3.1.3. Chap. III
Of the Influences and Authority of Conscience
But though the approbation of his own conscience can scarce,
upon some extraordinary occasions, content the weakness of man;
though the testimony of the supposed impartial spectator, of the
great inmate of the breast, cannot always alone support him; yet
the influence and authority of this principle is, upon all
occasions, very great; and it is only by consulting this judge
within, that we can ever see what relates to ourselves in its
proper shape and dimensions; or that we can ever make any proper
comparison between our own interests and those of other people.
As to the eye of the body, objects appear great or small, not
so much according to their real dimensions, as according to the
nearness or distance of their situation; so do they likewise to
what may be called the natural eye of the mind: and we remedy the
defects of both these organs pretty much in the same manner. In
my present situation an immense landscape of lawns, and woods,
and distant mountains, seems to do no more than cover the little
window which I write by and to be out of all proportion less than
the chamber in which I am sitting. I can form a just comparison
between those great objects and the little objects around me, in
no other way, than by transporting myself, at least in fancy, to
a different station, from whence I can survey both at nearly
equal distances, and thereby form some judgment of their real
proportions. Habit and experience have taught me to do this so
easily and so readily, that I am scarce sensible that I do it;
and a man must be, in some measure, acquainted with the
philosophy of vision, before he can be thoroughly convinced, how
little those distant objects would appear to the eye, if the
imagination, from a knowledge of their real magnitudes, did not
swell and dilate them.
In the same manner, to the selfish and original passions of
human nature, the loss or gain of a very small interest of our
own, appears to be of vastly more importance, excites a much more
passionate joy or sorrow, a much more ardent desire or aversion,
than the greatest concern of another with whom we have no
particular connexion. His interests, as long as they are surveyed
from this station, can never be put into the balance with our
own, can never restrain us from doing. whatever may tend to
promote our own, how ruinous soever to him. Before we can make
any proper comparison of those opposite interests, we must change
our position. We must view them, neither from our own place nor
yet from his, neither with our own eyes nor yet with his, but
from the place and with the eyes of a third person, who has no
particular connexion with either, and who judges with
impartiality between us. Here, too, habit and experience have
taught us to do this so easily and so readily, that we are scarce
sensible that we do it; and it requires, in this case too, some
degree of reflection, and even of philosophy, to convince us, how
little interest we should take in the greatest concerns of our
neighbour, how little we should be affected by whatever relates
to him, if the sense of propriety and justice did not correct the
otherwise natural inequality of our sentiments.
Let us suppose that the great empire of China, with all its
myriads of inhabitants, was suddenly swallowed up by an
earthquake, and let us consider how a man of humanity in Europe,
who had no sort of connexion with that part of the world, would
be affected upon receiving intelligence of this dreadful
calamity. He would, I imagine, first of all, express very
strongly his sorrow for the misfortune of that unhappy people, he
would make many melancholy reflections upon the precariousness of
human life, and the vanity of all the labours of man, which could
thus be annihilated in a moment. He would too, perhaps, if he was
a man of speculation, enter into many reasonings concerning the
effects which this disaster might produce upon the commerce of
Europe, and the trade and business of the world in general. And
when all this fine philosophy was over, when all these humane
sentiments had been once fairly expressed, he would pursue his
business or his pleasure, take his repose or his diversion, with
the same ease and tranquillity, as if no such accident had
happened. The most frivolous disaster which could befal himself
would occasion a more real disturbance. If he was to lose his
little finger to-morrow, he would not sleep to-night; but,
provided he never saw them, he will snore with the most profound
security over the ruin of a hundred millions of his brethren, and
the destruction of that immense multitude seems plainly an object
less interesting to him, than this paltry misfortune of his own.
To prevent, therefore, this paltry misfortune to himself, would a
man of humanity be willing to sacrifice the lives of a hundred
millions of his brethren, provided he had never seen them? Human
nature startles with horror at the thought, and the world, in its
greatest depravity and corruption, never produced such a villain
as could be capable of entertaining it. But what makes this
difference? When our passive feelings are almost always so sordid
and so selfish, how comes it that our active principles should
often be so generous and so noble? When we are always so much
more deeply affected by whatever concerns ourselves, than by
whatever concerns other men; what is it which prompts the
generous, upon all occasions, and the mean upon many, to
sacrifice their own interests to the greater interests of others?
It is not the soft power of humanity, it is not that feeble spark
of benevolence which Nature has lighted up in the human heart,
that is thus capable of counteracting the strongest impulses of
self-love. It is a stronger power, a more forcible motive, which
exerts itself upon such occasions. It is reason, principle,
conscience, the inhabitant of the breast, the man within, the
great judge and arbiter of our conduct. It is he who, whenever we
are about to act so as to affect the happiness of others, calls
to us, with a voice capable of astonishing the most presumptuous
of our passions, that we are but one of the multitude, in no
respect better than any other in it; and that when we prefer
ourselves so shamefully and so blindly to others, we become the
proper objects of resentment, abhorrence, and execration. It is
from him only that we learn the real littleness of ourselves, and
of whatever relates to ourselves, and the natural
misrepresentations of self-love can be corrected only by the eye
of this impartial spectator. It is he who shows us the propriety
of generosity and the deformity of injustice; the propriety of
resigning the greatest interests of our own, for the yet greater
interests of others, and the deformity of doing the smallest
injury to another, in order to obtain the greatest benefit to
ourselves. It is not the love of our neighbour, it is not the
love of mankind, which upon many occasions prompts us to the
practice of those divine virtues. It is a stronger love, a more
powerful affection, which generally takes place upon such
occasions; the love of what is honourable and noble, of the
grandeur, and dignity, and superiority of our own characters.
When the happiness or misery of others depends in any respect
upon our conduct, we dare not, as self-love might suggest to us,
prefer the interest of one to that of many. The man within
immediately calls to us, that we value ourselves too much and
other people too little, and that, by doing so, we render
ourselves the proper object of the contempt and indignation of
our brethren. Neither is this sentiment confined to men of
extraordinary magnanimity and virtue. It is deeply impressed upon
every tolerably good soldier, who feels that he would become the
scorn of his companions, if he could be supposed capable of
shrinking from danger, or of hesitating, either to expose or to
throw away his life, when the good of the service required it.
One individual must never prefer himself so much even to any
other individual, as to hurt or injure that other, in order to
benefit himself, though the benefit to the one should be much
greater than the hurt or injury to the other. The poor man must
neither defraud nor steal from the rich, though the acquisition
might be much more beneficial to the one than the loss could be
hurtful to the other. The man within immediately calls to him, in
this case too, that he is no better than his neighbour, and that
by this unjust preference he renders himself the proper object of
the contempt and indignation of mankind; as well as of the
punishment which that contempt and indignation must naturally
dispose them to inflict, for having thus violated one of those
sacred rules, upon the tolerable observation of which depend the
whole security and peace of human society. There is no commonly
honest man who does not more dread the inward disgrace of such an
action, the indelible stain which it would for ever stamp upon
his own mind, than the greatest external calamity which, without
any fault of his own, could possibly befal him; and who does not
inwardly feel the truth of that great stoical maxim, that for one
man to deprive another unjustly of any thing, or unjustly to
promote his own advantage by the loss or disadvantage of another,
is more contrary to nature, than death, than poverty, than pain,
than all the misfortunes which can affect him, either in his
body, or in his external circumstances.
When the happiness or misery of others, indeed, in no respect
depends upon our conduct, when our interests are altogether
separated and detached from theirs, so that there is neither
connexion nor competition between them, we do not always think it
so necessary to restrain, either our natural and, perhaps,
improper anxiety about our own affairs, or our natural and,
perhaps, equally improper indifference about those of other men.
The most vulgar education teaches us to act, upon all important
occasions, with some sort of impartiality between ourselves and
others, and even the ordinary commerce of the world is capable of
adjusting our active principles to some degree of propriety. But
it is the most artificial and refined education only, it has been
said, which can correct the inequalities of our passive feelings;
and we must for this purpose, it has been pretended, have
recourse to the severest, as well as to the profoundest
philosophy.
Two different sets of philosophers have attempted to teach us
this hardest of all the lessons of morality. One set have
laboured to increase our sensibility to the interests of others;
another, to diminish that to our own. The first would have us
feel for others as we naturally feel for ourselves. The second
would have us feel for ourselves as we naturally feel for others.
Both, perhaps, have carried their doctrines a good deal beyond
the just standard of nature and propriety.
The first are those whining and melancholy moralists, who are
perpetually reproaching us with our happiness, while so many of
our brethren are in misery,[2] who regard as impious the
natural joy of prosperity, which does not think of the many
wretches that are at every instant labouring under all sorts of
calamities, in the languor of poverty, in the agony of disease,
in the horrors of death, under the insults and oppression of
their enemies. Commiseration for those miseries which we never
saw, which we never heard of, but which we may be assured are at
all times infesting such numbers of our fellow-creatures, ought,
they think, to damp the pleasures of the fortunate, and to render
a certain melancholy dejection habitual to all men. But first of
all, this extreme sympathy with misfortunes which we know nothing
about, seems altogether absurd and unreasonable. Take the whole
earth at an average, for one man who suffers pain or misery, you
will find twenty in prosperity and joy, or at least in tolerable
circumstances. No reason, surely, can be assigned why we should
rather weep with the one than rejoice with the twenty. This
artificial commiseration, besides, is not only absurd, but seems
altogether unattainable; and those who affect this character have
commonly nothing but a certain affected and sentimental sadness,
which, without reaching the heart, serves only to render the
countenance and conversation impertinently dismal and
disagreeable. And last of all, this disposition of mind, though
it could be attained, would be perfectly useless, and could serve
no other purpose than to render miserable the person who
possessed it. Whatever interest we take in the fortune of those
with whom we have no acquaintance or connexion, and who are
placed altogether out of the sphere of our activity, can produce
only anxiety to ourselves, without any manner of advantage to
them. To what purpose should we trouble ourselves about the world
in the moon? All men, even those at the greatest distance, are no
doubt entitled to our good wishes, and our good wishes we
naturally give them. But if, notwithstanding, they should be
unfortunate, to give ourselves any anxiety upon that account,
seems to be no part of our duty. That we should be but little
interested, therefore, in the fortune of those whom we can
neither serve nor hurt, and who are in every respect so very
remote from us, seems wisely ordered by Nature; and if it were
possible to alter in this respect the original constitution of
our frame, we could yet gain nothing by the change.
It is never objected to us that we have too little
fellow-feeling with the joy of success. Wherever envy does not
prevent it, the favour which we bear to prosperity is rather apt
to be too great; and the same moralists who blame us for want of
sufficient sympathy with the miserable, reproach us for the
levity with which we are too apt to admire and almost to worship
the fortunate, the powerful, and the rich.
Among the moralists who endeavour to correct the natural
inequality of our passive feelings by diminishing our sensibility
to what peculiarly concerns ourselves, we may count all the
ancient sects of philosophers, but particularly the ancient
Stoics. Man, according to the Stoics, ought to regard himself,
not as something separated and detached, but as a citizen of the
world, a member of the vast commonwealth of nature. To the
interest of this great community, he ought at all times to be
willing that his own little interest should be sacrificed.
Whatever concerns himself, ought to affect him no more than
whatever concerns any other equally important part of this
immense system. We should view ourselves, not in the light in
which our own selfish passions are apt to place us, but in the
light in which any other citizen of the world would view us. What
befalls ourselves we should regard as what befalls our neighbour,
or, what comes to the same thing, as our neighbour regards what
befalls us. 'When our neighbour,' says Epictetus, 'loses his
wife, or his son, there is nobody who is not sensible that this
is a human calamity, a natural event altogether according to the
ordinary course of things; but, when the same thing happens to
ourselves, then we cry out, as if we had suffered the most
dreadful misfortune. We ought, however, to remember how we were
affected when this accident happened to another, and such as we
were in his case, such ought we to be in our own.'
Those private misfortunes, for which our feelings are apt to
go beyond the bounds of propriety, are of two different kinds.
They are either such as affect us only indirectly, by affecting,
in the first place, some other persons who are particularly dear
to us; such as our parents, our children, our brothers and
sisters, our intimate friends; or they are such as affect
ourselves immediately and directly, either in our body, in our
fortune, or in our reputation; such as pain, sickness,
approaching death, poverty, disgrace, etc.
In misfortunes of the first kind, our emotions may, no doubt,
go very much beyond what exact propriety will admit of; but they
may likewise fall short of it, and they frequently do so. The man
who should feel no more for the death or distress of his own
father, or son, than for those of any other man's father or son,
would appear neither a good son nor a good father. Such unnatural
indifference, far from exciting our applause, would incur our
highest disapprobation. Of those domestic affections, however,
some are most apt to offend by their excess, and others by their
defect. Nature, for the wisest purposes, has rendered, in most
men, perhaps in all men, parental tenderness a much stronger
affection than filial piety. The continuance and propagation of
the species depend altogether upon the former, and not upon the
latter. In ordinary cases, the existence and preservation of the
child depend altogether upon the care of the parents. Those of
the parents seldom depend upon that of the child. Nature,
therefore, has rendered the former affection so strong, that it
generally requires not to be excited, but to be moderated; and
moralists seldom endeavour to teach us how to indulge, but
generally how to restrain our fondness, our excessive attachment,
the unjust preference which we are disposed to give to our own
children above those of other people. They exhort us, on the
contrary, to an affectionate attention to our parents, and to
make a proper return to them, in their old age, for the kindness
which they had shown to us in our infancy and youth. In the
Decalogue we are commanded to honour our fathers and mothers. No
mention is made of the love of our children. Nature had
sufficiently prepared us for the performance of this latter duty.
Men are seldom accused of affecting to be fonder of their
children than they really are. THey have sometimes been suspected
of displaying their piety to their parents with too much
ostentation. The ostentatious sorrow of widows has, for a like
reason, been suspected of insincerity. We should respect, could
we believe it sincere, even the excess of such kind affections;
and though we might not perfectly approve, we should not severely
condemn it. That it appears praise-worthy, at least in the eyes
of those who affect it, the very affectation is a proof.
Even the excess of those kind affections which are most apt
to offend by their excess, though it may appear blameable, never
appears odious. We blame the excessive fondness and anxiety of a
parent, as something which may, in the end, prove hurtful to the
child, and which, in the mean time, is excessively inconvenient
to the parent; but we easily pardon it, and never regard it with
hatred and detestation. But the defect of this usually excessive
affection appears always peculiarly odious. The man who appears
to feel nothing for his own children, but who treats them upon
all occasions with unmerited severity and harshness, seems of all
brutes the most detestable. The sense of propriety, so far from
requiring us to eradicate altogether that extraordinary
sensibility, which we naturally feel for the misfortunes of our
nearest connections, is always much more offended by the defect,
than it ever is by the excess of that sensibility. The stoical
apathy is, in such cases, never agreeable, and all the
metaphysical sophisms by which it is supported can seldom serve
any other purpose than to blow up the hard insensibility of a
coxcomb to ten times its native impertinence. The poets and
romance writers, who best paint the refinements and delicacies of
love and friendship, and of all other private and domestic
affections, Racine and Voltaire; Richardson, Maurivaux, and
Riccoboni; are, in such cases, much better instructors than Zeno,
Chrysippus, or Epictetus.
That moderated sensibility to the misfortunes of others,
which does not disqualify us for the performance of any duty; the
melancholy and affectionate remembrance of our departed friends;
the pang, as Gray says, to secret sorrow dear; are by no means
undelicious sensations. Though they outwardly wear the features
of pain and grief, they are all inwardly stamped with the
ennobling characters of virtue and self-approbation.
It is otherwise in the misfortunes which affect ourselves
immediately and directly, either in our body, in our fortune, or
in our reputation. The sense of propriety is much more apt to be
offended by the excess, than by the defect of our sensibility,
and there are but very few cases in which we can approach too
near to the stoical apathy and indifference.
That we have very little fellow-feeling with any of the
passions which take their origin from the body, has already been
observed. That pain which is occasioned by an evident cause; such
as, the cutting or tearing of the flesh; is, perhaps, the
affection of the body with which the spectator feels the most
lively sympathy. The approaching death of his neighbour, too,
seldom fails to affect him a good deal. In both cases, however,
he feels so very little in comparison of what the person
principally concerned feels, that the latter can scarce ever
offend the former by appearing to suffer with too much ease.
The mere want of fortune, mere poverty, excites little
compassion. Its complaints are too apt to be the objects rather
of contempt than of fellow-feeling. We despise a beggar; and,
though his importunities may extort an alms from us, he is scarce
ever the object of any serious commiseration. The fall from
riches to poverty, as it commonly occasions the most real
distress to the sufferer, so it seldom fails to excite the most
sincere commiseration in the spectator. Though, in the present
state of society, this misfortune can seldom happen without some
misconduct, and some very considerable misconduct too, in the
sufferer; yet he is almost always so much pitied that he is
scarce ever allowed to fall into the lowest state of poverty; but
by the means of his friends, frequently by the indulgence of
those very creditors who have much reason to complain of his
imprudence, is almost always supported in some degree of decent,
though humble, mediocrity. To persons under such misfortunes, we
could, perhaps, easily pardon some degree of weakness; but, at
the same time, they who carry the firmest countenance, who
accommodate themselves with the greatest ease to their new
situation, who seem to feel no humiliation from the change, but
to rest their rank in the society, not upon their fortune, but
upon their character and conduct, are always the most approved
of, and never fail to command our highest and most affectionate
admiration.
As, of all the external misfortunes which can affect an
innocent man immediately and directly, the undeserved loss of
reputation is certainly the greatest; so a considerable degree of
sensibility to whatever can bring on so great a calamity, does
not always appear ungraceful or disagreeable. We often esteem a
young man the more, when he resents, though with some degree of
violence, any unjust reproach that may have been thrown upon his
character or his honour. The affliction of an innocent young
lady, on account of the groundless surmises which may have been
circulated concerning her conduct, appears often perfectly
amiable. Persons of an advanced age, whom long experience of the
folly and injustice of the world, has taught to pay little
regard, either to its censure or to its applause, neglect and
despise obloquy, and do not even deign to honour its futile
authors with any serious resentment. This indifference, which is
founded altogether on a firm confidence in their own well-tried
and well-established characters, would be disagreeable in young
people, who neither can nor ought to have any such confidence. It
might in them be supposed to forebode, in their advancing years,
a most improper insensibility to real honour and infamy.
In all other private misfortunes which affect ourselves
immediately and directly, we can very seldom offend by appearing
to be too little affected. We frequently remember our sensibility
to the misfortunes of others with pleasure and satisfaction. We
can seldom remember that to our own, without some degree of shame
and humiliation.
If we examine the different shades and gradations of weakness
and self-command, as we meet with them in common life, we shall
very easily satisfy ourselves that this control of our passive
feelings must be acquired, not from the abstruse syllogisms of a
quibbling dialectic, but from that great discipline which Nature
has established for the acquisition of this and of every other
virtue; a regard to the sentiments of the real or supposed
spectator of our conduct.
A very young child has no self-command; but, whatever are its
emotions, whether fear, or grief, or anger, it endeavours always,
by the violence of its outcries, to alarm, as much as it can, the
attention of its nurse, or of its parents. While it remains under
the custody of such partial protectors, its anger is the first
and, perhaps, the only passion which it is taught to moderate. By
noise and threatening they are, for their own ease, often obliged
to frighten it into good temper; and the passion which incites it
to attack, is restrained by that which teaches it to attend to
its own safety. When it is old enough to go to school, or to mix
with its equals, it soon finds that they have no such indulgent
partiality. It naturally wishes to gain their favour, and to
avoid their hatred or contempt. Regard even to its own safety
teaches it to do so; and it soon finds that it can do so in no
other way than by moderating, not only its anger, but all its
other passions, to the degree which its play-fellows and
companions are likely to be pleased with. It thus enters into the
great school of self-command, it studies to be more and more
master of itself, and begins to exercise over its own feelings a
discipline which the practice of the longest life is very seldom
sufficient to bring to complete perfection.
In all private misfortunes, in pain, in sickness, in sorrow,
the weakest man, when his friend, and still more when a stranger
visits him, is immediately impressed with the view in which they
are likely to look upon his situation. Their view calls off his
attention from his own view; and his breast is, in some measure,
becalmed the moment they come into his presence. This effect is
produced instantaneously and, as it were, mechanically; but, with
a weak man, it is not of long continuance. His own view of his
situation immediately recurs upon him. He abandons himself, as
before, to sighs and tears and lamentations; and endeavours, like
a child that has not yet gone to school, to produce some sort of
harmony between his own grief and the compassion of the
spectator, not by moderating the former, but by importunately
calling upon the latter.
With a man of a little more firmness, the effect is somewhat
more permanent. He endeavours, as much as he can, to fix his
attention upon the view which the company are likely to take of
his situation. He feels, at the same time, the esteem and
approbation which they naturally conceive for him when he thus
preserves his tranquillity; and, though under the pressure of
some recent and great calamity, appears to feel for himself no
more than what they really feel for him. He approves and applauds
himself by sympathy with their approbation, and the pleasure
which he derives from this sentiment supports and enables him
more easily to continue this generous effort. In most cases he
avoids mentioning his own misfortune; and his company, if they
are tolerably well bred, are careful to say nothing which can put
him in mind of it. He endeavours to entertain them, in his usual
way, upon indifferent subjects, or, if he feels himself strong
enough to venture to mention his misfortune, he endeavours to
talk of it as, he thinks, they are capable of talking of it, and
even to feel it no further than they are capable of feeling it.
If he has not, however, been well inured to the hard discipline
of self-command, he soon grows weary of this restraint. A long
visit fatigues him; and, towards the end of it, he is constantly
in danger of doing, what he never fails to do the moment it is
over, of abandoning himself to all the weakness of excessive
sorrow. Modern good manners, which are extremely indulgent to
human weakness, forbid, for some time, the visits of strangers to
persons under great family distress, and permit those only of the
nearest relations and most intimate friends. The presence of the
latter, it is thought, will impose less restraint than that of
the former; and the sufferers can more easily accommodate
themselves to the feelings of those, from whom they have reason
to expect a more indulgent sympathy. Secret enemies, who fancy
that they are not known to be such, are frequently fond of making
those charitable visits as early as the most intimate friends.
The weakest man in the world, in this case, endeavours to support
his manly countenance, and, from indignation and contempt of
their malice, to behave with as much gaiety and ease as he can.
The man of real constancy and firmness, the wise and just man
who has been thoroughly bred in the great school of self-command,
in the bustle and business of the world, exposed, perhaps, to the
violence and injustice of faction, and to the hardships and
hazards of war, maintains this control of his passive feelings
upon all occasions; and whether in solitude or in society, wears
nearly the same countenance, and is affected very nearly in the
same manner. In success and in disappointment, in prosperity and
in adversity, before friends and before enemies, he has often
been under the necessity of supporting this manhood. He has never
dared to forget for one moment the judgment which the impartial
spectator would pass upon his sentiments and conduct. He has
never dared to suffer the man within the breast to be absent one
moment from his attention. With the eyes of this great inmate he
has always been accustomed to regard whatever relates to himself.
This habit has become perfectly familiar to him. He has been in
the constant practice, and, indeed, under the constant necessity,
of modelling, or of endeavouring to model, not only his outward
conduct and behaviour, but, as much as he can, even his inward
sentiments and feelings, according to those of this awful and
respectable judge. He does not merely affect the sentiments of
the impartial spectator. He really adopts them. He almost
identifies himself with, he almost becomes himself that impartial
spectator, and scarce even feels but as that great arbiter of his
conduct directs him to feel.
The degree of the self-approbation with which every man, upon
such occasions, surveys his own conduct, is higher or lower,
exactly in proportion to the degree of self-command which is
necessary in order to obtain that self-approbation. Where little
self-command is necessary, little self-approbation is due. The
man who has only scratched his finger, cannot much applaud
himself, though he should immediately appear to have forgot this
paltry misfortune. The man who has lost his leg by a cannon shot,
and who, the moment after, speaks and acts with his usual
coolness and tranquillity, as he exerts a much higher degree of
self-command, so he naturally feels a much higher degree of
self-approbation. With most men, upon such an accident, their own
natural view of their own misfortune would force itself upon them
with such a vivacity and strength of colouring, as would entirely
efface all thought of every other view. They would feel nothing,
they could attend to nothing, but their own pain and their own
fear; and not only the judgment of the ideal man within the
breast, but that of the real spectators who might happen to be
present, would be entirely overlooked and disregarded.
The reward which Nature bestows upon good behaviour under
misfortune, is thus exactly proportioned to the degree of that
good behaviour. The only compensation she could possibly make for
the bitterness of pain and distress is thus too, in equal degrees
of good behaviour, exactly proportioned to the degree of that
pain and distress. In proportion to the degree of the
self-command which is necessary in order to conquer our natural
sensibility, the pleasure and pride of the conquest are so much
the greater; and this pleasure and pride are so great that no man
can be altogether unhappy who completely enjoys them. Misery and
wretchedness can never enter the breast in which dwells complete
self-satisfaction; and though it may be too much, perhaps, to
say, with the Stoics, that, under such an accident as that above
mentioned, the happiness of a wise man is in every respect equal
to what it could have been under any other circumstances; yet it
must be acknowledged, at least, that this complete enjoyment of
his own self-applause, though it may not altogether extinguish,
must certainly very much alleviate his sense of his own
sufferings.
In such paroxysms of distress, if I may be allowed to call
them so, the wisest and firmest man, in order to preserve his
equanimity, is obliged, I imagine, to make a considerable, and
even a painful exertion. His own natural feeling of his own
distress, his own natural view of his own situation, presses hard
upon him, and he cannot, without a very great effort, fix his
attention upon that of the impartial spectator. Both views
present themselves to him at the same time. His sense of honour,
his regard to his own dignity, directs him to fix his whole
attention upon the one view. His natural, his untaught and
undisciplined feelings, are continually calling it off to the
other. He does not, in this case, perfectly identify himself with
the ideal man within the breast, he does not become himself the
impartial spectator of his own conduct. The different views of
both characters exist in his mind separate and distinct from one
another, and each directing him to a behaviour different from
that to which the other directs him. When he follows that view
which honour and dignity point out to him, Nature does not,
indeed, leave him without a recompense. He enjoys his own
complete self-approbation, and the applause of every candid and
impartial spectator. By her unalterable laws, however, he still
suffers; and the recompense which she bestows, though very
considerable, is not sufficient completely to compensate the
sufferings which those laws inflict. Neither is it fit that it
should. If it did completely compensate them, he could, from
self-interest, have no motive for avoiding an accident which must
necessarily diminish his utility both to himself and to society;
and Nature, from her parental care of both, meant that he should
anxiously avoid all such accidents. He suffers, therefore, and
though, in the agony of the paroxysm, he maintains, not only the
manhood of his countenance, but the sedateness and sobriety of
his judgment, it requires his utmost and most fatiguing
exertions, to do so.
By the constitution of human nature, however, agony can never
be permanent; and, if he survives the paroxysm, he soon comes,
without any effort, to enjoy his ordinary tranquillity. A man
with a wooden leg suffers, no doubt, and foresees that he must
continue to suffer during the reminder of his life, a very
considerable inconveniency. He soon comes to view it, however,
exactly as every impartial spectator views it; as an
inconveniency under which he can enjoy all the ordinary pleasures
both of solitude and of society. He soon identifies himself with
the ideal man within the breast, he soon becomes himself the
impartial spectator of his own situation. He no longer weeps, he
no longer laments, he no longer grieves over it, as a weak man
may sometimes do in the beginning. The view of the impartial
spectator becomes so perfectly habitual to him, that, without any
effort, without any exertion, he never thinks of surveying his
misfortune in any other view.
The never-failing certainty with which all men, sooner or
later, accommodate themselves to whatever becomes their permanent
situation, may, perhaps, induce us to think that the Stoics were,
at least, thus far very nearly in the right; that, between one
permanent situation and another, there was, with regard to real
happiness, no essential difference: or that, if there were any
difference, it was no more than just sufficient to render some of
them the objects of simple choice or preference; but not of any
earnest or anxious desire: and others, of simple rejection, as
being fit to be set aside or avoided; but not of any earnest or
anxious aversion. Happiness consists in tranquillity and
enjoyment. Without tranquillity there can be no enjoyment; and
where there is perfect tranquillity there is scarce any thing
which is not capable of amusing. But in every permanent
situation, where there is no expectation of change, the mind of
every man, in a longer or shorter time, returns to its natural
and usual state of tranquillity. In prosperity, after a certain
time, it falls back to that state; in adversity, after a certain
time, it rises up to it. In the confinement and solitude of the
Bastile, after a certain time, the fashionable and frivolous
Count de Lauzun recovered tranquillity enough to be capable of
amusing himself with feeding a spider. A mind better furnished
would, perhaps, have both sooner recovered its tranquillity, and
sooner found, in its own thoughts, a much better amusement.
The great source of both the misery and disorders of human
life, seems to arise from over-rating the difference between one
permanent situation and another. Avarice over-rates the
difference between poverty and riches: ambition, that between a
private and a public station: vain-glory, that between obscurity
and extensive reputation. The person under the influence of any
of those extravagant passions, is not only miserable in his
actual situation, but is often disposed to disturb the peace of
society, in order to arrive at that which he so foolishly
admires. The slightest observation, however, might satisfy him,
that, in all the ordinary situations of human life, a
well-disposed mind may be equally calm, equally cheerful, and
equally contented. Some of those situations may, no doubt,
deserve to be preferred to others: but none of them can deserve
to be pursued with that passionate ardour which drives us to
violate the rules either of prudence or of justice; or to corrupt
the future tranquillity of our minds, either by shame from the
remembrance of our own folly, or by remorse from the horror of
our own injustice. Wherever prudence does not direct, wherever
justice does not permit, the attempt to change our situation, the
man who does attempt it, plays at the most Unequal of all games
of hazard, and stakes every thing against scarce any thing. What
the favourite of the king of Epirus said to his master, may be
applied to men in all the ordinary situations of human life. When
the King had recounted to him, in their proper order, all the
conquests which he proposed to make, and had come to the last of
them; And what does your Majesty propose to do then? said the
Favourite. -- I propose then, said the King, to enjoy myself with
my friends, and endeavour to be good company over a bottle. --
And what hinders your Majesty from doing so now? replied the
Favourite. In the most glittering and exalted situation that our
idle fancy can hold out to us, the pleasures from which we
propose to derive our real happiness, are almost always the same
with those which, in our actual, though humble station, we have
at all times at hand, and in our power. except the frivolous
pleasures of vanity and superiority, we may find, in the most
humble station, where there is only personal liberty, every other
which the most exalted can afford; and the pleasures of vanity
and superiority are seldom consistent with perfect tranquillity,
the principle and foundation of all real and satisfactory
enjoyment. Neither is it always certain that, in the splendid
situation which we aim at, those real and satisfactory pleasures
can be enjoyed with the same security as in the humble one which
we are so very eager to abandon. examine the records of history,
recollect what has happened within the circle of your own
experience, consider with attention what has been the conduct of
almost all the greatly unfortunate, either in private or public
life, whom you may have either read of, or heard of, or remember;
and you will find that the misfortunes of by far the greater part
of them have arisen from their not knowing when they were well,
when it was proper for them to sit still and to be contented. The
inscription upon the tomb-stone of the man who had endeavoured to
mend a tolerable constitution by taking physic; 'I was well, I
wished to be better; here I am; may generally be applied with
great justness to the distress of disappointed avarice and
ambition.
It may be thought a singular, but I believe it to be a just
observation, that, in the misfortunes which admit of some remedy,
the greater part of men do not either so readily or so
universally recover their natural and usual tranquillity, as in
those which plainly admit of none. In misfortunes of the latter
kind, it is chiefly in what may be called the paroxysm, or in the
first attack, that we can discover any sensible difference
between the sentiments and behaviour of the wise and those of the
weak man. In the end, Time, the great and universal comforter,
gradually composes the weak man to the same degree of
tranquillity which a regard to his own dignity and manhood
teaches the wise man to assume in the beginning. The case of the
man with the wooden leg is an obvious example of this. In the
irreparable misfortunes occasioned by the death of children, or
of friends and relations, even a wise man may for some time
indulge himself in some degree of moderated sorrow. An
affectionate, but weak woman, is often, upon such occasions,
almost perfectly distracted. Time, however, in a longer or
shorter period, never fails to compose the weakest woman to the
same degree of tranquillity as the strongest man. In all the
irreparable calamities which affect himself immediately and
directly, a wise man endeavours, from the beginning, to
anticipate and to enjoy before-hand, that tranquillity which he
foresees the course of a few months, or a few years, will
certainly restore to him in the end.
In the misfortunes for which the nature of things admits, or
seems to admit, of a remedy, but in which the means of applying
that remedy are not within the reach of the sufferer, his vain
and fruitless attempts to restore himself to his former
situation, his continual anxiety for their success, his repeated
disappointments upon their miscarriage, are what chiefly hinder
him from resuming his natural tranquillity, and frequently render
miserable, during the whole of his life, a man to whom a greater
misfortune, but which plainly admitted of no remedy, would not
have given a fortnight's disturbance. In the fall from royal
favour to disgrace, from power to insignificancy, from riches to
poverty, from liberty to confinement, from strong health to some
lingering, chronical, and perhaps incurable disease, the man who
struggles the least, who most easily and readily acquiesces in
the fortune which has fallen to him, very soon recovers his usual
and natural tranquility, and surveys the most disagreeable
circumstances of his actual situation in the same light, or,
perhaps, in a much less unfavourable light, than that in which
the most indifferent spectator is disposed to survey them.
Faction, intrigue, and cabal, disturb the quiet of the
unfortunate statesman. extravagant projects, visions of gold
mines, interrupt the repose of the ruined bankrupt. The prisoner,
who is continually plotting to escape from his confinement,
cannot enjoy that careless security which even a prison can
afford him. The medicines of the physician are often the greatest
torment of the incurable patient. The monk who, in order to
comfort Joanna of Castile, upon the death of her husband Philip,
told her of a King, who, fourteen years after his decease, had
been restored to life again, by the prayers of his afflicted
queen, was not likely, by his legendary tale, to restore
sedateness to the distempered mind of that unhappy Princess. She
endeavoured to repeat the same experiment in hopes of the same
success; resisted for a long time the burial of her husband, soon
after raised his body from the grave, attended it almost
constantly herself, and watched, with all the impatient anxiety
of frantic expectation, the happy moment when her wishes were to
be gratified by the revival of her beloved Philip.[3]
Our sensibility to the feelings of others, so far from being
inconsistent with the manhood of self-command, is the very
principle upon which that manhood is founded. The very same
principle or instinct which, in the misfortune of our neighbour,
prompts us to compassionate his sorrow; in our own misfortune,
prompts us to restrain the abject and miserable lamentations of
our own sorrow. The same principle or instinct which, in his
prosperity and success, prompts us to congratulate his joy; in
our own prosperity and success, prompts us to restrain the levity
and intemperance of our own joy. In both cases, the propriety of
our own sentiments and feelings seems to be exactly in proportion
to the vivacity and force with which we enter into and conceive
his sentiments and feelings.
The man of the most perfect virtue, the man whom we naturally
love and revere the most, is he who joins, to the most perfect
command of his own original and selfish feelings, the most
exquisite sensibility both to the original and sympathetic
feelings of others. The man who, to all the soft, the amiable,
and the gentle virtues, joins all the great, the awful, and the
respectable, must surely be the natural and proper object of our
highest love and admiration.
The person best fitted by nature for acquiring the former of
those two sets of virtues, is likewise best fitted for acquiring
the latter. The man who feels the most for the joys and sorrows
of others, is best fitted for acquiring the most complete control
of his own joys and sorrows. The man of the most exquisite
humanity, is naturally the most capable of acquiring the highest
degree of self-command. He may not, however, always have acquired
it; and it very frequently happens that he has not. He may have
lived too much in ease and tranquillity. He may have never been
exposed to the violence of faction, or to the hardships and
hazards of war. He may have never experienced the insolence of
his superiors, the jealous and malignant envy of his equals, or
the pilfering injustice of his inferiors. When, in an advanced
age, some accidental change of fortune exposes him to all these,
they all make too great an impression upon him. He has the
disposition which fits him for acquiring the most perfect
self-command; but he has never had the opportunity of acquiring
it. exercise and practice have been wanting; and without these no
habit can ever be tolerably established. Hardships, dangers,
injuries, misfortunes, are the only masters under whom we can
learn the exercise of this virtue. But these are all masters to
whom nobody willingly puts himself to school.
The situations in which the gentle virtue of humanity can be
most happily cultivated, are by no means the same with those
which are best fitted for forming the austere virtue of
self-command. The man who is himself at ease can best attend to
the distress of others. The man who is himself exposed to
hardships is most immediately called upon to attend to, and to
control his own feelings. In the mild sunshine of undisturbed
tranquillity, in the calm retirement of undissipated and
philosophical leisure, the soft virtue of humanity flourishes the
most, and is capable of the highest improvement. But, in such
situations, the greatest and noblest exertions of self-command
have little exercise. Under the boisterous and stormy sky of war
and faction, of public tumult and confusion, the sturdy severity
of self-command prospers the most, and can be the most
successfully cultivated. But, in such situations, the strongest
suggestions of humanity must frequently be stifled or neglected;
and every such neglect necessarily tends to weaken the principle
of humanity. As it may frequently be the duty of a soldier not to
take, so it may sometimes be his duty not to give quarter; and
the humanity of the man who has been several times under the
necessity of submitting to this disagreeable duty, can scarce
fail to suffer a considerable diminution. For his own ease, he is
too apt to learn to make light of the misfortunes which he is so
often under the necessity of occasioning; and the situations
which call forth the noblest exertions of self-command, by
imposing the necessity of violating sometimes the property, and
sometimes the life of our neighbour, always tend to diminish, and
too often to extinguish altogether, that sacred regard to both,
which is the foundation of justice and humanity. It is upon this
account, that we so frequently find in the world men of great
humanity who have little self-command, but who are indolent and
irresolute, and easily disheartened, either by difficulty or
danger, from the most honourable pursuits; and, on the contrary
men of the most perfect self-command, whom no difficulty can
discourage, no danger appal, and who are at all times ready for
the most daring and desperate enterprises, but who, at the same
time, seem to be hardened against all sense either of justice or
humanity.
In solitude, we are apt to feel too strongly whatever relates
to ourselves: we are apt to over-rate the good offices we may
have done, and the injuries we may have suffered: we are apt to
be too much elated by our own good, and too much dejected by our
own bad fortune. The conversation of a friend brings us to a
better, that of a stranger to a still better temper. The man
within the breast, the abstract and ideal spectator of our
sentiments and conduct, requires often to be awakened and put in
mind of his duty, by the presence of the real spectator: and it
is always from that spectator, from whom we can expect the least
sympathy and indulgence, that we are likely to learn the most
complete lesson of self-command.
Are you in adversity? Do not mourn in the darkness of
solitude, do not regulate your sorrow according to the indulgent
sympathy of your intimate friends; return, as soon as possible,
to the day-light of the world and of society. Live with
strangers, with those who know nothing, or care nothing about
your misfortune; do not even shun the company of enemies; but
give yourself the pleasure of mortifying their malignant joy, by
making them feel how little you are affected by your calamity,
and how much you are above it.
Are you in prosperity? Do not confine the enjoyment of your
good fortune to your own house, to the company of your own
friends, perhaps of your flatterers, of those who build upon your
fortune the hopes of mending their own; frequent those who are
independent of you, who can value you only for your character and
conduct, and not for your fortune. Neither seek nor shun, neither
intrude yourself into nor run away from the society of those who
were once your superiors, and who may be hurt at finding you
their equal, or, perhaps, even their superior. The impertinence
of their pride may, perhaps, render their company too
disagreeable: but if it should not, be assured that it is the
best company you can possibly keep; and if, by the simplicity of
your unassuming demeanour, you can gain their favour and
kindness, you may rest satisfied that you are modest enough, and
that your head has been in no respect turned by your good
fortune.
The propriety of our moral sentiments is never so apt to be
corrupted, as when the indulgent and partial spectator is at
hand, while the indifferent and impartial one is at a great
distance.
Of the conduct of one independent nation towards another,
neutral nations are the only indifferent and impartial
spectators. But they are placed at so great a distance that they
are almost quite out of sight. When two nations are at variance,
the citizen of each pays little regard to the sentiments which
foreign nations may entertain concerning his conduct. His whole
ambition is to obtain the approbation of his own fellow-citizens;
and as they are all animated by the same hostile passions which
animate himself, he can never please them so much as by enraging
and offending their enemies. The partial spectator is at hand:
the impartial one at a great distance. In war and negotiation,
therefore, the laws of justice are very seldom observed. Truth
and fair dealing are almost totally disregarded. Treaties are
violated; and the violation, if some advantage is gained by it,
sheds scarce any dishonour upon the violator. The ambassador who
dupes the minister of a foreign nation, is admired and applauded.
The just man who disdains either to take or to give any
advantage, but who would think it less dishonourable to give than
to take one; the man who, in all private transactions, would be
the most beloved and the most esteemed; in those public
transactions is regarded as a fool and an idiot, who does not
understand his business; and he incurs always the contempt, and
sometimes even the detestation of his fellow-citizens. In war,
not only what are called the laws of nations, are frequently
violated, without bringing (among his own fellow-citizens, whose
judgments he only regards) any considerable dishonour upon the
violator; but those laws themselves are, the greater part of
them, laid down with very little regard to the plainest and most
obvious rules of justice. That the innocent, though they may have
some connexion or dependency upon the guilty (which, perhaps,
they themselves cannot help), should not, upon that account,
suffer or be punished for the guilty, is one of the plainest and
most obvious rules of justice. In the most unjust war, however,
it is commonly the sovereign or the rulers only who are guilty.
The subjects are almost always perfectly innocent. Whenever it
suits the conveniency of a public enemy, however, the goods of
the peaceable citizens are seized both at land and at sea; their
lands are laid waste, their houses are burnt, and they
themselves, if they presume to make any resistance, are murdered
or led into captivity; and all this in the most perfect
conformity to what are called the laws of nations.
The animosity of hostile factions, whether civil or
ecclesiastical, is often still more furious than that of hostile
nations; and their conduct towards one another is often still
more atrocious. What may be called the laws of faction have often
been laid down by grave authors with still less regard to the
rules of justice than what are called the laws of nations. The
most ferocious patriot never stated it as a serious question,
Whether faith ought to be kept with public enemies? -- Whether
faith ought to be kept with rebels? Whether faith ought to be
kept with heretics? are questions which have been often furiously
agitated by celebrated doctors both civil and ecclesiastical. It
is needless to observe, I presume, that both rebels and heretics
are those unlucky persons, who, when things have come to a
certain degree of violence, have the misfortune to be of the
weaker party. In a nation distracted by faction, there are, no
doubt, always a few, though commonly but a very few, who preserve
their judgment untainted by the general contagion. They seldom
amount to more than, here and there, a solitary indivdual,
without any influence, excluded, by his own candour, from the
confidence of either party, and who, though he may be one of the
wisest, is necessarily, upon that very account, one of the most
insignificant men in the society. All such people are held in
contempt and derision, frequently in detestation, by the furious
zealots of both parties. A true party-man hates and despises
candour; and, in reality, there is no vice which could so
effectually disqualify him for the trade of a party-man as that
single virtue. The real, revered, and impartial spectator,
therefore, is, upon no occasion, at a greater distance than
amidst the violence and rage of contending parties. To them, it
may be said, that such a spectator scarce exists any where in the
universe. Even to the great Judge of the universe, they impute
all their own prejudices, and often view that Divine Being as
animated by all their own vindictive and implacable passions. Of
all the corrupters of moral sentiments, therefore, faction and
fanaticism have always been by far the greatest.
Concerning the subject of self-command, I shall only observe
further, that our admiration for the man who, under the heaviest
and most unexpected misfortunes, continues to behave with
fortitude and firmness, always supposes that his sensibility to
those misfortunes is very great, and such as it requires a very
great effort to conquer or command. The man who was altogether
insensible to bodily pain, could deserve no applause from
enduring the torture with the most perfect patience and
equanimity. The man who had been created without the natural fear
of death, could claim no merit from preserving his coolness and
presence of mind in the midst of the most dreadful dangers. It is
one of the extravagancies of Seneca, that the Stoical wise man
was, in this respect, superior even to a God; that the security
of the God was altogether the benefit of nature, which had
exempted him from suffering; but that the security of the wise
man was his own benefit, and derived altogether from himself and
from his own exertions.
The sensibility of some men, however, to some of the objects
which immediately affect themselves, is sometimes so strong as to
render all self-command impossible. No sense of honour can
control the fears of the man who is weak enough to faint, or to
fall into convulsions, upon the approach of danger. Whether such
weakness of nerves, as it has been called, may not, by gradual
exercise and proper discipline, admit of some cure, may, perhaps,
be doubtful. It seems certain that it ought never to be trusted
or employed.
[2.]
See Thomson's Seasons, Winter:
'Ah! little think the gay licentious proud, etc.
See also
Pascal.
[3.]
See Robertson's Charles V. vol. ii, pp. 14 and 15.
first edition.