The enthusiasm of pleasure charms only by intervals. The highest rapture
lasts only for a moment, and all the senses seem so combined, as to be
soon tired into languor by the gratification of any one of them. It is
only among the Poets we hear of men changing to one delight, when
satiated with another. In nature, it is very different; the glutton,
when sated with the full meal, is unqualified to feel the real pleasure
of drinking; the drunkard, in turn, finds few of those transports which
lovers boast in enjoyment; and the lover, when cloyed, finds a
diminution of every other appetite. Thus, after a full indulgence of any
one sense, the man of pleasure finds a languor in all, is placed in a
chasm between past and expected enjoyment, perceives an interval which
must be filled up. The present can give no satisfaction, because he has
already robbed it of every charm. A mind thus left without immediate
employment, naturally recurs to the past or the future: the reflector
finds that he was happy, and knows that he cannot be so now; he sees
that he may yet be happy, and wishes the hour was come: thus every
period of his continuance is miserable, except that very short one of
immediate gratification. Instead of a life of dissipation, none has more
frequent conversations with disagreeable _self_ than he: his enthusiasms
are but few and transient; his appetites, like angry creditors,
continually making fruitless demands for what he is unable to pay; and
the greater his former pleasure, the more strong his regret, the more
impatient his expectations. A life of pleasure is, therefore, the most
unpleasing life in the world.
Habit has rendered the man of business more cool in his desires; he
finds less regret for past pleasures, and less solicitude for those to
come. The life he now leads, though tainted in some measure with hope,
is yet not afflicted so strongly with regret, and is less divided
between shortlived rapture and lasting anguish. The pleasures he has
enjoyed are not so vivid, and those he has to expect cannot consequently
create so much anxiety.
The philosopher, who extends his regard to all mankind, must have still
a smaller concern for what has already affected, or may hereafter affect
himself; the concerns of others make his whole study, and that study is
his pleasure; and this pleasure is permanent in its nature, because it
can be changed at will, leaving but few of those anxious intervals which
are employed in remembrance or anticipation. The philosopher, by these
means, leads a life of almost continued dissipation; and reflection,
which makes the uneasiness and misery of others, serves as a companion
and instructor to him.
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