Section III
Of the Effects of Prosperity and Adversity upon the Judgment of
Mankind with regard to the Propriety of Action; and why it is
more easy to obtain their Aprobation in the one state than in the
other
1.3.1. Chap. I
That though our sympathy with sorrow is generally a more lively
sensation than our sympathy with joy, it commonly falls much more
short of the violence of what is naturally felt by the person
principally concerned
Our sympathy with sorrow, though not more real, has been more
taken notice of than our sympathy with joy. The word sympathy, in
its most proper and primitive signification, denotes our
fellow-feeling with the sufferings, not that with the enjoyments,
of others. A late ingenious and subtile philosopher thought it
necessary to prove, by arguments, that we had a real sympathy
with joy, and that congratulation was a principle of human
nature. Nobody, I believe, ever thought it necessary to prove
that compassion was such.
First of all, our sympathy with sorrow is, in some sense,
more universal than that with joy. Though sorrow is excessive, we
may still have some fellow-feeling with it. What we feel does
not, indeed, in this case, amount to that complete sympathy, to
that perfect harmony and correspondence of sentiments which
constitutes approbation. We do not weep, and exclaim, and lament,
with the sufferer. We are sensible, on the contrary, of his weak
ness and of the extravagance of his passion, and yet often feel a
very sensible concern upon his account. But if we do not entirely
enter into, and go along with, the joy of another, we have no
sort of regard or fellow-feeling for it. The man who skips and
dances about with that intemperate and senseless joy which we
cannot accompany him in, is the object of our contempt and
indignation.
Pain besides, whether of mind or body, is a more pungent
sensation than pleasure, and our sympathy with pain, though it
falls greatly short of what is naturally felt by the sufferer, is
generally a more lively and distinct perception than our sympathy
with pleasure, though this last often approaches more nearly, as
I shall shew immediately, to the natural vivacity of the original
passion.
Over and above all this, we often struggle to keep down our
sympathy with the sorrow of others. Whenever we are not under the
observation of the sufferer, we endeavour, for our own sake, to
suppress it as much as we can, and we are not always successful.
The opposition which we make to it, and the reluctance with which
we yield to it, necessarily oblige us to take more particular
notice of it. But we never have occasion to make this opposition
to our sympathy with joy. If there is any envy in the case, we
never feel the least propensity towards it; and if there is none,
we give way to it without any reluctance. On the contrary, as we
are always ashamed of our own envy, we often pretend, and
sometimes really wish to sympathize with the joy of others, when
by that disagreeable sentiment we are disqualified from doing so.
We are glad, we say on account of our neighbour's good fortune,
when in our hearts, perhaps, we are really sorry. We often feel a
sympathy with sorrow when we would wish to be rid of it; and we
often miss that with joy when we would be glad to have it. The
obvious observation, therefore, which it naturally falls in our
way to make, is, that our propensity to sympathize with sorrow
must be very strong, and our inclination to sympathize with joy
very weak.
Notwithstanding this prejudice, however, I will venture to
affirm, that, when there is no envy in the case, our propensity
to sympathize with joy is much stronger than our propensity to
sympathize with sorrow; and that our fellow-feeling for the
agreeable emotion approaches much more nearly to the vivacity of
what is naturally felt by the persons principally concerned, than
that which we conceive for the painful one.
We have some indulgence for that excessive grief which we
cannot entirely go along with. We know what a prodigious effort
is requisite before the sufferer can bring down his emotions. to
complete harmony and concord with those of the spectator. Though
he fails, therefore, we easily pardon him. But we have no such
indulgence for the intemperance of joy; because we are not
conscious that any such vast effort is requisite to bring it down
to what we can entirely enter into. The man who, under the
greatest calamities, can command his sorrow, seems worthy of the
highest admiration; but he who, in the fulness of prosperity, can
in the same manner master his joy, seems hardly to deserve any
praise. We are sensible that there is a much wider interval in
the one case than in the other, between what is naturally felt by
the person principally concerned, and what the spectator can
entirely go along with.
What can he added to the happiness of the man who is in
health, who is out of debt, and has a clear conscience? To one in
this situation, all accessions of fortune may properly be said to
be superfluous; and if he is much elevated upon account of them,
it must be the effect of the most frivolous levity. This
situation, however, may very well be called the natural and
ordinary state of mankind. Notwithstanding the present misery and
depravity of the world, so justly lamented, this really is the
state of the greater part of men. The greater part of men,
therefore, cannot find any great difficulty in elevating
themselves to all the joy which any accession to this situation
can well excite in their companion.
But though little can be added to this state, much may be
taken from it. Though between this condition and the highest
pitch of human prosperity, the interval is but a trifle; between
it and the lowest depth of misery the distance is immense and
prodigious. Adversity, on this account, necessarily depresses the
mind of the sufferer much more below its natural state, than
prosperity can elevate him above it. The spectator therefore,
must find it much more difficult to sympathize entirely, and keep
perfect time, with his sorrow, than thoroughly to enter into his
joy, and must depart much further from his own natural and
ordinary temper of mind in the one case than in the other. It is
on this account, that though our sympathy with sorrow is often a
more pungent sensation than our sympathy with joy, it always
falls much more short of the violence of what is naturally felt
by the person principally concerned.
It is agreeable to sympathize with, joy; and wherever envy
does not oppose it, our heart abandons itself with satisfaction
to the highest transports of that delightful sentiment. But it is
painful to go along with grief, and we always enter into it with
reluctance.[1] When we attend to the representation of a tragedy,
we struggle against that sympathetic sorrow which the
entertainment inspires as long as we can, and we give way to it
at last only when we can no longer avoid it: we even then
endeavour to cover our concern from the company. If we shed any
tears, we carefully conceal them, and are afraid, lest the
spectators, not entering into this excessive tenderness, should
regard it as effeminacy and weakness. The wretch whose
misfortunes call upon our compassion feels with what reluctance
we are likely to enter into his sorrow, and therefore proposes
his grief to us with fear and hesitation: he even smothers the
half of it, and is ashamed, upon account of this hard-heartedness
of mankind, to give vent to the fulness of his affliction. It is
otherwise with the man who riots in joy and success. Wherever
envy does not interest us against him, he expects our completest
sympathy. He does not fear, therefore, to announce himself with
shouts of exultation, in full confidence that we are heartily
disposed to go along with him.
Why should we be more ashamed to weep than to laugh before
company? We may often have as real occasion to do the one as to
do the other. but we always feel that the spectators are more
likely to go along with us in the agreeable, than in the painful
emotion. It is always miserable to complain, even when we are
oppressed by the most dreadful calamities. But the triumph of
victory is not always ungraceful. Prudence, indeed, would often
advise us to bear our prosperity with more moderation; because
prudence would teach us to avoid that envy which this very
triumph is, more than any thing, apt to excite.
How hearty are the acclamations of the mob, who never bear
any envy to their superiors, at a triumph or a public entry? And
how sedate and moderate is commonly their grief at an execution?
Our sorrow at a funeral generally amounts to no more than an
affected gravity. but our mirth at a christening or a marriage,
is always from the heart, and without any affectation. Upon
these, and all such joyous occasions, our satisfaction, though
not so durable, is often as lively as that of the persons
principally concerned. Whenever we cordially congratulate our
friends, which, however, to the disgrace of human nature, we do
but seldom, their joy literally becomes our joy. we are, for the
moment, as happy as they are: our heart swells and overflows with
real pleasure: joy and complacency sparkle from our eyes, and
animate every feature of our countenance, and every gesture of
our body.
But, on the contrary, when we condole with our friends in
their afflictions, how little do we feel, in comparison of what
they feel? We sit down by them, we look at them, and while they
relate to us the circumstances of their misfortune, we listen to
them with gravity and attention. But while their narration is
every moment interrupted by those natural bursts of passion which
often seem almost to choak them in the midst of it; how far are
the languid emotions of our hearts from keeping time to the
transports of theirs? We may be sensible, at the same time, that
their passion is natural, and no greater than what we ourselves
might feel upon the like occasion. We may even inwardly reproach
ourselves with our own want of sensibility, and perhaps, on that
account, work ourselves up into an artificial sympathy, which,
however, when it is raised, is always the slightest and most
transitory imaginable; and generally, as soon as we have left the
room, vanishes, and is gone for ever. Nature, it seems, when she
loaded us with our own sorrows, thought that they were enough,
and therefore did not command us to take any further share in
those of others, than what was necessary to prompt us to relieve
them.
It is on account of this dull sensibility to the afflictions
of others, that magnanimity amidst great distress appears always
so divinely graceful. His behaviour is genteel and agreeable who
can maintain his cheerfulness amidst a number of frivolous
disasters. But he appears to be more than mortal who can support
in the same manner the most dreadful calamities. We feel what an
immense effort is requisite to silence those violent emotions
which naturally agitate and distract those in his situation. We
are amazed to find that he can command himself so entirely. His
firmness, at the same time, perfectly coincides with our
insensibility. He makes no demand upon us for that more exquisite
degree of sensibility which we find, and which we are mortified
to find, that we do not possess. There is the most perfect
correspondence between his sentiments and ours, and on that
account the most perfect propriety in his behaviour. It is a
propriety too, which, from our experience of the usual weakness
of human nature, we could not reasonably have expected he should
be able to maintain. We wonder with surprise and astonishment at
that strength of mind which is capable of so noble and generous
an effort. The sentiment of complete sympathy and approbation,
mixed and animated with wonder and surprise, constitutes what is
properly called admiration, as has already been more than once
taken notice of Cato, surrounded on all sides by his enemies,
unable to resist them, disdaining to submit to them, and reduced,
by the proud maxims of that age, to the necessity of destroying
himself; yet never shrinking from his misfortunes, never
supplicating with the lamentable voice of wretchedness, those
miserable sympathetic tears which we are always so unwilling to
give; but on the contrary, arming himself with manly fortitude,
and the moment before he executes his fatal resolution, giving,
with his usual tranquillity, all necessary orders for the safety
of his friends; appears to Seneca, that great preacher of
insensibility, a spectacle which even the gods themselves might
behold with pleasure and admiration.
Whenever we meet, in common life, with any examples of such
heroic magnanimity, we are always extremely affected. We are more
apt to weep and shed tears for such as, in this manner, seem to
feel nothing for them. and in selves, than for those who give way
to all the weakness of sorrow: this particular case, the
sympathetic grief of the spectator appears to go beyond the
original passion in the person principally concerned. The friends
of Socrates all wept when he drank the last potion, while he
himself expressed the gayest and most cheerful tranquillity. Upon
all such occasions the spectator makes no effort, and has no
occasion to make any, in order to conquer his sympathetic sorrow.
He is under no fear that it will transport him to any thing that
is extravagant and improper; he is rather pleased with the
sensibility of his own heart, and gives way to it with
complacence and self-approbation. He gladly indulges, therefore,
the most melancholy views which can naturally occur to him,
concerning the calamity of his friend, for whom, perhaps, he
never felt so exquisitely before, the tender and tearful passion
of love. But it is quite otherwise with the person principally
concerned. He is obliged, as much as possible, to turn away his
eyes from whatever is either naturally terrible or disagreeable
in his situation. Too serious an attention to those
circumstances, he fears, might make so violent an impression upon
him, that he could no longer keep within the bounds of
moderation, or render himself the object of the complete sympathy
and approbation of the spectators. He fixes his thoughts,
therefore, upon those only which are agreeable, the applause and
admiration which he is about to deserve by the heroic magnanimity
of his behaviour. To feel that he is capable of so noble and
generous an effort, to feel that in this dreadful situation he
can still act as he would desire to act, animates and transports
him with joy, and enables him to support that triumphant gaiety
which seems to exult in the victory he thus gains over his
misfortunes.
On the contrary, he always appears, in some measure, mean and
despicable, who is sunk in sorrow and dejection upon account of
any calamity of his own. We cannot bring ourselves to feel for
him what he feels for himself, and what, perhaps, we should feel
for ourselves if in his situation: we, therefore, despise him;
unjustly, perhaps, if any sentiment could be regarded as unjust,
to which we are by nature irresistibly determined. The weakness
of sorrow never appears in any respect agreeable, except when it
arises from what we feel for others more than from what we feel
for ourselves. A son, upon the death of an indulgent and
respectable father, may give way to it without much blame. His
sorrow is chiefly founded upon a sort of sympathy with his
departed parent and we readily enter into this humane emotion.
But if he should indulge the same weakness upon account of any
misfortune which affected himself only, he would no longer meet
with any such indulgence. If he should be reduced to beggary and
ruin, if he should be exposed to the most dreadful dangers, if he
should even be led out to a public execution, and there shed one
single tear upon the scaffold, he would disgrace himself for ever
in the opinion of all the gallant and generous part of mankind.
Their compassion for him, however, would be very strong, and very
sincere; but as it would still fall short of this excessive
weakness, they would have no pardon for the man who could thus
expose himself in the eyes of the world. His behaviour would
affect them with shame rather than with sorrow; and the dishonour
which he had thus brought upon himself would appear to them the
most lamentable circumstance in his misfortune. How did it
disgrace the memory of the intrepid Duke of Biron, who had so
often braved death in the field, that he wept upon the scaffold,
when he beheld the state to which he was fallen, and remembered
the favour and the glory from which his own rashness had so
unfortunately thrown him!
[1.]
It has been objected to me, that as I found the
sentiment of approbation, which is always agreeable, upon sympathy, it
is inconsistent with my system to admit any disagreeable sympathy. I
answer, that in the sentiment of approbation there are two things to be
taken notice of; first, the sympathetic passion of the spectator; and,
secondly, the emotion which arises from his observing the perfect
coincidence between this sympathetic passion in himself, and the
original passion in the person principally concerned. This last
emotion, in which the setiment of approbation properly consists, is
always agreeable and delightful. The other may either be agreeable or
disagreeable, according to the nature of the original passion, whose
features it must always, in some measure, retain.
1.3.2. Chap. II
Of the origin of Ambition, and of the distinction of Ranks
It is because mankind are disposed to sympathize more
entirely with our joy than with our sorrow, that we make parade
of our riches, and conceal our poverty. Nothing is so mortifying
as to be obliged to expose our distress to the view of the
public, and to feel, that though our situation is open to the
eyes of all mankind, no mortal conceives for us the half of what
we suffer. Nay, it is chiefly from this regard to the sentiments
of mankind, that we pursue riches and avoid poverty. For to what
purpose is all the toil and bustle of this world? what is the end
of avarice and ambition, of the pursuit of wealth, of power, and
preheminence? Is it to supply the necessities of nature? The
wages of the meanest labourer can supply them. We see that they
afford him food and clothing, the comfort of a house, and of a
family. If we examined his oeconomy with rigour, we should find
that he spends a great part of them upon conveniencies, which may
be regarded as superfluities, and that, upon extraordinary
occasions, he can give something even to vanity and distinction.
What then is the cause of our aversion to his situation, and why
should those who have been educated in the higher ranks of life,
regard it as worse than death, to be reduced to live, even
without labour, upon the same simple fare with him, to dwell
under the same lowly roof, and to be clothed in the same humble.
attire? Do they imagine that their stomach is better, or their
sleep sounder in a palace than in a cottage? The contrary has
been so often observed, and, indeed, is so very obvious, though
it had never been observed, that there is nobody ignorant of it.
From whence, then, arises that emulation which runs through all
the different ranks of men, and what are the advantages which we
propose by that great purpose of human life which we call
bettering our condition? To be observed, to be attended to, to be
taken notice of with sympathy, complacency, and approbation, are
all the advantages which we can propose to derive from it. It is
the vanity, not the ease, or the pleasure, which interests us.
But vanity is always founded upon the belief of our being the
object of attention and approbation. The rich man glories in his
riches, because he feels that they naturally draw upon him the
attention of the world, and that mankind are disposed to go along
with him in all those agreeable emotions with which the
advantages of his situation so readily inspire him. At the
thought of this, his heart seems to swell and dilate itself
within him, and he is fonder of his wealth, upon this account,
than for all the other advantages it procures him. The poor man,
on the contrary, is ashamed of his poverty. He feels that it
either places him out of the sight of mankind, or, that if they
take any notice of him, they have, however, scarce any
fellow-feeling with the misery and distress which he suffers. He
is mortified upon both accounts. for though to be overlooked, and
to be disapproved of, are things entirely different, yet as
obscurity covers us from the daylight of honour and approbation,
to feel that we are taken no notice of, necessarily damps the
most agreeable hope, and disappoints the most ardent desire, of
human nature. The poor man goes out and comes in unheeded, and
when in the midst of a crowd is in the same obscurity as if shut
up in his own hovel. Those humble cares and painful attentions
which occupy those in his situation, afford no amusement to the
dissipated and the gay. They turn away their eyes from him, or if
the extremity of his distress forces them to look at him, it is
only to spurn so disagreeable an object from among them. The
fortunate and the proud wonder at the insolence of human
wretchedness, that it should dare to present itself before them,
and with the loathsome aspect of its misery presume to disturb
the serenity of their happiness. The man of rank and distinction,
on the contrary, is observed by all the world. Every body is
eager to look at him, and to conceive, at least by sympathy, that
joy and exultation with which his circumstances naturally inspire
him. His actions are the objects of the public care. Scarce a
word, scarce a gesture, can fall from him that is altogether
neglected. In a great assembly he is the person upon whom all
direct their eyes; it is upon him that their passions seem all to
wait with expectation, in order to receive that movement and
direction which he shall impress upon them; and if his behaviour
is not altogether absurd, he has, every moment, an opportunity of
interesting mankind, and of rendering himself the object of the
observation and fellow-feeling of every body about him. It is
this, which, notwithstanding the restraint it imposes,
notwithstanding the loss of liberty with which it is attended,
renders greatness the object of envy, and compensates, in the
opinion of all those mortifications which must mankind, all that
toil, all that anxiety, be undergone in the pursuit of it; and
what is of yet more consequence, all that leisure, all that ease,
all that careless security, which are forfeited for ever by the
acquisition.
When we consider the condition of the great, in those
delusive colours in which the imagination is apt to paint it. it
seems to be almost the abstract idea of a perfect and happy
state. It is the very state which, in all our waking dreams and
idle reveries, we had sketched out to ourselves as the final
object of all our desires. We feel, therefore, a peculiar
sympathy with the satisfaction of those who are in it. We favour
all their inclinations, and forward all their wishes. What pity,
we think, that any thing should spoil and corrupt so agreeable a
situation! We could even wish them immortal; and it seems hard to
us, that death should at last put an end to such perfect
enjoyment. It is cruel, we think, in Nature to compel them from
their exalted stations to that humble, but hospitable home, which
she has provided for all her children. Great King, live for ever!
is the compliment, which, after the manner of eastern adulation,
we should readily make them, if experience did not teach us its
absurdity. Every calamity that befals them, every injury that is
done them, excites in the breast of the spectator ten times more
compassion and resentment than he would have felt, had the same
things happened to other men. It is the misfortunes of Kings only
which afford the proper subjects for tragedy. They resemble, in
this respect, the misfortunes of lovers. Those two situations are
the chief which interest us upon the theatre; because, in spite
of all that reason and experience can tell us to the contrary,
the prejudices of the imagination attach to these two states a
happiness superior to any other. To disturb, or to put an end to
such perfect enjoyment, seems to be the most atrocious of all
injuries. The traitor who conspires against the life of his
monarch, is thought a greater monster than any other murderer.
All the innocent blood that was shed in the civil wars, provoked
less indignation than the death of Charles I. A stranger to human
nature, who saw the indifference of men about the misery of their
inferiors, and the regret and indignation which they feel for the
misfortunes and sufferings of those above them, would be apt to
imagine, that pain must be more agonizing, and the convulsions of
death more terrible to persons of higher rank, than to those of
meaner stations.
Upon this disposition of mankind, to go along with all the
passions of the rich and the powerful, is founded the distinction
of ranks, and the order of society. Our obsequiousness to our
superiors more frequently arises from our admiration for the
advantages of their situation, than from any private expectations
of benefit from their good-will. Their benefits can extend but to
a few. but their fortunes interest almost every body. We are
eager to assist them in completing a system of happiness that
approaches so near to perfection; and we desire to serve them for
their own sake, without any other recompense but the vanity or
the honour of obliging them. Neither is our deference to their
inclinations founded chiefly, or altogether, upon a regard to the
utility of such submission, and to the order of society, which is
best supported by it. Even when the order of society seems to
require that we should oppose them, we can hardly bring ourselves
to do it. That kings are the servants of the people, to be
obeyed, resisted, deposed, or punished, as the public conveniency
may require, is the doctrine of reason and philosophy; but it is
not the doctrine of Nature. Nature would teach us to submit to
them for their own sake, to tremble and bow down before their
exalted station, to regard their smile as a reward sufficient to
compensate any services, and to dread their displeasure, though
no other evil were to follow from it, as the severest of all
mortifications. To treat them in any respect as men, to reason
and dispute with them upon ordinary occasions, requires such
resolution, that there are few men whose magnanimity can support
them in it, unless they are likewise assisted by familiarity and
acquaintance. The strongest motives, the most furious passions,
fear, hatred, and resentment, are scarce sufficient to balance
this natural disposition to respect them: and their conduct must,
either justly or unjustly, have excited the highest degree of all
those passions, before the bulk of the people can be brought to
oppose them with violence, or to desire to see them either
punished or deposed. Even when the people have been brought this
length, they are apt to relent every moment, and easily relapse
into their habitual state of deference to those whom they have
been accustomed to look upon as their natural superiors. They
cannot stand the mortification of their monarch. Compassion soon
takes the place of resentment, they forget all past provocations,
their old principles of loyalty revive, and they run to
re-establish the ruined authority of their old masters, with the
same violence with which they had opposed it. The death of
Charles I brought about the Restoration of the royal family.
Compassion for James II when he was seized by the populace in
making his escape on ship-board, had almost prevented the
Revolution, and made it go on more heavily than before.
Do the great seem insensible of the easy price at which they
may acquire the public admiration; or do they seem to imagine
that to them, as to other men, it must be the purchase either of
sweat or of blood? By what important accomplishments is the young
nobleman instructed to support the dignity of his rank, and to
render himself worthy of that superiority over his
fellow-citizens, to which the virtue of his ancestors had raised
them? Is it by knowledge, by industry, by patience, by
self-denial, or by virtue of any kind? As all his words, as all
his motions are attended to, he learns an habitual regard to
every circumstance of ordinary behaviour, and studies to perform
all those small duties with the most exact propriety. As he is
conscious how much he is observed, and how much mankind are
disposed to favour all his inclinations, he acts, upon the most
indifferent occasions, with that freedom and elevation which the
thought of this naturally inspires. His air, his manner, his
deportment, all mark that elegant and graceful sense of his own
superiority, which those who are born to inferior stations can
hardly ever arrive at. These are the arts by which he proposes to
make mankind more easily submit to his authority, and to govern
their inclinations according to his own pleasure: and in this he
is seldom disappointed. These arts, supported by rank and
preheminence, are, upon ordinary occasions, sufficient to govern
the world. Lewis XIV during the greater part of his reign, was
regarded, not only in France, but over all Europe, as the most
perfect model of a great prince. But what were the talents and
virtues by which he acquired this great reputation? Was it by the
scrupulous and inflexible justice of all his undertakings, by the
immense dangers and difficulties with which they were attended,
or by the unwearied and unrelenting application with which he
pursued them? Was it by his extensive knowledge, by his exquisite
judgment, or by his heroic valour? It was by none of these
qualities. But he was, first of all, the most powerful prince in
Europe, and consequently held the highest rank among kings; and
then, says his historian, 'he surpassed all his courtiers in the
gracefulness of his shape, and the majestic beauty of his
features. The sound of his voice, noble and affecting, gained
those hearts which his presence intimidated. He had a step and a
deportment which could suit only him and his rank, and which
would have been ridiculous in any other person. The embarrassment
which he occasioned to those who spoke to him, flattered that
secret satisfaction with which he felt his own superiority. The
old officer, who was confounded and faultered in asking him a
favour, and not being able to conclude his discourse, said to
him: Sir, your majesty, I hope, will believe that I do not
tremble thus before your enemies: had no difficulty to obtain
what he demanded.' These frivolous accomplishments, supported by
his rank, and, no doubt too, by a degree of other talents and
virtues, which seems, however, not to have been much above
mediocrity, established this prince in the esteem of his own age,
and have drawn, even from posterity, a good deal of respect for
his memory. Compared with these, in his own times, and in his own
presence, no other virtue, it seems, appeared to have any merit.
Knowledge, industry, valour, and beneficence, trembled, were
abashed, and lost all dignity before them.
But it is not by accomplishments of this kind, that the man
of inferior rank must hope to distinguish himself. Politeness is
so much the virtue of the great, that it will do little honour to
any body but themselves. The coxcomb, who imitates their manner,
and affects to be eminent by the superior propriety of his
ordinary behaviour, is rewarded with a double share of contempt
for his folly and presumption. Why should the man, whom nobody
thinks it worth while to look at, be very anxious about the
manner in which he holds up his head, or disposes of his arms
while he walks through a room? He is occupied surely with a very
superfluous attention, and with an attention too that marks a
sense of his own importance, which no other mortal can go along
with. The most perfect modesty and plainness, joined to as much
negligence as is consistent with the respect due to the company,
ought to be the chief characteristics of the behaviour of a
private man. If ever he hopes to distinguish himself, it must be
by more important virtues. He must acquire dependants to balance
the dependants of the great, and he has no other fund to pay them
from, but the labour of his body, and the activity of his mind.
He must cultivate these therefore: he must acquire superior
knowledge in his profession, and superior industry in the
exercise of it. He must be patient in labour, resolute in danger,
and firm in distress. These talents he must bring into public
view, by the difficulty, importance, and, at the same time, good
judgment of his undertakings, and by the severe and unrelenting
application with which he pursues them. Probity and prudence,
generosity and frankness, must characterize his behaviour upon
all ordinary occasions; and he must, at the same time, be forward
to engage in all those situations, in which it requires the
greatest talents and virtues to act with propriety, but in which
the greatest applause is to be acquired by those who can acquit
themselves with honour. With what impatience does the man of
spirit and ambition, who is depressed by his situation, look
round for some great opportunity to distinguish himself? No
circumstances, which can afford this, appear to him undesirable.
He even looks forward with satisfaction to the prospect of
foreign war, or civil dissension; and, with secret transport and
delight, sees through all the confusion and bloodshed which
attend them, the probability of those wished-for occasions
presenting themselves, in which he may draw upon himself the
attention and admiration of mankind. The man of rank and
distinction, on the contrary, whose whole glory consists in the
propriety of his ordinary behaviour, who is contented with the
humble renown which this can afford him, and has no talents to
acquire any other, is unwilling to embarrass himself with what
can be attended either with difficulty or distress. To figure at
a ball is his great triumph, and to succeed in an intrigue of
gallantry, his highest exploit. He has an aversion to all public
confusions, not from the love of mankind, for the great never
look upon their inferiors as their fellow-creatures; nor yet from
want of courage, for in that he is seldom defective; but from a
consciousness that he possesses none of the virtues which are
required in such situations, and that the public attention will
certainly be drawn away from him by others. He may be willing to
expose himself to some little danger, and to make a campaign when
it happens to be the fashion. But he shudders with horror at the
thought of any situation which demands the continual and long
exertion of patience, industry, fortitude, and application of
thought. These virtues are hardly ever to be met with in men who
are born to those high stations. In all governments accordingly,
even in monarchies, the highest offices are generally possessed,
and the whole detail of the administration conducted, by men who
were educated in the middle and inferior ranks of life, who have
been carried forward by their own industry and abilities, though
loaded with the jealousy, and opposed by the resentment, of all
those who were born their superiors, and to whom the great, after
having regarded them first with contempt, and afterwards with
envy, are at last contented to truckle with the same abject
meanness with which they desire that the rest of mankind should
behave to themselves.
It is the loss of this easy empire over the affections of
mankind which renders the fall from greatness so insupportable.
When the family of the king of Macedon was led in triumph by
Paulus Aemilius, their misfortunes, it is said, made them divide
with their conqueror the attention of the Roman people. The sight
of the royal children, whose tender age rendered them insensible
of their situation, struck the spectators, amidst the public
rejoicings and prosperity, with the tenderest sorrow and
compassion. The king appeared next in the procession; and seemed
like one confounded and astonished, and bereft of all sentiment,
by the greatness of his calamities. His friends and ministers
followed after him. As they moved along, they often cast their
eyes upon their fallen sovereign, and always burst into tears at
the sight; their whole behaviour demonstrating that they thought
not of their own misfortunes, but were occupied entirely by the
superior greatness of his. The generous Romans, on the contrary,
beheld him with disdain and indignation, and regarded as unworthy
of all compassion the man who could be so mean-spirited as to
bear to live under such calamities. Yet what did those calamities
amount to? According to the greater part of historians, he was to
spend the remainder of his days, under the protection of a
powerful and humane people, in a state which in itself should
seem worthy of envy, a state of plenty, ease, leisure, and
security, from which it was impossible for him even by his own
folly to fall. But he was no longer to be surrounded by that
admiring mob of fools, flatterers, and dependants, who had
formerly been accustomed to attend upon all his motions. He was
no longer to be gazed upon by multitudes, nor to have it in his
power to render himself the object of their respect, their
gratitude, their love, their admiration. The passions of nations
were no longer to mould themselves upon his inclinations. This
was that insupportable calamity which bereaved the king of all
sentiment; which made his friends forget their own misfortunes;
and which the Roman magnanimity could scarce conceive how any man
could be so mean-spirited as to bear to survive.
'Love,' says my Lord Rochfaucault, 'is commonly succeeded by
ambition; but ambition is hardly ever succeeded by love.' That
passion, when once it has got entire possession of the breast,
will admit neither a rival nor a successor. To those who have
been accustomed to the possession, or even to the hope of public
admiration, all other pleasures sicken and decay. Of all the
discarded statesmen who for their own ease have studied to get
the better of ambition, and to despise those honours which they
could no longer arrive at, how few have been able to succeed? The
greater part have spent their time in the most listless and
insipid indolence, chagrined at the thoughts of their own
insignificancy, incapable of being interested i n the occupations
of private life, without enjoyment, except when they talked of
their former greatness, and without satisfaction, except when
they were employed in some vain project to recover it. Are you in
earnest resolved never to barter your liberty for the lordly
servitude of a court, but to live free, fearless, and
independent? There seems to be one way to continue in that
virtuous resolution; and perhaps but one. Never enter the place
from whence so few have been able to return; never come within
the circle of ambition; nor ever bring yourself into comparison
with those masters of the earth who have already engrossed the
attention of half mankind before you.
Of such mighty importance does it appear to be, in the
imaginations of men, to stand in that situation which sets them
most in the view of general sympathy and attention. And thus,
place, that great object which divides the wives of aldermen, is
the end of half the labours of human life; and is the cause of
all the tumult and bustle, all the rapine and injustice, which
avarice and ambition have introduced into this world. People of
sense, it is said, indeed despise place; that is, they despise
sitting at the head of the table, and are indifferent who it is
that is pointed out to the company by that frivolous
circumstance, which the smallest advantage is capable of
overbalancing. But rank, distinction pre-eminence, no man
despises, unless he is either raised very much above, or sunk
very much below, the ordinary standard of human nature; unless he
is either so confirmed in wisdom and real philosophy, as to be
satisfied that, while the propriety of his conduct renders him
the just object of approbation, it is of little consequence
though he be neither attended to, nor approved of; or so
habituated to the idea of his own meanness, so sunk in slothful
and sottish indifference, as entirely to have forgot the desire,
and almost the very wish, for superiority.
As to become the natural object of the joyous congratulations
and sympathetic attentions of mankind is, in this manner, the
circumstance which gives to prosperity all its dazzling
splendour; so nothing darkens so much the gloom of adversity as
to feel that our misfortunes are the objects, not of the
fellow-feeling, but of the contempt and aversion of our brethren.
It is upon this account that the most dreadful calamities are not
always those which it is most difficult to support. It is often
more mortifying to appear in public under small disasters, than
under great misfortunes. The first excite no sympathy; but the
second, though they may excite none that approaches to the
anguish of the sufferer, call forth, however, a very lively
compassion. The sentiments of the spectators are, in this last
case, less wide of those of the sufferer, and their imperfect
fellow-feeling lends him some assistance in supporting his
misery. Before a gay assembly, a gentleman would be more
mortified to appear covered with filth and rags than with blood
and wounds. This last situation would interest their pity; the
other would provoke their laughter. The judge who orders a
criminal to be set in the pillory, dishonours him more than if he
had condemned him to the scaffold. The great prince, who, some
years ago, caned a general officer at the head of his army,
disgraced him irrecoverably. The punishment would have been much
less had he shot him through the body. By the laws of honour, to
strike with a cane dishonours, to strike with a sword does not,
for an obvious reason. Those slighter punishments, when inflicted
on a gentleman, to whom dishonour is the greatest of all evils,
come to be regarded among a humane and generous people, as the
most dreadful of any. With regard to persons of that rank,
therefore, they are universally laid aside, and the law, while it
takes their life upon many occasions, respects their honour upon
almost all. To scourge a person of quality, or to set him in the
pillory, upon account of any crime whatever, is a brutality of
which no European government, except that of Russia, is capable.
A brave man is not rendered contemptible by being brought to
the scaffold; he is, by being set in the pillory. His behaviour
in the one situation may gain him universal esteem and
admiration. No behaviour in the other can render him agreeable.
The sympathy of the spectators supports him in the one case, and
saves him from that shame, that consciousness that his misery is
felt by himself only, which is of all sentiments the most
unsupportable. There is no sympathy in the other; or, if there is
any, it is not with his pain, which is a trifle, but with his
consciousness of the want of sympathy with which this pain is
attended. It is with his shame, not with his sorrow. Those who
pity him, blush and hang down their heads for him. He droops in
the same manner, and feels himself irrecoverably degraded by the
punishment, though not by the crime. The man, on the contrary,
who dies with resolution, as he is naturally regarded with the
erect aspect of esteem and approbation, so he wears himself the
same undaunted countenance; and, if the crime does not deprive
him of the respect of others, the punishment never will. He has
no suspicion that his situation is the object of contempt or
derision to any body, and he can, with propriety, assume the air,
not only of perfect serenity, but of triumph and exultation.
'Great dangers,' says the Cardinal de Retz, 'have their
charms, because there is some glory to be got, even when we
miscarry. But moderate dangers have nothing but what is horrible,
because the loss of reputation always attends the want of
success.' His maxim has the same foundation with what we have
been just now observing with regard to punishments.
Human virtue is superior to pain, to poverty, to danger, and
to death; nor does it even require its utmost efforts do despise
them. But to have its misery exposed to insult and derision, to
be led in triumph, to be set up for the hand of scorn to point
at, is a situation in which its constancy is much more apt to
fail. Compared with the contempt of mankind, all other external
evils are easily supported.
1.3.3. Chap. III
Of the corruption of our moral sentiments, which is occasioned by
this disposition to admire the rich and the great, and to despise
or neglect persons of poor and mean condition
This disposition to admire, and almost to worship, the rich
and the powerful, and to despise, or, at least, to neglect
persons of poor and mean condition, though necessary both to
establish and to maintain the distinction of ranks and the order
of society, is, at the same time, the great and most universal
cause of the corruption of our moral sentiments. That wealth and
greatness are often regarded with the respect and admiration
which are due only to wisdom and virtue; and that the contempt,
of which vice and folly are the only proper objects, is often
most unjustly bestowed upon poverty and weakness, has been the
complaint of moralists in all ages.
We desire both to be respectable and to be respected. We
dread both to be contemptible and to be contemned. But, upon
coming into the world, we soon find that wisdom and virtue are by
no means the sole objects of respect; nor vice and folly, of
contempt. We frequently see the respectful attentions of the
world more strongly directed towards the rich and the great, than
towards the wise and the virtuous. We see frequently the vices
and follies of the powerful much less despised than the poverty
and weakness of the innocent. To deserve, to acquire, and to
enjoy the respect and admiration of mankind, are the great
objects of ambition and emulation. Two different roads are
presented to us, equally leading to the attainment of this so
much desired object; the one, by the study of wisdom and the
practice of virtue; the other, by the acquisition of wealth and
greatness. Two different characters are presented to our
emulation; the one, of proud ambition and ostentatious avidity.
the other, of humble modesty and equitable justice. Two different
models, two different pictures, are held out to us, according to
which we may fashion our own character and behaviour; the one
more gaudy and glittering in its colouring; the other more
correct and more exquisitely beautiful in its outline: the one
forcing itself upon the notice of every wandering eye; the other,
attracting the attention of scarce any body but the most studious
and careful observer. They are the wise and the virtuous chiefly,
a select, though, I am afraid, but a small party, who are the
real and steady admirers of wisdom and virtue. The great mob of
mankind are the admirers and worshippers, and, what may seem more
extraordinary, most frequently the disinterested admirers and
worshippers, of wealth and greatness.
The respect which we feel for wisdom and virtue is, no doubt,
different from that which we conceive for wealth and greatness;
and it requires no very nice discernment to distinguish the
difference. But, notwithstanding this difference, those
sentiments bear a very considerable resemblance to one another.
In some particular features they are, no doubt, different, but,
in the general air of the countenance, they seem to be so very
nearly the same, that inattentive observers are very apt to
mistake the one for the other.
In equal degrees of merit there is scarce any man who does
not respect more the rich and the great, than the poor and the
humble. With most men the presumption and vanity of the former
are much more admired, than the real and solid merit of the
latter. It is scarce agreeable to good morals, or even to good
language, perhaps, to say, that mere wealth and greatness,
abstracted from merit and virtue, deserve our respect. We must
acknowledge, however, that they almost constantly obtain it; and
that they may, therefore, be considered as, in some respects, the
natural objects of it. Those exalted stations may, no doubt, be
completely degraded by vice and folly. But the vice and folly
must be very great, before they can operate this complete
degradation. The profligacy of a man of fashion is looked upon
with much less contempt and aversion, than that of a man of
meaner condition. In the latter, a single transgression of the
rules of temperance and propriety, is commonly more resented,
than the constant and avowed contempt of them ever is in the
former.
In the middling and inferior stations of life, the road to
virtue and that to fortune, to such fortune, at least, as men in
such stations can reasonably expect to acquire, are, happily in
most cases, very nearly the same. In all the middling and
inferior professions, real and solid professional abilities,
joined to prudent, just, firm, and temperate conduct, can very
seldom fail of success. Abilities will even sometimes prevail
where the conduct is by no means correct. Either habitual
imprudence, however, or injustice, or weakness, or profligacy,
will always clouD, and sometimes Depress altogether, the most
splendid professional abilities. Men in the inferior and middling
stations of life, besides, can never be great enough to be above
the law, which must generally overawe them into some sort of
respect for, at least, the more important rules of justice. The
success of such people, too, almost always depends upon the
favour and good opinion of their neighbours and equals; and
without a tolerably regular conduct these can very seldom be
obtained. The good old proverb, therefore, That honesty is the
best policy, holds, in such situations, almost always perfectly
true. In such situations, therefore, we may generally expect a
considerable degree of virtue; and, fortunately for the good
morals of society, these are the situations of by far the greater
part of mankind.
In the superior stations of life the case is unhappily not
always the same. In the courts of princes, in the drawing-rooms
of the great, where success and preferment depend, not upon the
esteem of intelligent and well-informed equals, but upon the
fanciful and foolish favour of ignorant, presumptuous, and proud
superiors; flattery and falsehood too often prevail over merit
and abilities. In such societies the abilities to please, are
more regarded than the abilities to serve. In quiet and peaceable
times, when the storm is at a distance, the prince, or great man,
wishes only to be amused, and is even apt to fancy that he has
scarce any occasion for the service of any body, or that those
who amuse him are sufficiently able to serve him. The external
graces, the frivolous accomplishments of that impertinent and
foolish thing called a man of fashion, are commonly more admired
than the solid and masculine virtues of a warrior, a statesman, a
philosopher, or a legislator. All the great and awful virtues,
all the virtues which can fit, either for the council, the
senate, or the field, are, by the insolent and insignificant
flatterers, who commonly figure the most in such corrupted
societies, held in the utmost contempt and derision. When the
duke of Sully was called upon by Lewis the Thirteenth, to give
his advice in some great emergency, he observed the favourites
and courtiers whispering to one another, and smiling at his
unfashionable appearance. 'Whenever your majesty's father,' said
the old warrior and statesman, 'did me the honour to consult me,
he ordered the buffoons of the court to retire into the
antechamber.'
It is from our disposition to admire, and consequently to
imitate, the rich and the great, that they are enabled to set, or
to lead what is called the fashion. Their dress is the
fashionable dress; the language of their conversation, the
fashionable style; their air and deportment, the fashionable
behaviour. Even their vices and follies are fashionable; and the
greater part of men are proud to imitate and resemble them in the
very qualities which dishonour and degrade them. Vain men often
give themselves airs of a fashionable profligacy, which, in their
hearts, they do not approve of, and of which, perhaps, they are
really not guilty. They desire to be praised for what they
themselves do not think praise-worthy, and are ashamed of
unfashionable virtues which they sometimes practise in secret,
and for which they have secretly some degree of real veneration.
There are hypocrites of wealth and greatness, as well as of
religion and virtue; and a vain man is as apt to pretend to be
what he is not, in the one way, as a cunning man is in the other.
He assumes the equipage and splendid way of living of his
superiors, without considering that whatever may be praise-worthy
in any of these, derives its whole merit and propriety from its
suitableness to that situation and fortune which both require and
can easily support the expence. Many a poor man places his glory
in being thought rich, without considering that the duties (if
one may call such follies by so very venerable a name) which that
reputation imposes upon him, must soon reduce him to beggary, and
render his situation still more unlike that of those whom he
admires and imitates, than it had been originally.
To attain to this envied situation, the candidates for
fortune too frequently abandon the paths of virtue; for
unhappily, the road which leads to the one, and that which leads
to the other, lie sometimes in very opposite directions. But the
ambitious man flatters himself that, in the splendid situation to
which he advances, he will have so many means of commanding the
respect and admiration of mankind, and will be enabled to act
with such superior propriety and grace, that the lustre of his
future conduct will entirely cover, or efface, the foulness of
the steps by which he arrived at that elevation. In many
governments the candidates for the highest stations are above the
law; and, if they can attain the object of their ambition, they
have no fear of being called to account for the means by which
they acquired it. They often endeavour, therefore, not only by
fraud and falsehood, the ordinary and vulgar arts of intrigue and
cabal; but sometimes by the perpetration of the most enormous
crimes, by murder and assassination, by rebellion and civil war,
to supplant and destroy those who oppose or stand in the way of
their greatness. They more frequently miscarry than succeed; and
commonly gain nothing but the disgraceful punishment which is due
to their crimes. But, though they should be so lucky as to attain
that wished-for greatness, they are always most miserably
disappointed in the happiness which they expect to enjoy in it.
It is not ease or pleasure, but always honour, of one kind or
another, though frequently an honour very ill understood, that
the ambitious man really pursues. But the honour of his exalted
station appears, both in his own eyes and in those of other
people, polluted and defiled by the baseness of the means through
which he rose to it. Though by the profusion of every liberal
expence; though by excessive indulgence in every profligate
pleasure, the wretched, but usual, resource of ruined characters;
though by the hurry of public business, or by the prouder and
more dazzling tumult of war, he may endeavour to efface, both
from his own memory and from that of other people, the
remembrance of what he has done; that remembrance never fails to
pursue him. He invokes in vain the dark and dismal powers of
forgetfulness and oblivion. He remembers himself what he has
done, and that remembrance tells him that other people must
likewise remember it. Amidst all the gaudy pomp of the most
ostentatious greatness; amidst the venal and vile adulation of
the great and of the learned; amidst the more innocent, though
more foolish, acclamations of the common people; amidst all the
pride of conquest and the triumph of successful war, he is still
secretly pursued by the avenging furies of shame and remorse;
and, while glory seems to surround him on all sides, he himself,
in his own imagination, sees black and foul infamy fast pursuing
him, and every moment ready to overtake him from behind. Even the
great Caesar, though he had the magnanimity to dismiss his
guards, could not dismiss his suspicions. The remembrance of
Pharsalia still haunted and pursued him. When, at the request of
the senate, he had the generosity to pardon Marcellus, he told
that assembly, that he was not unaware of the designs which were
carrying on against his life; but that, as he had lived long
enough both for nature and for glory, he was contented to die,
and therefore despised all conspiracies. He had, perhaps, lived
long enough for nature. But the man who felt himself the object
of such deadly resentment, from those whose favour he wished to
gain, and whom he still wished to consider as his friends, had
certainly lived too long for real glory; or for all the happiness
which he could ever hope to enjoy in the love and esteem of his
equals.