As most of the unhappiness in the world arises rather from disappointed
desires than from positive evil, it is of the utmost consequence to
attain just notions of the laws and order of the universe, that we may
not vex ourselves with fruitless wishes, or give way to groundless and
unreasonable discontent. The laws of natural philosophy, indeed, are
tolerably understood and attended to; and though we may suffer
inconveniences, we are seldom disappointed in consequence of them. No
man expects to preserve orange-trees in the open air through an English
winter; or when he has planted an acorn, to see it become a large oak in
a few months. The mind of man naturally yields to necessity; and our
wishes soon subside when we see the impossibility of their being
gratified.
Now, upon an accurate inspection, we shall find in the moral government
of the world, and the order of the intellectual system, laws as
determinate, fixed, and invariable as any in Newton's 'Principia.' The
progress of vegetation is not more certain than the growth of habit; nor
is the power of attraction more clearly proved than the force of
affection or the influence of example. The man, therefore, who has well
studied the operations of nature in mind as well as matter, will acquire
a certain moderation and equity in his claims upon Providence. He never
will be disappointed either in himself or others. He will act with
precision; and expect that effect and that alone, from his efforts,
which they are naturally adapted to produce.
For want of this, men of merit and integrity often censure the
dispositions of Providence for suffering characters they despise to run
away with advantages which, they yet know, are purchased by such means
as a high and noble spirit could never submit to. If you refuse to pay
the price, why expect the purchase? We should consider this world as a
great mart of commerce, where fortune exposes to our view various
commodities,--riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, knowledge.
Everything is marked at a settled price. Our time, our labor, our
ingenuity, is so much ready money which we are to lay out to the best
advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject; but stand to your own
judgment: and do not, like children, when you have purchased one thing,
repine that you do not possess another which you did not purchase. Such
is the force of well-regulated industry, that a steady and vigorous
exertion of our faculties, directed to one end, will generally
insure success.
Would you, for instance, be rich: Do you think that single point worth
the sacrificing everything else to? You may then be rich. Thousands have
become so from the lowest beginnings, by toil, and patient diligence,
and attention to the minutest article of expense and profit. But you
must give up the pleasures of leisure, of a vacant mind, of a free,
unsuspicious temper. If you preserve your integrity, it must be a
coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high and lofty notions of morals
which you brought with you from the schools must be considerably
lowered, and mixed with the baser alloy of a jealous and worldly-minded
prudence. You must learn to do hard if not unjust things; and for the
nice embarrassments of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is necessary
for you to get rid of them as fast as possible. You must shut your heart
against the Muses, and be content to feed your understanding with plain,
household truths. In short, you must not attempt to enlarge your ideas,
or polish your taste, or refine your sentiments; but must keep on in one
beaten track, without turning aside either to the right hand or to the
left. "But I cannot submit to drudgery like this: I feel a spirit above
it." 'Tis well: be above it then; only do not repine that you are
not rich.
Is knowledge the pearl of price? That too may be purchased--by steady
application, and long solitary hours of study and reflection. Bestow
these, and you shall be wise. "But" (says the man of letters) "what a
hardship is it that many an illiterate fellow who cannot construe the
motto of the arms on his coach, shall raise a fortune and make a figure,
while I have little more than the common conveniences of life." _Et tibi
magni satis_!--Was it in order to raise a fortune that you consumed the
sprightly hours of youth in study and retirement? Was it to be rich that
you grew pale over the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness from
the Greek and Roman spring? You have then mistaken your path, and ill
employed your industry. "What reward have I then for all my labors?"
What reward! A large, comprehensive soul, well purged from vulgar fears
and perturbations and prejudices; able to comprehend and interpret the
works of man--of God. A rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant
with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection. A perpetual
spring of fresh ideas; and the conscious dignity of superior
intelligence. Good heaven! and what reward can you ask besides?
"But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Providence that such a
one, who is a mean, dirty fellow, should have amassed wealth enough to
buy half a nation?" Not in the least. He made himself a mean, dirty
fellow for that very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his
liberty, for it; and will you envy him his bargain? Will you hang your
head and blush in his presence because he outshines you in equipage and
show? Lift up your brow with a noble confidence, and say to yourself, I
have not these things, it is true; but it is because I have not sought,
because I have not desired them; it is because I possess something
better. I have chosen my lot. I am content and satisfied.
You are a modest man--you love quiet and independence, and have a
delicacy and reserve in your temper which renders it impossible for you
to elbow your way in the world, and be the herald of your own merits. Be
content then with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimate
friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate,
ingenuous spirit; but resign the splendid distinctions of the world to
those who can better scramble for them.
The man whose tender sensibility of conscience and strict regard to the
rules of morality makes him scrupulous and fearful of offending, is
often heard to complain of the disadvantages he lies under in every path
of honor and profit. "Could I but get over some nice points, and conform
to the practice and opinion of those about me, I might stand as fair a
chance as others for dignities and preferment." And why can you not?
What hinders you from discarding this troublesome scrupulosity of yours
which stands so grievously in your way? If it be a small thing to enjoy
a healthful mind, sound at the very core, that does not shrink from the
keenest inspection; inward freedom from remorse and perturbation;
unsullied whiteness and simplicity of manners; a genuine integrity,
"Pure in the last recesses of the mind;"
if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for what you
resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a slave-merchant, a
parasite, or--what you please.
"If these be motives weak, break off betimes;"
and as you have not spirit to assert the dignity of virtue, be wise
enough not to forego the emoluments of vice.
I much admire the spirit of the ancient philosophers, in that they never
attempted, as our moralists often do, to lower the tone of philosophy,
and make it consistent with all the indulgences of indolence and
sensuality. They never thought of having the bulk of mankind for their
disciples; but kept themselves as distinct as possible from a worldly
life. They plainly told men what sacrifices were required, and what
advantages they were which might be expected.
"Si virtus hoc una potest dare, fortis omissis
Hoc age deliciis ..."
If you would be a philosopher, these are the terms. You must do thus and
thus; there is no other way. If not, go and be one of the vulgar.
There is no one quality gives so much dignity to a character as
consistency of conduct. Even if a man's pursuits be wrong and
unjustifiable, yet if they are prosecuted with steadiness and vigor, we
cannot withhold our admiration. The most characteristic mark of a great
mind is to choose some one important object, and pursue it through
life. It was this made Cæsar a great man. His object was ambition: he
pursued it steadily; and was always ready to sacrifice to it every
interfering passion or inclination.
There is a pretty passage in one of Lucian's dialogues, where Jupiter
complains to Cupid that though he has had so many intrigues, he was
never sincerely beloved. In order to be loved, says Cupid, you must lay
aside your aegis and your thunderbolts, and you must curl and perfume
your hair, and place a garland on your head, and walk with a soft step,
and assume a winning, obsequious deportment. But, replied Jupiter, I am
not willing to resign so much of my dignity. Then, returns Cupid, leave
off desiring to be loved. He wanted to be Jupiter and Adonis at the
same time.
It must be confessed that men of genius are of all others most inclined
to make these unreasonable claims. As their relish for enjoyment is
strong, their views large and comprehensive, and they feel themselves
lifted above the common bulk of mankind, they are apt to slight that
natural reward of praise and admiration which is ever largely paid to
distinguished abilities; and to expect to be called forth to public
notice and favor: without considering that their talents are commonly
very unfit for active life; that their eccentricity and turn for
speculation disqualifies them for the business of the world, which is
best carried on by men of moderate genius; and that society is not
obliged to reward any one who is not useful to it. The poets have been a
very unreasonable race, and have often complained loudly of the neglect
of genius and the ingratitude of the age. The tender and pensive Cowley,
and the elegant Shenstone, had their minds tinctured by this discontent;
and even the sublime melancholy of Young was too much owing to the
stings of disappointed ambition.
The moderation we have been endeavoring to inculcate will likewise
prevent much mortification and disgust in our commerce with mankind. As
we ought not to wish in ourselves, so neither should we expect in our
friends, contrary qualifications. Young and sanguine, when we enter the
world, and feel our affections drawn forth by any particular excellence
in a character, we immediately give it credit for all others; and are
beyond measure disgusted when we come to discover, as we soon must
discover, the defects in the other side of the balance. But nature is
much more frugal than to heap together all manner of shining qualities
in one glaring mass. Like a judicious painter, she endeavors to preserve
a certain unity of style and coloring in her pieces. Models of absolute
perfection are only to be met with in romance; where exquisite beauty,
and brilliant wit, and profound judgment, and immaculate virtue, are all
blended together to adorn some favorite character. As an anatomist knows
that the racer cannot have the strength and muscles of the
draught-horse; and that winged men, griffins, and mermaids must be mere
creatures of the imagination: so the philosopher is sensible that there
are combinations of moral qualities which never can take place but in
idea. There is a different air and complexion in characters as well as
in faces, though perhaps each equally beautiful; and the excellences of
one cannot be transferred to the other. Thus if one man possesses a
stoical apathy of soul, acts independent of the opinion of the world,
and fulfills every duty with mathematical exactness, you must not expect
that man to be greatly influenced by the weakness of pity, or the
partialities of friendship; you must not be offended that he does not
fly to meet you after a short absence, or require from him the convivial
spirit and honest effusions of a warm, open, susceptible heart. If
another is remarkable for a lively, active zeal, inflexible integrity, a
strong indignation against vice, and freedom in reproving it, he will
probably have some little bluntness in his address not altogether
suitable to polished life; he will want the winning arts of
conversation; he will disgust by a kind of haughtiness and negligence in
his manner, and often hurt the delicacy of his acquaintance with harsh
and disagreeable truths.
We usually say--That man is a genius, but he has some whims and
oddities--Such a one has a very general knowledge, but he is
superficial, etc. Now in all such cases we should speak more rationally,
did we substitute "therefore" for "but": "He is a genius, therefore he
is whimsical" and the like.
It is the fault of the present age, owing to the freer commerce that
different ranks and professions now enjoy with each other, that
characters are not marked with sufficient strength; the several classes
run too much into one another. We have fewer pedants, it is true, but we
have fewer striking originals. Every one is expected to have such a
tincture of general knowledge as is incompatible with going deep into
any science; and such a conformity to fashionable manners as checks the
free workings of the ruling passion, and gives an insipid sameness to
the face of society, under the idea of polish and regularity.
There is a cast of manners peculiar and becoming to each age, sex, and
profession; one, therefore, should not throw out illiberal and
commonplace censures against another. Each is perfect in its kind: a
woman as a woman; a tradesman as a tradesman. We are often hurt by the
brutality and sluggish conceptions of the vulgar; not considering that
some there must be to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, and that
cultivated genius, or even any great refinement and delicacy in their
moral feelings, would be a real misfortune to them.
Let us then study the philosophy of the human mind. The man who is
master of this science will know what to expect from every one. From
this man, wise advice; from that, cordial sympathy; from another, casual
entertainment. The passions and inclinations of others are his tools,
which he can use with as much precision as he would the mechanical
powers; and he can as readily make allowance for the workings of vanity,
or the bias of self-interest in his friends, as for the power of
friction, or the irregularities of the needle.