condition of all good; but in the light of morality the sacrifice of life
is in a high degree proper, because life is not great in itself, but only
as a means of accomplishing the moral law. If then the sacrifice of life
be the way to do this, life must go. "It is not necessary for me to
live, but it is necessary for Rome to be saved from famine," said Pompey,
when the Romans embarked for Africa, and his friends begged him to defer
his departure till the gale was over.
But the sufferings of a criminal are as charming to us tragically as
those of a virtuous man; yet here is the idea of moral impropriety. The
antagonism of his conduct to moral law, and the moral imperfection which
such conduct presupposes, ought to fill us with pain. Here there is no
satisfaction in the morality of his person, nothing to compensate for his
misconduct. Yet both supply a valuable object for art; this phenomenon
can easily be made to agree with what has been said.
We find pleasure not only in obedience to morality, but in the punishment
given to its infraction. The pain resulting from moral imperfection
agrees with its opposite, the satisfaction at conformity with the law.
Repentance, even despair, have nobleness morally, and can only exist if
an incorruptible sense of justice exists at the bottom of the criminal
heart, and if conscience maintains its ground against self-love.
Repentance comes by comparing our acts with the moral law, hence in the
moment of repenting the moral law speaks loudly in man. Its power must
be greater than the gain resulting from the crime as the infraction
poisons the enjoyment. Now, a state of mind where duty is sovereign is
morally proper, and therefore a source of moral pleasure. What, then,
sublimer than the heroic despair that tramples even life underfoot,
because it cannot bear the judgment within? A good man sacrificing his
life to conform to the moral law, or a criminal taking his own life
because of the morality he has violated: in both cases our respect for
the moral law is raised to the highest power. If there be any advantage
it is in the case of the latter; for the good man may have been
encouraged in his sacrifice by an approving conscience, thus detracting
from his merit. Repentance and regret at past crimes show us some of the
sublimest pictures of morality in active condition. A man who violates
morality comes back to the moral law by repentance.
But moral pleasure is sometimes obtained only at the cost of moral pain.
Thus one duty may clash with another. Let us suppose Coriolanus encamped
with a Roman army before Antium or Corioli, and his mother a Volscian; if
her prayers move him to desist, we now no longer admire him. His
obedience to his mother would be at strife with a higher duty, that of a
citizen. The governor to whom the alternative is proposed, either of
giving up the town or of seeing his son stabbed, decides at once on the
latter, his duty as father being beneath that of citizen. At first our
heart revolts at this conduct in a father, but we soon pass to admiration
that moral instinct, even combined with inclination, could not lead
reason astray in the empire where it commands. When Timoleon of Corinth
puts to death his beloved but ambitious brother, Timophanes, he does it
because his idea of duty to his country bids him to do so. The act here
inspires horror and repulsion as against nature and the moral sense, but
this feeling is soon succeeded by the highest admiration for his heroic
virtue, pronouncing, in a tumultuous conflict of emotions, freely and
calmly, with perfect rectitude. If we differ with Timoleon about his
duty as a republican, this does not change our view. Nay, in those
cases, where our understanding judges differently, we see all the more
clearly how high we put moral propriety above all other.
But the judgments of men on this moral phenomenon are exceedingly
various, and the reason of it is clear. Moral sense is common to all
men, but differs in strength. To most men it suffices that an act be
partially conformable with the moral law to make them obey it; and to
make them condemn an action it must glaringly violate the law. But to
determine the relation of moral duties with the highest principle of
morals requires an enlightened intelligence and an emancipated reason.
Thus an action which to a few will be a supreme propriety, will seem to
the crowd a revolting impropriety, though both judge morally; and hence
the emotion felt at such actions is by no means uniform. To the mass the
sublimest and highest is only exaggeration, because sublimity is
perceived by reason, and all men have not the same share of it. A vulgar
soul is oppressed or overstretched by those sublime ideas, and the crowd
sees dreadful disorder where a thinking mind sees the highest order.
This is enough about moral propriety as a principle of tragic emotion,
and the pleasure it elicits. It must be added that there are cases where
natural propriety also seems to charm our mind even at the cost of
morality. Thus we are always pleased by the sequence of machinations of
a perverse man, though his means and end are immoral. Such a man deeply
interests us, and we tremble lest his plan fail, though we ought to wish
it to do so. But this fact does not contradict what has been advanced
about moral propriety, - and the pleasure resulting from it.
Propriety, the reference of means to an end, is to us, in all cases, a
source of pleasure; even disconnected with morality. We experience this
pleasure unmixed, so long as we do not think of any moral end which
disallows action before us. Animal instincts give us pleasure - as the
industry of bees - without reference to morals; and in like manner human
actions are a pleasure to us when we consider in them only the relation
of means to ends. But if a moral principle be added to these, and
impropriety be discovered, if the idea of moral agent comes in, a deep
indignation succeeds our pleasure, which no intellectual propriety can
remedy. We must not call to mind too vividly that Richard III., Iago,
and Lovelace are men; otherwise our sympathy for them infallibly turns
into an opposite feeling. But, as daily experience teaches, we have the
power to direct our attention to different sides of things; and pleasure,
only possible through this abstraction, invites us to exercise it, and to
prolong its exercise.
Yet it is not rare for intelligent perversity to secure our favor by
being the means of procuring us the pleasure of moral propriety. The
triumph of moral propriety will be great in proportion as the snares set
by Lovelace for the virtue of Clarissa are formidable, and as the trials
of an innocent victim by a cruel tyrant are severe. It is a pleasure to
see the craft of a seducer foiled by the omnipotence of the moral sense.
On the other hand, we reckon as a sort of merit the victory of a
malefactor over his moral sense, because it is the proof of a certain
strength of mind and intellectual propriety.
Yet this propriety in vice can never be the source of a perfect pleasure,
except when it is humiliated by morality. In that case it is an
essential part of our pleasure, because it brings moral sense into
stronger relief. The last impression left on us by the author of
Clarissa is a proof of this. The intellectual propriety in the plan of
Lovelace is greatly surpassed by the rational propriety of Clarissa.
This allows us to feel in full the satisfaction caused by both.
When the tragic poet has for object to awaken in us the feeling of moral
propriety, and chooses his means skilfully for that end, he is sure to
charm doubly the connoisseur, by moral and by natural propriety. The
first satisfies the heart, the second the mind. The crowd is impressed
through the heart without knowing the cause of the magic impression.
But, on the other hand, there is a class of connoisseurs on whom that
which affects the heart is entirely lost, and who can only be gained by
the appropriateness of the means; a strange contradiction resulting from
over-refined taste, especially when moral culture remains behind
intellectual. This class of connoisseurs seek only the intellectual
side in touching and sublime themes. They appreciate this in the
justest manner, but you must beware how you appeal to their heart! The
over-culture of the age leads to this shoal, and nothing becomes the
cultivated man so much as to escape by a happy victory this twofold and
pernicious influence. Of all other European nations, our neighbors, the
French, lean most to this extreme, and we, as in all things, strain every
nerve to imitate this model.