Appendix 2: Self-Love

THERE is a principle, supposed to prevail among many, which is utterly incompatible with all virtue or moral sentiment; and as it can proceed from nothing but the most depraved disposition, so in its turn it tends still further to encourage that depravity. This principle is, that all BENEVOLENCE is mere hypocrisy, friendship a cheat, public spirit a farce, fidelity a snare to procure trust and confidence; and that while all of us, at bottom, pursue only our private interest, we wear these fair disguises, in order to put others off their guard, and expose them the more to our wiles and machinations. What heart one must be possessed of who possesses such principles, and who feels no internal sentiment that belies so pernicious a theory, it is easy to imagine: and also what degree of affection and benevolence he can bear to a species whom he represents under such odious colours, and supposes so little susceptible of gratitude or any return of affection. Or if we should not ascribe these principles wholly to a corrupted heart, we must at least account for them from the most careless and precipitate examination. Superficial reasoners, indeed, observing many false pretences among mankind, and feeling, perhaps, no very strong restraint in their own disposition, might draw a general and a hasty conclusion that all is equally corrupted, and that men, different from all other animals, and indeed from all other species of existence, admit of no degrees of good or bad, but are, in every instance, the same creatures under different disguises and appearances.

There is a belief thought to be widespread that is utterly incompatible with virtue or moral feeling. It can arise only from the most depraved disposition, and it encourages that depravity even further. The belief is that all benevolence is mere hypocrisy, friendship is a fraud, and concern for the public is a farce. It holds that loyalty is a trap for gaining trust and confidence. According to this belief, all of us pursue only our private interests. We put on these pleasing disguises to catch others off guard and make them more vulnerable to our schemes and plots. It is easy to imagine what kind of heart someone must have to hold such beliefs. Such a person feels nothing within that contradicts so harmful a theory. It is also easy to imagine how much affection and goodwill he can feel for the human species. He portrays people in such hateful terms and assumes they are scarcely capable of gratitude or returning affection. Or, if we should not attribute these beliefs entirely to a corrupt heart, we must at least explain them by an extremely careless and hasty examination. Superficial thinkers do observe many false claims among people. Perhaps they also feel no very strong restraint in their own character. They might therefore draw a hasty, general conclusion that all are equally corrupt. They might conclude that humans, unlike all other animals and indeed all other kinds of beings, show no degrees of good or bad. Instead, on this view, humans are in every case the same creatures, merely wearing different disguises and appearances.

There is another principle, somewhat resembling the former; which has been much insisted on by philosophers, and has been the foundation of many a system; that, whatever affection one may feel, or imagine he feels for others, no passion is, or can be disinterested; that the most generous friendship, however sincere, is a modification of self-love; and that, even unknown to ourselves, we seek only our own gratification, while we appear the most deeply engaged in schemes for the liberty and happiness of mankind. By a turn of imagination, by a refinement of reflection, by an enthusiasm of passion, we seem to take part in the interests of others, and imagine ourselves divested of all selfish considerations: but, at bottom, the most generous patriot and most niggardly miser, the bravest hero and most abject coward, have, in every action, an equal regard to their own happiness and welfare.

There is another principle that somewhat resembles the previous one. Philosophers have often insisted on it, and it has been the foundation of many systems. According to this principle, whatever affection we feel, or imagine we feel, for others, no passion is or can be unselfish. Even the most generous friendship, however sincere, is a form of self-love. And even when we seem most deeply involved in plans for the freedom and happiness of humanity, we seek only our own satisfaction, without knowing it. Through a turn of imagination, subtle reflection, or passionate enthusiasm, we seem to share the interests of others. We imagine ourselves free from all selfish concerns. But at heart, the most generous patriot and the stingiest miser are equally concerned with their own happiness and welfare in everything they do. The same is true of the bravest hero and the most abject coward.

Whoever concludes from the seeming tendency of this opinion, that those, who make profession of it, cannot possibly feel the true sentiments of benevolence, or have any regard for genuine virtue, will often find himself, in practice, very much mistaken. Probity and honour were no strangers to Epicurus and his sect. Atticus and Horace seem to have enjoyed from nature, and cultivated by reflection, as generous and friendly dispositions as any disciple of the austerer schools. And among the modern, Hobbes and Locke, who maintained the selfish system of morals, lived irreproachable lives; though the former lay not under any restraint of religion which might supply the defects of his philosophy.

Someone might draw a conclusion from what this opinion seems to imply. They might conclude that those who profess it cannot possibly feel genuine benevolence or care about true virtue. But in practice, they will often find themselves very much mistaken. Epicurus and his followers were familiar with integrity and honor. Atticus and Horace seem to have been naturally as generous and friendly as any follower of the stricter schools. They also cultivated those qualities through reflection. Among modern thinkers, Hobbes and Locke upheld the selfish theory of morals and lived blameless lives. Hobbes did so even though he was not subject to any religious restraints that might make up for his philosophy’s defects.

An epicurean or a Hobbist readily allows, that there is such a thing as a friendship in the world, without hypocrisy or disguise; though he may attempt, by a philosophical chymistry, to resolve the elements of this passion, if I may so speak, into those of another, and explain every affection to be self-love, twisted and moulded, by a particular turn of imagination, into a variety of appearances. But as the same turn of imagination prevails not in every man, nor gives the same direction to the original passion; this is sufficient even according to the selfish system to make the widest difference in human characters, and denominate one man virtuous and humane, another vicious and meanly interested. I esteem the man whose self-love, by whatever means, is so directed as to give him a concern for others, and render him serviceable to society: as I hate or despise him, who has no regard to any thing beyond his own gratifications and enjoyments. In vain would you suggest that these characters, though seemingly opposite, are at bottom the same, and that a very inconsiderable turn of thought forms the whole difference between them. Each character, notwithstanding these inconsiderable differences, appears to me, in practice, pretty durable and untransmutable. And I find not in this more than in other subjects, that the natural sentiments arising from the general appearances of things are easily destroyed by subtile reflections concerning the minute origin of these appearances. Does not the lively, cheerful colour of a countenance inspire me with complacency and pleasure; even though I learn from philosophy that all difference of complexion arises from the most minute differences of thickness, in the most minute parts of the skin; by means of which a superficies is qualified to reflect one of the original colours of light, and absorb the others?

An Epicurean or a follower of Hobbes readily admits that genuine friendship exists, without hypocrisy or disguise. Yet he may try, through a kind of philosophical chemistry, to reduce the elements of this feeling to those of another. He may explain every affection as self-love, twisted and shaped by a particular turn of imagination into many different forms. But not everyone has the same turn of imagination, and it does not direct the original feeling the same way in everyone. Even according to this selfish theory, that is enough to produce the widest differences in human character. It is enough to call one person virtuous and humane, and another vicious and narrowly self-interested. I respect the person whose self-love, however it happens, is directed toward caring for others and serving society. I hate or despise the person who cares for nothing beyond his own pleasures and enjoyments. You might suggest that these characters, though apparently opposite, are fundamentally the same. You might say that only a very small turn of thought makes the whole difference between them. But such suggestions would be useless. Despite these small differences, each character seems to me, in practice, fairly lasting and resistant to change. Here, as elsewhere, I do not find that subtle reflections on the tiny origins of appearances easily destroy our natural responses to how things generally appear. Does not a lively, cheerful complexion give me a sense of approval and pleasure? It does, even though philosophy teaches me that all differences in complexion come from the tiniest differences in thickness in the tiniest parts of the skin. These differences make a surface reflect one of the original colors of light and absorb the others.

But though the question concerning the universal or partial selfishness of man be not so material as is usually imagined to morality and practice, it is certainly of consequence in the speculative science of human nature, and is a proper object of curiosity and enquiry. It may not, therefore, be unsuitable, in this place, to bestow a few reflections upon it.⁵⁰

But whether people are entirely or only partly selfish matters less to morality and practice than is usually thought. Still, the question matters to the study of human nature and is a proper subject for curiosity and inquiry. It may therefore be appropriate to give the question some thought here.⁵⁰

The most obvious objection to the selfish hypothesis is, that, as it is contrary to common feeling and our most unprejudiced notions, there is required the highest stretch of philosophy to establish so extraordinary a paradox. To the most careless observer there appear to be such dispositions as benevolence and generosity; such affections as love, friendship, compassion, gratitude. These sentiments have their causes, effects, objects, and operations, marked by common language and observation, and plainly distinguished from those of the selfish passions. And as this is the obvious appearance of things, it must be admitted, till some hypothesis be discovered, which by penetrating deeper into human nature, may prove the former affections to be nothing but modifications of the latter. All attempts of this kind have hitherto proved fruitless, and seem to have proceeded entirely from that love of SIMPLICITY which has been the source of much false reasoning in philosophy. I shall not here enter into any detail on the present subject. Many able philosophers have shown the insufficiency of these systems. And I shall take for granted what, I believe, the smallest reflection will make evident to every impartial enquirer.

The most obvious objection to the selfish hypothesis is that it goes against common feeling and our most impartial judgments. It would take the utmost philosophical effort to establish such an extraordinary paradox. Even the most careless observer can see that people seem capable of benevolence and generosity, and of love, friendship, compassion, and gratitude. Everyday language and observation identify the causes, effects, objects, and workings of these feelings. They also clearly distinguish them from those of selfish passions. Since this is how things obviously appear, we must accept it until someone finds a hypothesis that looks deeper into human nature. Such a hypothesis might prove that the former feelings are nothing but forms of the latter. All attempts to do this have so far failed. They seem to have arisen entirely from the love of SIMPLICITY, which has caused much false reasoning in philosophy. I will not discuss the subject in detail here. Many able philosophers have shown that these systems are inadequate. I will take for granted what I believe even a little reflection will make clear to every impartial inquirer.

But the nature of the subject furnishes the strongest presumption, that no better system will ever, for the future, be invented, in order to account for the origin of the benevolent from the selfish affections, and reduce all the various emotions of the human mind to a perfect simplicity. The case is not the same in this species of philosophy as in physics. Many an hypothesis in nature, contrary to first appearances, has been found, on more accurate scrutiny, solid and satisfactory. Instances of this kind are so frequent that a judicious, as well as witty philosopher,⁵¹ has ventured to affirm, if there be more than one way in which any phenomenon may be produced, that there is general presumption for its arising from the causes which are the least obvious and familiar. But the presumption always lies on the other side, in all enquiries concerning the origin of our passions, and of the internal operations of the human mind. The simplest and most obvious cause which can there be assigned for any phenomenon, is probably the true one. When a philosopher, in the explication of his system, is obliged to have recourse to some very intricate and refined reflections, and to suppose them essential to the production of any passion or emotion, we have reason to be extremely on our guard against so fallacious an hypothesis. The affections are not susceptible of any impression from the refinements of reason or imagination; and it is always found that a vigorous exertion of the latter faculties, necessarily, from the narrow capacity of the human mind, destroys all activity in the former. Our predominant motive or intention is, indeed, frequently concealed from ourselves when it is mingled and confounded with other motives which the mind, from vanity or self-conceit, is desirous of supposing more prevalent: but there is no instance that a concealment of this nature has ever arisen from the abstruseness and intricacy of the motive. A man that has lost a friend and patron may flatter himself that all his grief arises from generous sentiments, without any mixture of narrow or interested considerations: but a man that grieves for a valuable friend, who needed his patronage and protection; how can we suppose, that his passionate tenderness arises from some metaphysical regards to a self-interest, which has no foundation or reality? We may as well imagine that minute wheels and springs, like those of a watch, give motion to a loaded waggon, as account for the origin of passion from such abstruse reflections.

But the nature of the subject strongly suggests that no better system will ever be invented to explain benevolent feelings as arising from selfish ones. Nor will any better system reduce all the varied emotions of the human mind to complete simplicity. This kind of philosophy is different from physics. Many theories about nature that seemed contrary to first appearances have proved sound and satisfactory on closer examination. Such cases are so common that a wise and witty philosopher⁵¹ has ventured to make a claim about them. If a phenomenon can be produced in more than one way, he says, we should generally assume that it arises from the least obvious and familiar causes. But in all inquiries into the origins of our passions and the inner workings of the human mind, the presumption always favors the opposite view. The simplest and most obvious cause we can assign to any such phenomenon is probably the true one. A philosopher may have to appeal to very intricate and subtle reflections when explaining his system. If he must suppose that such reflections are essential to producing a passion or emotion, we have reason to be extremely wary of so deceptive a theory. The feelings cannot be influenced by the subtleties of reason or imagination. Indeed, because the human mind has limited capacity, vigorous use of reason or imagination is always found to destroy all activity in the feelings. Our main motive or intention is often hidden from us when it is mixed and confused with other motives. Out of vanity or self-conceit, the mind may want to believe that these other motives are stronger. But no motive has ever been hidden from us in this way because it was too obscure or intricate. A man who has lost a friend and patron may flatter himself that all his grief comes from generous feelings, with no mixture of narrow or self-interested concerns. But what of a man who grieves for a valued friend who needed his patronage and protection? How can we suppose that his passionate affection arises from some abstract concern for a self-interest that has no basis or reality? We might as well imagine that tiny wheels and springs, like those of a watch, set a loaded wagon in motion as explain the origin of passion through such obscure reflections.

Animals are found susceptible of kindness, both to their own species and to ours; nor is there, in this case, the least suspicion of disguise or artifice. Shall we account for all THEIR sentiments, too, from refined deductions of self-interest? Or if we admit a disinterested benevolence in the inferior species, by what rule of analogy can we refuse it in the superior?

Animals can show kindness both to their own species and to ours. There is no reason to suspect that they are pretending or being deceptive. Shall we explain all THEIR feelings, too, as the result of subtle calculations of self-interest? Or, if we admit that lower species can show selfless kindness, how can we deny the same to higher species?

Love between the sexes begets a complacency and good-will, very distinct from the gratification of an appetite. Tenderness to their offspring, in all sensible beings, is commonly able alone to counter-balance the strongest motives of self-love, and has no manner of dependance on that affection. What interest can a fond mother have in view, who loses her health by assiduous attendance on her sick child, and afterwards languishes and dies of grief, when freed, by its death, from the slavery of that attendance?

Love between the sexes creates pleasure in each other and goodwill, quite apart from the satisfaction of desire. In all feeling beings, tenderness toward offspring is commonly enough on its own to outweigh the strongest motives of self-love. It does not depend on self-love in any way. What self-interest can a loving mother have in mind when she loses her health from constant care of her sick child? After the child dies, freeing her from the burden of that care, she wastes away and dies of grief.

Is gratitude no affection of the human breast, or is that a word merely, without any meaning or reality? Have we no satisfaction in one man's company above another's, and no desire of the welfare of our friend, even though absence or death should prevent us from all participation in it? Or what is it commonly, that gives us any participation in it, even while alive and present, but our affection and regard to him?

Is gratitude not a human feeling? Or is it merely a word, with no meaning or reality? Do we not enjoy one person's company more than another's? Do we not wish our friend well, even if absence or death prevents us from sharing in their happiness at all? Or what usually allows us to share in our friend's happiness, even when we are alive and together, except our affection and regard for them?

These and a thousand other instances are marks of a general benevolence in human nature, where no REAL interest binds us to the object. And how an IMAGINARY interest known and avowed for such, can be the origin of any passion or emotion, seems difficult to explain. No satisfactory hypothesis of this kind has yet been discovered; nor is there the smallest probability that the future industry of men will ever be attended with more favourable success.

These and a thousand other examples show a general benevolence in human nature, even when no REAL interest connects us to the object of our concern. And it is hard to explain how an IMAGINARY interest, known and acknowledged to be imaginary, could give rise to any passion or emotion. No satisfactory explanation of this kind has yet been found. Nor is there the slightest chance that people's future efforts will ever meet with greater success.

But farther, if we consider rightly of the matter, we shall find that the hypothesis which allows of a disinterested benevolence, distinct from self-love, has really more SIMPLICITY in it, and is more conformable to the analogy of nature than that which pretends to resolve all friendship and humanity into this latter principle. There are bodily wants or appetites acknowledged by every one, which necessarily precede all sensual enjoyment, and carry us directly to seek possession of the object. Thus, hunger and thirst have eating and drinking for their end; and from the gratification of these primary appetites arises a pleasure, which may become the object of another species of desire or inclination that is secondary and interested. In the same manner there are mental passions by which we are impelled immediately to seek particular objects, such as fame or power, or vengeance without any regard to interest; and when these objects are attained a pleasing enjoyment ensues, as the consequence of our indulged affections. Nature must, by the internal frame and constitution of the mind, give an original propensity to fame, ere we can reap any pleasure from that acquisition, or pursue it from motives of self-love, and desire of happiness. If I have no vanity, I take no delight in praise: if I be void of ambition, power gives me no enjoyment: if I be not angry, the punishment of an adversary is totally indifferent to me. In all these cases there is a passion which points immediately to the object, and constitutes it our good or happiness; as there are other secondary passions which afterwards arise, and pursue it as a part of our happiness, when once it is constituted such by our original affections. Were there no appetite of any kind antecedent to self-love, that propensity could scarcely ever exert itself; because we should, in that case, have felt few and slender pains or pleasures, and have little misery or happiness to avoid or to pursue.

But if we consider the matter carefully, we find something more. The view that allows for selfless benevolence, distinct from self-love, is actually simpler. It also fits the patterns of nature better than the view that reduces all friendship and concern for others to self-love. Everyone acknowledges that we have bodily needs or appetites that must come before any physical pleasure. These appetites drive us directly to seek the things that satisfy them. Hunger and thirst, for example, aim at eating and drinking. Satisfying these basic appetites brings pleasure. That pleasure may then become the object of another kind of desire, one that is secondary and self-interested. In the same way, mental passions drive us directly to seek particular things, such as fame, power, or revenge. They do so without any regard for self-interest. When we get these things, we enjoy the pleasure that follows from satisfying our passions. Nature must give the mind an inborn tendency to seek fame before we can take pleasure in gaining it. Only then can we pursue fame from self-love and a desire for happiness. If I have no vanity, praise gives me no pleasure. If I have no ambition, power gives me no enjoyment. If I am not angry, I am completely indifferent to the punishment of an opponent. In all these cases, a passion points directly to an object and makes it a source of good or happiness for us. Other, secondary passions then arise and pursue that object as part of our happiness, once our original passions have made it so. If no appetite of any kind came before self-love, self-love could hardly ever act. For then we would have felt few and slight pains or pleasures, and would have little misery to avoid or happiness to pursue.

Now where is the difficulty in conceiving, that this may likewise be the case with benevolence and friendship, and that, from the original frame of our temper, we may feel a desire of another's happiness or good, which, by means of that affection, becomes our own good, and is afterwards pursued, from the combined motives of benevolence and self-enjoyments? Who sees not that vengeance, from the force alone of passion, may be so eagerly pursued, as to make us knowingly neglect every consideration of ease, interest, or safety; and, like some vindictive animals, infuse our very souls into the wounds we give an enemy;⁵² and what a malignant philosophy must it be, that will not allow to humanity and friendship the same privileges which are undisputably granted to the darker passions of enmity and resentment; such a philosophy is more like a satyr than a true delineation or description of human nature; and may be a good foundation for paradoxical wit and raillery, but is a very bad one for any serious argument or reasoning.

Why is it difficult to imagine that the same may be true of benevolence and friendship? Our original nature may lead us to desire another person’s happiness or good. Through that affection, their good becomes our own good. We then pursue it from the combined motives of benevolence and personal enjoyment. Who does not see that passion alone may drive us to pursue revenge eagerly? We may knowingly neglect every concern for comfort, self-interest, or safety. Like some vengeful animals, we may pour our very souls into the wounds we inflict on an enemy.⁵² What a spiteful philosophy it must be that denies humanity and friendship the same powers unquestionably granted to the darker passions of hostility and resentment! Such a philosophy is more like a satire than a true account of human nature. It may provide a good basis for witty paradoxes and mockery, but it is a very bad basis for serious argument or reasoning.