1. 3. {241} c. 4. et seq.), consists in the habit of mediocrity
according to right reason. Every particular virtue, according to him,
lies in a kind of middle between two opposite vices, of which the one
offends from being too much, the other from being too little affected
by a particular species of objects. Thus the virtue of fortitude or
courage lies in the middle between the opposite vices of cowardice and
of presumptuous rashness, of which the one offends from being too
much, and the other from being too little affected by the objects of
fear. Thus too the virtue of frugality lies in a middle between
avarice and profusion, of which the one consists in an excess, the
other in a defect of the proper attention to the objects of
self-interest. Magnanimity, in the same manner, lies in a middle
between the excess of arrogance and the defect of pusillanimity, of
which the one consists in too extravagant, the other in too weak a
sentiment of our own worth and dignity. It is unnecessary to observe
that this account of virtue corresponds, too, pretty exactly with what
has been said above concerning the propriety and impropriety of
conduct.
According to Aristotle (Ethic. Nic. lib. ii. ch. 1, 2, 3, and 4.),
indeed, virtue did not so much consist in those moderate and right
affections, as in the habit of this moderation. In order to understand
this, it is to be observed, that virtue may be considered either as
the quality of an action, or the quality of a person. Considered as
the quality of an action, it consists, even according to Aristotle, in
the reasonable moderation of the affection from which the action
proceeds, whether this disposition be habitual to the person or not.
Considered as the quality of a person, it consists in the habit of
this reasonable moderation, in its having become the customary and
usual disposition of the mind. Thus the action which proceeds from an
occasional fit of generosity is undoubtedly a generous action, but the
man who performs it, is not necessarily a generous person, because it
may be the single action of the kind which he ever performed. The
motive and disposition of heart, from which this action was performed,
may have been quite just and proper: but as this happy mood seems to
have been the effect rather of accidental humour than of any thing
steady or permanent in the character, it can reflect no great honour
on the performer. When we denominate a character generous or
charitable, or virtuous in any respect, we mean to signify that the
disposition expressed by each of those appellations is the usual and
customary disposition of the person. But single actions of any kind,
how proper and suitable soever, are of little consequence to show that
this is the case. If a single action was sufficient to stamp the
character of any virtue upon the person who performed it, the most
worthless of mankind might lay claim to all the virtues; since there
is no man who has not, upon some occasions, acted with prudence,
justice, temperance, and fortitude. But though single actions, how
laudable soever, reflect very little praise upon the {242} person who
performs them, a single vicious action performed by one whose conduct
is usually pretty regular, greatly diminishes and sometimes destroys
altogether our opinion of his virtue. A single action of this kind
sufficiently shows that his habits are not perfect, and that he is
less to be depended upon, than, from the usual train of his behaviour,
we might have been apt to imagine.
Aristotle too (Mag. Mor. lib. i. ch. 1.) when he made virtue to
consist in practical habits, had it probably in his view to oppose the
doctrine of Plato, who seems to have been of opinion that just
sentiments and reasonable judgments concerning what was fit to be done
or to be avoided, were alone sufficient to constitute the most perfect
virtue. Virtue, according to Plato, might be considered as a species
of science, and no man, he thought, could see clearly and
demonstratively what was right and what was wrong, and not act
accordingly. Passion might make us act contrary to doubtful and
uncertain opinions, not to plain and evident judgments. Aristotle, on
the contrary, was of opinion that no conviction of the understanding
was capable of getting the better of inveterate habits, and that our
good morals arose not from knowledge but from action.
III. According to Zeno,[6] the founder of the Stoical doctrine, every
animal was by nature recommended to its own care, and was endowed with
the principle of self-love, that it might endeavour to preserve, not
only its existence, but all the different parts of its nature, in the
best and most perfect state of which they were capable.
[Footnote 6: See Cicero de finibus, lib. iii.; also Diogenes Laertius
in Zenone, lib. vii. segment 84.]
The self-love of man embraced, if I may say so, his body and all its
different members, his mind and all its different faculties and
powers, and desired the preservation and maintenance of them all in
their best and most perfect condition. Whatever tended to support this
state of existence was, therefore, by nature pointed out to him as fit
to be chosen; and whatever tended to destroy it, as fit to be
rejected. Thus health, strength, agility, and ease of body as well as
the external conveniences which could promote these; wealth, power,
honours, the respect and esteem of those we live with; were naturally
pointed out to us as things eligible, and of which the possession was
preferable to the want. On the other hand, sickness, infirmity,
unwieldiness, pain of body, as well as all the external
inconveniences which tend to occasion or bring on any of them;
poverty, the want of authority, the contempt or hatred of those we
live with; were, in the same manner, pointed out to us as things to be
shunned and avoided. In each of those two opposite classes of objects,
there were some which appeared to be more the objects either of choice
or rejection, than others in the same class. Thus, in the first class,
health appeared evidently preferable to strength, and strength to
agility; reputation to power, and power to riches. And thus too, in
the second class, sickness was more to be avoided than {243}
unwieldiness of body, ignominy than poverty, and poverty than the loss
of power. Virtue and the propriety of conduct consisted in choosing
and rejecting all different objects and circumstances according as
they were by nature rendered more or less the objects of choice or
rejection; in selecting always from among the several objects of
choice presented to us, that which must be chosen, when we could not
obtain them all; and in selecting, too, out of the several objects of
rejection offered to us, that which was least to be avoided, when it
was not in our power to avoid them all. By choosing and rejecting with
this just and accurate discernment, by thus bestowing upon every
object the precise degree of attention it deserved, according to the
place which it held in this natural scale of things, we maintained,
**according to the Stoics, that perfect rectitude of conduct which
constituted the essence of virtue. This was what they called to live
consistently, to live according to nature, and to obey those laws and
directions which nature, or the Author of nature, had prescribed for
our conduct.
So far the Stoical idea of propriety and virtue is not very different
from that of Aristotle and the ancient Peripatetics.
Among those primary objects which nature had recommended to us as
eligible, was the prosperity of our family, of our relations, of our
friends, of our country, of mankind, and of the universe in general.
Nature too, had taught us, that as the prosperity of two was
preferable to that of one, that of many, or of all, must be infinitely
more so. That we ourselves were but one, and that consequently
wherever our prosperity was inconsistent with that, either of the
whole, or of any considerable part of the whole, it ought, even in our
own choice, to yield to what was so vastly preferable. As all the
events in this world were conducted by the providence of a wise,
powerful, and good God, we might be assured that whatever happened
tended to the prosperity and perfection of the whole. If we ourselves,
therefore, were in poverty, in sickness, or in any other calamity, we
ought, first of all, to use our utmost endeavours, so far as justice
and our duty to others will allow, to rescue ourselves from this
disagreeable circumstance. But if, after all we could do, we found
this impossible, we ought to rest satisfied that the order and
perfection of the universe required that we should in the mean time
continue in this situation. And as the prosperity of the whole should,
even to us, appear preferable to so insignificant a part as ourselves,
our situation, whatever it was, ought from that moment to become the
object of our liking, if we would maintain that complete propriety and
rectitude of sentiment and conduct in which consisted the perfection
of our nature. If, indeed, any opportunity of extricating ourselves
should offer, it became our duty to embrace it. The order of the
universe, it was evident, no longer required our continuance in this
situation, and the great Director of the world plainly called upon us
to leave it, by so clearly pointing out {244} the road which we were
to follow. It was the same case with the adversity of our relations,
our friends, our country. If, without violating any more sacred
obligation, it was in our power to prevent or put an end to their
calamity, it undoubtedly was our duty to do so. The propriety of
action, the rule which Jupiter had given us for the direction of our
conduct, evidently required this of us. But if it was altogether out
of our power to do either, we ought then to consider this event as the
most fortunate which could possibly have happened: because we might be
assured that it tended most to the prosperity and order of the whole,
which was that we ourselves, if we were wise and equitable, ought most
of all to desire. It was our own final interest considered as a part
of that whole, of which the prosperity ought to be, not only the
principal, but the sole object of our desire.
'In what sense,' says Epictetus, 'are some things said to be according
to our nature, and others contrary to it? It is in that sense in which
we consider ourselves as separated and detached from all other things.
For thus it may be said to be according to the nature of the foot to
be always clean. But if you consider it as a foot, and not as
something detached from the rest of the body, it must behove it some
times to trample in the dirt, and sometimes to tread upon thorns, and
sometimes, too, to be cut off for the sake of the whole body; and if
it refuses this, it is no longer a foot. Thus, too, ought we to
conceive with regard to ourselves. What are you? A man. If you
consider yourself as something separated and detached, it is agreeable
to your nature to live to old age, to be rich, to be in health. But if
you consider yourself as a man, and as a part of a whole, upon account
of that whole, it will behove you sometimes to be in sickness,
sometimes to be exposed to the inconveniency of a sea voyage,
sometimes to be in want, and at last perhaps to die before your time.
Why then do you complain? Do not you know that by doing so, as the
foot ceases to be a foot, so you cease to be man?'
A wise man never complains of the destiny of Providence, nor thinks
the universe in confusion when he is out of order. He does not look
upon himself as a whole, separated and detached from every other part
of nature, to be taken care of by itself and for itself. He regards
himself in the light in which he imagines the great genius of human
nature, and of the world, regards him. He enters, if I may say so,
into the sentiments of that divine Being, and considers himself as an
atom, a particle, of an immense and infinite system, which must and
ought to be disposed of according to the conveniency of the whole.
Assured of the wisdom which directs all the events of human life,
whatever lot befalls him, he accepts it with joy, satisfied that, if
he had known all the connections and dependencies of the different
parts of the universe, it is the very lot which he himself would have
wished for. If it is life, he is contented to live; and if it is
death, as nature must have no further {245} occasion for his presence
here, he willingly goes where he is appointed. I accept, said a
cynical philosopher, whose doctrines were in this respect the same as
those of the Stoics, I accept, with equal joy and satisfaction,
whatever fortune can befall me. Riches or poverty, pleasure or pain,
health or sickness, all is alike: nor would I desire that the gods
should in any respect change my destination. If I was to ask of them
any thing beyond what their bounty has already bestowed, it should be
that they would inform me beforehand what it was their pleasure should
be done with me, that I might of my own accord place myself in this
situation, and demonstrate the cheerfulness with which I embraced
their allotment. If I am going to sail, says Epictetus, I choose the
best ship and the best pilot, and I wait for the fairest weather that
my circumstances and duty will allow. Prudence and propriety, the
principles which the gods have given me for the direction of my
conduct, require this of me; but they require no more: and if,
notwithstanding, a storm arises, which neither the strength of the
vessel nor the skill of the pilot are likely to withstand, I give
myself no trouble about the consequence. All that I had to do is done
already. The directors of my conduct never command me to be miserable,
to be anxious, desponding, or afraid. Whether we are to be drowned, or
to come to a harbour, is the business of Jupiter, not mine. I leave it
entirely to his determination, nor ever break my rest with considering
which way he is likely to decide it, but receive whatever may come
with equal indifference and security.
From this perfect confidence in that benevolent wisdom which governs
the universe, and from this entire resignation to whatever order that
wisdom might think proper to establish, it necessarily followed, that
to the Stoical wise man, all the events of human life must be in a
great measure indifferent. His happiness consisted altogether, first,
in the contemplation of the happiness and perfection of the great
system of the universe, of the good government of the great republic
of gods and men, of all rational and sensible beings; and, secondly,
in discharging his duty, in acting properly in the affairs of this
great republic whatever little part that wisdom had assigned to him.
The propriety or impropriety of his endeavours might be of great
consequence to him. Their success or disappointment could be of none
at all; could excite no passionate joy or sorrow, no passionate desire
or aversion. If he preferred some events to others, if some situations
were the objects of his choice and others of his rejection, it was not
because he regarded the one as in themselves in any respect better
than the other, or thought that his own happiness would be more
complete in what is called the fortunate than in what is regarded as
the distressful situation; but because the propriety of action, the
rule which the gods had given him for the direction of his conduct,
required him to choose and reject in this manner. All his affections
were absorbed and swallowed up in {246} two great affections; in that
for the discharge of his own duty, and in that for the greatest
possible happiness of all rational and sensible beings. For the
gratification of this latter affection, he rested with the most
perfect security upon the wisdom and power of the great Superintendent
of the universe. His sole anxiety was about the gratification of the
former; not about the event, but about the propriety of his own
endeavours. Whatever the event might be, he trusted to a superior
power and wisdom for turning it to promote that great end which he
himself was most desirous of promoting.
This propriety of choosing and rejecting, though originally pointed
out to us, and as it were recommended and introduced to our
acquaintance by the things, and for the sake of the things, chosen and
rejected; yet when we had once become thoroughly acquainted with it,
the order, the grace, the beauty which we discerned in this conduct,
the happiness which we felt resulted from it, necessarily appeared to
us of much greater value than the actual obtaining of all the
different objects of choice, or the actual avoiding of all those of
rejection. From the observation of this propriety arose the happiness
and the glory; from the neglect of it, the misery and the disgrace of
human nature.
But to a wise man, to one whose passions were brought under perfect
subjection to the ruling principles of his nature, the exact
observation of this propriety was equally easy upon all occasions. Was
he in prosperity, he returned thanks to Jupiter for having joined him
with circumstances which were easily mastered, and in which there was
little temptation to do wrong. Was he in adversity, he equally
returned thanks to the director of this spectacle of human life, for
having opposed to him a vigorous athlete, over whom, though the
contest was likely to be more violent, the victory was more glorious,
and equally certain. Can there be any shame in that distress which is
brought upon us without any fault of our own, and in which we behave
with perfect propriety? There can, therefore, be no evil, but, on the
contrary, the greatest good and advantage. A brave man exults in those
dangers in which, from no rashness of his own, his fortune has
involved him. They afford an opportunity of exercising that heroic
intrepidity, whose exertion gives the exalted delight which flows from
the consciousness of superior propriety and deserved admiration. One
who is master of all his exercises has no aversion to measure his
strength and activity with the strongest. And, in the same manner, one
who is master of all his passions, does not dread any circumstance in
which the Superintendent of the universe may think proper to place
him. The bounty of that divine Being has provided him with virtues
which render him superior to every situation. If it is pleasure, he
has temperance to refrain from it; if it is pain, he has constancy to
bear it; if it is danger or death, he has magnanimity and fortitude to
despise it. The events of human life can never find him unprepared, or
at a loss how to maintain that {247} propriety of sentiment and
conduct which, in his own apprehension, constitutes at once his glory
and his happiness.
Human life the Stoics appear to have considered as a game of great
skill; in which, however, there was a mixture of chance, or of what is
vulgarly understood to be chance. In such games the stake is commonly
a trifle, and the whole pleasure of the game arises from playing well,
from playing fairly, and playing skilfully. If notwithstanding all his
skill, however, the good player should, by the influence of chance,
happen to lose, the loss ought to be a matter, rather of merriment,
than of serious sorrow. He has made no false stroke; he has done
nothing which he ought to be ashamed of; he has enjoyed completely the
whole pleasure of the game. If, on the contrary, the bad player
notwithstanding all his blunders, should, in the same manner, happen
to win, his success can give him but little satisfaction. He is
mortified by the remembrance of all the faults which he committed.
Even during the play he can enjoy no part of the pleasure which it is
capable of affording. From ignorance of the rules of the game, fear
and doubt and hesitation are the disagreeable sentiments that precede
almost every stroke which he plays; and when he has played it, the
mortification of finding it a gross blunder, commonly completes the
unpleasing circle of his sensations. Human life, with all the
advantages which can possibly attend it, ought, according to the
Stoics, to be regarded but as a mere twopenny stake; a matter by far
too insignificant to merit any anxious concern. Our only anxious
concern ought to be, not about the stake, but about the proper method
of playing. If we placed our happiness in winning the stake, we placed
it in what depended upon causes beyond our power and out of our
direction. We necessarily exposed ourselves to perpetual fear and
uneasiness, and frequently to grievous and mortifying disappointments.
If we placed it in playing well, in playing fairly, in playing wisely
and skilfully; in the propriety of our own conduct in short; we placed
it in what, by proper discipline, education, and attention, might be
altogether in our own power, and under our own direction. Our
happiness was perfectly secure, and beyond the reach of fortune. The
event of our actions, if it was out of our power, was equally out of
our concern, and we could never feel either fear or anxiety about it;
nor ever suffer any grievous, or even any serious disappointment.
Human life itself, as well as every different advantage or
disadvantage which can attend it, might, they said, according to
different circumstances, be the proper object either of our choice or
of our rejection. If, in our actual situation, there were more
circumstances agreeable to nature than contrary to it; more
circumstances which were the objects of choice than of rejection;
life, in this case, was, upon the whole, the proper object of choice,
and the propriety of conduct required that we should remain in it. If,
on the other hand, there {248} were, in our actual situation, without
any probable hope of amendment, more circumstances contrary to nature
than agreeable to it; more circumstances which were the objects of
rejection than of choice; life itself, in this case, became, to a wise
man, the object of rejection, and he was not only at liberty to remove
out of it, but the propriety of conduct, the rule which the gods had
given him for the direction of his conduct, required him to do so. I
am ordered, says Epictetus, not to dwell at Nicopolis. I do not dwell
there. I am ordered not to dwell at Athens. I do not dwell at Athens.
I am ordered not to dwell in Rome. I do not dwell in Rome. I am
ordered to dwell in the little and rocky island of Gyaræ. I go and
dwell there. But the house smokes in Gyaræ. If the smoke is moderate,
I will bear it, and stay there. If it is excessive, I will go to a
house from whence no tyrant can remove me. I keep in mind always that
the door is open, that I can walk out when I please, and retire to
that hospitable house which is at all times open to all the world; for
beyond my undermost garment, beyond my body, no man living has any
power over me. If your situation is upon the whole disagreeable; if
your house smokes too much for you, said the Stoics, walk forth by all
means. But walk forth without repining; without murmuring or
complaining. Walk forth calm, contented, rejoicing, returning thanks
to the gods, who, from their infinite bounty, have opened the safe and
quiet harbour of death, at all times ready to receive us from the
stormy ocean of human life; who have prepared this sacred, this
inviolable, this great asylum, always open, always accessible;
altogether beyond the reach of human rage and injustice; and large
enough to contain both all those who wish, and all those who do not
wish to retire to it: an asylum which takes away from every man every
pretence of complaining, or even of fancying that there can be any
evil in human life, except such as he may suffer from his own folly
and weakness.
The Stoics, in the few fragments of their philosophy which have come
down to us, sometimes talk of leaving life with a gaiety, and even
with a levity, which, were we to consider those passages by
themselves, might induce us to believe that they imagined we could
with propriety leave it whenever we had a mind, wantonly and
capriciously, upon the slightest disgust or uneasiness. 'When you sup
with such a person,' says Epictetus, 'you complain of the long stories
which he tells you about his Mysian wars. "Now my friend," says he,
"having told you how I took possession of an eminence at such a place,
I will tell you how I was besieged in such another place." But if you
have a mind not to be troubled with his long stories, do not accept of
his supper. If you accept of his supper, you have not the least
pretence to complain of his long stories. It is the same case with
what you call the evils of human life. Never complain of that of which
it is at all times in your power to rid yourself.' Notwithstanding
this gaiety and even {249} levity of expression, however, the
alternative of leaving life, or of remaining in it, was, according to
the Stoics, a matter of the most serious and important deliberation.
We ought never to leave it till we were distinctly called upon to do
so by that superintending Power which had originally placed us in it.
But we were to consider ourselves as called upon to do so, not merely
at the appointed and unavoidable term of human life. Whenever the
providence of that superintending Power had rendered our condition in
life upon the whole the proper object rather of rejection than of
choice; the great rule which he had given us for the direction of our
conduct, then required us to leave it. We might then be said to hear
the awful and benevolent voice of that divine Being distinctly calling
upon us to do so.
It was upon this account that, according to the Stoics, it might be
the duty of a wise man to remove out of life though he was perfectly
happy; while, on the contrary, it might be the duty of a weak man to
remain in it, though he was necessarily miserable. If, in the
situation of the wise man, there were more circumstances which were
the natural objects of rejection than of choice, the whole situation
became the object of rejection, and the rule which the gods had given
him for the direction of his conduct, required that he should remove
out of it as speedily as particular circumstances might render
convenient. He was, however, perfectly happy even during the time that
he might think proper to remain in it. He had placed his happiness,
not in obtaining the objects of his choice, or in avoiding those of
his rejection; but in always choosing and rejecting with exact
propriety; not in the success, but in the fitness of his endeavours
and exertions. If, in the situation of the weak man, on the contrary,
there were more circumstances which were the natural objects of choice
than of rejection; his whole situation became the proper object of
choice, and it was his duty to remain in it. He was unhappy, however,
from not knowing how to use those circumstances. Let his cards be ever
so good, he did not know how to play them, and could enjoy no sort of
real satisfaction, either in the progress, or in the event of the
game, in whatever manner it might happen to turn out. (Cicero de
finibus, lib. 3. c. 13.)
The propriety, upon some occasions, of voluntary death, though it was,
perhaps, more insisted upon by the Stoics, than by any other sect of
ancient philosophers, was, however, a doctrine common to them all,
even to the peaceable and indolent Epicureans. During the age in which
flourished the founders of all the principal sects of ancient
philosophy; during the Peloponnesian war and for many years after its
conclusion, all the different republics of Greece were, at home,
almost always distracted by the most furious factions; and abroad,
involved in the most sanguinary wars, in which each fought, not merely
for superiority or dominion, but either completely to extirpate all
its enemies, or, what was not less cruel, to reduce them into the
vilest of {250} all states, that of domestic slavery, and to sell
them, man, woman, and child, like so many herds of cattle, to the
highest bidder in the market. The smallness of the greater part of
those states, too, rendered it, to each of them, no very improbable
event, that it might itself fall into that very calamity which it had
so frequently, either, perhaps, actually inflicted, or at least
attempted to inflict upon some of its neighbours. In this disorderly
state of things, the most perfect innocence, joined to both the
highest rank and the greatest public services, could give no security
to any man that, even at home and among his own relations and
fellow-citizens, he was not, at some time or another, from the
prevalence of some hostile and furious faction, to be condemned to the
most cruel and ignominious punishment. If he was taken prisoner in
war, or if the city of which he was a member was conquered, he was
exposed, if possible, to still greater injuries and insults. But every
man naturally, or rather necessarily, familiarizes his imagination
with the distresses to which he foresees that his situation may
frequently expose him. It is impossible that a sailor should not
frequently think of storms and shipwrecks and foundering at sea, and
of how he himself is likely both to feel and to act upon such
occasions. It was impossible, in the same manner, that a Grecian
patriot or hero should not familiarize his imagination with all the
different calamities to which he was sensible his situation must
frequently, or rather constantly, expose him. As an American savage
prepares his death-song, and considers how he should act when he has
fallen into the hands of his enemies, and is by them put to death in
the most lingering tortures, and amidst the insults and derision of
all the spectators; so a Grecian patriot or hero could not avoid
frequently employing his thoughts in considering what he ought both to
suffer and to do in banishment, in captivity, when reduced to slavery,
when put to the torture, when brought to the scaffold. But the
philosophers of all the different sects very justly represented
virtue; that is, wise, just, firm and temperate conduct; not only as
the most probable, but as the certain and infallible road to happiness
even in this life. This conduct, however, could not always exempt, and
might even sometimes expose the person who followed it to all the
calamities which were incident to that unsettled situation of public
affairs. They endeavoured, therefore, to show that happiness was
either altogether, or at least in a great measure, independent of
fortune; the Stoics, that it was so altogether; the Academic and
Peripatetic philosophers, that it was so in a great measure. Wise,
prudent, and good conduct was, in the first place, the conduct most
likely to ensure success in every species of undertaking; and
secondly, though it should fail of success, yet the mind was not left
without consolation. The virtuous man might still enjoy the complete
approbation of his own breast; and might still feel that, how untoward
soever things might be without, all was calm and peace and {251}
concord within. He might generally comfort himself, too, with the
assurance that he possessed the love and esteem of every intelligent
and impartial spectator, who could not fail both to admire his
conduct, and to regret his misfortune.
Those philosophers endeavoured, at the same time, to show, that the
greatest misfortunes to which human life was liable, might be
supported more easily than was commonly imagined. They endeavoured to
point out the comforts which a man might still enjoy when reduced to
poverty, when driven into banishment, when exposed to the injustice of
popular clamour, when labouring under blindness, under deafness, in
the extremity of old age, upon the approach of death. They pointed
out, too, the considerations which might contribute to support his
constancy under the agonies of pain and even of torture, in sickness,
in sorrow for the loss of children, for the death of friends and
relations, etc. The few fragments which have come down to us of what
the ancient philosophers had written upon these subjects, form,
perhaps, one of the most instructive, as well as one of the most
interesting remains of antiquity. The spirit and manhood of their
doctrines make a wonderful contrast with the desponding, plaintive,
and whining tone of some modern systems.
But while those ancient philosophers endeavoured in this manner to
suggest every consideration which could, as Milton says, arm the
obdured breast with stubborn patience, as with triple steel; they, at
the same time, laboured above all to convince their followers that
there neither was nor could be any evil in death; and that, if their
situation became at any time too hard for their constancy to support,
the remedy was at hand, the door was open, and they might, without
fear, walk out when they pleased. If there was no world beyond the
present, death, they said, could be no evil; and if there was another
world, the gods must likewise be in that other, and a just man could
fear no evil while under their protection. Those philosophers, in
short, prepared a death-song, if I may say so, which the Grecian
patriots and heroes might make use of upon the proper occasions; and,
of all the different sects, the Stoics, I think it must be
acknowledged, had prepared by far the most animated and most spirited
song.
Suicide, however, never seems to have been very common among the
Greeks. Excepting Cleomenes, I cannot at present recollect any very
illustrious either patriot or hero of Greece, who died by his own
hand. The death of Aristomenes is as much beyond the period of true
history as that of Ajax. The common story of the death of
Themistocles, though within that period, bears upon its face all the
marks of a most romantic fable. Of all the Greek heroes whose lives
have been written by Plutarch, Cleomenes appears to have been the only
one who perished in this manner. Theramines, Socrates, and Phocion,
who certainly did not want courage, suffered themselves to be sent to
prison, and {252} submitted patiently to that death to which the
injustice of their fellow-citizens had condemned them. The brave
Eumenes allowed himself to be delivered up, by his own mutinous
soldiers, to his enemy Antigonus, and was starved to death, without
attempting any violence. The gallant Philopoe men suffered himself to
be taken prisoner by the Messenians, was thrown into a dungeon, and
was supposed to have been privately poisoned. Several of the
philosophers, indeed, are said to have died in this manner; but their
lives have been so very foolishly written, that very little credit is
due to the greater part of the tales which are told of them. Three
different accounts have been given of the death of Zeno the Stoic. One
is, that after enjoying, for ninety-eight years, the most perfect
state of health, he happened, in going out of his school, to fall; and
though he suffered no other damage than that of breaking or
dislocating one of his fingers, he struck the ground with his hand,
and, in the words of the Niobe of Euripides, said, _I come, why
doest thou call me?_ and immediately went home and hanged himself.
At that great age, one should think, he might have had a little more
patience. Another account is, that, at the same age, and in
consequence of a like accident, he starved himself to death. The third
account is, that, at seventy-two years of age, he died in the natural
way; by far the most probable account of the three, and supported too
by the authority of a cotemporary, who must have had every opportunity
of being well-informed; of Persæus, originally the slave, and
afterwards the friend and disciple of Zeno. The first account is given
by Apollonius of Tyre, who flourished about the time of Augustus
Cæsar, between two and three hundred years after the death of Zeno. I
know not who is the author of the second account. Apollonius, who was
himself a Stoic, had probably thought it would do honour to the
founder of a sect which talked so much about voluntary death, to die
in this manner by his own hand. Men of letters, though, after their
death, they are frequently more talked of than the greatest princes or
statesmen of their times, are generally, during their life, so obscure
and insignificant that their adventures are seldom recorded by
cotemporary historians. Those of after-ages, in order to satisfy the
public curiosity, and having no authentic documents either to support
or to contradict their narratives, seem frequently to have fashioned
them according to their own fancy; and almost always with a great
mixture of the marvellous. In this particular case the marvellous,
though supported by no authority, seems to have prevailed over the
probable, though supported by the best. Diogenes Laertius plainly
gives the preference to the story of Apollonius. Lucian and Lactantius
appear both to have given credit to that of the great age and of the
violent death.
This fashion of voluntary death appears to have been much more
prevalent among the proud Romans, than it ever was among the lively,
ingenious, and accommodating Greeks. Even among the Romans, the {253}
fashion seems not to have been established in the early and, what are
called, the virtuous ages of the republic. The common story of the
death of Regulus, though probably a fable, could never have been
invented, had it been supposed that any dishonour could fall upon that
hero, from patiently submitting to the tortures which the
Carthaginians are said to have inflicted upon him. In the later ages
of the republic, some dishonour, I apprehend, would have attended this
submission. In the different civil wars which preceded the fall of the
commonwealth, many of the eminent men of all the contending parties
chose rather to perish by their own hands, than to fall into those of
their enemies. The death of Cato, celebrated by Cicero, and censured
by Cæsar, and become the subject of a very serious controversy
between, perhaps, the two most illustrious advocates that the world
had ever beheld, stamped a character of splendour upon this method of
dying which it seems to have retained for several ages after. The
eloquence of Cicero was superior to that of Cæsar. The admiring
prevailed greatly over the censuring party, and the lovers of liberty,
for many ages afterwards, looked up to Cato as to the most venerable
martyr of the republican party. The head of a party, the Cardinal de
Retz observes, may do what he pleases; as long as he retains the
confidence of his own friends, he can never do wrong; a maxim of which
his eminence had himself, upon several occasions, an opportunity of
experiencing the truth. Cato, it seems, joined to his other virtues
that of an excellent bottle companion. His enemies accused him of
drunkenness, but, says Seneca, whoever objected this vice to Cato,
will find it easier to prove that drunkenness is a virtue, than that
Cato could be addicted to any vice.
Under the Emperors this method of dying seems to have been, for a long
time, perfectly fashionable. In the epistles of Pliny we find an
account of several persons who chose to die in this manner, rather
from vanity and ostentation, it would seem, than from what would
appear, even to a sober and judicious Stoic, any proper or necessary
reason. Even the ladies, who are seldom behind in following the
fashion, seem frequently to have chosen, most unnecessarily, to die in
this manner; and, like the ladies in Bengal, to accompany, upon some
occasions, their husbands to the tomb. The prevalence of this fashion
certainly occasioned many deaths which would not otherwise have
happened. All the havoc, however, which this, perhaps the highest
exertion of human vanity and impertinence, could occasion, would,
probably, at no time, be very great.
The principle of suicide, the principle which would teach us, upon
some occasions, to consider that violent action as an object of
applause and approbation, seems to be altogether a refinement of
philosophy. Nature, in her sound and healthful state, seems never to
prompt us to suicide. There is, indeed, a species of melancholy (a
disease to which human nature, among its other calamities, is
unhappily subject) which {254} seems to be accompanied with, what one
may call, an irresistible appetite for self-destruction. In
circumstances often of the highest external prosperity, and sometimes
too, in spite even of the most serious and deeply impressed sentiments
of religion, this disease has frequently been known to drive its
wretched victims to this fatal extremity. The unfortunate persons who
perish in this miserable manner, are the proper objects, not of
censure, but of commiseration. To attempt to punish them, when they
are beyond the reach of all human punishment, is not more absurd than
it is unjust. That punishment can fall only on their surviving friends
and relations, who are always perfectly innocent, and to whom the loss
of their friend, in this disgraceful manner, must always be alone a
very heavy calamity. Nature, in her sound and healthful state, prompts
us to avoid distress upon all occasions; upon many occasions to defend
ourselves against it, though at the hazard, or even with the certainty
of perishing in that defence. But, when we have neither been able to
defend ourselves from it, nor have perished in that defence, no
natural principle, no regard to the approbation of the supposed
impartial spectator, to the judgment of the man within the breast,
seems to call upon us to escape from it by destroying ourselves. It is
only the consciousness of our own weakness, of our own incapacity to
support the calamity with proper manhood and firmness, which can drive
us to this resolution. I do not remember to have either read or heard
of any American savage, who, upon being taken prisoner by some hostile
tribe, put himself to death, in order to avoid being afterwards put to
death in torture, and amidst the insults and mockery of his enemies.
He places his glory in supporting those torments with manhood, and in
retorting those insults with tenfold contempt and derision.
This contempt of life and death, however, and, at the same time, the
most entire submission to the order of Providence; the most complete
contentment with every event which the current of human affairs could
possibly cast up, may be considered as the two fundamental doctrines
upon which rested the whole fabric of Stoical morality. The
independent and spirited, but often harsh Epictetus, may be considered
as the great apostle of the first of those doctrines: the mild, the
humane, the benevolent Antoninus, of the second.
The emancipated slave of Epaphroditus, who, in his youth, had been
subjected to the insolence of a brutal master, who, in his riper
years, was, by the jealousy and caprice of Domitian, banished from
Rome and Athens, and obliged to dwell at Nicopolis, and who, by the
same tyrant, might expect every moment to be sent to Gyaræ, or,
perhaps, to be put to death; could preserve his own tranquillity only
by fostering in his mind the most sovereign contempt of human life. He
never exults so much, accordingly; his eloquence is never so animated
as when he represents the futility and nothingness of all its
pleasures and all its pains.
{255} The good-natured emperor, the absolute sovereign of the whole
civilized part of the world, who certainly had no peculiar reason to
complain of his own allotment, delights in expressing his contentment
with the ordinary course of things, and in pointing out beauties even
in those parts of it where vulgar observers are not apt to see any.
There is a propriety and even an engaging grace, he observes, in old
age as well as in youth; and the weakness and decrepitude of the one
state are as suitable to nature as the bloom and vigour of the other.
Death, too, is just as proper a termination of old age, as youth is of
childhood, or manhood of youth. 'As we frequently say,' he remarks
upon another occasion, 'that the physician has ordered to such a man
to ride on horseback, or to use the cold bath, or to walk barefooted;
so ought we to say, that Nature, the great conductor and physician of
the universe, has ordered to such a man a disease, or the amputation
of a limb, or the loss of a child.' By the prescriptions of ordinary
physicians the patient swallows many a bitter potion, undergoes many a
painful operation. From the very uncertain hope, however, that health
may be the consequence, he gladly submits to all. The harshest
prescriptions of the great Physician of nature, the patient may, in
the same manner, hope will contribute to his own health, to his own
final prosperity and happiness: and he may be perfectly assured that
they not only contribute, but are indispensably necessary to the
health, to the prosperity and happiness of the universe, to the
furtherance and advancement of the great plan of Jupiter. Had they not
been so, the universe would never have produced them; its all-wise
Architect and Conductor would never have suffered them to happen. As
all, even the smallest of the co-existent parts of the universe, are
exactly fitted to one another, and all contribute to compose one
immense and connected system, so all, even apparently the most
insignificant of the successive events which follow one another, make
parts, and necessary parts, of that great chain of causes and effects
which had no beginning, and which will have no end; and which, as they
all necessarily result from the original arrangement and contrivance
of the whole; so they are all essentially necessary, not only to its
prosperity, but to its continuance and preservation. Whoever does not
cordially embrace whatever befalls him, whoever is sorry that it has
befallen him, whoever wishes that it had not befallen him, wishes, so
far as in him lies, to stop the motion of the universe, to break that
great chain of succession, by the progress of which that system can
alone be continued and preserved, and, for some little conveniency of
his own, to disorder and discompose the whole machine of the world. 'O
world,' says he, in another place, 'all things are suitable to me
which are suitable to thee. Nothing is too early or too late to me
which is seasonable for thee. All is fruit to me which thy seasons
bring forth. From thee are all things; in thee are all things; for
thee are all things. One man {256} says, O beloved city of Cecrops.
Wilt not thou say, O beloved city of God?'
From these very sublime doctrines the Stoics, or at least some of the
Stoics, attempted to deduce all their paradoxes.
The Stoical wise man endeavoured to enter into the views of the great
Superintendent of the universe, and to see things in the same light in
which that divine Being beheld them. But, to the great Superintendent
of the universe, all the different events which the course of his
providence may bring forth, what to us appear the smallest and the
greatest, the bursting of a bubble, as Mr. Pope says, and that of a
world, for example, were perfectly equal, were equally parts of that
great chain which he had predestined from all eternity, were equally
the effects of the same unerring wisdom, of the same universal and
boundless benevolence. To the Stoical wise man, in the same manner,
all those different events were perfectly equal. In the course of
those events, indeed, a little department, in which he had himself
some little management and direction, had been assigned to him. In
this department he endeavoured to act as properly as he could, and to
conduct himself according to those orders which, he understood, had
been prescribed to him. But he took no anxious or passionate concern
either in the success, or in the disappointment of his own most
faithful endeavours. The highest prosperity and the total destruction
of that little department, of that little system which had been in
some measure committed to his charge, were perfectly indifferent to
him. If those events had depended upon him, he would have chosen the
one, and he would have rejected the other. But as they did not depend
upon him, he trusted to a superior wisdom, and was perfectly satisfied
that the event which happened, whatever it might be, was the very
event which he himself, had he known all the connections and
dependencies of things, would most earnestly and devoutly have wished
for. Whatever he did under the influence and direction of those
principles was equally perfect; and when he stretched out his finger,
to give the example which they commonly made use of, he performed an
action in every respect as meritorious, as worthy of praise and
admiration, as when he laid down his life for the service of his
country. As, to the great Superintendent of the universe, the greatest
and the smallest exertions of his power, the formation and dissolution
of a world, the formation and dissolution of a bubble, were equally
easy, were equally admirable, and equally the effects of the same
divine wisdom and benevolence; so, to the Stoical wise man, what we
would call the great action required no more exertion than the little
one, was equally easy, proceeded from exactly the same principles, was
in no respect more meritorious, nor worthy of any higher degree of
praise and admiration.
As all those who had arrived at this state of perfection were equally
{257} happy, so all those who fell in the smallest degree short of it,
how nearly soever they might approach to it, were equally miserable.
As the man, they said, who was but an inch below the surface of the
water, could no more breathe than he who was an hundred yards below
it; so the man who had not completely subdued all his private,
partial, and selfish passions, who had any other earnest desire but
that for the universal happiness, who had not completely emerged from
that abyss of misery and disorder into which his anxiety for the
gratification of those private, partial, and selfish passions had
involved him, could no more breathe the free air of liberty and
independency, could no more enjoy the security and happiness of the
wise man, than he who was most remote from that situation. As all the
actions of the wise man were perfect and equally perfect; so all those
of the man who had not arrived at this supreme wisdom were faulty,
and, as some Stoics pretended, equally faulty. As one truth, they
said, could not be more true, nor one falsehood more false than
another; so an honourable action could not be more honourable, nor a
shameful one more shameful than another. As in shooting at a mark, the
man who missed it by an inch had equally missed it with him who had
done so by a hundred yards; so the man who, in what to us appears the
most insignificant action, had acted improperly and without a
sufficient reason, was equally faulty with him who had done so in,
what to us appears, the most important; the man who has killed a cock,
for example, improperly and without a sufficient reason, was as
criminal as he who had murdered his father.
If the first of those two paradoxes should appear sufficiently
violent, the second is evidently too absurd to deserve any serious
consideration. It is, indeed, so very absurd that one can scarce help
suspecting that it must have been in some measure misunderstood or
misrepresented. At any rate, I cannot allow myself to believe that
such men as Zeno or Cleanthes, men, it is said, of the most simple as
well as of the most sublime eloquence, could be the authors, either of
these, or of the greater part of the other Stoical paradoxes, which
are in general mere impertinent quibbles, and do so little honour to
their system that I shall give no further account of them. I am
disposed to impute them rather to Chrysippus, the disciple and
follower, indeed, of Zeno and Cleanthes, but who, from all that has
been delivered down to us concerning him, seems to have been a mere
dialectical pedant, without taste or elegance of any kind. He may have
been the first who reduced their doctrines into a scholastic or
technical system of artificial definitions, divisions, and
subdivisions; one of the most effectual expedients, perhaps, for
extinguishing whatever degree of good sense there may be in any moral
or metaphysical doctrine. Such a man may very easily be supposed to
have understood too literally some animated expressions of his masters
in describing the happiness of the man of {258} perfect virtue, and
the unhappiness of whoever might fall short of that character.
The Stoics in general seem to have admitted that there might be a
degree of proficiency in those who had not advanced to perfect virtue
and happiness. They distributed those proficients into different
classes, according to the degree of their advancement; and they called
the imperfect virtues which they supposed them capable of exercising,
not rectitudes, but proprieties, fitnesses, decent and becoming
actions, for which a plausible or probable reason could be assigned,
what Cicero expresses by the Latin word _officia_, and Seneca, I
think more exactly, by that of _convenientia_. The doctrine of
those imperfect, but attainable virtues, seems to have constituted
what we may call the practical morality of the Stoics. It is the
subject of Cicero's Offices; and is said to have been that of another
book written by Marcus Brutus, but which is now lost.
The plan and system which Nature has sketched out for our conduct,
seems to us to be altogether different from that of the Stoical
philosophy.
By Nature the events which immediately affect that little department
in which we ourselves have some little management and direction, which
immediately affect ourselves, our friends, our country, are the events
which interest us the most, and which chiefly excite our desires and
aversions, our hopes and fears, our joys and sorrows. Should those
passions be, what they are very apt to be, too vehement, Nature has
provided a proper remedy and correction. The real or even the
imaginary presence of the impartial spectator, the authority of the
man within the breast, is always at hand to overawe them into the
proper tone and temper of moderation.
If, notwithstanding our most faithful exertions, all the events which
can affect this little department, should turn out the most
unfortunate and disastrous, Nature has by no means left us without
consolation. That consolation may be drawn, not only from the complete
approbation of the man within the breast, but, if possible, from a
still nobler and more generous principle, from a firm reliance upon,
and a reverential submission to, that benevolent wisdom which directs
all the events of human life, and which, we may be assured, would
never have suffered those misfortunes to happen, had they not been
indispensably necessary for the good of the whole.
Nature has not prescribed to us this sublime contemplation as the
great business and occupation of our lives. She only points it out to
us as the consolation of our misfortunes. The Stoical philosophy
prescribes it as the great business and occupation of our lives. That
philosophy teaches us to interest ourselves earnestly and anxiously in
no events, external to the good order of our own minds, to the
propriety of our own choosing and rejecting, except in those which
concern a {259} department where we neither have nor ought to have any
sort of management or direction, the department of the great
Superintendent of the universe. By the perfect apathy which it
prescribes to us, by endeavouring, not merely to moderate, but to
eradicate all our private, partial, and selfish affections, by
suffering us to feel for whatever can befall ourselves, our friends,
our country, not even the sympathetic and reduced passions of the
impartial spectator, it endeavours to render us altogether indifferent
and unconcerned in the success or miscarriage of every thing which
Nature has prescribed to us as the proper business and occupation of
our lives.
The reasonings of philosophy, it may be said, though they may confound
and perplex the understanding, can never break down the necessary
connection which Nature has established between causes and their
effects. The causes which naturally excite our desires and aversions,
our hopes and fears, our joys and sorrows, would no doubt,
notwithstanding all the reasonings of Stoicism, produce upon each
individual, according to the degree of his actual sensibility, their
proper and necessary effects. The judgments of the man within the
breast, however, might be a good deal affected by those reasonings,
and that great inmate might be taught by them to attempt to overawe
all our private, partial, and selfish affections into a more or less
perfect tranquillity. To direct the judgments of this inmate is the
great purpose of all systems of morality. That the Stoical philosophy
had very great influence upon the character and conduct of its
followers, cannot be doubted; and that, though it might sometimes
incite them to unnecessary violence, its general tendency was to
animate them to actions of the most heroic magnanimity and most
extensive benevolence.
IV. Besides these ancient, there are some modern systems, according to
which virtue consists in propriety; or in the suitableness of the
affection from which we act, to the cause or object which excites it.
The system of Dr. Clark, which places virtue in acting according to
the relation of things, in regulating our conduct according to the
fitness or incongruity which there may be in the application of
certain actions to certain things, or to certain relations: that of
Mr. Wollaston, which places it in acting according to the truth of
things, according to their proper nature and essence, or in treating
them as what they really are, and not as what they are not: that of my
Lord Shaftesbury, which places it in maintaining a proper balance of
the affections, and in allowing no passion to go beyond its proper
sphere; are all of them more or less inaccurate descriptions of the
same fundamental idea.
None of those systems either give, or even pretend to give, any
precise or distinct measure by which this fitness or propriety of
affection can be ascertained or judged of. That precise and distinct
measure can be found no where but in the sympathetic feelings of the
impartial and well-informed spectator.
{260} The description of virtue, besides, which is either given, or at
least meant and intended to be given in each of those systems, for
some of the modern authors are not very fortunate in their manner of
expressing themselves, is no doubt quite just, so far as it goes.
There is no virtue without propriety, and wherever there is propriety
some degree of approbation is due. But still this description is
imperfect. For though propriety is an essential ingredient in every
virtuous action, it is not always the sole ingredient. Beneficent
actions have in them another quality by which they appear not only to
deserve approbation but recompense. None of those systems account
either easily or sufficiently for that superior degree of esteem which
seems due to such actions, or for that diversity of sentiment which
they naturally excite. Neither is the description of vice more
complete. For, in the same manner, though impropriety is a necessary
ingredient in every vicious action, it is not always the sole
ingredient; and there is often the highest degree of absurdity and
impropriety in very harmless and insignificant actions. Deliberate
actions, of a pernicious tendency to those we live with, have, besides
their impropriety, a peculiar quality of their own by which they
appear to deserve, not only disapprobation, but punishment; and to be
the objects, not of dislike merely, but of resentment and revenge: and
none of those systems easily and sufficiently account for that
superior degree of detestation which we feel for such actions.
-----
CHAP. II.--_Of those Systems which make Virtue consist in
Prudence._
THE most ancient of those systems which make virtue consist in
prudence, and of which any considerable remains have come down to us,
is that of Epicurus, who is said, however, to have borrowed all the
leading principles of his philosophy from some of those who had gone
before him, particularly from Aristippus; though it is very probable,
notwithstanding this allegation of his enemies, that at least his
manner of applying those principles was altogether his own.
According to Epicurus (Cicero de finibus, lib. i. Diogenes Laert. 1.
x.) bodily pleasure and pain were the sole ultimate objects of natural
desire and aversion. That they were always the natural objects of
those passions, he thought required no proof. Pleasure might, indeed,
appear sometimes to be avoided; not, however, because it was pleasure,
but because, by the enjoyment of it, we should either forfeit some
greater pleasure, or expose ourselves to some pain that was more to be
avoided than this pleasure was to be desired. Pain, in the same
manner, might appear sometimes to be eligible; not, however, because
it was pain, but because by enduring it we might either avoid a still
{261} greater pain, or acquire some pleasure of much more importance.
That bodily pain and pleasure, therefore, were always the natural
objects of desire and aversion, was, he thought, abundantly evident.
Nor was it less so, he imagined, that they were the sole ultimate
objects of those passions. Whatever else was either desired or
avoided, was so, according to him, upon account of its tendency to
produce one or other of those sensations. The tendency to procure
pleasure rendered power and riches desirable, as the contrary tendency
to produce pain made poverty and insignificancy the objects of
aversion. Honour and reputation were valued, because the esteem and
love of those we live with were of the greatest consequence both to
procure pleasure and to defend us from pain. Ignominy and bad fame, on
the contrary, were to be avoided, because the hatred, contempt, and
resentment of those we lived with, destroyed all security, and
necessarily exposed us to the greatest bodily evils.
All the pleasures and pains of the mind were, according to Epicurus,
ultimately derived from those of the body. The mind was happy when it
thought of the past pleasures of the body, and hoped for others to
come: and it was miserable when it thought of the pains which the body
had formerly endured, and dreaded the same or greater thereafter.
But the pleasures and pains of the mind, though ultimately derived
from those of the body, were vastly greater than their originals. The
body felt only the sensation of the present instant, whereas the mind
felt also the past and the future, the one by remembrance, the other
by anticipation, and consequently both suffered and enjoyed much more.
When we are under the greatest bodily pain, he observed, we shall
always find, if we attend to it, that it is not the suffering of the
present instant which chiefly torments us, but either the agonizing
remembrance of the past, or the yet more horrible dread of the future.
The pain of each instant, considered by itself, and cut off from all
that goes before and all that comes after it, is a trifle, not worth
the regarding. Yet this is all which the body can ever be said to
suffer. In the same manner, when we enjoy the greatest pleasure, we
shall always find that the bodily sensation, the sensation of the
present instant, makes but a small part of our happiness, that our
enjoyment chiefly arises either from the cheerful recollection of the
past, or the still more joyous anticipation of the future, and that
the mind always contributes by much the largest share of the
entertainment.
Since our happiness and misery, therefore, depended chiefly on the
mind, if this part of our nature was well disposed, if our thoughts
and opinions were as they should be, it was of little importance in
what manner our body was affected. Though under great bodily pain, we
might still enjoy a considerable share of happiness, if our reason and
judgment maintained their superiority. We might entertain ourselves
{262} with the remembrance of past, and with the hopes of future
pleasure; we might soften the rigour of our pains, by recollecting
what it was which, even in this situation, we were under any necessity
of suffering. That this was merely the bodily sensation, the pain of
the present instant, which by itself could never be very great. That
whatever agony we suffered from the dread of its continuance, was the
effect of an opinion of the mind, which might be corrected by juster
sentiments; by considering that, if our pains were violent, they would
probably be of short duration; and that if they were of long
continuance, they would probably be moderate, and admit of many
intervals of ease; and that, at any rate, death was always at hand and
within call to deliver us, which as, according to him, it put an end
to all sensation, either of pain or pleasure, could not be regarded as
an evil. When we are, said he, death is not; and when death is, we are
not; death therefore can be nothing to us.
If the actual sensation of positive pain was in itself so little to be
feared, that of pleasure was still less to be desired. Naturally the
sensation of pleasure was much less pungent than that of pain. If,
therefore, this last could take so very little from the happiness of a
well-disposed mind, the other could add scarce any thing to it. When
the body was free from pain and the mind from fear and anxiety, the
superadded sensation of bodily pleasure could be of very little
importance; and though it might diversify, could not properly be said
to increase the happiness of this situation.
In ease of body, therefore, and in security of tranquillity of mind,
consisted, according to Epicurus, the most perfect state of human
nature, the most complete happiness which man was capable of enjoying.
To obtain this great end of natural desire was the sole object of all
the virtues, which, according to him, were not desirable upon their
own account, but chiefly upon account of their tendency to bring about
this situation.
Prudence, for example, though, according to this philosophy, the
source and principle of all the virtues, was not desirable upon its
own account. That careful and laborious and circumspect state of mind,
ever watchful and ever attentive to the most distant consequences of
every action, could not be a thing pleasant or agreeable for its own
sake, but upon account of its tendency to procure the greatest goods
and to keep off the greatest evils.
To abstain from pleasure too, to curb and restrain our natural
passions for enjoyment, which was the office of temperance, could
never be desirable for its own sake. The whole value of this virtue
arose from its utility, from its enabling us to postpone the present
enjoyment for the sake of a greater to come, or to avoid a greater
pain that might ensue from it. Temperance, in short, was, according to
the Epicureans, nothing but prudence with regard to pleasure.
{263} To support labour, to endure pain, to be exposed to danger or to
death, the situations which fortitude would often lead us into, were
surely still less the objects of natural desire. They were chosen only
to avoid greater evils. We submitted to labour, in order to avoid the
greater shame and pain of poverty, and we exposed ourselves to danger
and to death in defence of our liberty and property, the means and
instruments of pleasure and happiness; or in defence of our country,
in the safety of which our own was necessarily comprehended. Fortitude
enabled us to do all this cheerfully, as the best which, in our
present situation, could possibly be done, and was in reality no more
than prudence, good judgment, and presence of mind in properly
appreciating pain, labour, and danger, always choosing the less in
order to avoid the greater evil.
It is the same case with justice. To abstain from what is another's
was not desirable on its own account, and it could not surely be
better for you, that I should possess what is my own, than that you
should possess it. You ought, however, to abstain from whatever
belongs to me, because by doing otherwise you will provoke the
resentment and indignation of mankind. The security and tranquillity
of your mind will be entirely destroyed. You will be filled with fear
and consternation at the thought of that punishment which you will
imagine that men are at all times ready to inflict upon you, and from
which no power, no art, no concealment, will ever, in your own fancy,
be sufficient to protect you. The other species of justice which
consists in doing proper good offices to different persons, according
to the various relations of neighbours, kinsmen, friends, benefactors,
superiors, or equals, which they may stand in to us, is recommended by
the same reasons. To act properly in all these different relations
procures us the esteem and love of those we live with; as to do
otherwise excites their contempt and hatred. By the one we naturally
secure, by the other we necessarily endanger our own ease and
tranquillity, the great and ultimate objects of all our desires. The
whole virtue of justice, therefore, the most important of all the
virtues, is no more than discreet and prudent conduct with regard to
our neighbours.
Such is the doctrine of Epicurus concerning the nature of virtue. It
may seem extraordinary that this philosopher, who is described as a
person of the most amiable manners, should never have observed, that,
whatever may be the tendency of those virtues, or of the contrary
vices, with regard to our bodily ease and security, the sentiments
which they naturally excite in others are the objects of a much more
passionate desire or aversion than all their other consequences; that
to be amiable, to be respectable, to be the proper object of esteem,
is by every well-disposed mind more valued than all the ease and
security which love, respect, and esteem can procure us; that, on the
contrary, to be odious, to be contemptible, to be the proper object of
indignation, is {264} more dreadful than all that we can suffer in our
body from hatred, contempt, or indignation; and that consequently our
desire of the one character, and our aversion to the other, cannot
arise from any regard to the effects which either of them may produce
upon the body.
This system is, no doubt, altogether inconsistent with that which I
have been endeavouring to establish. It is not difficult, however, to
discover from what phasis, if I may say so, from what particular view
or aspect of nature, this account of things derives its probability.
By the wise contrivance of the Author of nature, virtue is upon all
ordinary occasions, even with regard to this life, real wisdom, and
the surest and readiest means of obtaining both safety and advantage.
Our success or disappointment in our undertakings must very much
depend upon the good or bad opinion which is commonly entertained of
us, and upon the general disposition of those we live with, either to
assist or to oppose us. But the best, the surest, the easiest, and the
readiest way of obtaining the advantageous, and of avoiding the
unfavourable judgments of others, is undoubtedly to render ourselves
the proper objects of the former and not of the latter. 'Do you
desire,' said Socrates, 'the reputation of a good musician? The only
sure way of obtaining it, is to become a good musician. Would you
desire in the same manner to be thought capable of serving your
country either as a general or as a statesman? The best way in this
case too is really to acquire the art and experience of war and
government, and to become really fit to be a general or a statesman.
And in the same manner if you would be reckoned sober, temperate,
just, and equitable, the best way of acquiring this reputation is to
become sober, temperate, just, and equitable. If you can really render
yourself amiable, respectable, and the proper object of esteem, there
is no fear of your not soon acquiring the love, the respect, and
esteem of those you live with.' Since the practice of virtue,
therefore, is in general so advantageous, and that of vice so contrary
to our interest, the consideration of those opposite tendencies
undoubtedly stamps an additional beauty and propriety upon the one,
and a new deformity and impropriety upon the other. Temperance,
magnanimity, justice, and beneficence, come thus to be approved of,
not only under their proper characters, but under the additional
character of the highest wisdom and most real prudence. And in the
same manner, the contrary vices of intemperance, pusillanimity,
injustice, and either malevolence or sordid selfishness, come to be
disapproved of, not only under their proper characters, but under the
additional character of the most short-sighted folly and weakness.
Epicurus appears in every virtue to have attended to this species of
propriety only. It is that which is most apt to occur to those who are
endeavouring to persuade others to regularity of conduct. When men by
their practice, and perhaps too by their maxims, manifestly show that
the natural beauty of virtue is not like to have much effect upon
{265} them, how is it possible to move them but by representing the
folly of their conduct, and how much they themselves are in the end
likely to suffer by it?
By running up all the different virtues too to this one species of
propriety, Epicurus indulged a propensity, which is natural to all
men, but which philosophers in particular are apt to cultivate with a
peculiar fondness, as the great means of displaying their ingenuity,
the propensity to account for all appearances from as few principles
as possible. And he, no doubt, indulged this propensity still further,
when he referred all the primary objects of natural desire and
aversion to the pleasures and pains of the body. The great patron of
the atomical philosophy, who took so much pleasure in deducing all the
powers and qualities of bodies from the most obvious and familiar, the
figure, motion, and arrangement of the small parts of matter, felt no
doubt a similar satisfaction, when he accounted, in the same manner,
for all the sentiments and passions of the mind from those which are
most obvious and familiar.
The system of Epicurus agreed with those of Plato, Aristotle, and
Zeno, in making virtue consist in acting in the most suitable manner
to obtain (Prima naturæ) primary objects of natural desire. It
differed from all of them in two other respects; first, in the
account which it gave of those primary objects of natural desire; and
secondly, in the account which it gave of the excellence of virtue, or
of the reason why that quality ought to be esteemed.
The primary objects of natural desire consisted, according to
Epicurus, in bodily pleasure and pain, and in nothing else: whereas,
according to the other three philosophers, there were many other
objects, such as knowledge, such as the happiness of our relations, of
our friends, and of our country, which were ultimately desirable for
their own sakes.
Virtue too, according to Epicurus, did not deserve to be pursued for
its own sake, nor was itself one of the ultimate objects of natural
appetite, but was eligible only upon account of its tendency to
prevent pain and to procure ease and pleasure. In the opinion of the
other three, on the contrary, it was desirable, not merely as the
means of procuring the other primary objects of natural desire, but as
something which was in itself more valuable than them all. Man, they
thought, being born for action, his happiness must consist, not merely
in the agreeableness of his passive sensations, but also in the
propriety of his active exertions.
-----
CHAP. III.--_Of those Systems which make Virtue consist in
Benevolence._
THE system which makes virtue consist in benevolence, though I think
{266} not so ancient as all those which I have already given an
account of, is, however, of very great antiquity. It seems to have
been the doctrine of the greater part of those philosophers who, about
and after the age of Augustus, called themselves Eclectics, who
pretended to follow chiefly the opinions of Plato and Pythagoras, and
who upon that account are commonly known by the name of the later
Platonists.
In the divine nature, according to these authors, benevolence or love
was the sole principle of action, and directed the exertion of all the
other attributes. The wisdom of the Deity was employed in finding out
the means for bringing about those ends which his goodness suggested,
and his infinite power was exerted to execute them. Benevolence,
however, was still the supreme and governing attribute, to which the
others were subservient, and from which the whole excellency, or the
whole morality, if I may be allowed such an expression, of the divine
operations, was ultimately derived. The whole perfection and virtue of
the human mind consisted in some resemblance or participation of the
divine perfections, and, consequently, in being filled with the same
principle of benevolence and love which influenced all the actions of
the Deity. The actions of men which flowed from this motive were alone
truly praise-worthy, or could claim any merit in the sight of the
Deity. It was by actions of charity and love only that we could
imitate, as became us, the conduct of God, that we could express our
humble and devout admiration of his infinite perfections, that by
fostering in our own minds the same divine principle, we could bring
our own affections to a greater resemblance with his holy attributes,
and thereby become more proper objects of his love and esteem; till we
arrived at that immediate converse and communication with the Deity to
which it was the great object of this philosophy to raise us.
This system, as it was much esteemed by many ancient fathers of the
Christian church, so after the Reformation it was adopted by several
divines of the most eminent piety and learning and of the most amiable
manners; particularly, by Dr. Ralph Cudworth, by Dr. Henry More, and
by Mr. John Smith of Cambridge. But of all the patrons of this system,
ancient or modern, the late Dr. Hutcheson was undoubtedly, beyond all
comparison, the most acute, the most distinct, the most philosophical,
and what is of the greatest consequence of all, the soberest and most
judicious.
That virtue consists in benevolence is a notion supported by many
appearances in human nature. It has been observed already, that proper
benevolence is the most graceful and agreeable of all the affections,
that it is recommended to us by a double sympathy, that as its
tendency is necessarily beneficent, it is the proper object of
gratitude and reward, and that upon all these accounts it appears to
our natural sentiments to possess a merit superior to any other. It
has been observed, too, that even the weaknesses of benevolence are
not very {267} disagreeable to us, whereas those of every other
passion are always extremely disgusting. Who does not abhor excessive
malice, excessive selfishness, or excessive resentment? But the most
excessive indulgence even of partial friendship is not so offensive.
It is the benevolent passions only which can exert themselves without
any regard or attention to propriety, and yet retain something about
them which is engaging. There is something pleasing even in mere
instinctive good-will, which goes on to do good offices without once
reflecting whether by this conduct it is the proper object either of
blame or approbation. It is not so with the other passions. The moment
they are deserted, the moment they are unaccompanied by the sense of
propriety, they cease to be agreeable.
As benevolence bestows upon those actions which proceed from it, a
beauty superior to all others, so the want of it, and much more the
contrary inclination, communicates a peculiar deformity to whatever
evidences such a disposition. Pernicious actions are often punishable
for no other reason than because they show a want of sufficient
attention to the happiness of our neighbour.
Besides all this, Dr. Hutcheson (Inquiry concerning Virtue, sect. 1.
and 2.) observed, that whenever in any action, supposed to proceed
from benevolent affections, some other motive had been discovered, our
sense of the merit of this action was just so far diminished as this
motive was believed to have influenced it. If an action, supposed to
proceed from gratitude, should be discovered to have arisen from an
expectation of some new favour, or if what was apprehended to proceed
from public spirit, should be found out to have taken its origin from
the hope of a pecuniary reward, such a discovery would entirely
destroy all notion of merit or praise-worthiness in either of these
actions. Since, therefore, the mixture of any selfish motive, like
that of a baser alloy, diminished or took away altogether the merit
which would otherwise have belonged to any action, it was evident, he
imagined, that virtue must consist in pure and disinterested
benevolence alone.
When those actions, on the contrary, which are commonly supposed to
proceed from a selfish motive, are discovered to have arisen from a
benevolent one, it greatly enhances our sense of their merit. If we
believed of any person that he endeavoured to advance his fortune from
no other view but that of doing friendly offices, and of making proper
returns to his benefactors, we should only love and esteem him the
more. And this observation seemed still more to confirm the
conclusion, that it was benevolence only which could stamp upon any
action the character of virtue.
Last of all, what, he imagined, was an evident proof of the justness
of this account of virtue, in all the disputes of casuists concerning
the rectitude of conduct, the public good, he observed, was the
standard to which they constantly referred; thereby universally
acknowledging {268} that whatever tended to promote the happiness of
mankind was right and laudable and virtuous, and the contrary, wrong,
blamable, and vicious. In the late debates about passive obedience and
the right of resistance, the sole point in controversy among men of
sense was whether universal submission would probably be attended with
greater evils than temporary insurrections when privileges were
invaded. Whether what, upon the whole, tended most to the happiness of
mankind, was not also morally good, was never once, he said, made a
question by them.
Since benevolence, therefore, was the only motive which could bestow
upon any action the character of virtue, the greater the benevolence
which was evidenced by any action, the greater the praise which must
belong to it.
Those actions which aimed at the happiness of a great community, as
they demonstrated a more enlarged benevolence than those which aimed
only at that of a smaller system, so were they, likewise,
proportionally the more virtuous. The most virtuous of all affections,
therefore, was that which embraced as its object the happiness of all
intelligent beings. The least virtuous, on the contrary, of those to
which the character of virtue could in any respect belong, was that
which aimed no further than at the happiness of an individual, such as
a son, a brother, a friend.
In directing all our actions to promote the greatest possible good, in
submitting all inferior affections to the desire of the general
happiness of mankind, in regarding one's self but as one of the many,
whose prosperity was to be pursued no further than it was consistent
with, or conducive to that of the whole, consisted the perfection of
virtue.
Self-love was a principle which could never be virtuous in any degree
of in any direction. It was vicious whenever it obstructed the general
good. When it had no other effect than to make the individual take
care of his own happiness, it was merely innocent, and though it
deserved no praise, neither ought it to incur any blame. Those
benevolent actions which were performed, notwithstanding some strong
motive from self-interest, were the more virtuous upon that account.
They demonstrated the strength and vigour of the benevolent principle.
Dr. Hutcheson[7] was so far from allowing self-love to be in any case
a motive of virtuous actions, that even a regard to the pleasure of
self-approbation, to the comfortable applause of our own consciences,
according to him, diminished the merit of a benevolent action. This
was a selfish motive, he thought, which, so far as it contributed to
any action, demonstrated the weakness of that pure and disinterested
benevolence which could alone stamp upon the conduct of man the
character of virtue. In the common judgments of mankind, however, this
regard {269} to the approbation of our own minds is so far from being
considered as what can in any respect diminish the virtue of any
action, that it is often rather looked upon as the sole motive which
deserves the appellation of virtuous.
[Footnote 7: Inquiry concerning Virtue, sect. 2. art. 4.; also
Illustrations on the Moral Sense, sect. 5, last paragraph.]
Such is the account given of the nature of virtue in this amiable
system, a system which has a peculiar tendency to nourish and support
in the human heart the noblest and the most agreeable of all
affections, and not only to check the injustice of self-love, but in
some measure to discourage that principle altogether, by representing
it as what could never reflect any honour upon those who were
influenced by it.
As some of the other systems which I have already given an account of,
do not sufficiently explain from whence arises the peculiar excellency
of the supreme virtue of beneficence, so this system seems to have the
contrary defect, of not sufficiently explaining from whence arises our
approbation of the inferior virtues of prudence, vigilance,
circumspection, temperance, constancy, firmness. The view and aim of
our affections, the beneficent and hurtful effects which they tend to
produce, are the only qualities at all attended to in this system.
Their propriety and impropriety, their suitableness and
unsuitableness, to the cause which excites them, are disregarded
altogether.
Regard to our own private happiness and interest, too, appear upon
many occasions very laudable principles of action. The habits of
oeconomy, industry, discretion, attention, and application of
thought, are generally supposed to be cultivated from self-interested
motives, and at the same time are apprehended to be very praise-worthy
qualities, which deserve the esteem and approbation of every body. The
mixture of a selfish motive, it is true, seems often to sully the
beauty of those actions which ought to arise from a benevolent
affection. The cause of this, however, is not that self-love can never
be the motive of a virtuous action, but that the benevolent principle
appears in this particular case to want its due degree of strength,
and to be altogether unsuitable to its object. The character,
therefore, seems evidently imperfect, and upon the whole to deserve
blame rather than praise. The mixture of a benevolent motive in an
action to which self-love alone ought to be sufficient to prompt us,
is not so apt indeed to diminish our sense of its propriety, or of the
virtue of the person who performs it. We are not ready to suspect any
person of being defective in selfishness. This is by no means the weak
side of human nature, or the failing of which we are apt to be
suspicious. If we could really believe, however, of any man, that, was
it not from a regard to his family and friends, he would not take
that proper care of his health, his life, or his fortune, to which
self-preservation alone ought to be sufficient to prompt him, it would
undoubtedly be a failing, though one of those amiable failings which
render a person rather the object of pity than of contempt or hatred.
It would still, however, somewhat diminish the {270} dignity and
respectableness of his character. Carelessness and want of oeconomy
are universally disapproved of, not, however, as proceeding from a
want of benevolence, but from a want of proper attention to the
objects of self-interest.
Though the standard by which casuists frequently determine what is
right or wrong in human conduct, be its tendency to the welfare or
disorder of society, it does not follow that a regard to the welfare
of society should be the sole virtuous motive of action, but only
that, in competition, it ought to cast the balance against all other
motives.
Benevolence may, perhaps, be the sole principle of action in the
Deity, and there are several not improbable arguments which tend to
persuade us that it is so. It is not easy to conceive what other
motive an independent and all-perfect Being, who stands in need of
nothing external, and whose happiness is complete in himself, can act
from. But whatever may be the case with the Deity, so imperfect a
creature as man, the support of whose existence requires so many
things external to him, must often act from many other motives. The
condition of human nature were peculiarly hard, if those affections,
which, by the very nature of our being, ought frequently to influence
our conduct, could upon no occasion appear virtuous, or deserve esteem
and commendation from any body.
Those three systems, that which places virtue in propriety, that which
places it in prudence, and that which makes it consist in benevolence,
are the principal accounts which have been given of the nature of
virtue. To one or other of them, all the other descriptions of virtue,
how different soever they may appear, are easily reducible.
That system which places virtue in obedience to the will of the Deity,
may be accounted either among those which make it consist in prudence,
or among those which make it consist in propriety. When it is asked,
why we ought to obey the will of the Deity, this question, which would
be impious and absurd in the highest degree, if asked from any doubt
that we ought to obey him, can admit but of two different answers. It
must either be said that we ought to obey the will of the Deity
because he is a Being of infinite power, who will reward us eternally
if we do so, and punish us eternally if we do otherwise: or it must be
said, that independent of any regard to our own happiness, or to
rewards and punishments of any kind, there is a congruity and fitness
that a creature should obey its creator, that a limited and imperfect
being should submit to one of infinite and incomprehensible
perfections. Besides one or other of these two, it is impossible to
conceive that any other answer can be given to this question. If the
first answer be the proper one, virtue consists in prudence, or in the
proper pursuit of our own final interest and happiness; since it is
upon this account that we are obliged to obey the will of the Deity.
If the second answer be the proper one, virtue must consist in
propriety, since the ground of our {271} obligation to obedience is
the suitableness or congruity of the sentiments of humility and
submission to the superiority of the object which excites them.
That system which places virtue in utility, coincides too with that
which makes it consist in propriety. According to this system, all
those qualities of the mind which are agreeable or advantageous,
either to the person himself or to others, are approved of as
virtuous, and the contrary are disapproved of as vicious. But the
agreeableness or utility of any affection depends upon the degree
which it is allowed to subsist in. Every affection is useful when it
is confined to a certain degree of moderation; and every affection is
disadvantageous when it exceeds the proper bounds. According to this
system therefore, virtue consists not in any one affection, but in the
proper degree of all the affections. The only difference between it
and that which I have been endeavouring to establish, is, that it
makes utility, and not sympathy, or the correspondent affection of the
spectator, the natural and original measure of this proper degree.
-----
CHAP. IV.--_Of Licentious Systems._
ALL those systems, which I have hitherto given an account of, suppose
that that there is a real and essential distinction between vice and
virtue, whatever these qualities may consist in. There is a real and
essential difference between the propriety and impropriety of any
affection, between benevolence and any other principle of action,
between real prudence and short-sighted folly or precipitate rashness.
In the main, too, all of them contribute to encourage the
praiseworthy, and to discourage the blameable disposition.
It may be true, perhaps, of some of them, that they tend, in some
measure, to break the balance of the affections, and to give the mind
a particular bias to some principles of action, beyond the proportion
that is due to them. The ancient systems, which place virtue in
propriety, seem chiefly to recommend the great, the awful, and the
respectable virtues, the virtues of self-government and self-command;
fortitude, magnanimity, independency upon fortune, the contempt of all
outward accidents, of pain, poverty, exile and death. It is in these
great exertions that the noblest propriety of conduct is displayed.
The soft, the amiable, the gentle virtues, all the virtues of
indulgent humanity are, in comparison, but little insisted upon, and
seem, on the contrary, by the Stoics in particular, to have been often
regarded as weaknesses, which it behoved a wise man not to harbour in
his breast.
The benevolent system, on the other hand, while it fosters and
encourages all those milder virtues in the highest degree, seems
entirely to neglect the more awful and respectable qualities of the
mind. It {272} even denies them the appellation of virtues. It calls
them moral abilities, and treats them as qualities which do not
deserve the same sort of esteem and approbation, that is due to what
is properly denominated virtue. All those principles of action which
aim only at our own interest, it treats, if that be possible, still
worse. So far from having any merit of their own, they diminish, it
pretends, the merit of benevolence, when they co-operate with it; and
prudence, it is asserted, when employed only in promoting private
interest, can never even be imagined a virtue.
That system, again, which makes virtue consist in prudence only, while
it gives the highest encouragement to the habits of caution,
vigilance, sobriety, and judicious moderation, seems to degrade
equally both the amiable and respectable virtues, and to strip the
former of all their beauty, and the latter of all their grandeur.
But notwithstanding these defects, the general tendency of each of
those three systems is to encourage the best and most laudable habits
of the human mind, and it were well for society, if, either mankind in
general, or even those few who pretend to live according to any
philosophical rule, were to regulate their conduct by the precepts of
any one of them. We may learn from each of them something that is both
valuable and peculiar. If it was possible, by precept and exhortation,
to inspire the mind with fortitude and magnanimity, the ancient
systems of propriety would seem sufficient to do this. Or if it was
possible, by the same means, to soften it into humanity, and to awaken
the affections of kindness and general love towards those we live
with, some of the pictures which the benevolent system presents us,
might seem capable of producing this effect. We may learn from the
system of Epicurus, though undoubtedly the most imperfect of all the
three, how much the practice of both the amiable and respectable
virtues is conducive to our own interest, to our own ease and safety
and quiet even in this life. As Epicurus placed happiness in the
attainment of ease and security, he exerted himself in a particular
manner to show that virtue was, not merely the best and the surest,
but the only means of acquiring those invaluable possessions. The good
effects of virtue upon our inward tranquillity and peace of mind, are
what other philosophers have chiefly celebrated. Epicurus, without
neglecting this topic, has chiefly insisted **upon the influence of
that amiable quality on our outward prosperity and safety. It was upon
this account that his writings were so much studied in the ancient
world by men of all different philosophical parties. It is from him
that Cicero, the great enemy of the Epicurean system, borrows his most
agreeable proofs that virtue alone is sufficient to secure happiness.
Seneca, though a Stoic, the sect most opposite to that of Epicurus,
yet quotes this philosopher more frequently than any other.
There is, however, another system which seems to take away altogether
the distinction between vice and virtue, and of which the {273}
tendency is, upon that account, wholly pernicious: I mean the system
of Dr. Mandeville. Though the notions of this author are in almost
every respect erroneous, there are, however, some appearances in human
nature, which, when viewed in a certain manner, seem at first sight to
favour them. These described and exaggerated by the lively and
humorous, though coarse and rustic eloquence of Dr. Mandeville, have
thrown upon his doctrines an air of truth and probability which is
very apt to impose upon the unskilful.
Dr. Mandeville considers whatever is done from a sense of propriety,
from a regard to what is commendable and praiseworthy, as being done
from a love of praise and commendation, or as he calls it from vanity.
Man, he observes, is naturally much more interested in his own
happiness than in that of others, and it is impossible that in his
heart he can ever really prefer their prosperity to his own. Whenever
he appears to do so, we may be assured that he imposes upon us, and
that he is then acting from the same selfish motives as at all other
times. Among his other selfish passions, vanity is one of the
strongest, and he is always easily flattered and greatly delighted
with the applauses of those about him. When he appears to sacrifice
his own interest to that of his companions, he knows that this conduct
will be highly agreeable to their self-love, and that they will not
fail to express their satisfaction by bestowing upon him the most
extravagant praises. The pleasure which he expects from this,
over-balances, in his opinion, the interest which he abandons in order
to procure it. His conduct, therefore, upon this occasion, is in
reality just as selfish, and arises from just as mean a motive as upon
any other. He is flattered, however, and he flatters himself with the
belief that it is entirely disinterested; since, unless this was
supposed, it would not seem to merit any commendation either in his
own eyes or in those of others. All public spirit, therefore, all
preference of public to private interest, is, according to him, a mere
cheat and imposition upon mankind; and that human virtue which is so
much boasted of, and which is the occasion of so much emulation among
men, is the mere offspring of flattery begot upon pride.
Whether the most generous and public-spirited actions may not, in some
sense, be regarded as proceeding from self-love, I shall not at
present examine. The decision of this question is not, I apprehend, of
any importance towards establishing the reality of virtue, since
self-love may frequently be a virtuous motive of action. I shall only
endeavour to show that the desire of doing what is honourable and
noble, of rendering ourselves the proper objects of esteem and
approbation, cannot with any propriety be called vanity. Even the love
of well-grounded fame and reputation, the desire of acquiring esteem
by what is really estimable, does not deserve that name. The first is
the love of virtue, the noblest and the best passion of human nature.
The second {274} is the love of true glory, a passion inferior no
doubt to the former, but which in dignity appears to come immediately
after it. He is guilty of vanity who desires praise for qualities
which are either not praise-worthy in any degree, or not in that
degree in which he expects to be praised for them; who sets his
character upon the frivolous ornaments of dress and equipage, or upon
the equally frivolous accomplishments of ordinary behaviour. He is
guilty of vanity who desires praise for what indeed very well deserves
it, but what he perfectly knows does not belong to him. The empty
coxcomb who gives himself airs of importance which he has no title to,
the silly liar who assumes the merit of adventures which never
happened, the foolish plagiary who gives himself out for the author of
what he has no pretensions to, are properly accused of this passion.
He too is said to be guilty of vanity who is not contented with the
silent sentiments of esteem and approbation, who seems to be fonder of
their noisy expressions and acclamations than of the sentiments
themselves, who is never satisfied but when his own praises are
ringing in his ears, and who solicits with the most anxious
importunity all external marks of respect, is fond of titles, of
compliments, of being visited, of being attended, of being taken
notice of in public places with the appearance of deference and
attention. This frivolous passion is altogether different from either
of the two former, and is the passion of the lowest and the least of
mankind, as they are of the noblest and the greatest.
But though these three passions, the desire of rendering ourselves the
proper objects of honour and esteem, or of becoming what is honourable
and estimable; the desire of acquiring honour and esteem by really
deserving those sentiments; and the frivolous desire of praise at any
rate, are widely different; though the two former are always approved
of, while the latter never fails to be despised; there is, however, a
certain remote affinity among them, which, exaggerated by the humorous
and diverting eloquence of this lively author, has enabled him to
impose upon his readers. There is an affinity between vanity and the
love of true glory, as both these passions aim at acquiring esteem and
approbation. But they are different in this, that the one is a just,
reasonable, and equitable passion, while the other is unjust, absurd,
and ridiculous. The man who desires esteem for what is really
estimable, desires nothing but what he is justly entitled to, and what
cannot be refused him without some sort of injury. He, on the
contrary, who desires it upon any other terms, demands what he has no
just claim to. The first is easily satisfied, is not apt to be jealous
or suspicious that we do not esteem him enough, and is seldom
solicitous about receiving many external marks of our regard. The
other, on the contrary, is never to be satisfied, is full of jealousy
and suspicion that we do not esteem him so much as he desires, because
he has some secret consciousness that he desires more than he
deserves. The least {275} neglect of ceremony, he considers as a
mortal affront, and as an expression of the most determined contempt.
He is restless and impatient, and perpetually afraid that we have lost
all respect for him, and is upon this account always anxious to obtain
new expressions of our esteem, and cannot be kept in temper but by
continual attendance and adulation.
There is an affinity, too, between the desire of becoming what is
honourable and estimable and the desire of honour and esteem, between
the love of virtue and the love of true glory. They resemble one
another not only in this respect, that both aim at really being what
is honourable and noble, but even in that respect in which the love of
true glory resembles what is properly called vanity, some reference to
the sentiments of others. The man of the greatest magnanimity, who
desires virtue for its own sake, and is most indifferent about what
actually are the opinions of mankind with regard to him, is still,
however, delighted with the thoughts of what they should be, with the
consciousness that though he may neither be honoured nor applauded, he
is still the proper object of honour and applause, and that if mankind
were cool and candid and consistent with themselves, and properly
informed of the motives and circumstances of his conduct, they would
not fail to honour and applaud him. Though he despises the opinions
which are actually entertained of him, he has the highest value for
those which ought to be entertained of him. That he might think
himself worthy of those honourable sentiments, and, whatever was the
idea which other men might conceive of his character, that when he
should put himself in their situation, and consider, not what was, but
what ought to be their opinion, he should always have the highest idea
of it himself, was the great and exalted motive of his conduct. As
even in the love of virtue, therefore, there is still some reference,
though not to what is, yet to what in reason and propriety ought to
be, the opinion of others, there is even in this respect some affinity
between it and the love of true glory. There is, however, at the same
time, a very great difference between them. The man who acts solely
from a regard to what is right and fit to be done, from a regard to
what is the proper object of esteem and approbation, though these
sentiments should never be bestowed upon him, acts from the most
sublime and godlike motive which human nature is even capable of
conceiving. The man, on the other hand, who while he desires to merit
approbation, is at the same time anxious to obtain it, though he, too,
is laudable in the main, yet his motives have a greater mixture of
human infirmity. He is in danger of being mortified by the ignorance
and injustice of mankind, and his happiness is exposed to the envy of
his rivals and the folly of the public. The happiness of the other, on
the contrary, is altogether secure and independent of fortune, and of
the caprice of those he lives with. The contempt and hatred which
{276} may be thrown upon him by the ignorance of mankind, he considers
as not belonging to him, and is not at all mortified by it. Mankind
despise and hate him from a false notion of his character and conduct.
If they knew him better, they would esteem and love him. It is not him
whom, properly speaking, they hate and despise, but another person
whom they mistake him to be. Our friend, whom we should meet at a
masquerade in the garb of our enemy, would be more diverted than
mortified, if under that disguise we should vent our indignation
against him. Such are the sentiments of a man of real magnanimity,
when exposed to unjust censure. It seldom happens, however, that human
nature arrives at this degree of firmness. Though none but the weakest
and most worthless of mankind are much delighted with false glory,
yet, by a strange inconsistency, false ignominy is capable of
mortifying those who appear the most resolute and determined.
Dr. Mandeville is not satisfied with representing the frivolous motive
of vanity, as the source of all those actions which are commonly
accounted virtuous. He endeavours to point out the imperfection of
human virtue in many other respects. In every case, he pretends, it
falls short of that complete self-denial which it pretends to, and,
instead of a conquest, is commonly no more than a concealed indulgence
of our passions. Wherever our reserve with regard to pleasure falls
short of the most ascetic abstinence, he treats it as gross luxury and
sensuality. Every thing, according to him, is luxury which exceeds
what is absolutely necessary for the support of human nature, so that
there is vice even in the use of a clean shirt or of a convenient
habitation. The indulgence of the inclination to sex, in the most
lawful union, he considers as the same sensuality with the most
hurtful gratification of that passion, and derides that temperance and
that chastity which can be practised at so cheap a rate. The ingenious
sophistry of his reasoning, is here, as upon many other occasions,
covered by the ambiguity of language. There are some of our passions
which have no other names except those which mark the disagreeable and
offensive degree. The spectator is more apt to take notice of them in
this degree than in any other. When they shock his own sentiments,
when they give him some sort of antipathy and uneasiness, he is
necessarily obliged to attend to them, and is from thence naturally
led to give them a name. When they fall in with the natural state of
his own mind, he is very apt to overlook them altogether, and either
gives them no name at all, or, if he gives them any, it is one which
marks rather the subjection and restraint of the passion, than the
degree which it still is allowed to subsist in, after it is so
subjected and restrained. Thus the common names (luxury and lust) of
the love of pleasure, and of the love of sex, denote a vicious and
offensive degree of those passions. The words temperance and chastity,
on the other hand, seem to mark rather the restraint and subjection
which they are kept under, than the degree {277} which they are still
allowed to subsist in. When he can show, therefore, that they still
subsist in some degree, he imagines, he has entirely demolished the
reality of the virtues of temperance and chastity, and shown them to
be mere impositions upon the inattention and simplicity of mankind.
Those virtues, however, do not require an entire insensibility to the
objects of the passions which they mean to govern. They only aim at
restraining the violence of those passions so far as not to hurt the
individual, and neither disturb nor offend society.
It is the great fallacy of Dr. Mandeville's book (Fable of the Bees)
to represent every passion as wholly vicious, which is so in any
degree and in any direction. It is thus that he treats every thing as
vanity which has any reference, either to what are, or to what ought
to be the sentiments of others; and it is by means of this sophistry,
that he establishes his favourite conclusion, that private vices are
public benefits. If the love of magnificence, a taste for the elegant
arts and improvements of human life, for whatever is agreeable in
dress, furniture, or equipage, for architecture, statuary, painting,
and music, is to be regarded as luxury, sensuality, and ostentation,
even in those whose situation allows, without any inconveniency, the
indulgence of those passions, it is certain that luxury, sensuality,
and ostentation are public benefits: since without the qualities upon
which he thinks proper to bestow such opprobrious names, the arts of
refinement could never find encouragement, and must languish for want
of employment. Some popular ascetic doctrines which had been current
before his time, and which placed virtue in the entire extirpation and
annihilation of all our passions, were the real foundation of this
licentious system. It was easy for Dr. Mandeville to prove, first,
that this entire conquest never actually took place among men; and
secondly, that if it was to take place universally, it would be
pernicious to society, by putting an end to all industry and commerce,
and in a manner to the whole business of human life. By the first of
these propositions, he seemed to prove that there was no real virtue,
and that what pretended to be such, was a mere cheat and imposition
upon mankind; and by the second, that our private vices were public
benefits, since without them no society could prosper or flourish.
Such is the system of Dr. Mandeville, which once made so much noise in
the world, and which, though, perhaps, it never gave occasion to more
vice than what would have been without it, at least taught that vice,
which arose from other causes, to appear with more effrontery, and to
avow the corruption of its motives with a profligate audaciousness
which had never been heard of before.
But how destructive soever this system may appear, it could never have
imposed upon so great a number of persons, nor have occasioned so
general an alarm among those who are the friends of better principles,
had it not in some respects bordered upon the truth. A system of {278}
natural philosophy may appear very plausible, and be for a long time
very generally received in the world, and yet have no foundation in
nature, nor any sort of resemblance to the truth. The vortices of Des
Cartes were regarded by a very ingenious nation, for near a century
together, as a most satisfactory account of the revolutions of the
heavenly bodies. Yet it has been demonstrated, to the conviction of
all mankind, that these pretended causes of those wonderful effects,
not only do not actually exist, but are utterly impossible, and if
they did exist, could produce no such effects as are ascribed to them.
But it is otherwise with systems of moral philosophy, and an author
who pretends to account for the origin of our moral sentiments, cannot
deceive us so grossly, nor depart so very far from all resemblance to
the truth. When a traveller gives an account of some distant country,
he may impose upon our credulity, the most groundless and absurd
fictions as the most certain matters of fact. But when a person
pretends to inform us of what passes in our neighbourhood, and of the
affairs of the very parish which we live in, though here too, if we
are so careless as not to examine things with our own eyes, he may
deceive us in many respects, yet the greatest falsehoods which he
imposes upon us must bear some resemblance to the truth, and must even
have a considerable mixture of truth in them. An author who treats of
natural philosophy, and pretends to assign the causes of the great
phenomena of the universe, pretends to give an account of the affairs
of a very distant country, concerning which he may tell us what he
pleases, and as long as his narration keeps within the bounds of
seeming possibility, he need not despair of gaining of belief. But
when he proposes to explain the origin of our desires and affections,
of our sentiments of approbation and disapprobation, he pretends to
give an account, not only of the affairs of the very parish that we
live in, but of our own domestic concerns. Though here too, like
indolent masters who put their trust in a steward who deceives them,
we are very liable to be imposed upon, yet we are incapable of passing
any account which does not preserve some little regard to the truth.
Some of the articles, at least, must be just, and even those which are
most overcharged must have had some foundation, otherwise the fraud
would be detected even by that careless inspection which we are
disposed to give. The author who should assign, as the cause of any
natural sentiment, some principle which neither had any connection
with it, nor resembled any other principle which had some such
connection, would appear absurd and ridiculous to the most injudicious
and unexperienced reader.
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{279}
SEC. III.--OF THE DIFFERENT SYSTEMS WHICH HAVE BEEN FORMED CONCERNING
THE PRINCIPLE OF APPROBATION.
INTRODUCTION.--After the inquiry concerning the nature of virtue, the
next question of importance in Moral Philosophy, is concerning the
principle of approbation, concerning the power or faculty of the mind
which renders certain characters agreeable or disagreeable to us,
makes us prefer one tenor of conduct to another, denominate the one
right and the other wrong, and consider the one as the object of
approbation, honour, and reward, or the other as that of blame,
censure, and punishment.
Three different accounts have been given of this principle of
approbation. According to some, we approve and disapprove both of our
own actions and of those of others, from self-love only, or from some
view of their tendency to our own happiness or disadvantage: according
to others, reason, the same faculty by which we distinguish between
truth and falsehood, enables us to distinguish between what is fit and
unfit both in actions and affections: according to others, this
distinction is altogether the effect of immediate sentiment and
feeling, and arises from the satisfaction or disgust with which the
view of certain actions or affections inspires us. Self-love, reason
and sentiment, therefore, are the three different sources which have
been assigned for the principle of approbation.
Before I proceed to give an account of those different systems, I must
observe, that the determination of this second question, though of the
greatest importance in speculation, is of none in practice. The
question concerning the nature of virtue necessarily has some
influence upon our notions of right and wrong in many particular
cases. That concerning the principle of approbation can possibly have
no such effect. To examine from what contrivance or mechanism within,
those different notions or sentiments arise, is a mere matter of
philosophical curiosity.
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CHAP. I.--_Of those Systems which deduce the Principle of
Approbation from Self-love._
THOSE who account for the principle of approbation from self-love, do
not all account for it in the same manner, and there is a good deal of
confusion and inaccuracy in all their different systems. According to
Mr. Hobbes, and many of his followers (Puffendorff, Mandeville), man
is driven to take refuge in society, not by any natural love which he
bears to his own kind, but because without the assistance of others he
is incapable of subsisting with ease or safety. Society, upon this
account, becomes necessary to him, and whatever tends to its support
and welfare, he considers as having a remote tendency to his own {280}
interest; and, on the contrary, whatever is likely to disturb or
destroy it, he regards as in some measure hurtful or pernicious to
himself. Virtue is the great support, and vice the great disturber of
human society. The former, therefore, is agreeable, and the latter
offensive to every man; as from the one he foresees the prosperity,
and from the other the ruin and disorder of what is so necessary for
the comfort and the security of his existence.