THE INFLUENCE OF AMBITION ON HAPPINESS. AMBITION is one of those feelings of the human breast which may become a virtue or a vice. It contains within itself in most cases, the elements of discontent, since it never leads a man to rest satisfied with his condition in life. There are, of course, various kinds of ambition: there is the ambition to be wealthy-to be great and powerful-and that ambition without which man is not an estimable being, the desire to excel in goodness; to be considered a Christian member of society, fulfilling his duties with honour to himself and the Almighty. But it is that kind more especially which teaches man to grasp at an indefinite amount of power and greatness with which we have at present to deal. There is doubtless something ennobling in the feeling of ambition-something which awakens our admiration, in spite of the evil effects which it often exercises upon society. It is naturally kindled in the mind of youth by his very earliest studies. He looks back on the records of the past, and cannot fail to perceive that through its influence the greatest deeds have been accomplished; by it the fate of empires has been swayed; by its concentrated efforts the rise and decline of nations has been brought about. Over the whole world lie scattered monuments which speak of the ambitious nature of man; history is full of brief allusions to wild and restless spirits, who grasped at ALL and obtained not half of what they desired. Over the gloom of the past, in whose bosom lie enrolled the records of the deeds of so many millions, some brilliant rays are scattered which cannot be obscured. They are the memories of those who dared to step forward and proclaim by their actions their soul's desire to rise superior to the common herd of mankind. They have most of them accomplished something, but could their silent spirits step forth from the grave and speak once more, they would still tell of some half-accomplished desire, some uncompleted task, something of which they had dreamed, some favourite project yet unperformed. The life of an ambitious man is too brief; from the cradle to the grave he lives in the notion that eternity of action is before him. He forgets that, when at the summit of his earthly glory-when, radiant with hope and bounding with energy, he is surrounded with the gilded halo of power, that a cold form must soon brush by, and cast a shadow upon all the glittering scene. Then there is no more attraction for him; a bitter taste is in every joy, and the picture of the past presents only a series of laborious steps-to what?—Halfaccomplished aims. Let, however, the past show what pictures it may of unfulfilled wishes, the future will infallibly unfold the same. As long as the race of man shall inhabit the earth, there will be found ambitious spirits among them. History will display the same records of desired aggrandisement and hopes unfulfilled. The nature of man inclines him to imitate the actions of his ancestors, or rather he is inspired by their example to do similar deeds himself. The young man's heart pants for the same eulogiums as have been bestowed upon others. He hangs on the relation of their deeds, witnesses with a kind of pain the non-fulfilment of their hopes, and is readily persuaded by the sophistry of his own heart that, if he attempt to rise, and accomplish great things, he will not, cannot fail; "For," he argues, "fortune has made an exception in my favour." Nor is he undeceived until, after long years of aspiration, long years of toil, he finds himself in the same situation he was at starting. We must, however, before we proceed further, decide what ambition is. The word is generally used in a bad sense for an immoderate or illegal pursuit of power. It also signifies a passion never to be satisfied, to which each trifling success offers a further incentive, until it magnifies into an overpowering degree and becomes the master passion of the heart. Like the grain of mustard seed, it is a small thing at first, but it grows and ripens, and spreads, until it forms a fine tree, beneath whose shade many may repose. Its branches extend around to the east and to the west, to the north and to the south. Its rounded top shows no decided tendency upwards, but spreads over the things of the earth. What is it but a chase after a vain thing? The ambitious man is restless, brooding, discontented. An undefined hope urges him forward to something shadowed forth in the unformed future, something which he imagines will satisfy him. There is a goal to be reached. A fever agitates his veins. The point is gained. It is well. But-there is a but-what is that brighter goal still beyond? What is that glorious spot far away? A pleasant landscape spreads beyond. The position he occupies is full of the elements of happiness but there is something higher. On once more he flies. Thus for ever! Position after position is gained. Still there is another step. Arrived at the summit of one mountain, another and another is discovered, rising one behind each other; some burying their lofty summits in white mist, others whose giddy height cannot be even guessed at. We are far from contending against the principle, the mere passion of ambition. To do so would be to seek to produce a wrong impression upon our readers. To a certain extent we admire ambition. We pity the man utterly devoid of it, and consider him a poor weak thing, incapable of exertion, incapable of enjoying the benefits which God has mercifully placed within his reach. We admire the aspiring tendency of the mind which aims at securing some higher position from whence to shed down its light upon the world. There is something morally elevating and praiseworthy in the desire to rise. But what we blame is the folly-nothing else can it be called-which urges a man to that desperate kind of ambition which leads him to grasp at what can never be his. He takes too lofty a point of elevation. Those born in a moderate station may possibly rise, and often do so, to a very high eminence. But there are certain concomitants required in most instances to make it practicable. In this country patronage, friends, money, are required; and proudly as the ambitious man would scorn the idea of patronage, he must take home to his bosom this unwelcome truth, that without a certain amount of patronage he cannot accomplish his desires. A few examples may be culled from the past-nay, from the present, too, of a person having risen by his own unaided efforts. Many rise from a poor station to a very comfortable one, but in most instances some fortunate chance has presided over the dawn of those who come to greatness— some accident which the next generation may not witness again. Ambition, tempered by reflection, is a very good thing; but without it, it is a feverish chain, dragging man forward to an unprofitable goal. Hundreds of examples may be brought forward of its ruinous consequences. No one who has had an opportunity of witnessing its all-powerful effects can fail to perceive the truth of what we urge. To check the disposition to too great an indulgence in their feelings young persons should at a very early age have instilled into them the lesson of content. Could they but feel how calm an influence it exerts upon the mind, they would look with little concern upon the temptations offered them by ambition. It is, carried to extent, a most dangerous feeling; spreading by degrees, it exerts for a time an almost imperceptible sway over the soul, and instead of bringing young men to habits of settled study, sways them to and fro; they lean now to one thing, now to another. Now history claims their attention, now they have a passion for poetry, now huge doses of philosophy are swallowed with avidity, now rhetoric, logic, are devoured. They contemplate all mankind, all greatness, all power, all study, all learning, envy all these things, and desire to embrace them in one grasp and concentrate them in themselves. They must excel every one else; they must unite the student with the polished gentleman. The lonely inhabitant of the library, the watcher by the midnight lamp, must be the observed of all observers whither soever he goes. Relieved from the confines of study, or rather tired of the restrictions it imposes upon him, he seeks his books with less delight. His ambition has taught him to grasp at too much, and he is disappointed. What restless fever is it that consumes him night and day? 'Tis no longer learning but power he aims at. He is not sought as he imagined, fortune does not select him for its favoured child, and moroseness settles upon him, blighting his energies, and chilling his best feelings. Let us take from the numerous instances at hand one only, which offers as striking an example as any we have ever met with. Henry Vere, was a young man, of poor but unexceptionable family. An University education bestowed upon him aroused his most ambitious feelings. The son of a clergyman, who had stinted the rest of the family in necessaries in order to send him to Oxford, the church had been his destiny from infancy; but Vere had inherited from his father an ambitious spirit, and though in him he had seen fully exemplified the hollowness of indulging it, he suffered his mind to take a still more stirring bias. Political aggrandisement was his aim. If ever he had asked himself what happiness was, he would have answered that it lay in attaining the summit of political power. Of obstacles he never dreamed. His spirit was untiring, his energy indomitable. To gain the goal for which his soul panted he would sacrifice health, rest, comfort of every kind. There was the goal-how was it to be reached? In his young dreams a wealthy alliance floated before his imagination-this was the first step; and to doubt that he, with his accomplishments, his manners, his conversation, even without fortune, was to be resisted, was a thing that never entered his head. A situation procured by favour for him in London as private secretary to a gentleman of rank threw him much into the very circle in which he wished to move. This was one step gained. But where was the welcome he expected? Cold looks greeted him from highborn dames, who with daughters on their hands, were anxious to obtain for them a more splendid alliance than Lord G- -'s private secretary, be he never so fascinating or so accomplished. Beauty floated by him. He gazed upon one fair face after another, and sighed as he beheld the crowd of admirers which thronged around them; he was not undaunted, however, he trusted to his own power too much to be downcast. At length, one day, he beheld a beautiful girl glide under the protection of her father into Lord G's drawing-room; she was a fair, sweet, mild, young creature, robed in white, with a profusion of golden ringlets. Many sought her hand in the dance, and he among the rest. She was as intelligent as she was lovely, yet mild as a Madonna. For the first time Henry Vere felt that he was in love; he saw her again and again; she must be of the highest rank, he said when he first saw her, and, in his favour be it spoken, he never thought of it again. For a while ambition was forgotten, the best feelings of his heart were enlisted, and she became his daily, hourly dream. Time went on; emboldened by his apparent success, he sought her society more and more. At length he inquired concerning her family of some one likely to know; she was the daughter of a retired officer in the army, and almost as poor as she was lovely. Here, then, was the finale to his hopes; he could not compromise his future by such an alliance-no, it was impossible. He absented himself from her society, but the struggle was vain. Every future scheme was at last given way to; he forgot ambition, forgot his brilliant hopes, returned to the pursuit of Annie Seaton, and at length their marriage was agreed on. Now was a change made in Henry Vere's fortune; a situation abroad was offered him, and with his bride he quitted England. For a while all went well, he was devotedly attached to his young wife, spent his whole time in her society, wondered how he could have ever dreamt of ambition, and made a thousand domestic plans. But the crisis was coming; a friend in England hastily wrote to offer him a government appointment at home, once more dreams of aggrandisement floated over his mind, domestic happiness was become less attractive--a stirring picture spread itself before his excited imagination, the whole circle of society in England was awaiting him with open arms; he must return, he would be feted, received as he deserved, and in a few years be made prime minister of England! He returned. The appointment was given. It threw him into a new circle. Society was fascinating, his wife was more occupied than she had formerly been, and he found himself plunging into a giddy vortex of fashionable society; he argued, "It is necessary that I do this for her sake-for the sake of my children." He was in a comfortable position; his villa at Richmond was the most tasteful in the world, and yet after a year or two it seemed too small; still his circumstances did not permit him to change. His wife was satisfied; she was happy with her children, and he put up with it still; but Vere was a changed man—his ambition had slumbered; it now awoke with redoubled vigour, he became restless, uneasy, morose; he aimed at being considered the first whither soever he went. Society, he thought, scarcely appreciated him. The happy, peaceful, domestic, hours he had spent with his wife in the early years of their marriage were fled; in vain was a return of these hoped for by her, society absorbed him entirely. A higher post was vacant, he applied for it-weeks flew on-no answer; at length a negative came. Here was the first blow, but it only made him more eager; he was ever on the watch-he was feverish, restless, discontented, no peace was in his mind, content was banished, day and night his dream was aggrandisement--others rose, why should not he? His wife's health became delicate, her form wasted visibly away; but his eye saw it not. Consumption had taken a firm hold upon her before he understood the change; she concealed it from him while she was able; she saw and pitied his weakness, and forbore to remonstrate with him. At length two situations were offered him, one abroad, one at home, infinitely more lucrative, and more likely to lead the way to future fame. Blinded by his desire to rise, he did not perceive the anxiety with which his wife watched his wavering between the two. She hoped that away from the busy scenes of politics his mind would be at ease, and that he would pass the few last years of his life at peace and in quietness. As might be expected, he chose the one in England. Now nothing seemed to stand in his way-the goal once gained, he would quit the busy scene and return to his home. Day after day brought fresh attractions; he was in constant communication with his friends; society had more charms for him than ever. But the story is soon told. Suddenly his wife died; and, one by one, her three children; and thus he was left alone to contend with his greatness. Had he an object now? No; the ambitious man, when he beheld these household gods fade, one by one, felt that he only knew their value when they were gone! Grief, however, passed-the wound closed-and he found himself again seeking after excitement. Suddenly came a change of ministry, and in one night all was over-the ambitious man was restored to his first position in society! He was without hope; the friends who had supported him were powererless, and nothing was to be expected from them. Suddenly renouncing all his schemes, he retired into the country on a small annuity; and there he remained, a peevish, discontented, soured old man, to the day of his death. What did he gain? The answer is soon given. Nothing-but lost much; for though he once yielded to the dictates of his heart, he sacrificed afterwards all the purest feelings of his nature upon the shrine of ambition. He sacrificed his home, his happiness, his wife, his children-all to his one absorbing passion. And when the hour of death came, unwelcome thoughts must have intrudedvain regrets must have filled his mind-memories of opportunities neglected, time thrown away, must have arisen. Earthly riches he had sought—perishable baubles!—and earthly sorrow and remorse was his reward. A temperate pursuit after position would have left him worthy of esteem. No ambitious man was ever a domestic one. Imperceptibly the former dries up the less vehement feelings. Let him flatter himself in youth as he may that he is capable of uniting them together, of blending opposite principles of action, he cannot, will not do it. He must give himself wholly to the pursuit of ambition-forget all else. It is the bane of domestic happiness. There is not, cannot be, continual excitement round the domestic hearth. The light that shines there is a pure but steady one. Virtues flourish peaceably. Year after year fresh flowers are added to the parterre-blue eyes and sunny brows reflect the images of the fathers and mothers; sweet voices mingle in harmonious concert; lisping words break the silence. The mother is among them, and gentle counsel flows in streams of love around. And this picture from day to day repeated is too quiet for the ambitious man. It is beautiful but still. The sight that would kindle the man of more contented disposition into gratitude and love to God falls coldly upon the heart of the busy seeker after power. He looks, he smiles; sometimes a struggling ray of affection calls him among them. But it is over in a moment. There are things to be done; work to be done. He must not be found at home idle. Thus, though at first he may find a certain degree of happiness in the consciousness of loving and being loved, the ambitious man may rest assured such happiness cannot last. He must choose between domestic joy and the pursuit of his favourite passion. One or the other must be given up. He should be satisfied with what yields him such unmixed delight, and should pass singly through the world, divested of all ties. To live from day to day in the discontented and unceasing pursuit of a distant tempting prospect is incompatible with home happiness. Those who understand least the pernicious influence of the passion laud it most earnestly. Certainly, we once more repeat, a certain amount of ambition is desirable. It urges man on in life to obtain that station most befitting his energies. What we inveigh against, is that inveterate pursuit of an unattainable object which runs through every action of a man's life, urges him to renounce the purest delights we can call our own, neglect those bound to him by the nearest ties, forget the mission with which he is charged, and imagine that he is sent into this world solely to minister to his own gratification, pursue his own course, unmindful of the high and important functions he is called upon to exercise towards his fellow men. Or dreams she of the gallant knight, When last she read his fate? Vaguely they come by day, by night, And scenes half hid in clouds of mist |