Part 3

But law must value every man alike, And cannot save one man, or thousand men, From future evil, only possible, By greatest evil to another man, In its own view of justice. Nor can crime Meet punishment, at mortal hands, by right, For murder’s murder, done by one or twelve, And legal murder’s done in colder blood, Whose stains are chalked by vain authority. Authority! the child of numbers and self-love! Regard for rights of things, indeed, when beasts And birds must yield their right of life that man May please his right of taste. When, during Lent, The holy-days of fasting and of prayer, The scaly victims crowd the Bishop’s board, Their flesh unfleshed by Conscience’ pliant rule, Our palates must be for a moment pleased, Though costing something agonies of death; And worse than robbers, what we cannot give, We dare to take. They have no souls, say you? Nor after death exist? That nothing’s lost, Philosophy maintains as axiom truth. An object disappears, but somewhere lives In other form. The water-pool to mist Is changed, the powder into flame and smoke. My pointer dies, his body, decomposed, The air, the soil, and vegetation feeds; Yet still exists, although disintegrate. For there was something, while the pointer lived, That was not body, but that governed it, A spirit, essence, call it what you will, A something seen but through phenomena, And by them proved most clearly to exist. A something, not the feet that made them run, A something, not the eyes, but knew they saw, A something, without which the eyes could see As much as glasses can without the eye, The something, “Carlo” named, that knew the name. The pointer dies, and we dissect the flesh. All there, none missing, to the tiniest nerve; Yet something’s gone, the more important part, And can you say that it has ceased to be, When th’ flesh, inferior to it, still exists? The spirit, if existent, must be whole, Nor can be parted till material proven. That Carlo lives, seems plain as I shall live; He lived for self, and so did I; we fare Alike in after-life, we differ here In consciousness of immortality. But I digress. Where is the right and wrong? This is the Gordian knot no sword can cut, All sages of the world, with wisdom-teeth, Have gnawed this file without the least effect. The thousand savants of old Greece and Rome Proclaimed a thousand theories of good, That each, successive, proud devoid of truth. A myriad moderns have advanced their views, Each gained a few disciples, who avowed their truth, And each, by some one else, been proven wrong. A Bentham marches out utility, A moral test from benefit or harm. As if the good depended on effect, And good would not be good, though universe In all its phases found no use! And Price Parades his “reason,” with its simple good; Who’d rather give the question up, than err, And so declares it cannot be defined. Then Wollaston declares that good is truth, Which no one doubts, far as it goes; it goes Toward good, as far as truth, its attribute; Beyond, it cannot reach. And Montesquieu And Clarke, relation’s order preach; a rule That makes the growing grain, or falling shower, A moral agent, capable of good. Then Wolf and Malebranche perfection see, And therefore good, in God; but their sight fails, And God may mirror good, but man’s weak eyes Ne’er see it. Adam Smith, with “sentiment” Proceeds to dress a thought, and call it, good; And makes the abstract of a Universe Arise from puling human sympathy. The largest concourse follow Hutcheson, Although the greater part ne’er heard of him. The world at large believes in moral sense; They call it conscience! Oh the precious word! Though stretched and warped, they almost deify, And term it man’s tribunal in his breast, Where he may judge his actions, right or wrong. What nonsense! Conscience is but consciousness Of soul, and idea of its good. We form This idea from regard of fellow-men, Association, and from thought. We find Sometimes the good of soul conflicts with flesh, And when we know the soul above the flesh, We yield to that the preference. Hence arise The foolish notions of self disregard. The savage does not know he has a soul, And therefore has no conscience. He can steal Without remorse. But when he learns of soul, He finds it has a good, and by this test Tries moral actions, are they good for soul? And this is conscience. Yet is conscience changed By circumstance. The Hindoo mother tears The helpless infant from her trickling breast, To feed the crocodile, and save her soul; She’s happier in its conscience-murdered wail Than in its gleeful prattle on her knee. And daily we see one commit a deed Without a pang, another dare not do. If conscience may be warped but one degree By plain Sorites, it may be reversed, And only prove an interested thought.

To abstract good no man has found the key, Though in the various forms of concrete good We see the similars, and from these frame A good that serves the purposes of life. We pass it as we do the concept, “Man,” But never ope to count the attributes. Our purest right is but approximate To this vague abstract idea, how obtained, We know not. Plato says ’tis memory Of previous life. Perhaps! ’Tis very dim In this; and yet it rocks the cradle world As strongly as the baby man can bear And so of truth, or aught abstract, we know Of such existence somewhere, that is all. “But we,” cries one, “do hold some abstract truth, In perfect form. The truth of science’ laws, The truths of numbers, each are perfect truths.” The truths of science are hypotheses, And only true as far as they explain. But perfect truth must save all facts, That ever rose or possibly can rise. “The priest of Nature” thought he held the truth When throughout space he tracked the motes of light, And ground the sunbeams into dazzling dust. Our quivering waves through subtle ether flash, And drown Sir Isaac’s atoms in a flood Of glorious truth; till some new fact shall rise To give our truth the lie, and cause a change Of theory. Our numbers no truth have, Or but a shadow, cast on Earth by truth Existent in some unknown world. We make Our little numbers fit the shadow’s line As best they can, and boast eternal truth! Yet take a simple form of numbers, “two,” We cannot have a perfect thought of this, Because the mind directly asks, two what? ’Tis not enough chameleon to feed On empty air. Two units, we reply Then what is meant by unity? An “One,”-- The mind can only cognize o-n-e, Which makes three units and not one. The mind Must have a concrete object to adjust The abstract on, before it comprehends. But two concretes are never two, because They never can be proved exactly ’like. To illustrate: suppose two ivory balls, Of finest mold, and equal weight, precise As hair-hung scales, arranged most delicate, Can prove; yet they can not be shown To differ, not the trillionth of a grain; Or if they could, they may in density Be unlike; then to equal weight, one must Be larger by the trillionth of an inch. Even if alike in density and weight, No one will dare assert that they possess A perfect similarity in all. The abstract two is twice as much as one, But our two balls unlike, perforce must be Greater or less than two of either one; But two of one, the same can never be On poor, imperfect Earth. Thus all our twos Fall, in some measure, short of concept two. And if we paint the concept to the eye, The figure 2 of finest stereotype, Beneath the microscope imperfect shows. And so our perfect numbers, wisdom’s boast, Are faint, uncertain shadows in the mind, That we can never picture to the eye, Nor truthfully apply to anything. We use a ragged, ill-drawn substitute, That answers all the purposes of life. The truths of mathematics, so sublime, Are never true to us, concretely known; And in the abstract so concealed are they, No man can swear he has their perfect form. We can’t conceive a line without some breadth-- The perfect line possesses length alone; Earth never saw a pure right-angle drawn, Pythag’ras cannot prove his theorem, The finest quadrant is but nearest truth, The closest measures but approximate, And all from Sanconiathon to Pierce, With grandest soaring into Number’s realms, Have only fluttered feebly o’er the ground, Their heaven-strong wings by feebling matter tied.

Man is a pris’ner, but the prison walls Are very vast; so vast the universe Lies, like a mote, within their mighty scope. Most are content to grovel on the earth, Some rise a little way, and sink again; And some, on noble wing, soar to the bounds, And eager beat the bars. Beyond these walls The abstract lies, and oft the straggling rays, Through crevices and chinks, stray to our jail; And these we fondly hug as truth. Poor man! The glimpses of the great Beyond have roused, For centuries, his curious soul to flight. With eagle eye fixed on the distant goal, He cleaves his way, till dashed against the walls; Some fall with bruiséd wing again to Earth, And some cling bravely there, so eager they To reach the untouched prize, and so intent Their gaze upon its light, they notice not The bounds, till Hamilton, with wary eye, Discovers the Eternal bounding line, And sadly shows its hopeless fixity.

But man on Earth I love to ridicule, A little clod of sordid selfishness! I’ll take his mental acts of every kind And see how self originates them all; I’ll follow Stewart, since he classifies With shrewd discretion, though his reasoning err, He places first the appetites; and these Perforce are selfish, as our self alone Must feel and suffer with our wants. Our food Tastes good alone to us. The richest feast, In others’ mouths, could never satisfy Our appetite for food; self must be fed. Desires are next; and that of knowledge, first, Is proven selfish, by his quoted line From Cicero--that “knowledge is the food Of mind”--and food is ever sought for self. Desire of social intercourse with men, From thought that it will better self, proceeds. Man’s state is friendly, not a state of war, For instinct teaches him society Will offer many benefits to self; And only when he has a cause to fear That self will suffer, does he learn to war. Desire to gain esteem, is self in search Of approbation; like the appetite, The end pursued affects alone the self. And lastly Stewart boasts posthumous fame, When self, as sacrificed, can seek no good. To prove the motive is a selfish good, I’ll not assert enjoyment after life, But say, the pleasure of the millions’ praise, Anticipated in the present thought, And intense consciousness of heroism, Far more than compensates the pangs of death. A Curtius leaping down the dread abyss, Enjoys his fame enough, before he strikes, To pay for every pain of mangling death. Affections next adorn the moral page. At that of kindred, mothers cry aloud: “For shame! for shame! do you pretend to say I love my child with any thought of self? When I would lay my arm upon the block, And have it severed for his slightest good!” I’ll square your love by Reason’s rigid rule, And test its source. Why do you love him so? For benefit he has conferred, or may? No, as the helpless babe, demanding care, You love him most. Your love is instinct then, And like the cow her calf, you love your child; That you may care for him, before self moves. Then do you love him always just the same, When rude and bad as when obedient? But I’ll dissect your love, and take away Each part affecting self; and see what’s left. He now has grown beyond your instinct love; You love him, first, because he is your son, And you would suffer blame, if you did not; You love him, too, because he does reflect A credit on yourself. You feel assured That others thinking well of him, think well Of you. Because it flatters all your pride To think so fine a life is part of yours; Because his high opinion of your worth Evokes a meet return; because you look Into the future, and see honors bright Awaiting you through him; because you feel The world is praising you for loving him, And would condemn you, did you not. And last, You feel the pleasure deep of self-esteem, Because you fill the public’s and your own Romantic ideas of a mother’s love.

Let each component part be now destroyed, And see if still you love him. As a man, He plunges into vice of vilest kinds; His bright reflections on yourself are gone, And people think the worse of you, for him; You never smile, but frown, upon him now, But still you love him dearly! To his vice He adds a crime, a foul and blasting crime; Your pride is gone, you feel a bitter shame, A score of opposites to love creep in; A righteous anger at his foolish sins, A just contempt for nature, weak as his; But yet you love him fondly, for the world Is lauding you for “mother’s holy love”; And you delight its clinging strength to show, You gain in public credit by your woes, And get the soothing martyr’s sympathy. But let him still grow worse, and sink so low, That people say you are disgraced through him, Your warmest friends will not acquaintance own, Your love for such an object’s ridiculed, And gains respect from none. Your only chance Is to disown him. How you loud proclaim, “He’s not my child but by the accident Of birth!” Do yet you love him in your heart? This then because you think yourself so good, So heaven-like, for loving him disgraced, You go to see him in the shameful jail; He spits upon, and beats you from his cell, And tells you that he hates your very name. Now all your love is gone, except the glow Of pity for him chained to dungeon floor; But he’s released, and deeper goes in crime; Then, lastly, Pity yields. Your heart is stone!

But love was only touched in selfish part, Yet should you still deny your love is self’s; Of several children, do you not love most The one whose conduct pleases most yourself? But love, unselfish, never could be moved By anything affecting self alone.

The throbbing hearts of lovers beat for self, And this I’ll prove, though Pyramus may vow He has no thought but Thisbe. Take away Love’s sensual part, which is an appetite, And therefore selfish, by its Nature’s law; And what remains is, first, a slight conceit At our discernment in the choice we’ve made, And then a pride that we have won the prize; A pride, that some one thinks we are the best; A pleasure in her presence, too, we feel, Because in every look she manifests Her preference for us. This is flattering Beyond all else that we have ever known. A friend may raise our self-esteem, indeed, By showing constantly his own esteem, But never can man’s vanity receive A higher tribute than a woman’s love! This tribute, we, of course, reciprocate, And when together, we increase self-love By mutual words expressing our regard. Yet when our love is deepest, if we find Our Self is not so worshipped as we thought, Our love grows cold; and when we are not loved We cease to love. To illustrate permit:

You’re on the topmost wave of fervid love-- A wilder flame than poets ever sung; You’ve passed the timid declaration’s bounds, And revel in a full assured return. There is no need for check upon your heart, It has full leave to pour its gushing tide Of feeling forth, and meet responsive floods. You meet her in the parlor’s solitude, No meddling eye to watch the sacred scene. The purple curtains hang their corded folds Before the tell-tale windows; closed the door, And sealed with softest list. The rich divan Is drawn before the ruddy grate that glows With red between the bars, and blue above. You sit beside The Angel of your dreams, And gaze in adoration. What a form! Revealed in faultless symmetry by robes Of rare, exquisite elegance, and taste, That fit the tap’ring waist and arching neck. And how superbly flow the torrents of her hair! Which she has shaken loose, because “it’s you”; Her great brown eyes that gaze so dreamily Upon the flowers of the vellum-screen That wards the fire from her tinted cheek! One hollow foot, in dainty, bronze bootee, Tapping the tufted lion on the rug; A snowy hand with blazing solitaire-- The pledge of your betrothal--nestling soft Within your own. And thus you sit, and breathe With tones so soft, because the ear’s so near, The mutual confidence of little cares; And how you longed for months to tell your love, But feared a cold rebuke; and how you dared To hope through all the gloom; and how you grieved At every favor shown to other men; How now the clouds have flown away, And all is brightness, joy, and tender love. Then drawing nearer, round the slender waist You pass an arm; and nestling cheek to cheek, Palm throbbing palm, you hush all useless words, And thought meets thought, in silent love. And now and then, you leave the cheek, to kiss The coral lips; yet not with transient touch, But with a fervid, lingering pressure there, As if you longed to force the lips apart, And drink the soul; while both her melting orbs Are drooped beneath your burning inch-near eyes. The parting hour must come. The good-night said, You rise to leave; and turning, at the door, You see her head drooped on the sofa’s arm, You fancy she is sighing that you’re gone; And stealing back on tiptoe, gently raise The beauteous face, and take it ’twixt your palms; And gazing on the features radiant, Distorted queerly by your pressing hands, You feel that life, the parting cannot bear, That you must stay forever there, or die! Another effort, one more nectar sip, You rush from out the room, and slam the door, Just on the steps, you meet your rival’s face. He has an easy confidence, and walks Into the house, as if it were his own. Poor fellow! how you really pity him! You can afford to be magnanimous, And deprecate his certain, cruel fate. You murmur: “Well, he brings it on himself,” And turn to go. The window’s near the ground, And slightly raised. Although you know it’s mean, You cannot now resist, but creep up near, And with a finger part the curtain’s fringe. You see your darling run across the room With both extended hands, and hear her say: “Oh Fred! I am so very glad you’ve come, I feared that stupid thing would never leave, I had to let him take my hand awhile, And mumble over it, to get him off.”

You grasp the iron railing for support, And, faint and dizzy with the agony Of love’s departure, cling till all has fled; Then stagger home without a trace of love. Yet only Self is touched; her beauty’s there, Her sparkling wit, and her intelligence, Her manner even, towards you, has not changed, And, were you with her, she would be the same. Love’s every motive disappeared with Self, No pride of conquest, no romance of thought; You meet no sympathy, but ridicule!

A mother’s love may last through injury, Because it reaps the self’s reward of praise For constancy, through wrong. The lover’s flame. Unless supplied with fuel-self, dies out, For, burning, ’twould deserve supreme contempt.

The less affairs of life are traced to Self. The code of Etiquette, that Chesterfield Defines “Benevolence in little things,” Is but a scheme to give Self consciousness Of excellence in breeding, and to keep “Our Circle” sep’rate by its shibboleth. The stately bow, the graceful sip of wine, The useless little finger’s dainty crook In lifting up the fragile Sevres cup, The holding of the hat in morning calls, The touch of it when passing through the streets, The drawing of a glove, the use of cane-- Our every act is coupled with the thought How well Self does all this.

Our very words Are used to gratify the self. Men talk By preference, for they judge their words Will gain them more applause than listening. But if attention yields more fruit to Self, How patiently they hear the longest tale, And laugh in glee at its insipid close! If with superiors, we attend, because Attention pleases more with them than words; But if inferiors, we must talk the most, Since their attention flatters us so much. The cause of converse, Self, is oftenest food. How few the talks that are not spiced with “I,” What “I” can do, or did or will!

Sometimes, The Self is held, on purpose, up for jest; As when men tell a joke upon themselves. But here the shame of conduct or mishap Is more than balanced by the hearty laugh, Which gives its pleasant witness to our wit. We never tell what will present ourselves In such an aspect laughter cannot heal; Although it compliments our telling powers.

Attentions to the fair, but seek for Self Their smiles of favor. Little deeds of love To those around us, look for their reward. The youth polite, who gives his chair to Age, “Without a thought of Self,” is yet provoked, If Age do not evince, by nod or smile, His obligation to that unthought Self.

The very qualities we call innate, Arise and rule through Self. Our reverence, Or tendency to worship, is to gain A good. Religion grows this tendency Into the various Churches, all whose ends Are to secure eternal good for Self. And those who preach that man does sacrifice Himself for fellow-men, I ask, why none Will give his soul for others’? Many give The paltry life on Earth for others’ good; The very stones would cry “O! fool!” to him Who’d yield his soul; for that is highest Self, And nothing e’er can compensate its loss.