lished, grows stronger and stronger by the various modes of social intercourse, until the lesson of the child, repeated by the man and scarce forgotten in dotage, produces that uniformity of sentiment, which is felt by all, though traced by few during its progress of association to the real principle of imitation.

Of the power of this principle the most conspicuous instance is afforded by children, in whom the propensity to imitate is, if anything deserves the name, an instinct. By this very power children learn first the words and then the ideas attached to the terms connected with the feelings of love and hatred, and of praise and censure, and thus exemplify, both in theory and practice, the generation of a moral sense.

Another objection to the system of moral instincts is, that its maxims do not bend to circumstances. Veracity, which seems to be, if any, a moral duty, is not in that system permitted to be violated, as it ought to be; for as the obligation of a promise depends on the circumstances under which it was made, it cannot be enforced, unless all the conditions have been fulfilled between the parties.

It has been further objected to the same system, that, if there existed an instinctive moral sense, a clear idea would have also existed of the object connected with such instinct; for the instinct and object are of necessity inseparable, both in imagination and reality; that is, if it were an instinct to approve an act, we should have, what we have not, a clear conception of such act.

As the preceding argument, however, if true, would deny the existence of instinct even in brutes, it will hardly carry conviction, although it cannot easily be

answered.

There exists, then, no instinctive moral sense, or if it does, it is not to be distinguished from habit; and consequently it is unsafe to found on such uncertain data a system of ethics, or to determine on the right

or wrong of certain actions, by appealing to impulses, which may or may not exist, instead of looking, as we ought, to the general tendency of such actions.

Aristotle presumes that barbarians were intended to be slaves; and deduces from this maxim conclusions in favor of the slave-trade, which then prevailed; ́and the same maxim is doubtless self-evident to those who are now engaged in a similar traffic.

But in this example it is plain that the laws of custom have been mistaken for the order of nature; and as nothing is so easy as to make a maxim, when in unison with the prejudices of the maker, it is to be feared that a system of morality, founded on instincts and impulses, would only find out excuses for established practices rather than reasons for correcting them.

But granting the existence, what is the power of such instincts? The power, it is said, of conscience, whose remorse the ill-doer feels. But if he feels it not, or holds it light, when balanced against the pleasure or profit of a wicked act, (on which point the sinner, who feels both the pleasure of the sin and the pain of remorse, is the best judge) the advocate for a moral instinct has no motive sufficiently high to offer. For should he say that such instincts are indications of God's will, and a presage of a future state, we reply, he resorts to a rule and motive ulterior to instincts, and which the believer in Holy Writ arrives at by a surer road, at least so long as the question remains unsettled respecting the existence or not of instinctive maxims: a question which, in our system, is one of mere curiosity, and to be left to those more inquisitive than ourselves, about the natural history of Man.

CHAP. VI. HUMAN HAPPINESS.

Happy' is a relative term, as regards an individual compared either with others or himself; in the one

case the comparison is with the lot of man generally, in the other with the individual's own previous or subsequent condition. Strictly speaking, that condition may be called happy, where the aggregate of pleasure exceeds the amount of pain; and the quantity of such excess is the measure of the degree of happiness, of which the greatest quantity attainable by man is what we mean, when speaking of human happiness.* In this inquiry it is needless to enlarge on the dignity of man; the superiority of the intellect over the body; of the delicacy and refinement of some pleasures, or of the grossness and sensuality of others; because pleasures in fact differ only in degree and not in kind; and it is from a view of their intensity, if seldom, or their continuance, if often enjoyed, that every question respecting human happiness must receive its decision. It will be our business rather to define, 1. What Human Happiness is, and, II. What it is not.

1. Happiness does not consist in the pleasures of sense, or animal gratifications merely. For, 1st, such

*If any positive signification can be affixed to the term 'hap. piness,' I should take it to denote a certain state of the nervous system in that part of the body in which we feel different passions. Whether this part be the heart, or the diaphragm, or the upper orifice of the stomach, or rather a kind of fine net-work, lining the whole region of the præcordia, it is impossible to say. But as each painful sensation may disturb the fibres at one time, so a series of such sensations may at length derange the system, and produce such a perpetual irritation, as will show itself by fretfulness, impatience, and restlessness. On the other hand, a succession of pleasurable sensations may have such an effect on this subtle organisation, as to cause the fibres to relax, and to recover, or, if not lost, to preserve, that harmonious conformation, which gives to the mind its sense of satisfaction. This state may be denominated happiness, and is so far distinguishable from pleasure, that it does not consist, like pleasure, in the gratifica tion of one or more of the senses, but is rather the effect which such gratifications produce on the nervous system. These conjectures belong not, however, to our province. The comparative sense, in which we have explained the term Happiness, is more popular, and is sufficient for the purpose of the present chapter.

pleasures are short-lived, especially the grosser kind, independent of the aid of preparation and expectation: 2dly, they lose their charm by repetition; since, as the nerves, by which we receive pleasurable sensations, lose their sensibility, the mind becomes indifferent to a gratification no longer new: 3dly, the eagerness for intense delights destroys the relish for others less intense; and as such high gratifications occur seldom, time must hang heavy on our hands.

From no delusion do men suffer so much as from the expectation of intense pleasure. The very expectation spoils the anticipated delight. Even when the enjoyment does come, efforts are made to persuade ourselves of the reality of the pleasure, instead of the pleasure producing the effect without effort; and the delight we aimed at is generally followed by the secret grief of having missed our aim. Besides, the habit of seeking powerful stimulants prevents the relish for less intense delights, whose variety and succession alone supply the stream of continued happiness.

They, whose whole business is the pursuit of pleasure, unrestrained by conscience or want of means, are still devoured by ennui. With a restless passion for variety, they become fastidious in the choice of pleasure; and though languid in the enjoyment, are miserable under the want of it. Pleasures, of which the limits are soon reached, and from which they as soon decline, are necessarily short-lived; because the organs of perception cannot long remain on the stretch; and in the endeavor to compensate for the brevity of the pleasure by its frequency, more is lost than gained, through the fatigue of the faculties and diminution of sensibility; which, as age advances, is felt the most by the voluptuary, who, teased by desires that can never be gratified, is tortured still more by the memory of pleasures fled never to return.

Nor are the pleasures of sense alone of an unsatisfactory nature. Those, which are purchased by pecu

niary embarrassments, are bought too dear, as the subsequent difficulty cannot compensate for the previous gratification.

2. Happiness does not consist in the absence of pain, bodily and mental, unaccompanied with some kind of exertion. For such a listless state does, like the opposite restless state of the voluptuary, bring with it the same feeling of ennui; and oppresses first the mind with imaginary evils, and afterwards the body with real ones. Hence the disappointment felt by persons, who seek for happiness by a retirement from the bustle and glare of active life to the snug country-box or the cloister's gloom. Where the cause of uneasiness is known, by removing the cause the uneasiness is cured; but where the distress is imaginary, (and, for the want of real, imaginary distress is frequently substituted and felt as keenly as the real) from the ignorance of the cause, the cure becomes impracticable, unless the attention of the party so suffering be turned from the imaginary to a real pain; just as a fit of the gout will sometimes cure the spleen. In like manner, the active excitement of hope and fear leads men of liberal minds to gaming, and other spirit-stirring pursuits, to prevent the fatigue they would otherwise feel from the dead calm of passionless inaction.

3. Happiness does not consist in an elevated station of life. For if all superiority afforded pleasure, the greater the number over whom such superiority is found to be, the greater would be the quantity of happiness enjoyed. But superiority is a term of confined import, and relates only to a comparison amongst persons who deem themselves generally equal. The shepherd is not pleased with his superiority as compared with his dog, nor the prince as compared with a peasant. Where no competition exists, the superiority is lost; a fact little noticed by most men. But if the rustic can excel fellow-rustics, or the prince fellow-princes, in points