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.