Section III
Of Self-command
The man who acts according to the rules of perfect prudence,
of strict justice, and of proper benevolence, may be said to be
perfectly virtuous. But the most perfect knowledge of those rules
will not alone enable him to act in this manner: his own passions
are very apt to mislead him; sometimes to drive him and sometimes
to seduce him to violate all the rules which he himself, in all
his sober and cool hours, approves of. The most perfect
knowledge, if it is not supported by the most perfect
self-command, will not always enable him to do his duty.
Some of the best of the ancient moralists seem to have
considered those passions as divided into two different classes:
first, into those which it requires a considerable exertion of
self-command to restrain even for a single moment; and secondly,
into those which it is easy to restrain for a single moment, or
even for a short period of time; but which, by their continual
and almost incessant solicitations, are, in the course of a life,
very apt to mislead into great deviations.
Fear and anger, together with some other passions which are
mixed or connected with them, constitute the first class. The
love of ease, of pleasure, of applause, and of many other selfish
gratifications, constitute the second. Extravagant fear and
furious anger, it is often difficult to restrain even for a
single moment. The love of ease, of pleasure, of applause, and
other selfish gratifications, it is always easy to restrain for a
single moment, or even for a short period of time; but, by their
continual solicitations, they often mislead us into many
weaknesses which we have afterwards much reason to be ashamed of.
The former set of passions may often be said to drive, the
latter, to seduce us from our duty. The command of the former
was, by the ancient moralists above alluded to, denominated
fortitude, manhood, and strength of mind; that of the latter,
temperance, decency, modesty, and moderation.
The command of each of those two sets of passions,
independent of the beauty which it derives from its utility; from
its enabling us upon all occasions to act according to the
dictates of prudence, of justice, and of proper benevolence; has
a beauty of its own, and seems to deserve for its own sake a
certain degree of esteem and admiration. In the one case, the
strength and greatness of the exertion excites some degree of
that esteem and admiration. In the other, the uniformity, the
equality and unremitting steadiness of that exertion.
The man who, in danger, in torture, upon the approach of
death, preserves his tranquillity unaltered, and suffers no word,
no gesture to escape him which does not perfectly accord with the
feelings of the most indifferent spectator, necessarily commands
a very high degree of admiration. If he suffers in the cause of
liberty and justice, for the sake of humanity and the love of his
country, the most tender compassion for his sufferings, the
strongest indignation against the injustice of his persecutors,
the warmest sympathetic gratitude for his beneficent intentions,
the highest sense of his merit, all join and mix themselves with
the admiration of his magnanimity, and often inflame that
sentiment into the most enthusiastic and rapturous veneration.
The heroes of ancient and modern history, who are remembered with
the most peculiar favour and affection, are, many of them, those
who, in the cause of truth, liberty, and justice, have perished
upon the scaffold, and who behaved there with that ease and
dignity which became them. Had the enemies of Socrates suffered
him to die quietly in his bed, the glory even of that great
philosopher might possibly never have acquired that dazzling
splendour in which it has been beheld in all succeeding ages. In
the english history, when we look over the illustrious heads
which have been engraven by Vertue and Howbraken, there is scarce
any body, I imagine, who does not feel that the axe, the emblem
of having been beheaded, which is engraved under some of the most
illustrious of them. under those of the Sir Thomas Mores, of the
Rhaleighs, the Russels, the Sydneys, etc. sheds a real dignity
and interestingness over the characters to which it is affixed,
much superior to what they can derive from all the futile
ornaments of heraldry, with which they are sometimes accompanied.
Nor does this magnanimity give lustre only to the characters
of innocent and virtuous men. It draws some degree of favourable
regard even upon those of the greatest criminals; and when a
robber or highwayman is brought to the scaffold, and behaves
there with decency and firmness, though we perfectly approve of
his punishment, we often cannot help regretting that a man who
possessed such great and noble powers should have been capable of
such mean enormities.
War is the great school both for acquiring and exercising
this species of magnanimity. Death, as we say, is the king of
terrors; and the man who has conquered the fear of death, is not
likely to lose his presence of mind at the approach of any other
natural evil. In war, men become Familiar with death, and are
thereby necessarily cured of that superstitious horror with which
it is viewed by the weak and unexperienced. They consider it
merely as the loss of life, and as no further the object of
aversion than as life may happen to be that of desire. They learn
from experience, too, that many seemingly great dangers are not
so great as they appear; and that, with courage, activity, and
presence of mind, there is often a good probability of
extricating themselves with honour from situations where at first
they could see no hope. The dread of death is thus greatly
diminished; and the confidence or hope of escaping it, augmented.
They learn to expose themselves to danger with less reluctance.
They are less anxious to get out of it, and less apt to lose
their presence of mind while they are in it. It is this habitual
contempt of danger and death which ennobles the profession of a
soldier, and bestows upon it, in the natural apprehensions of
mankind, a rank and dignity superior to that of any other
profession. The skilful and successful exercise of this
profession, in the service of their country, seems to have
constituted the most distinguishing feature in the character of
the favourite heroes of all ages.
Great warlike exploit, though undertaken contrary to every
principle of justice, and carried on without any regard to
humanity, sometimes interests us, and commands even some degree
of a certain sort of esteem for the very worthless characters
which conduct it. We are interested even in the exploits of the
Buccaneers; and read with some sort of esteem and admiration, the
history of the most worthless men, who, in pursuit of the most
criminal purposes, endured greater hardships, surmounted greater
difficulties, and encountered greater dangers, than, perhaps, any
which the ordinary course of history gives an account of.
The command of anger appears upon many occasions not less
generous and noble than that of fear. The proper expression of
just indignation composes many of the most splendid and admired
passages both of ancient and modern eloquence. The Philippics of
Demosthenes, the Catalinarians of Cicero, derive their whole
beauty from the noble propriety with which this passion is
expressed. But this just indignation is nothing but anger
restrained and properly attempered to what the impartial
spectator can enter into. The blustering and noisy passion which
goes beyond this, is always odious and offensive, and interests
us, not for the angry man, but for the man with whom he is angry.
The nobleness of pardoning appears, upon many occasions, superior
even to the most perfect propriety of resenting. When either
proper acknowledgments have been made by the offending party; or,
even without any such acknowledgments, when the public interest
requires that the most mortal enemies should unite for the
discharge of some important duty, the man who can cast away all
animosity, and act with confidence and cordiality towards the
person who had most grievously offended him, seems justly to
merit our highest admiration.
The command of anger, however, does not always appear in such
splendid colours. Fear is contrary to anger, and is often the
motive which restrains it; and in such cases the meanness of the
motive takes away all the nobleness of the restraint. Anger
prompts to attack, and the indulgence of it seems sometimes to
shew a sort of courage and superiority to fear. The indulgence of
anger is sometimes an object of vanity. That of fear never is.
Vain and weak men, among their inferiors, or those who dare not
resist them, often affect to be ostentatiously passionate, and
fancy that they show, what is called, spirit in being so. A bully
tells many stories of his own insolence, which are not true, and
imagines that he thereby renders himself, if not more amiable and
respectable, at least more formidable to his audience. Modern
manners, which, by favouring the practice of duelling, may be
said, in some cases, to encourage private revenge, contribute,
perhaps, a good deal to render, in modern times, the restraint of
anger by fear still more contemptible than it might otherwise
appear to be. There is always something dignified in the command
of fear, whatever may be the motive upon which it is founded. It
is not so with the command of anger. Unless it is founded
altogether in the sense of decency, of dignity, and propriety, it
never is perfectly agreeable.
To act according to the dictates of prudence, of justice, and
proper beneficence, seems to have no great merit where there is
no temptation to do otherwise. But to act with cool deliberation
in the midst of the greatest dangers and difficulties; to observe
religiously the sacred rules of justice in spite both of the
greatest interests which might tempt, and the greatest injuries
which might provoke us to violate them; never to suffer the
benevolence of our temper to be damped or discouraged by the
malignity and ingratitude of the individuals towards whom it may
have been exercised; is the character of the most exalted wisdom
and virtue. Self-command is not only itself a great virtue, but
from it all the other virtues seem to derive their principal
lustre.
The command of fear, the command of anger, are always great
and noble powers. When they are directed by justice and
benevolence, they are not only great virtues, but increase the
splendour of those other virtues. They may, however, sometimes be
directed by very different motives; and in this case, though
still great and respectable, they may be excessively dangerous.
The most intrepid valour may be employed in the cause of the
greatest injustice. Amidst great provocations, apparent
tranquillity and good humour may sometimes conceal the most
determined and cruel resolution to revenge. The strength of mind
requisite for such dissimulation, though always and necessarily
contaminated by the baseness of falsehood, has, however, been
often much admired by many people of no contemptible judgment.
The dissimulation of Catharine of Medicis is often celebrated by
the profound historian Davila; that of Lord Digby, afterwards
Earl of Bristol, by the grave and conscientious Lord Clarendon;
that of the first Ashley Earl of Shaftesbury, by the judicious Mr
Locke. Even Cicero seems to consider this deceitful character,
not indeed as of the highest dignity, but as not unsuitable to a
certain flexibility of manners, which, he thinks, may,
notwithstanding, be, upon the whole, both agreeable and
respectable. He exemplifies it by the characters of Homer's
Ulysses, of the Athenian Themistocles, of the Spartan Lysander,
and of the Roman Marcus Crassus. This character of dark and deep
dissimulation occurs most commonly in times of great public
disorder; amidst the violence of faction and civil war. When law
has become in a great measure impotent, when the most perfect
innocence cannot alone insure safety, regard to self-defence
obliges the greater part of men to have recourse to dexterity, to
address, and to apparent accommodation to whatever happens to be,
at the moment, the prevailing party. This false character, too,
is frequently accompanied with the coolest and most determined
courage. The proper exercise of it supposes that courage, as
death is commonly the certain consequence of detection. It may be
employed indifferently, either to exasperate or to allay those
furious animosities of adverse factions which impose the
necessity of assuming it; and though it may sometimes be useful,
it is at least equally liable to be excessively pernicious.
The command of the less violent and turbulent passions seems
much less liable to be abused to any pernicious purpose.
Temperance, decency, modesty, and moderation, are always amiable,
and can seldom be directed to any bad end. It is from the
unremitting steadiness of those gentler exertions of
self-command, that the amiable virtue of chastity, that the
respectable virtues of industry and frugality, derive all that
sober lustre which attends them. The conduct of all those who are
contented to walk in the humble paths of private and peaceable
life, derives from the same principle the greater part of the
beauty and grace which belong to it; a beauty and grace, which,
though much less dazzling, is not always less pleasing than those
which accompany the more splendid actions of the hero, the
statesman, or the legislator.
After what has already been said, in several different parts
of this discourse, concerning the nature of self-command, I judge
it unnecessary to enter into any further detail concerning those
virtues. I shall only observe at present, that the point of
propriety, the degree of any passion which the impartial
spectator approves of, is differently situated in different
passions. In some passions the excess is less disagreeable than
the defect; and in such passions the point of propriety seems to
stand high, or nearer to the excess than to the defect. In other
passions, the defect is less disagreeable than the excess; and in
such passions the point of propriety seems to stand low, or
nearer to the defect than to the excess. The former are the
passions which the spectator is most, the latter, those which he
is least disposed to sympathize with. The former, too, are the
passions of which the immediate feeling or sensation is agreeable
to the person principally concerned; the latter, those of which
it is disagreeable. It may be laid down as a general rule, that
the passions which the spectator is most disposed to sympathize
with, and in which, upon that account, the point of propriety may
be said to stand high, are those of which the immediate feeling
or sensation is more or less agreeable to the person principally
concerned: and that, on the contrary, the passions which the
spectator is least disposed to sympathize with, and in which,
upon that account, the point of propriety may be said to stand
low, are those of which the immediate feeling or sensation is
more or less disagreeable, or even painful, to the person
principally concerned. This general rule, so far as I have been
able to observe, admits not of a single exception. A few examples
will at once, both sufficiently explain it and demonstrate the
truth of it.
The disposition to the affections which tend to unite men in
society, to humanity, kindness, natural affection, friendship,
esteem, may sometimes be excessive. Even the excess of this
disposition, however, renders a man interesting to every body.
Though we blame it, we still regard it with compassion, and even
with kindness, and never with dislike. We are more sorry for it
than angry at it. To the person himself, the indulgence even of
such excessive affections is, upon many occasions, not only
agreeable, but delicious. Upon some occasions, indeed, especially
when directed, as is too often the case, towards unworthy
objects, it exposes him to much real and heartfelt distress. Even
upon such occasions, however, a well-disposed mind regards him
with the most exquisite pity, and feels the highest indignation
against those who affect to despise him for his weakness and
imprudence. The defect of this disposition, on the contrary, what
is called hardness of heart, while it renders a man insensible to
the feelings and distresses of other people, renders other people
equally insensible to his; and, by excluding him from the
friendship of all the world, excludes him from the best and most
comfortable of all social enjoyments.
The disposition to the affections which drive men from one
another, and which tend, as it were, to break the bands of human
society; the disposition to anger, hatred, envy, malice, revenge;
is, on the contrary, much more apt to offend by its excess than
by its defect. The excess renders a man wretched and miserable in
his own mind, and the object of hatred, and sometimes even of
horror, to other people. The defect is very seldom complained of.
It may, however, be defective. The want of proper indignation is
a most essential defect in the manly character, and, upon many
occasions, renders a man incapable of protecting either himself
or his friends from insult and injustice. Even that principle, in
the excess and improper direction of which consists the odious
and detestable passion of envy, may be defective. Envy is that
passion which views with malignant dislike the superiority of
those who are really entitled to all the superiority they
possess. The man, however, who, in matters of consequence, tamely
suffers other people, who are entitled to no such superiority, to
rise above him or get before him, is justly condemned as
mean-spirited. This weakness is commonly founded in indolence,
sometimes in good nature, in an aversion to opposition, to bustle
and solicitation, and sometimes, too, in a sort of ill-judged
magnanimity, which fancies that it can always continue to despise
the advantage which it then despises, and, therefore, so easily
gives up. Such weakness, however, is commonly followed by much
regret and repentance; and what had some appearance of
magnanimity in the beginning frequently gives place to a most
malignant envy in the end, and to a hatred of that superiority,
which those who have once attained it, may often become really
entitled to, by the very circumstance of having attained it. In
order to live comfortably in the world, it is, upon all
occasions, as necessary to defend our dignity and rank, as it is
to defend our life or our fortune.
Our sensibility to personal danger and distress, like that to
personal provocation, is much more apt to offend by its excess
than by its defect. No character is more contemptible than that
of a coward; no character is more admired than that of the man
who faces death with intrepidity, and maintains his tranquillity
and presence of mind amidst the most dreadful dangers. We esteem
the man who supports pain and even torture with manhood and
firmness; and we can have little regard for him who sinks under
them, and abandons himself to useless outcries and womanish
lamentations. A fretful temper, which feels, with too much
sensibility, every little cross accident, renders a man miserable
in himself and offensive to other people. A calm one, which does
not allow its tranquillity to be disturbed, either by the small
injuries, or by the little disasters incident to the usual course
of human affairs; but which, amidst the natural and moral evils
infesting the world, lays its account and is contented to suffer
a little from both, is a blessing to the man himself, and gives
ease and security to all his companions.
Our sensibility, however, both to our own injuries and to our
own misfortunes, though generally too strong, may likewise be too
weak. The man who feels little for his own misfortunes must
always feel less for those of other people, and be less disposed
to relieve them. The man who has little resentment for the
injuries which are done to himself, must always have less for
those which are done to other people, and be less disposed either
to protect or to avenge them. A stupid insensibility to the
events of human life necessarily extinguishes all that keen and
earnest attention to the propriety of our own conduct, which
constitutes the real essence of virtue. We can feel little
anxiety about the propriety of our own actions, when we are
indifferent about the events which may result from them. The man
who feels the full distress of the calamity which has befallen
him, who feels the whole baseness of the injustice which has been
done to him, but who feels still more strongly what the dignity
of his own character requires; who does not abandon himself to
the guidance of the undisciplined passions which his situation
might naturally inspire; but who governs his whole behaviour and
conduct according to those restrained and corrected emotions
which the great inmate, the great demi-god within the breast
prescribes and approves of; is alone the real man of virtue, the
only real and proper object of love, respect, and admiration.
Insensibility and that noble firmness, that exalted self-command,
which is founded in the sense of dignity and propriety, are so
far from being altogether the same, that in proportion as the
former takes place, the merit of the latter is, in many cases,
entirely taken away.
But though the total want of sensibility to personal injury,
to personal danger and distress, would, in such situations, take
away the whole merit of self-command, that sensibility, however,
may very easily be too exquisite, and it frequently is so. When
the sense of propriety, when the authority of the judge within
the breast, can control this extreme sensibility, that authority
must no doubt appear very noble and very great. But the exertion
of it may be too fatiguing; it may have too much to do. The
individual, by a great effort, may behave perfectly well. But the
contest between the two principles, the warfare within the
breast, may be too violent to be at all consistent with internal
tranquillity and happiness. The wise man whom Nature has endowed
with this too exquisite sensibility, and whose too lively
feelings have not been sufficiently blunted and hardened by early
education and proper exercise, will avoid, as much as duty and
propriety will permit, the situations for which he is not
perfectly fitted. The man whose feeble and delicate constitution
renders him too sensible to pain, to hardship, and to every sort
of bodily distress, should not wantonly embrace the profession of
a soldier. The man of too much sensibility to injury, should not
rashly engage in the contests of faction. Though the sense of
propriety should be strong enough to command all those
sensibilities, the composure of the mind must always be disturbed
in the struggle. In this disorder the judgment cannot always
maintain its ordinary acuteness and precision; and though he may
always mean to act properly, he may often act rashly and
imprudently, and in a manner which he himself will, in the
succeeding part of his life, be for ever ashamed of. A certain
intrepidity, a certain firmness of nerves and hardiness of
constitution, whether natural or acquired, are undoubtedly the
best preparatives for all the great exertions of self-command.
Though war and faction are certainly the best schools for
forming every man to this hardiness and firmness of temper,
though they are the best remedies for curing him of the opposite
weaknesses, yet, if the day of trial should happen to come before
he has completely learned his lesson, before the remedy has had
time to produce its proper effect, the consequences might not be
agreeable.
Our sensibility to the pleasures, to the amusements and
enjoyments of human life, may offend, in the same manner, either
by its excess or by its defect. Of the two, however, the excess
seems less disagreeable than the defect. Both to the spectator
and to the person principally concerned, a strong propensity to
joy is certainly more pleasing than a dull insensibility to the
objects of amusement and diversion. We are charmed with the
gaiety of youth, and even with the playfulness of childhood: but
we soon grow weary of the flat and tasteless gravity which too
frequently accompanies old age. When this propensity, indeed, is
not restrained by the sense of propriety, when it is unsuitable
to the time or to the place, to the age or to the situation of
the person, when, to indulge it, he neglects either his interest
or his duty; it is justly blamed as excessive, and as hurtful
both to the individual and to the society. In the greater part of
such cases, however, what is chiefly to be found fault with is,
not so much the strength of the propensity to joy, as the
weakness of the sense of propriety and duty. A young man who has
no relish for the diversions and amusements that are natural and
suitable to his age, who talks of nothing but his book or his
business, is disliked as formal and pedantic; and we give him no
credit for his abstinence even from improper indulgences, to
which he seems to have so little inclination.
The principle of self-estimation may be too high, and it may
likewise be too low. It is so very agreeable to think highly, and
so very disagreeable to think meanly of ourselves, that, to the
person himself, it cannot well be doubted, but that some degree
of excess must be much less disagreeable than any degree of
defect. But to the impartial spectator, it may perhaps be
thought, things must appear quite differently, and that to him,
the defect must always be less disagreeable than the excess. And
in our companions, no doubt, we much more frequently complain of
the latter than of the former. When they assume upon us, or set
themselves before us, their self-estimation mortifies our own.
Our own pride and vanity prompt us to accuse them of pride and
vanity, and we cease to be the impartial spectators of their
conduct. When the same companions, however, suffer any other man
to assume over them a superiority which does not belong to him,
we not only blame them, but often despise them as mean-spirited.
When, on the contrary, among other people, they push themselves a
little more forward, and scramble to an elevation
disproportioned, as we think, to their merit, though we may not
perfectly approve of their conduct, we are often, upon the whole,
diverted with it; and, where there is no envy in the case, we are
almost always much less displeased with them, than we should have
been, had they suffered themselves to sink below their proper
station.
In estimating our own merit, in judging of our own character
and conduct, there are two different standards to which we
naturally compare them. The one is the idea of exact propriety
and perfection, so far as we are each of us capable of
comprehending that idea. The other is that degree of
approximation to this idea which is commonly attained in the
world, and which the greater part of our friends and companions,
of our rivals and competitors, may have actually arrived at. We
very seldom (I am disposed to think, we never) attempt to judge
of ourselves without giving more or less attention to both these
different standards. But the attention of different men, and even
of the same man at different times, is often very unequally
divided between them; and is sometimes principally directed
towards the one, and sometimes towards the other.
So far as our attention is directed towards the first
standard, the wisest and best of us all, can, in his own
character and conduct, see nothing but weakness and imperfection;
can discover no ground for arrogance and presumption, but a great
deal for humility, regret and repentance. So far as our attention
is directed towards the second, we may be affected either in the
one way or in the other, and feel ourselves, either really above,
or really below, the standard to which we compare ourselves.
The wise and virtuous man directs his principal attention to
the first standard; the idea of exact propriety and perfection.
There exists in the mind of every man, an idea of this kind,
gradually formed from his observations upon the character and
conduct both of himself and of other people. It is the slow,
gradual, and progressive work of the great demigod within the
breast, the great judge and arbiter of conduct. This idea is in
every man more or less accurately drawn, its colouring is more or
less just, its outlines are more or less exactly designed,
according to the delicacy and acuteness of that sensibility, with
which those observations were made, and according to the care and
attention employed in making them. In the wise and virtuous man
they have been made with the most acute and delicate sensibility,
and the utmost care and attention have been employed in making
them. Every day some feature is improved; every day some blemish
is corrected. He has studied this idea more than other people, he
comprehends it more distinctly, he has formed a much more correct
image of it, and is much more deeply enamoured of its exquisite
and divine beauty. He endeavours as well as he can, to assimilate
his own character to this archetype of perfection. But he
imitates the work of a divine artist, which can never be
equalled. He feels the imperfect success of all his best
endeavours, and sees, with grief and affliction, in how many
different features the mortal copy falls short of the immortal
original. He remembers, with concern and humilation, how often,
from want of attention, from want of judgment, from want of
temper, he has, both in words and actions, both in conduct and
conversation, violated the exact rules of perfect propriety; and
has so far departed from that model, according to which he wished
to fashion his own character and conduct. When he directs his
attention towards the second standard, indeed, that degree of
excellence which his friends and acquaintances have commonly
arrived at, he may be sensible of his own superiority. But, as
his principal attention is always directed towards the first
standard, he is necessarily much more humbled by the one
comparison, than he ever can be elevated by the other. He is
never so elated as to look down with insolence even upon those
who are really below him. He feels so well his own imperfection,
he knows so well the difficulty with which he attained his own
distant approximation to rectitude, that he cannot regard with
contempt the still greater imperfection of other people. Far from
insulting over their inferiority, he views it with the most
indulgent commiseration, and, by his advice as well as example,
is at all times willing to promote their further advancement. If,
in any particular qualification, they happen to be superior to
him (for who is so perfect as not to have many superiors in many
different qualifications?), far from envying their superiority,
he, who knows how difficult it is to excel, esteems and honours
their excellence, and never fails to bestow upon it the full
measure of applause which it deserves. His whole mind, in short,
is deeply impressed, his whole behaviour and deportment are
distinctly stamped with the character of real modesty; with that
of a very moderate estimation of his own merit, and, at the same
time, of a full sense of the merit of other people.
In all the liberal and ingenious arts, in painting, in
poetry, in music, in eloquence, in philosophy, the great artist
feels always the real imperfection of his own best works, and is
more sensible than any man how much they fall short of that ideal
perfection of which he has formed some conception, which he
imitates as well as he can, but which he despairs of ever
equalling. It is the inferior artist only, who is ever perfectly
satisfied with his own performances. He has little conception of
this ideal perfection, about which he has little employed his
thoughts; and it is chiefly to the works of other artists, of,
perhaps, a still lower order, that he deigns to compare his own
works. Boileau, the great French poet (in some of his works,
perhaps not inferior to the greatest poet of the same kind,
either ancient or modern), used to say, that no great man was
ever completely satisfied with his own works. His acquaintance
Santeuil (a writer of Latin verses, and who, on account of that
schoolboy accomplishment, had the weakness to fancy himself a
poet), assured him, that he himself was always completely
satisfied with his own. Boileau replied, with, perhaps, an arch
ambiguity, that he certainly was the only great man that ever was
so. Boileau, in judging of his own works, compared them with the
standard of ideal perfection, which, in his own particular branch
of the poetic art, he had, I presume, meditated as deeply, and
conceived as distinctly, as it is possible for man to conceive
it. Santeuil, in judging of his own works, compared them, I
suppose, chiefly to those of the other Latin poets of his own
time, to the greater part of whom he was certainly very far from
being inferior. But to support and finish off, if I may say so,
the conduct and conversation of a whole life to some resemblance
of this ideal perfection, is surely much more difficult than to
work up to an equal resemblance any of the productions of any of
the ingenious arts. The artist sits down to his work undisturbed,
at leisure, in the full possession and recollection of all his
skill, experience, and knowledge. The wise man must support the
propriety of his own conduct in health and in sickness, in
success and in disappointment, in the hour of fatigue and drowsy
indolence, as well as in that of the most awakened attention. The
most sudden and unexpected assaults of difficulty and distress
must never surprise him. The injustice of other people must never
provoke him to injustice. The violence of faction must never
confound him. All the hardships and hazards of war must never
either dishearten or appal him.
Of the persons who, in estimating their own merit, in judging
of their own character and conduct, direct by far the greater
part of their attention to the second standard, to that ordinary
degree of excellence which is commonly attained by other people,
there are some who really and justly feel themselves very much
above it, and who, by every intelligent and impartial spectator,
are acknowledged to be so. The attention of such persons,
however, being always principally directed, not to the standard
of ideal, but to that of ordinary perfection, they have little
sense of their own weaknesses and imperfections; they have little
modesty; are often assuming, arrogant, and presumptuous; great
admirers of themselves, and great contemners of other people.
Though their characters are in general much less correct, and
their merit much inferior to that of the man of real and modest
virtue; yet their excessive presumption, founded upon their own
excessive self-admiration, dazzles the multitude, and often
imposes even upon those who are much superior to the multitude.
The frequent, and often wonderful, success of the most ignorant
quacks and imposters, both civil and religious, sufficiently
demonstrate how easily the multitude are imposed upon by the most
extravagant and groundless pretensions. But when those
pretensions are supported by a very high degree of real and solid
merit, when they are displayed with all the splendour which
ostentation can bestow upon them, when they are supported by high
rank and great power, when they have often been successfully
exerted, and are, upon that account, attended by the loud
acclamations of the multitude; even the man of sober judgment
often abandons himself to the general admiration. The very noise
of those foolish acclamations often contributes to confound his
understanding, and while he sees those great men only at a
certain distance, he is often disposed to worship them with a
sincere admiration, superior even to that with which they appear
to worship themselves. When there is no envy in the case, we all
take pleasure in admiring, and are, upon that account, naturally
disposed, in our own fancies, to render complete and perfect in
every respect the characters which, in many respects, are so very
worthy of admiration. The excessive self-admiration of those
great men is well understood, perhaps, and even seen through,
with some degree of derision, by those wise men who are much in
their familiarity, and who secretly smile at those lofty
pretensions, which, by people at a distance, are often regarded
with reverence, and almost with adoration. Such, however, have
been, in all ages, the greater part of those men who have
procured to themselves the most noisy fame, the most extensive
reputation; a fame and reputation, too, which have often
descended to the remotest posterity.
Great success in the world, great authority over the
sentiments and opinions of mankind, have very seldom been
acquired without some degree of this excessive self-admiration.
The most splendid characters, the men who have performed the most
illustrious actions, who have brought about the greatest
revolutions, both in the situations and opinions of mankind; the
most successful warriors, the greatest statesmen and legislators,
the eloquent founders and leaders of the most numerous and most
successful sects and parties; have many of them been, not more
distinguished for their very great merit, than for a degree of
presumption and self-admiration altogether disproportioned even
to that very great merit. This presumption was, perhaps,
necessary, not only to prompt them to undertakings which a more
sober mind would never have thought of, but to command the
submission and obedience of their followers to support them in
such undertakings. When crowned with success, accordingly, this
presumption has often betrayed them into a vanity that approached
almost to insanity and folly. Alexander the Great appears, not
only to have wished that other people should think him a God, but
to have been at least very well disposed to fancy himself such.
Upon his death-bed, the most ungodlike of all situations, he
requested of his friends that, to the respectable list of
Deities, into which himself had long before been inserted, his
old mother Olympia might likewise have the honour of being added.
Amidst the respectful admiration of his followers and disciples,
amidst the universal applause of the public, after the oracle,
which probably had followed the voice of that applause, had
pronounced him the wisest of men, the great wisdom of Socrates,
though it did not suffer him to fancy himself a God, yet was not
great enough to hinder him from fancying that he had secret and
frequent intimations from some invisible and divine Being. The
sound head of Caesar was not so perfectly sound as to hinder him
from being much pleased with his divine genealogy from the
goddess Venus; and, before the temple of this pretended
great-grandmother, to receive, without rising from his seat, the
Roman Senate, when that illustrious body came to present him with
some decrees conferring upon him the most extravagant honours.
This insolence, joined to some other acts of an almost childish
vanity, little to be expected from an understanding at once so
very acute and comprehensive, seems, by exasperating the public
jealousy, to have emboldened his assassins, and to have hastened
the execution of their conspiracy. The religion and manners of
modern times give our great men little encouragement to fancy
themselves either Gods or even Prophets. Success, however, joined
to great popular favour, has often so far turned the heads of the
greatest of them, as to make them ascribe to themselves both an
importance and an ability much beyond what they really possessed;
and, by this presumption, to precipitate themselves into many
rash and sometimes ruinous adventures. It is a characteristic
almost peculiar to the great Duke of Marlborough, that ten years
of such uninterrupted and such splendid success as scarce any
other general could boast of, never betrayed him into a single
rash action, scarce into a single rash word or expression. The
same temperate coolness and self-command cannot, I think, be
ascribed to any other great warrior of later times; not to Prince
Eugene, not to the late King of Prussia, not to the great Prince
of Conde, not even to Gustavus Adolphus. Turrenne seems to have
approached the nearest to it; but several different transactions
of his life sufficiently demonstrate that it was in him by no
means so perfect as in the great Duke of Marlborough.
In the humble project of private life, as well as in the
ambitious and proud pursuit of high stations, great abilities and
successful enterprise, in the beginning, have frequently
encouraged to undertakings which necessarily led to bankruptcy
and ruin in the end.
The esteem and admiration which every impartial spectator
conceives for the real merit of those spirited, magnanimous, and
high-minded persons, as it is a just and well-founded sentiment,
so it is a steady and permanent one, and altogether independent
of their good or bad fortune. It is otherwise with that
admiration which he is apt to conceive for their excessive
self-estimation and presumption. While they are successful,
indeed, he is often perfectly conquered and overborne by them.
Success covers from his eyes, not only the great imprudence, but
frequently the great injustice of their enterprises; and, far
from blaming this defective part of their character, he often
views it with the most enthusiastic admiration. When they are
unfortunate, however, things change their colours and their
names. What was before heroic magnanimity, resumes its proper
appellation of extravagant rashness and folly; and the blackness
of that avidity and injustice, which was before hid under the
splendour of prosperity, comes full into view, and blots the
whole lustre of their enterprise. Had Caesar, instead of gaining,
lost the battle of Pharsalia, his character would, at this hour,
have ranked a little above that of Catiline, and the weakest man
would have viewed his enterprise against the laws of his country
in blacker colours, than, perhaps, even Cato, with all the
animosity of a party-man, ever viewed it at the time. His real
merit, the justness of his taste, the simplicity and elegance of
his writings, the propriety of his eloquence, his skill in war,
his resources in distress, his cool and sedate judgment in
danger, his faithful attachment to his friends, his unexampled
generosity to his enemies, would all have been acknowledged; as
the real merit of Catiline, who had many great qualities, is
acknowledged at this day. But the insolence and injustice of his
all-grasping ambition would have darkened and extinguished the
glory of all that real merit. Fortune has in this, as well as in
some other respects already mentioned, great influence over the
moral sentiments of mankind, and, according as she is either
favourable or adverse, can render the same character the object,
either of general love and admiration, or of universal hatred and
contempt. This great disorder in our moral sentiments is by no
means, however, without its utility; and we may on this, as well
as on many other occasions, admire the wisdom of God even in the
weakness and folly of man. Our admiration of success is founded
upon the same principle with our respect for wealth and
greatness, and is equally necessary for establishing the
distinction of ranks and the order of society. By this admiration
of success we are taught to submit more easily to those
superiors, whom the course of human affairs may assign to us; to
regard with reverence, and sometimes even with a sort of
respectful affection, that fortunate violence which we are no
longer capable of resisting; not only the violence of such
splendid characters as those of a Caesar or an Alexander, but
often that of the most brutal and savage barbarians, of an
Attila, a Gengis, or a Tamerlane. To all such mighty conquerors
the great mob of mankind are naturally disposed to look up with a
wondering, though, no doubt, with a very weak and foolish
admiration. By this admiration, however, they are taught to
acquiesce with less reluctance under that government which an
irresistible force imposes upon them, and from which no
reluctance could deliver them.
Though in prosperity, however, the man of excessive
self-estimation may sometimes appear to have some advantage over
the man of correct and modest virtue; though the applause of the
multitude, and of those who see them both only at a distance, is
often much louder in favour of the one than it ever is in favour
of the other; yet, all things fairly computed, the real balance
of advantage is, perhaps in all cases, greatly in favour of the
latter and against the former. The man who neither ascribes to
himself, nor wishes that other people should ascribe to him, any
other merit besides that which really belongs to him, fears no
humiliation, dreads no detection; but rests contented and secure
upon the genuine truth and solidity of his own character. His
admirers may neither be very numerous nor very loud in their
applauses; but the wisest man who sees him the nearest and who
knows him the best, admires him the most. To a real wise man the
judicious and well-weighed approbation of a single wise man,
gives more heartfelt satisfaction than all the noisy applauses of
ten thousand ignorant though enthusiastic admirers. He may say
with Parmenides, who, upon reading a philosophical discourse
before a public assembly at Athens, and observing, that, except
Plato, the whole company had left him, continued,
notwithstanding, to read on, and said that Plato alone was
audience sufficient for him.
It is otherwise with the man of excessive self-estimation.
The wise men who see him the nearest, admire him the least.
Amidst the intoxication of prosperity, their sober and just
esteem falls so far short of the extravagance of his own
self-admiration, that he regards it as mere malignity and envy.
He suspects his best friends. Their company becomes offensive to
him. He drives them from his presence, and often rewards their
services, not only with ingratitude, but with cruelty and
injustice. He abandons his confidence to flatterers and traitors,
who pretend to idolize his vanity and presumption; and that
character which in the beginning, though in some respects
defective, was, upon the whole, both amiable and respectable,
becomes contemptible and odious in the end. Amidst the
intoxication of prosperity, Alexander killed Clytus, for having
preferred the exploits of his father Philip to his own; put
Calisthenes to death in torture, for having refused to adore him
in the Persian manner; and murdered the great friend of his
father, the venerable Parmenio, after having, upon the most
groundless suspicions, sent first to the torture and afterwards
to the scaffold the only remaining son of that old man, the rest
having all before died in his own service. This was that Parmenio
of whom Philip used to say, that the Athenians were very
fortunate who could find ten generals every year, while he
himself, in the whole course of his life, could never find one
but Parmenio. It was upon the vigilance and attention of this
Parmenio that he reposed at all times with confidence and
security, and, in his hours of mirth and jollity, used to say,
Let us drink, my friends, we may do it with safety, for Parmenio
never drinks. It was this same Parmenio, with whose presence and
counsel, it had been said, Alexander had gained all his
victories; and without whose presence and counsel, he had never
gained a single victory. The humble, admiring, and flattering
friends, whom Alexander left in power and authority behind him,
divided his empire among themselves, and after having thus robbed
his family and kindred of their inheritance, put, one after
another, every single surviving individual of them, whether male
or female, to death.
We frequently, not only pardon, but thoroughly enter into and
sympathize with the excessive self-estimation of those splendid
characters in which we observe a great and distinguished
superiority above the common level of mankind. We call them
spirited, magnanimous, and high-minded; words which all involve
in their meaning a considerable degree of praise and admiration.
But we cannot enter into anD sympathize with the excessive
self-estimation of those characters in which we can discern no
such distinguished superiority. We are disgusted and revolted by
it; and it is with some difficulty that we can either pardon or
suffer it: We call it pride or vanity; two words, of which the
latter always, and the former for the most part, involve in their
meaning a considerable degree of blame.
Those two vices, however, though resembling, in some
respects, as being both modifications of excessive
self-estimation, are yet, in many respects, very different from
one another.
The proud man is sincere, and, in the bottom of his heart, is
convinced of his own superiority; though it may sometimes be
difficult to guess upon what that conviction is founded. He
wishes you to view him in no other light than that in which, when
he places himself in your situation, he really views himself. He
demands no more of you than, what he thinks, justice. If you
appear not to respect him as he respects himself, he is more
offended than mortified, and feels the same indignant resentment
as if he had suffered a real injury. He does not even then,
however, deign to explain the grounds of his own pretensions. He
disdains to court your esteem. He affects even to despise it, and
endeavours to maintain his assumed station, not so much by making
you sensible of his superiority, as of your own meanness. He
seems to wish, not so much to excite your esteem for himself as
to mortify that for yourself.
The vain man is not sincere, and, in the bottom of his heart,
is very seldom convinced of that superiority which he wishes you
to ascribe to him. He wishes you to view him in much more
splendid colours than those in which, when he places himself in
your situation, and supposes you to know all that he knows, he
can really view himself. When you appear to view him, therefore,
in different colours, perhaps in his proper colours, he is much
more mortified than offended. The grounds of his claim to that
character which he wishes you to ascribe to him, he takes every
opportunity of displaying, both by the most ostentatious and
unnecessary exhibition of the good qualities and accomplishments
which he possesses in some tolerable degree, and sometimes even
by false pretensions to those which he either possesses in no
degree, or in so very slender a degree that he may well enough be
said to possess them in no degree. Far from despising your
esteem, he courts it with the most anxious assiduity. Far from
wishing to mortify your self-estimation, he is happy to cherish
it, in hopes that in return you will cherish his own. He flatters
in order to be flattered. He studies to please, and endeavours to
bribe you into a good opinion of him by politeness and
complaisance, and sometimes even by real and essential good
offices, though often displayed, perhaps, with unnecessary
ostentation.
The vain man sees the respect which is paid to rank and
fortune, and wishes to usurp this respect, as well as that for
talents and virtues. His dress, his equipage, his way of living,
accordingly, all announce both a higher rank and a greater
fortune than really belong to him; and in order to support this
foolish imposition for a few years in the beginning of his life,
he often reduces himself to poverty and distress long before the
end of it. As long as he can continue his expence, however, his
vanity is delighted with viewing himself, not in the light in
which you would view him if you knew all that he knows; but in
that in which, he imagines, he has, by his own address, induced
you actually to view him. Of all the illusions of vanity this is,
perhaps, the most common. Obscure strangers who visit foreign
countries, or who, from a remote province, come to visit, for a
short time, the capital of their own country, most frequently
attempt to practise it. The folly of the attempt, though always
very great and most unworthy of a man of sense, may not be
altogether so great upon such as upon most other occasions. If
their stay is short, they may escape any disgraceful detection;
and, after indulging their vanity for a few months or a few
years, they may return to their own homes, and repair, by future
parsimony, the waste of their past profusion.
The proud man can very seldom be accused of this folly. His
sense of his own dignity renders him careful to preserve his
independency, and, when his fortune happens not to be large,
though he wishes to be decent, he studies to be frugal and
attentive in all his expences. The ostentatious expence of the
vain man is highly offensive to him. It outshines, perhaps, his
own. It provokes his indignation as an insolent assumption of a
rank which is by no means due; and he never talks of it without
loading it with the harshest and severest reproaches.
The proud man does not always feel himself at his ease in the
company of his equals, and still less in that of his superiors.
He cannot lay down his lofty pretensions, and the countenance and
conversation of such company overawe him so much that he dare not
display them. He has recourse to humbler company, for which he
has little respect, which he would not willingly chuse; and which
is by no means agreeable to him; that of his inferiors, his
flatterers, and dependants. He seldom visits his superiors, or,
if he does, it is rather to show that he is entitled to live in
such company, than for any real satisfaction that he enjoys in
it. It is as Lord Clarendon says of the Earl of Arundel, that he
sometimes went to court, because he could there only find a
greater man than himself; but that he went very seldom, because
he found there a greater man than himself.
It is quite otherwise with the vain man. He courts the
company of his superiors as much as the proud man shuns it. Their
splendour, he seems to think, reflects a splendour upon those who
are much about them. He haunts the courts of kings and the levees
of ministers, and gives himself the air of being a candidate for
fortune and preferment, when in reality he possesses the much
more precious happiness, if he knew how to enjoy it, of not being
one. He is fond of being admitted to the tables of the great, and
still more fond of magnifying to other people the familiarity
with which he is honoured there. He associates himself, as much
as he can, with fashionable people, with those who are supposed
to direct the public opinion, with the witty, with the learned,
with the popular; and he shuns the company of his best friends
whenever the very uncertain current of public favour happens to
run in any respect against them. With the people to whom he
wishes to recommend himself, he is not always very delicate about
the means which he employs for that purpose; unnecessary
ostentation, groundless pretensions, constant assentation,
frequently flattery, though for the most part a pleasant and a
sprightly flattery, and very seldom the gross and fulsome
flattery of a parasite. The proud man, on the contrary, never
flatters, and is frequently scarce civil to any body.
Notwithstanding all its groundless pretensions, however,
vanity is almost always a sprightly and a gay, and very often a
good-natured passion. Pride is always a grave, a sullen, and a
severe one. Even the falsehoods of the vain man are all innocent
falsehoods, meant to raise himself, not to lower other people. To
do the proud man justice, he very seldom stoops to the baseness
of falsehood. When he does, however, his falsehoods are by no
means so innocent. They are all mischievous, and meant to lower
other people. He is full of indignation at the unjust
superiority, as he thinks it, which is given to them. He views
them with malignity and envy, and, in talking of them, often
endeavours, as much as he can, to extenuate and lessen whatever
are the grounds upon which their superiority is supposed to be
founded. Whatever tales are circulated to their disadvantage,
though he seldom forges them himself, yet he often takes pleasure
in believing them, is by no means unwilling to repeat them, and
even sometimes with some degree of exaggeration. The worst
falsehoods of vanity are all what we call white lies: those of
pride, whenever it condescends to falsehood, are all of the
opposite complexion.
Our dislike to pride and vanity generally disposes us to rank
the persons whom we accuse of those vices rather below than above
the common level. In this judgment, however, I think, we are most
frequently in the wrong, and that both the proud and the vain man
are often (perhaps for the most part) a good deal above it;
though not near so much as either the one really thinks himself,
or as the other wishes you to think him. If we compare them with
their own pretensions, they may appear the just objects of
contempt. But when we compare them with what the greater part of
their rivals and competitors really are, they may appear quite
otherwise, and very much above the common level. Where there is
this real superiority, pride is frequently attended with many
respectable virtues; with truth, with integrity, with a high
sense of honour, with cordial and steady friendship, with the
most inflexible firmness and resolution. Vanity, with many
amiable ones; with humanity, with politeness, with a desire to
oblige in all little matters, and sometimes with a real
generosity in great ones; a generosity, however, which it often
wishes to display in the most splendid colours that it can. By
their rivals and enemies, the French, in the last century, were
accused of vanity; the Spaniards, of pride; and foreign nations
were disposed to consider the one as the more amiable; the other,
as the more respectable people.
The words vain and vanity are never taken in a good sense. We
sometimes say of a man, when we are talking of him in good
humour, that he is the better for his vanity, or that his vanity
is more diverting than offensive; but we still consider it as a
foible and a ridicule in his character.
The words proud and pride, on the contrary, are sometimes
taken in a good sense. We frequently say of a man, that he is too
proud, or that he has too much noble pride, ever to suffer
himself to do a mean thing. Pride is, in this case, confounded
with magnanimity. Aristotle, a Philosopher who certainly knew the
world, in drawing the character of the magnanimous man, paints
him with many features which, in the two last centuries, were
commonly ascribed to the Spanish character: that he was
deliberate in all his resolutions; slow, and even tardy, in all
his actions; that his voice was grave, his speech deliberate, his
step and motion slow; that he appeared indolent and even
slothful, not at all disposed to bustle about little matters, but
to act with the most determined and vigorous resolution upon all
great and illustrious occasions; that he was not a lover of
danger, or forward to expose himself to little dangers, but to
great dangers; and that, when he exposed himself to danger, he
was altogether regardless of his life.
The proud man is commonly too well contented with himself to
think that his character requires any amendment. The man who
feels himself all-perfect, naturally enough despises all further
improvement. His self-sufficiency and absurd conceit of his own
superiority, commonly attend him from his youth to his most
advanced age; and he dies, as Hamlet says, with all his sins upon
his head, unanointed, unanealed.
It is frequently otherwise with the vain man. The desire of
the esteem and admiration of other people, when for qualities and
talents which are the natural and proper objects of esteem and
admiration, is the real love of true glory; a passion which, if
not the very best passion of human nature, is certainly one of
the best. Vanity is very frequently no more than an attempt
prematurely to usurp that glory before it is due. Though your
son, under five-and-twenty years of age, should be but a coxcomb;
do not, upon that account, despair of his becoming, before he is
forty, a very wise and worthy man, and a real proficient in all
those talents and virtues to which, at present, he may only be an
ostentatious and empty pretender. The great secret of education
is to direct vanity to proper objects. Never suffer him to value
himself upon trivial accomplishments. But do not always
discourage his pretensions to those that are of real importance.
He would not pretend to them if he did not earnestly desire to
possess them. encourage this desire; afford him every means to
facilitate the acquisition; and do not take too much offence,
although he should sometimes assume the air of having attained it
a little before the time.
Such, I say, are the distinguishing characteristics of pride
and vanity, when each of them acts according to its proper
character. But the proud man is often vain; and the vain man is
often proud. Nothing can be more natural than that the man, who
thinks much more highly of himself than he deserves, should wish
that other people should think still more highly of him: or that
the man, who wishes that other people should think more highly of
him than he thinks of himself, should, at the same time, think
much more highly of himself than he deserves. Those two vices
being frequently in the same character, the characteristics of
both are necessarily confounded; and we sometimes find the
superficial and impertinent ostentation of vanity joined to the
most malignant and derisive insolence of pride. We are sometimes,
upon that account, at a loss how to rank a particular character,
or whether to place it among the proud or among the vain.
Men of merit considerably above the common level, sometimes
underrate as well as over-rate themselves. Such characters,
though not very dignified, are often, in private society, far
from being disagreeable. His companions all feel themselves much
at their ease in the society of a man so perfectly modest and
unassuming. If those companions, however, have not both more
discernment and more generosity than ordinary, though they may
have some kindness for him, they have seldom much respect; and
the warmth of their kindness is very seldom sufficient to
compensate the coldness of their respect. Men of no more than
ordinary discernment never rate any person higher than he appears
to rate himself. He seems doubtful himself, they say, whether he
is perfectly fit for such a situation or such an office; and
immediately give the preference to some impudent blockhead who
entertains no doubt about his own qualifications. Though they
should have discernment, yet, if they want generosity, they never
fail to take advantage of his simplicity, and to assume over him
an impertinent superiority which they are by no means entitled
to. His good-nature may enable him to bear this for some time;
but he grows weary at last, and frequently when it is too late,
and when that rank, which he ought to have assumed, is lost
irrecoverably, and usurped, in consequence of his own
backwardness, by some of his more forward, though much less
meritorious companions. A man of this character must have been
very fortunate in the early choice of his companions, if, in
going through the world, he meets always with fair justice, even
from those whom, from his own past kindness, he might have some
reason to consider as his best friends; and a youth, too
unassuming and too unambitious, is frequently followed by an
insignificant, complaining, and discontented old age.
Those unfortunate persons whom nature has formed a good deal
below the common level, seem sometimes to rate themselves still
more below it than they really are. This humility appears
sometimes to sink them into idiotism. Whoever has taken the
trouble to examine idiots with attention, will find that, in many
of them, the faculties of the understanding are by no means
weaker than in several other people, who, though acknowledged to
be dull and stupid, are not, by any body, accounted idiots. Many
idiots, with no more than ordinary education, have been taught to
read, write, and account tolerably well. Many persons, never
accounted idiots, notwithstanding the most careful education, and
notwithstanding that, in their advanced age, they have had spirit
enough to attempt to learn what their early education had not
taught them, have never been able to acquire, in any tolerable
degree, any one of those three accomplishments. By an instinct of
pride, however, they set themselves upon a level with their
equals in age and situation; and, with courage and firmness,
maintain their proper station among their companions. By an
opposite instinct, the idiot feels himself below every company
into which you can introduce him. Ill-usage, to which he is
extremely liable, is capable of throwing him into the most
violent fits of rage and fury. But no good usage, no kindness or
indulgence, can ever raise him to converse with you as your
equal. If you can bring him to converse with you at all, however,
you will frequently find his answers sufficiently pertinent, and
even sensible. But they are always stamped with a distinct
consciousness of his own great inferiority. He seems to shrink
and, as it were, to retire from your look and conversation; and
to feel, when he places himself in your situation, that,
notwithstanding your apparent condescension, you cannot help
considering him as immensely below you. Some idiots, perhaps the
greater part, seem to be so, chiefly or altogether, from a
certain numbness or torpidity in the faculties of the
understanding. But there are others, in whom those faculties do
not appear more torpid or benumbed than in many other people who
are not accounted idiots. But that instinct of pride, necessary
to support them upon an equality with their brethren, seems
totally wanting in the former and not in the latter.
That degree of self-estimation, therefore, which contributes
most to the happiness and contentment of the person himself,
seems likewise most agreeable to the impartial spectator. The man
who esteems himself as he ought, and no more than he ought,
seldom fails to obtain from other people all the esteem that he
himself thinks due. He desires no more than is due to him, and he
rests upon it with complete satisfaction.
The proud and the vain man, on the contrary, are constantly
dissatisfied. The one is tormented with indignation at the unjust
superiority, as he thinks it, of other people. The other is in
continual dread of the shame which, he foresees, would attend
upon the detection of his groundless pretensions. Even the
extravagant pretensions of the man of real magnanimity, though,
when supported by splendid abilities and virtues, and, above all,
by good fortune, they impose upon the multitude, whose applauses
he little regards, do not impose upon those wise men whose
approbation he can only value, and whose esteem he is most
anxious to acquire. He feels that they see through, and suspects
that they despise his excessive presumption; and he often suffers
the cruel misfortune of becoming, first the jealous and secret,
and at last the open, furious, and vindictive enemy of those very
persons, whose friendship it would have given him the greatest
happiness to enjoy with unsuspicious security.
Though our dislike to the proud and the vain often disposes
us to rank them rather below than above their proper station,
yet, unless we are provoked by some particular and personal
impertinence, we very seldom venture to use them ill. In common
cases, we endeavour, for our own ease, rather to acquiesce, and,
as well as we can, to accommodate ourselves to their folly. But,
to the man who under-rates himself, unless we have both more
discernment and more generosity than belong to the greater part
of men, we seldom fail to do, at least, all the injustice which
he does to himself, and frequently a great deal more. He is not
only more unhappy in his own feelings than either the proud or
the vain, but he is much more liable to every sort of ill-usage
from other people. In almost all cases, it is better to be a
little too proud, than, in any respect, too humble; and, in the
sentiment of self-estimation, some degree of excess seems, both
to the person and to the impartial spectator, to be less
disagreeable than any degree of defect.
In this, therefore, as well as in every other emotion,
passion, and habit, the degree that is most agreeable to the
impartial spectator is likewise most agreeable to the person
himself; and according as either the excess or the defect is
least offensive to the former, so, either the one or the other is
in proportion least disagreeable to the latter.