications of the principle of love and its opposite, hate.
Effects upon the Character in their marked Development.—When these give tone to the general character of an individual, he becomes the philanthropist or misanthropist, the man of kind and gentle disposition, or the hater of his race, according as the one or the other principle predominates.
Roused to more than ordinary activity, breaking away from the restraints of reason, and the dictates of sober judgment, assuming the command of the soul, and urging it on to a given end, regardless of other and higher interests, these affections assume the name of passions, and the spectacle is presented of a man driven blindly and madly to the accomplishment of his wishes, as the ship, dismantled, drives before the storm; or else, in stern conflict with himself and the feelings that nature has implanted in his bosom, controlling with steady hand his own restless and fiery spirit.
Relation to the simple Emotions.—The relation which the affections, as a class, bear to the simple emotions, deserves a moment’s attention. The one class naturally follows and grows out of the other. What we enjoy, we come naturally to regard with feelings of affection, while that which causes pain, naturally awakens feelings of dislike and aversion. So love and hate succeed to joy and sorrow in our hearts, as regards the objects contemplated. The simple emotions precede and give rise to the affections.
Enumeration.—The benevolent affections, to which we confine our attention in the present chapter, assume different forms, according to their respective objects.
The more prominent are, love of kindred, love of friends, love of benefactors, love of home and country. Of these we shall treat in their order.
§ I.—Love of Kindred.
Includes what.—Under this head we may include the parental, the filial, and the fraternal affection, as modifications of the same principle, varying according to the varying relations of the parties concerned.
Does not grow out of the Relations of the Parties.—That the affection grows out of the relations sustained by the parties to each other, I am not prepared to affirm, although some have taken this view; I should be disposed rather to regard it as an implanted and original principle of our nature; still, that it is very much influenced and augmented by those relations, and that it is manifestly adapted to them, no one, I think, can deny.
But adapted to that Relation.—How intimate and how peculiar the relation, for example, that subsists between parent and child, and how deep and strong the affection that binds the heart of the parent to the person and well-being of his offspring. The one corresponds to the other; the affection to the relation; and the duties which that relation imposes, and all the kind offices, the care, and attention which it demands, how cheerfully are they met and fulfilled, as prompted by the strength and constancy of that affection. Without that affection, the relation might still exist, requiring the same kind offices, and the same assiduous care, and reason might point out the propriety and necessity of their performance, but how inadequate, as motives to action, would be the dictates of reason, the sense of propriety, or even the indispensable necessity of the case, as compared with that strong and tender parental affection which makes all those labors pleasant, and all those sacrifices light, which are endured for the sake of the helpless ones confided to its care. There was need of just this principle of our nature to meet the demands and manifold duties arising from the relation to which we refer; and in no part of the constitution of the mind is the benevolence of the great Designer more manifest. What but love could sustain the weary mother during the long and anxious nights of watching by the couch of her suffering child? What but love could prompt to the many sacrifices and privations cheerfully endured for its welfare? Herself famished with hunger, she divides the last morsel among those who cry to her for bread. Herself perishing with cold, she draws the mantle from her own shoulders to protect the little one at her side from the fury of the blast. She freely perils her own life for the safety of her child. These instances, while they show the strength of that affection which can prompt to such privation and self-sacrifice, show, also, the end which it was designed to subserve, and its adaptation to that end.
This Affection universal.—The parental affection is universal, not peculiar to any nation, or any age, or any condition of society. Nor is it strong in one case, and weak in another, but everywhere and always one of the strongest and most active principles of our nature. Nor is it peculiar to our race. It is an emotion shared by man in common with the lower orders of intelligence. The brute-beast manifests as strong an affection for her offspring, as man under the like circumstances exhibits. The white bear of the arctic glaciers, pursued by the hunter, throws herself between him and her cub, and dies in its defence.
All these circumstances, the precise adaptation of the sensibility in question to the peculiar exigencies it seemed designed to meet, the strength and constancy of that affection, the universality of its operation, and the fact that is common to man with the brute, all go to show that the principle now under consideration must be regarded as an instinctive and original principle, implanted in our nature by the hand that formed us.
Strengthened by Circumstances.—But though an original principle, and, therefore, not derived from habit or circumstance, there can be no doubt that the affection of which we speak is greatly modified, and strengthened, by the circumstances in which the parent and child are placed with respect to each other, and also by the power of habit. Like most of our active principles, it finds, in its own use and exercise, the law of its growth. So true is this, that when the care and guardianship of the child are transferred to other hands, there springs up something of the parent’s love, in the heart to which has been confided this new trust. It seems to be a law of our nature that we love those who are dependent on us, who confide in us, and for whom we are required to exert ourselves. The more dependent and helpless the object of our solicitude, and the greater the sacrifice we make, or the toil we endure, in its behalf, the greater our regard and affection for it. If in the little group that gathers around the poor man’s scanty board, or evening fireside, there is one more tenderly loved than another, one on whom his eye more frequently rests, or with more tender solicitude than on the others, it is that one over whose sick-bed he has most frequently bent with anxiety, and for whose benefit he has so often denied himself the comforts of life. By every sacrifice thus made, by every hour of toil and privation cheerfully endured, by every watchful, anxious night, and every day of unremitting care and devotion, is the parental affection strengthened. And to the operation of the same law of our nature is doubtless to be attributed the regard which is felt, under similar circumstances, by those who are not parents, for the objects of their care. But it may reasonably be doubted whether, in such case, the affection, although of the same nature, ever equals, in intensity and fervor, the depth and strength of a parent’s love.
Strongest in the Mother.—The parental affection, though common to both sexes, finds its most perfect development in the heart of the mother. Whether this is the natural result of the principle already referred to, the care and effort that devolve in greater degree upon the mother, and awaken a love proportionably stronger, or whether it is an original provision of nature to meet the necessity of the case, we can but see in the fact referred to a beautiful adaptation of our nature to the circumstances that surround us.
Stronger in the Parent than in the Child.—The love of the parent for the child is stronger than that of the child for the parent. There was need that it should be so. Yet is there no affection, of all those that find a place in the human heart, more beautiful and touching than filial love. Nor, on the contrary, is there any one aspect of human nature, imperfect as it is, so sad and revolting as the spectacle sometimes presented, of filial ingratitude, a spectacle sure to awaken the indignation and abhorrence of every generous heart. When the son, grown to manhood, forgets the aged mother that bore him, and is ashamed to support her tottering steps, or leaves to loneliness and want the father whose whole life has been one of care and toil for him, he receives, as he deserves, the contempt of even the thoughtless world, and the scorn of every man whose opinion is worth regarding.
There have not been wanting noble instances of the strength of the filial affection. If parents have voluntarily incurred death to save their children, so, also, though perhaps less frequently, have children met death to save a parent.
Value of these Affections.—The parental and filial affections lie at the foundation of the social virtues. They form the heart to all that is most noble and elevating, and constitute the foundation of all that is truly great and valuable in character. Deprived of these influences, men may, indeed, become useful and honorable members of society—such cases have occurred—but rather as exceptions to the rule. It is under the genial influences of home, and parental care and love, that the better qualities of mind and heart are most favorably and surely developed, and the character most successfully formed for the conflicts and temptations of future life.
Not inconsistent with the manly Virtues.—Nor is the gentleness implied in the domestic affections inconsistent with those sterner qualities of character, which history admires in her truly great and heroic lives. Poets have known this, painters have seized upon it, critics have pointed it out in the best ideal delineations, both of ancient and of modern times. It softens the gloomy and otherwise forbidding character of stern Achilles; it invests with superior beauty, and almost sacredness, the aged Priam suing for the dead body of Hector; it constitutes one of the brightest ornaments with which Virgil knew how to adorn the character of the hero of the Æneid, while in the affection of Napoleon for his son, and in the grief of Cromwell for the death of his daughter, the domestic affection shines forth in contrast with the strong and troubled scenes of eventful public life, as a gentle star glitters on the brow of night.
§ II.—Love of Friends.
Much said in Praise of Friendship.—Among the benevolent affections that find a place in the human heart, friendship has ever been regarded as one of the purest and noblest. Poets and moralists have vied with each other in its praise. Even those philosophers who have derived all our active principles from self-love have admitted this to a place among the least selfish of our emotions. There can be no doubt that it is a demand of our nature, a part of our original constitution. The man who, among all his fellows, finds no one in whom he delights, and whom he calls his friend, must be wanting in some of the best traits and qualities of our common humanity, while, on the other hand, pure and elevated friendship is a mark of a generous and noble mind.
On what Circumstances it depends.—If we inquire whence arises this emotion in any given case, on what principles or circumstances it is founded, we shall find that, while other causes have much to do with it, it depends chiefly on the more or less intimate acquaintance of the parties. There must, indeed, be on our part some perception of high and noble qualities belonging to him whom we call our friend, and some appreciation, also, of those qualities. We must admire his genius, or his courage, or his manly strength and prowess, or his moral virtues, or, at least, his position and success. All these things come in to modify our estimate and opinion of the man, and may be said to underlie our friendship for him. Still, it is not so much from these circumstances, as from personal and intimate acquaintance, that friendship most directly springs. Admiration and respect for the high qualities and noble character of another, are not themselves friendship, however closely related to it. They may be, and doubtless are, to some extent, the foundation on which that affection rests, but they are not its immediately producing cause. They may exist where no opportunity for personal acquaintance is afforded, while, on the other hand, a simple and long-continued acquaintance, with one whom we, perhaps, should not, in our own candid judgment, pronounce superior to other men, either in genius, or fortune, or the nobler qualities of the soul, may, nevertheless, ripen into strong and lasting friendship.
How Acquaintance leads to Friendship.—To what is this owing? Not so much, I suspect, to the fact that acquaintance reveals always something to admire, even in those whom we had not previously regarded with special deference—although this, I am willing to admit, may be the case—but rather to that simple law of mental activity which we call association. The friend whom we have long and intimately known, the friend of other, and earlier, and, it may be, happier years, is intimately connected with our own history. His life and our own have run side by side, on rather, like vines springing from separate roots, have intertwined their branches until they present themselves as one to the eye. It is this close connection of my friend with whatever pertains to myself, of his history with my history, and his life with my life, that contributes in great measure to the regard and interest I feel for him. He has become, as it were, a part of myself. The thought of him awakens in my mind pleasing remembrances, and is associated with agreeable conceptions of the walks, the studies, the sports, the varied enjoyments and the varied sorrows that we have shared together.
Regard for inanimate Objects.—The same principle extends also to inanimate objects, as places and scenes with which we have become familiar, the meadows through which we roamed in childhood, the books we read, the rooms we inhabited, even the instruments of our daily toil. These all become associated with ourselves, we form a sort of friendship for them. The prisoner who has spent long years of confinement in his solitary cell, forms a species of attachment for the very walls that have shut him in, and looks upon them for the last time, when at length the hour of deliverance arrives, not without a measure of regret. The sword that has been often used in battle is thenceforth, to the old soldier, the visible representative of many a hard-fought field, and many a perilous adventure. Uncouth and rusty it may be, ill-formed, and unadorned, in its plain and clumsy iron scabbard, but its owner would not exchange it for one of solid gold. It is not strange that the principle of association, which attaches us so closely even to inanimate objects, should enter largely as an element into the friendships we form with our own species.
Other Causes auxiliary.—I would by no means deny, however, that other causes may, and usually do, contribute to the same result. Mere acquaintance and companionship do not, of necessity, nor invariably, amount to friendship. There must be some degree of sympathy, and congeniality of thought and feeling, some community of interests, pursuits, desires, hopes, something in common between the two minds, or no friendship will spring up between them. Acquaintance, and participation in the same scenes and pursuits, furnish, to some extent, this common ground. But even where this previous companionship is wanting, there may exist such congeniality and sympathy between two minds, the tastes and feelings, the aims and aspirations of each may be so fully in unison, that each shall feel itself drawn to the other, with a regard which needs only time and opportunity to ripen into strong and lasting friendship.
Dissimilarity not inconsistent with Friendship.—Nor is it necessary, in order to true friendship, that there should be complete similarity or agreement. The greatest diversity even may exist in many respects, whether as to qualities of mind, or traits of character. Indeed, such diversity, to some extent, must be regarded as favorable to friendship, rather than otherwise. We admire, often, in others, the very qualities which we perceive to be lacking in ourselves, and choose for our friends those whose richer endowments in these respects may compensate in a measure for our own deficiencies. The strongest friendships are often formed in this way by persons whose characters present striking points of contrast. Such diversity, in respect to natural gifts and traits of character, is not inconsistent with the closest sympathy of views and feelings in regard to other matters, and therefore not inconsistent with the warmest friendship.
Limitation of the Number of Friends.—It was, perhaps, an idle question, discussed in the ancient schools of philosophy, whether true friendship can subsist between more than two persons. No reason can be shown why this affection should be thus exclusive, nor do facts seem to justify such a limitation. The addition of a new friend to the circle of my acquaintance does not necessarily detract aught from the affection I bear to my former friends, nor does it awaken suspicion or jealousy on their part. In this respect, friendship is unlike the love which exists between the sexes, and which is exclusive in its nature.
It must be admitted, at the same time, that there are limits to this extension, and that he who numbers a large circle of friends is not likely to form a very strong attachment for any one of them. Not unfrequently, indeed, a friendship thus unlimited is the mark, as Mr. Stewart suggests, of a cold and selfish character, prompted to seek the acquaintance of others by a regard to his own advantage, and a desire for society, rather than by any real attachment to those whose companionship he solicits. True and genuine friendship is usually more select in its choice, and is wholly disinterested in its character. A cold and calculating policy forms no part of its nature. It springs from no selfish or even prudential considerations. It burns with a pure and steady flame in the heart that cherishes it, and burns on even when the object of its regard is no longer on earth. Our friendships are not all with the living. We cherish the memory of those whom we no longer see, and welcome to the heart those whom we no longer welcome to our home and fireside.
Effect of adventitious Circumstances.—Reverses in life, changes in fortune, the accidents of health and sickness, of wealth and poverty, of station and influence, have little power to weaken the ties of true friendship once formed. They test, but do not impair its strength. True friendship only makes us cling the closer to our friend in his adversity; and when fortune frowns, and the sunshine of popular favor passes away, and “there is none so poor to do him reverence,” whom once all men courted and admired, we still love him, who, in better days, showed himself worthy of our love and who, we feel, is none the less worthy of it, now that we must love him for what he is, and not for what he has. That is not worthy the name of friendship, which will not endure this test.
Changes in moral Character.—Much more seriously is friendship endangered by any change of moral character and principle, on the part of either of the friends. So long as the change affects merely the person, the wealth, the social position, the power, the good name even, we feel that these are but the external circumstances, the accidents, the surroundings, and not the man himself, and however these things may vary, our friend remains the same. But when the change is in the heart and character of the man himself, when he whose sympathies and moral sentiments were once in unison with our own, shows himself to be no longer what he once was, or what we fondly thought him to be, there is no longer that community of thought and feeling between us that is essential to true and lasting friendship. Yet, even in such a case, we continue to cherish for the friend of former years a regard and affection which subsequent changes do not wholly efface. We think of him as he was, and not as he is; as he was in those earlier and better days, when the heart was fresh and unspoiled, and the feet had not as yet turned aside from the paths of rectitude and honor.
§ III.—Love of Benefactors.
As related to Friendship.—Closely allied to the affections we feel for our friends is the emotion we cherish towards our benefactors. Like the former, it is one of the forms of that principle into which all kindly affection ultimately resolves itself, namely, love, differing as the object differs on which it rests, but one in nature under all these varieties of form. The love which we feel for a benefactor, differs from that which we feel for a friend, as the latter again differs from that which we feel for a parent or a child. It differs from friendship, in that the motive which prompted the benefaction, on the part of the giver, may be simple benevolence, and not personal regard; while, on our part, the emotion awakened may be simple gratitude to the generous donor, a gratitude which, though it may lead to friendship, is not itself the result of personal attachment.
Nature of this Affection.—If we inquire more closely into the nature of this affection, we find that it involves, as do all the benevolent affections, a feeling of pleasure or delight, together with a benevolent regard for the object on which the affection rests. The pleasure, in this case, results from the reception of a favor. It is not, however, merely a pleasure in the favor received, as in itself valuable, or as meeting our necessities; it is, over and beyond this, a pleasure in the giver as a noble and generous person, and as standing in friendly relations to us. Such conceptions are always agreeable to the mind, and that in a high degree. The benevolent regard which we cherish for such a person, the disposition and wish to do him good in turn, are the natural result of this agreeable conception of him; and the two together, the pleasure, and the benevolent regard, constitute the complex emotion which we call gratitude.
Regards the Giver rather than the Gift.—If this be the correct analysis of the affection now under consideration, it is not so much the gift, as the giver, that awakens the emotion; and this view is confirmed by the fact that when, from any circumstances, we are led to suspect a selfish motive on the part of the donor, that the gift was prompted, not so much by regard to us, as by regard to his own personal ends, for favors thus conferred we feel very little gratitude. The gift may be the same in either case, but not the giver.
Modes of manifesting Gratitude.—Philosophers have noticed the different manner in which persons of different character, and mental constitution, are affected by the reception of kindness from others, and the different modes in which their gratitude expresses itself. Some are much more sensibly affected than others by the same acts of kindness; and even when gratitude may exist in equal degree, it is not always equally manifested. We naturally look, however, for some exhibition of it, in all cases, where favors have been conferred; its due exhibition satisfies and pleases us; its absence gives us pain, and we set it down as indicative of a cold and selfish nature.
A disordered Sensibility indicated by the Absence of this Principle.—One of the most painful forms of disordered sensibility—the insanity, not of the intellect, but of the feelings—is that which manifests itself in the entire indifference and apathy with which the kindest attentions are received, or even worse, the ill-concealed and hardly-suppressed hatred which is felt even for the generous benefactor. A case of this sort is mentioned by Dr. Bell, the accomplished superintendent of the MacLean Asylum for the insane, as coming under his notice, in which the patient, a lady, by no means wanting in mental endowments, seemed utterly destitute and incapable of natural affection. Having, on one occasion, received some mark of kindness from a devoted friend, she exclaimed, “I suppose I ought to love that person, and I should, if it were possible for me to love any one; but it is not. I do not know what that feeling is.” A more sad and wretched existence can hardly be conceived than that which is thus indicated—the deep night and winter of the soul, a gloom unbroken by one ray of kindly feeling for any living thing, one gleam of sunshine on the darkened heart. Happily such cases are of rare occurrence. The kindness of men awakens a grateful response, in every human heart, whose right and normal action is not hindered by disorder, or prevented by crime.
Disorder of the moral Nature.—Is it not an indication of the imperfect and disordered condition of our moral nature, that while the little kindnesses of our fellow men awaken in our breasts lively emotions of gratitude, we receive, unmoved, the thousand benefits which the great Author of our being is daily and hourly conferring, with little gratitude to the giver of every good and perfect gift?
§ IV.—Love of Home and Country.
Its proper Place.—Among the emotions which constitute our sensitive nature, the love of home and of country, or the patriotic emotion, holds a prominent rank. It falls into that class of feelings which we term affections, inasmuch as it involves not only an emotion of pleasure, but a desire of good towards the object which awakens the feeling.
Founded on the Separation of the Race.—The affection now to be considered implies, as its condition, the separation of the human race into families, tribes, and nations, and of its dwelling-places into corresponding divisions of territory and country, a division founded not more in human nature, than in the physical conditions and distributions of the globe, broken as it is into different countries, by mountain, river, and sea. No one can fail to perceive, in this arrangement, a design and provision for the distribution of the race into distinct states and nations. To this arrangement and design the nature of man corresponds. To him, in all his wanderings, there is no place like home, no land like his native land. It may be barren and rugged, swept by the storms, and overshadowed by the frozen hills, of narrow boundary, and poor in resources, where life is but one continued struggle for existence with an inhospitable climate, unpropitious seasons, and an unwilling soil; but it is his own land, it is his father-land, and sooner than he will see its soil invaded, or its name dishonored, he will shed the last drop of blood in its defence.
Other Causes auxiliary.—The strong tendency to rivalry and war, between different tribes, tends, doubtless, to keep alive the patriotic sentiment, by binding each more closely to the soil, which it finds obliged to defend at the sacrifice of treasure, and of life. The great diversity of language, manners, and customs, which prevails among different nations, must also tend very strongly to separate nations still more widely from each other, and bind them more closely to their own soil, and their own institutions.
Effect of Civilization.—Such are some of the causes which give rise to the patriotic sentiment. Civilization tends, in a measure, doubtless, to diminish the activity of these causes. In proportion as society advances, as national jealousies and rivalries diminish, as wars become less frequent, as nations come to understand better each other’s manners, laws, and languages, and to learn that their interests, apparently diverse, are really identical, this progress of civilization and culture, removing, as it does, in great measure, the barriers that have hitherto kept nations asunder, must tend, it would seem, to weaken the influence of those causes which contribute to keep alive the patriotic feeling. And such we believe to be the fact. It is in the early period of a nation’s existence, the period of its origin and growth, of its weakness and danger, that the love of country most strongly developes itself. It is then that sacrifices are most cheerfully made, and danger and toil most readily met, and life most freely given, for the state whose foundations can no other way be laid. As the state, thus founded in treasure and in blood, and vigilantly guarded in its infancy, gains maturity and strength, becomes rich, and great, and powerful, comes into honorable relation with the surrounding states and nations, the love of country seems not to keep pace with its growth in the hearts of the people, but rather to diminish, as there is less frequent and less urgent occasion for its exercise.
National Pride.—There is, however, a counteracting tendency to be found in the national pride which is awakened by the prosperity and power of a country, and especially by its historic greatness. The citizen of England, or of France, at the present day, has more to defend, and more to love, than merely his own home and fireside, the soil that he cultivates, and the institutions that guarantee his freedom and his rights. The past is intrusted to him, as well as the present. The land whose honor and integrity he is determined to maintain, at all hazard and personal sacrifice, is not the England, or the France, of to-day merely, but of the centuries. He remembers the glories of the empire, the armies, and the illustrious leaders that have carried his country’s flag with honor into all lands, the monarchs that, in succession, from Clovis and Charlemagne, from Alfred and Harold the dauntless, have sat in state upon the throne that claims his present allegiance, the generations that have contributed to make his country what it now is; and he feels that not merely the present greatness and power of his country, but all its former greatness and glory, are intrusted to his present care and keeping.
Depends upon Association.—If we inquire more closely into the philosophy of the matter, we shall find, I think, that the principle of association is largely concerned as the immediately producing cause of the emotion now under consideration. We connect with the idea of any country the history and fortunes, the virtues and vices of its inhabitants, of those who, at any time, recent or remote, have passed their brief day, and acted their brief part, within its borders, and whose unknown dust mingles with its soil. They have long since passed away, but the same hills stand, the same rivers flow along the same channels, the same ocean washes the ancient shores, the same skies look down upon those fields and waters, and with these aspects and objects of nature we associate all that is great and heroic in the history of the people that once dwelt among those hills, and along those shores. Every lofty mountain, every majestic river, every craggy cliff and frowning headland along the coast, stand as representative objects, sacred to the memory of the past, and the great deeds that have been there performed. How much this must add to the force and power of the patriotic emotion is obvious at a glance.
Same Principle concerned in the Love of Home.—In like manner, by the same principle of association, we connect our own personal history with the places where we dwell, and the country we inhabit. They become, in a measure, identified with ourselves. To love the home of our childhood, and our native land, is but to love our former selves, since it is here that our little history lies, and whatever we have wrought of good or ill.
An original Principle.—With respect to the character of this emotion, while it is doubtless awakened and strengthened by the law of association, still I cannot but regard it as an original provision and principle of our nature, springing up instinctively in the bosom, showing itself essentially the same under all conditions of society, and in all ages and countries. It waits not for education to call it forth, nor for reason and reflection to give it birth; while at the same time, reason and reflection doubtless contribute largely to its development and strength.
Strongest where it might be least expected.—It has been frequently observed, by those who have made human nature their study, that the patriotic feeling is not confined to the inhabitants of the most favored climes and countries, but, on the contrary, is often most strongly developed in nations less populous, and in countries little favored by nature. The inhabitants of wild, mountainous regions, of sterile shores, of barren plains, manifest as strong a love of home and country, as any people on the globe. It is thus with the Swiss among their mountain fastnesses, and with the poor Esquimaux of northern Greenland, where, beyond the arctic circle, cold and darkness reign undisturbed the greater part of the year. Even in those dreary realms, and in those bosoms little refined, the voice of nature is heard, and the love of home and of country is strong. Even beggars have been known to die of nostalgia, or home-sickness.
Chapter II
Malevolent Affections
As distinguished from the Benevolent.—The affections have already been distinguished from other forms of the sensibility, by the circumstance that they involve, along with the feeling of pleasure or pain, some feeling of kindness or the opposite, toward the object; in the one case we term them benevolent, in the other, malevolent affections. Of the former, I have treated in the preceding chapter; of the latter, I am now to speak.
Resentment the generic Name.—These affections may be comprised under the general name resentment, as that which underlies and constitutes the basis of them all. Envy, jealousy, revenge, etc., may be regarded as but so many modifications, or perversions, of this general principle. As the benevolent affections are all so many forms of love, going forth toward diverse objects, and varying as the objects vary, so the malevolent affections are so many forms of the opposite principle, i. e., aversion, varying, likewise, with the objects.
Founded in Nature.—As the benevolent, so likewise the malevolent or irascible feelings are, as to their principle, instinctive; they have their foundation in our nature. They are, as such, universally exhibited under the appropriate circumstances; they are early in their development, showing themselves often prior to the exercise of the reflecting and reasoning powers; they are, also, to some extent, common to man with the brutes.
Capable, however, of rational Exercise and Control.—While we pronounce them instinctive, however, we would by no means imply that they are not capable of being deliberately and intelligently exercised, or that they are not in fact, frequently so exercised. What instinct originally teaches, reason and reflection, when, at a later date, they come into play, may sanction and confirm. On the other hand, they may repress and forbid what instinct prompts. In the former case, the emotion, affection, passion, is none the less an instinctive principle in its nature and origin, although it has now passed from the domain of mere instinct to the higher sphere of reason and intelligence. What was done in the first instance from sudden impulse, blindly, without thought, is now done deliberately and intelligently. This may be the case with all our instinctive principles of action, as well as with those now particularly under consideration. Instinct and reason, or intelligence, though distinguished from, are not necessarily opposed to each other, in the sense that one and the same mental act may not proceed, now from one, now from the other, of these principles. The love which I cherish for my friends, or my kindred, may be purely instinctive, it may be strictly rational, a matter of reflection, the result of deliberate purpose.
Existence of such a Principle denied by some.—The existence of such a principle as resentment, among the original and constitutional elements of our nature, has been called in question by some writers. It has been thought derogatory to the divine character, that the Creator should implant the principle of resentment in the human heart. He commands us to love, and not to hate, and what he expressly forbids, he cannot have made provision for in the very constitution of the mind. Such a principle, it is also maintained, is altogether unnecessary. This is the ground taken by Mr. Winslow, in his work on moral philosophy.
The Question at Issue.—There is certainly much force in the view thus presented. The question before us, however, is not, what we might, à priori, have supposed the nature of man to be, nor, what it ought to be, but simply, what is that nature as a matter of fact? Whether such a principle as resentment is necessary in a well-constituted mind, is not now the question; nor yet whether the Creator could consistently implant such a principle within us; nor, again, what may be the moral character of such a principle; but simply, Is there such a principle among the native elements of human character? If it be found there, we may conclude, either, that the Creator has placed it there for some wise purpose, or else, that the nature with which man comes into the world is no longer an adequate expression of the will of the Creator concerning him, but has, in some way, lost its original purity and integrity.
Existence of such a Principle.—Now that there are certain irascible feelings which find a place, under certain circumstances, in the human bosom, whenever the fitting occasion calls them forth, can hardly be denied; nor yet that they have their foundation in the nature of man. We have the same evidence of this, that we have of the existence of any other original and native principle. It manifests itself universally, uniformly, under all the varieties of social condition, among all nations, in all ages of the world. It developes itself at an early period of life, before education or example can have come in to account for its existence. Reason may subsequently control and restrain it, or it may fail to do so; but the principle exists before it can be either indulged or restrained. When the occasion which calls it forth is some injury or evil inflicted upon ourselves, the feeling takes the name of resentment; when others are the objects of that injustice, the feeling awakened is more properly termed indignation. We resent our own wrongs, we are indignant at those of others. The principle is, in either case, the same, and is as truly a part of our nature, as gratitude for favors received, or sympathy with the sorrows of the afflicted.
Term Malevolent, how employed.—The term malevolent, as used to designate this class of affections, is, it must be confessed, liable to serious objection. It has come into use as a convenient term, in place of, and for the want of, something better, to mark the distinction between the feelings now under consideration, and those of the opposite character, already considered; and as we call those benevolent, so we call these malevolent, merely by way of contrast, and not as implying any thing criminal in the character of the emotions themselves. The term, however, is unfortunate, as seeming to involve a meaning not intended. The moral character of the affections thus designated, is an open question, to be decided upon its own merits, and not to be considered as settled, one way or the other, by the use of the term now under consideration. This question we shall presently discuss. For the present, we have to consider, more particularly, the several forms in which the malevolent or irascible feeling presents itself.
Nature of Resentment.—Resentment is the feeling awakened in view of injury received. It is precisely the opposite of gratitude, which is the feeling awakened by benefits conferred. As, in the latter case, there springs up at once in the heart an affectionate regard for the generous donor, so, in the former there is awakened, at once a feeling of resentment against those who have done us the wrong. It is an instinctive emotion. No sooner are we conscious of the injury than we are conscious also of the feeling of resentment.
Design of this Principle.—The design of this principle of our nature is evident. It arms us against those sudden dangers and assaults, which no foresight can anticipate, nor prudence prevent, and which, when they occur, require instant action, and prompt redress. In such cases, reason and reflection would come to our aid too late; were we left to their counsels, however wise those counsels might be, we should already have suffered the injury from which they would seek to protect us. Something is needed that shall prompt to speedier action; some watchman vigilant and armed, ready on the first approach of danger to strike his alarm-bell, and summon the garrison to action. This we have in the principle of resentment. Were it not for this principle, moreover, a cautious and timid policy might often prevail over the sense of justice, and honor, and right, or a selfish policy might keep us back from interfering, at our own peril, for the protection of the injured, and the punishment of the aggressor. Instinct sets us right in such matters, before reason has time to act.
Necessary to the Punishment of Crime.—The malevolent feeling, at least in the form now under consideration, seems to be, in some degree, necessary for the punishment of crime, and the protection of society. It may be doubted whether, without it, we should act with sufficient energy, and promptness, for the redress of wrong, when that wrong is not inflicted upon ourselves. Nature has guarded against this danger, by planting in the human bosom an innate sense of justice, a hatred of wrong and injury wantonly inflicted, and a quick resentment against the perpetrator, which leads us to seek his detection and punishment, silences the pleadings of compassion in his behalf, and arms us to inflict the merited blow. That is but a weak and short-sighted benevolence, that is incapable of hatred of crime, and criminals; and that, under the flimsy pretence of compassion for the unfortunate, and humanity, would shield from justice, and due punishment, those who strike at the highest interests of society, and put in jeopardy all that is most dear and sacred to man. There are cases, in which compassion becomes malice aforethought, and stern resentment is the only true benevolence. It is one of the sublimest and most glorious attributes of deity, as portrayed in the Scriptures, that with the highest benevolence he combines the stern, inflexible hatred of wrong, so that, while it can with truth be said, “God is love,” it can with equal truth be affirmed, “our God is a consuming fire.”
Liable to abuse.—While, however, the principle now considered has its uses, and must be regarded as a most important provision of nature for the necessities of our race, it must also be conceded that it is a principle liable to abuse, and requiring to be kept in careful check. Especially in its sudden and instinctive action, upon the reception of personal harm or danger, are we liable to be carried to extremes, and indulge a resentment out of proportion to the merits of the case.
A Check on excessive Resentment.—Against this excessive resentment of injuries, real or imaginary, nature has provided a check needful and salutary, in the indignation with which any such manifestation is sure to be regarded by others, and the loss of that sympathy, otherwise on our side, but now turned in favor of the object of our too great resentment. The wise and prudent man will carefully avoid such a result, and this prudence will act as a powerful curb on his anger. To the man of virtuous and honorable sentiments there is also another restraint, hardly less powerful, upon the exercise of the malevolent feeling in any undue degree, and that is, the feeling of self-degradation and humiliation which such a man must feel, in consequence of his excessive resentment, when the heat of passion cools, and the moments of calmer reflection ensue. Even as exercised within due bounds, the malevolent affection is, from its very nature, a painful one. Not only the first emotion on the reception of injury or insult is one of a disagreeable nature, but the wish or desire, which instantly follows and accompanies it, of inflicting in return some ill upon the aggressor, is also a feeling which disturbs and disquiets the mind, and inflicts a species of suffering upon the mind that cherishes it, that may not improperly be termed its own punishment. And this again may be regarded, and doubtless is, to some extent, a check upon the indulgence of the malevolent affection.
Violent Exhibitions of this Feeling, where found.—It is accordingly in natures uncultivated and rude, little accustomed to self control, and the restraints of reason and religion, that we naturally look for the violent and excessive outbursts of passion. A regard for our own happiness, a due sense of our own dignity and moral worth, and a decent respect for the opinions of those about us, whose approbation and sympathy we desire, contribute, if not to diminish the strength, at least to repress the manifestation, in any considerable degree, of the feeling of resentment, in those who have arrived at years of discretion, and have profited by the lessons of experience. The child is angry with the stone against which he strikes his foot, and vents his resentment for any injury upon the unconscious instrument, which was the means of its infliction. The savage tears from his flesh the arrow that has wounded him, and breaks it into fragments. This is undoubtedly the instinct of nature, untaught by reason and reflection. It is probably the first impulse of every man, on the reception of any injury, and before he has time to reflect on the folly of such a course, to express in some manner his resentment against the immediate instrument of his suffering.
Deliberate Form of Resentment.—When the first impulse has passed, and time gives opportunity for reflection, this instinctive resentment dies away, or gives place to a deliberate and rational form of the same emotion. Thus affected, the mind casts about it to ascertain the real extent of its injury, and the best means of redress; it distinguishes between the conscious agent, and the unconscious instrument of its wrong, between the intentional injury and the unintentional, and, it may be, accidental harm; it takes into view the circumstances of the case, and the probable motives of the doer, and graduates its resentment accordingly.
Illustration of deliberate Resentment.—The law of retaliation which prevails among savage tribes, and which demands blood for blood, life for life, and exacts the fearful penalty with a justice inexorable and sure, though often long delayed, and which never loses sight of its victim, though years, and broad lands, and wide waters intervene, affords an illustration of deliberate in distinction from instinctive resentment. The law of honor, so called, as it exists among civilized nations, also illustrates the same principle.
Pointed out by Butler and others.—The distinction which we have indicated between the instinctive and deliberate form of this emotion, was clearly pointed out by Butler, though by no means original with him, as some writers have supposed; it is quite too obvious and important a distinction to have escaped the notice of earlier, and even of ancient philosophers, nor is it at all peculiar to this one affection, but common to all the sensibilities as I have already said.
Modifications of the general Principle.—There are certain modifications of the malevolent affection, which require a passing notice in this connection. I refer to those emotions commonly known as envy, jealousy, and revenge. These are all but different forms of the same general principle, varying as the different circumstances and objects vary which call them forth.
Nature of Envy.—Envy is that form of resentment which too often, and too easily, finds a place in the human bosom, when another is more fortunate, more successful, more honored and esteemed, than ourselves. Especially is this the case, when the fortunate one is from our own circle of companionship, and our own rank in life, and when the honors and distinctions, or the wealth and power, that fall to his lot are such as we might ourselves have aspired to reach. We never, I suspect, envy those whose condition is, and originally was, very far removed from our own. The peasant envies not the lord of the realm, nor the beggar the king, but rather his fellow-peasant, or fellow-beggar, whose hut is warmer, and whose ragged garment not so ragged, as his own. It is the passion of a weak and narrow mind, a mean and degrading emotion, the opposite of every thing noble and generous.
Nature of Jealousy.—Jealousy is that form of the malevolent affection which has relation more particularly, though not exclusively, to the attachment which exists between the sexes, and which is awakened by the supposed rivalry of another. It is one of the most painful of the malevolent affections, and, when thoroughly roused, one of the strongest and most powerful principles of our nature. It is the peculiarity of this passion, that the object of its suspicion, and resentment, is, at the same time, the object of the heart’s deepest love, and, it may be, adoration; the strength and bitterness of the passion being in proportion to the fervor and earnestness of that affection. In the character of Othello, we have a fine delineation of the working and development of this trait of human character, as in Cassius we have a portraiture of the corresponding affection of envy.
Nature of Revenge.—Revenge is resentment in its most deliberate form, planned and carried into execution, not for the prevention of crime or injury, nor yet with reference to the ends of justice, but for the simple gratification of personal hatred. As such, and springing from such a motive, it is usually excessive in degree, and malicious in character. It is a dark and deadly passion, not more dangerous to society than degrading to the bosom that harbors it. It has not one redeeming quality to recommend it. It is neither the mark of a noble and generous, nor yet of a manly and brave spirit. It is the offspring of fear, rather than of courage. It usually seeks to accomplish, by secret and unlawful means, what it is ashamed or afraid to do openly, and by fair and honorable measures. It is a passion closely allied to those which may be supposed to reign in the bosom of a fiend.
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.)