OF QUALITIES IMMEDIATELY AGREEABLE TO OURSELVES.
Whoever has passed an evening with serious melancholy people, and
has observed how suddenly the conversation was animated, and what
sprightliness diffused itself over the countenance, discourse, and
behaviour of every one, on the accession of a good-humoured, lively
companion; such a one will easily allow that cheerfulness carries great
merit with it, and naturally conciliates the good-will of mankind. No
quality, indeed, more readily communicates itself to all around; because
no one has a greater propensity to display itself, in jovial talk and
pleasant entertainment. The flame spreads through the whole circle; and
the most sullen and morose are often caught by it. That the melancholy
hate the merry, even though Horace says it, I have some difficulty
to allow; because I have always observed that, where the jollity is
moderate and decent, serious people are so much the more delighted,
as it dissipates the gloom with which they are commonly oppressed, and
gives them an unusual enjoyment.
From this influence of cheerfulness, both to communicate itself and to
engage approbation, we may perceive that there is another set of mental
qualities, which, without any utility or any tendency to farther good,
either of the community or of the possessor, diffuse a satisfaction
on the beholders, and procure friendship and regard. Their immediate
sensation, to the person possessed of them, is agreeable. Others enter
into the same humour, and catch the sentiment, by a contagion or natural
sympathy; and as we cannot forbear loving whatever pleases, a kindly
emotion arises towards the person who communicates so much satisfaction.
He is a more animating spectacle; his presence diffuses over us more
serene complacency and enjoyment; our imagination, entering into his
feelings and disposition, is affected in a more agreeable manner than
if a melancholy, dejected, sullen, anxious temper were presented to us.
Hence the affection and probation which attend the former: the aversion
and disgust with which we regard the latter.
[Footnote: There is no man, who, on particular occasions, is not
affected with all the disagreeable passions, fear, anger, dejection,
grief, melancholy, anxiety, &c. But these, so far as they are natural,
and universal, make no difference between one man and another, and can
never be the object of blame. It is only when the disposition gives a
PROPENSITY to any of these disagreeable passions, that they disfigure
the character, and by giving uneasiness, convey the sentiment of
disapprobation to the spectator.]
Few men would envy the character which Caesar gives of Cassius:
He loves no play,
As thou do'st, Anthony: he hears no music:
Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
That could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
Not only such men, as Caesar adds, are commonly DANGEROUS, but also,
having little enjoyment within themselves, they can never become
agreeable to others, or contribute to social entertainment. In all
polite nations and ages, a relish for pleasure, if accompanied with
temperance and decency, is esteemed a considerable merit, even in the
greatest men; and becomes still more requisite in those of inferior rank
and character. It is an agreeable representation, which a French writer
gives of the situation of his own mind in this particular, VIRTUE I
LOVE, says he, WITHOUT AUSTERITY: PLEASURE WITHOUT EFFEMINACY: AND LIFE,
WITHOUT FEARING ITS END. [Footnote: 'J'aime la vertu, sans rudesse;
J'aime le plaisir, sans molesse; J'aime la vie, et n'en crains point la
fin.'-ST. EVREMONT.]
Who is not struck with any signal instance of greatness of mind or
dignity of character; with elevation of sentiment, disdain of slavery,
and with that noble pride and spirit, which arises from conscious
virtue? The sublime, says Longinus, is often nothing but the echo or
image of magnanimity; and where this quality appears in any one,
even though a syllable be not uttered, it excites our applause and
admiration; as may be observed of the famous silence of Ajax in the
Odyssey, which expresses more noble disdain and resolute indignation
than any language can convey [Footnote: Cap. 9.].
WERE I Alexander, said Parmenio, I WOULD ACCEPT OF THESE OFFERS MADE BY
DARIUS. SO WOULD I TOO, replied Alexander, WERE I PARMENIO. This saying
is admirable, says Longinus, from a like principle. [Footnote: Idem.]
GO! cries the same hero to his soldiers, when they refused to follow
him to the Indies, GO TELL YOUR COUNTRYMEN, THAT YOU LEFT Alexander
COMPLETING THE CONQUEST OF THE WORLD. 'Alexander,' said the Prince of
Conde, who always admired this passage, 'abandoned by his soldiers,
among barbarians, not yet fully subdued, felt in himself such a dignity
and right of empire, that he could not believe it possible that any one
would refuse to obey him. Whether in Europe or in Asia, among Greeks or
Persians, all was indifferent to him: wherever he found men, he fancied
he should find subjects.'
The confident of Medea in the tragedy recommends caution and submission;
and enumerating all the distresses of that unfortunate heroine, asks
her, what she has to support her against her numerous and implacable
enemies. MYSELF, replies she; MYSELF I SAY, AND IT IS ENOUGH. Boileau
justly recommends this passage as an instance of true sublime [Footnote:
Reflexion 10 sur Longin.].
When Phocion, the modest, the gentle Phocion, was led to execution, he
turned to one of his fellow-sufferers, who was lamenting his own
hard fate, IS IT NOT GLORY ENOUGH FOR YOU, says he, THAT YOU DIE WITH
PHOCION? [Footnote: Plutarch in Phoc.]
Place in opposition the picture which Tacitus draws of Vitellius, fallen
from empire, prolonging his ignominy from a wretched love of life,
delivered over to the merciless rabble; tossed, buffeted, and kicked
about; constrained, by their holding a poniard under his chin, to raise
his head, and expose himself to every contumely. What abject infamy!
What low humiliation! Yet even here, says the historian, he discovered
some symptoms of a mind not wholly degenerate. To a tribune, who
insulted him, he replied, I AM STILL YOUR EMPEROR.
[Footnote: Tacit. hist. lib. iii. The author entering upon the
narration, says, LANIATA VESTE, FOEDUM SPECACULUM DUCEBATUR, MULTIS
INCREPANTIBUS, NULLO INLACRIMANTE: deformatitas exitus misericordiam
abstulerat. To enter thoroughly into this method of thinking, we must
make allowance for the ancient maxims, that no one ought to prolong his
life after it became dishonourable; but, as he had always a right to
dispose of it, it then became a duty to part with it.]
We never excuse the absolute want of spirit and dignity of character, or
a proper sense of what is due to one's self, in society and the common
intercourse of life. This vice constitutes what we properly call
MEANNESS; when a man can submit to the basest slavery, in order to
gain his ends; fawn upon those who abuse him; and degrade himself by
intimacies and familiarities with undeserving inferiors. A certain
degree of generous pride or self-value is so requisite, that the absence
of it in the mind displeases, after the same manner as the want of a
nose, eye, or any of the most material feature of the face or member of
the body.
[Footnote: The absence of virtue may often be a vice; and that of
the highest kind; as in the instance of ingratitude, as well as
meanness. Where we expect a beauty, the disappointment gives an uneasy
sensation, and produces a real deformity. An abjectness of character,
likewise, is disgustful and contemptible in another view. Where a man
has no sense of value in himself, we are not likely to have any higher
esteem of him. And if the same person, who crouches to his superiors,
is insolent to his inferiors (as often happens), this contrariety
of behaviour, instead of correcting the former vice, aggravates it
extremely by the addition of a vice still more odious. See Sect. VIII.]
The utility of courage, both to the public and to the person possessed
of it, is an obvious foundation of merit. But to any one who duly
considers of the matter, it will appear that this quality has a peculiar
lustre, which it derives wholly from itself, and from that noble
elevation inseparable from it. Its figure, drawn by painters and by
poets, displays, in each feature, a sublimity and daring confidence;
which catches the eye, engages the affections, and diffuses, by
sympathy, a like sublimity of sentiment over every spectator.
Under what shining colours does Demosthenes [Footnote: De
Corona.] represent Philip; where the orator apologizes for his own
administration, and justifies that pertinacious love of liberty, with
which he had inspired the Athenians. 'I beheld Philip,' says he, 'he
with whom was your contest, resolutely, while in pursuit of empire
and dominion, exposing himself to every wound; his eye gored, his neck
wrested, his arm, his thigh pierced, what ever part of his body fortune
should seize on, that cheerfully relinquishing; provided that, with what
remained, he might live in honour and renown. And shall it be said
that he, born in Pella, a place heretofore mean and ignoble, should
be inspired with so high an ambition and thirst of fame: while you,
Athenians, &c.' These praises excite the most lively admiration; but
the views presented by the orator, carry us not, we see, beyond the hero
himself, nor ever regard the future advantageous consequences of his
valour.
The material temper of the Romans, inflamed by continual wars, had
raised their esteem of courage so high, that, in their language, it was
called VIRTUE, by way of excellence and of distinction from all other
moral qualities. THE Suevi, in the opinion of Tacitus, tus, [Footnote:
De moribus Germ.] DRESSED THEIR HAIR WITH A LAUDIBLE INTENT: NOT
FOR THE PURPOSE OF LOVING OR BEING LOVES; THEY DORNED THEMSELVES ONLY
FOR THEIR ENEMIES, AND IN ORDER TO APPEAR MORE TERRIBLE. A sentiment
of the historian, which would sound a little oddly in other nations and
other ages.
The Scythians, according to Herodotus, [Footnote: Lib. iv.] after
scalping their enemies, dressed the skin like leather, and used it as a
towel; and whoever had the most of those towels was most esteemed among
them. So much had martial bravery, in that nation, as well as in many
others, destroyed the sentiments of humanity; a virtue surely much more
useful and engaging.
It is indeed observable, that, among all uncultivated nations, who have
not as yet had full experience of the advantages attending beneficence,
justice, and the social virtues, courage is the predominant excellence;
what is most celebrated by poets, recommended by parents and
instructors, and admired by the public in general. The ethics of Homer
are, in this particular, very different from those of Fenelon, his
elegant imitator; and such as were well suited to an age, when one hero,
as remarked by Thucydides [Lib.i.], could ask another, without offence,
whether he were a robber or not. Such also very lately was the system
of ethics which prevailed in many barbarous parts of Ireland; if we may
credit Spencer, in his judicious account of the state of that kingdom.
[Footnote from Spencer: It is a common use, says he, amongst
their gentlemen's sons, that, as soon as they are able to use their
weapons, they strait gather to themselves three or four stragglers or
kern, with whom wandering a while up and down idly the country, taking
only meat, he at last falleth into some bad occasion, that shall be
offered; which being once made known, he is thenceforth counted a man of
worth, in whom there is courage.]
Of the same class of virtues with courage is that undisturbed
philosophical tranquillity, superior to pain, sorrow, anxiety, and
each assault of adverse fortune. Conscious of his own virtue, say the
philosophers, the sage elevates himself above every accident of life;
and securely placed in the temple of wisdom, looks down on inferior
mortals engaged in pursuit of honours, riches, reputation, and every
frivolous enjoyment. These pretentious, no doubt, when stretched to
the utmost, are by far too magnificent for human nature. They carry,
however, a grandeur with them, which seizes the spectator, and strikes
him with admiration. And the nearer we can approach in practice to this
sublime tranquillity and indifference (for we must distinguish it from a
stupid insensibility), the more secure enjoyment shall we attain within
ourselves, and the more greatness of mind shall we discover to the
world. The philosophical tranquillity may, indeed, be considered only as
a branch of magnanimity.
Who admires not Socrates; his perpetual serenity and contentment, amidst
the greatest poverty and domestic vexations; his resolute contempt of
riches, and his magnanimous care of preserving liberty, while he refused
all assistance from his friends and disciples, and avoided even the
dependence of an obligation? Epictetus had not so much as a door to his
little house or hovel; and therefore, soon lost his iron lamp, the only
furniture which he had worth taking. But resolving to disappoint all
robbers for the future, he supplied its place with an earthen lamp, of
which he very peacefully kept possession ever after.
Among the ancients, the heroes in philosophy, as well as those in war
and patriotism, have a grandeur and force of sentiment, which
astonishes our narrow souls, and is rashly rejected as extravagant and
supernatural. They, in their turn, I allow, would have had equal
reason to consider as romantic and incredible, the degree of humanity,
clemency, order, tranquillity, and other social virtues, to which, in
the administration of government, we have attained in modern times, had
any one been then able to have made a fair representation of them. Such
is the compensation, which nature, or rather education, has made in the
distribution of excellencies and virtues, in those different ages.
The merit of benevolence, arising from its utility, and its tendency
to promote the good of mankind has been already explained, and is, no
doubt, the source of a CONSIDERABLE part of that esteem, which is so
universally paid to it. But it will also be allowed, that the very
softness and tenderness of the sentiment, its engaging endearments, its
fond expressions, its delicate attentions, and all that flow of mutual
confidence and regard, which enters into a warm attachment of love
and friendship: it will be allowed, I say, that these feelings,
being delightful in themselves, are necessarily communicated to the
spectators, and melt them into the same fondness and delicacy. The tear
naturally starts in our eye on the apprehension of a warm sentiment of
this nature: our breast heaves, our heart is agitated, and every humane
tender principle of our frame is set in motion, and gives us the purest
and most satisfactory enjoyment.
When poets form descriptions of Elysian fields, where the blessed
inhabitants stand in no need of each other's assistance, they yet
represent them as maintaining a constant intercourse of love and
friendship, and sooth our fancy with the pleasing image of these soft
and gentle passions. The idea of tender tranquillity in a pastoral
Arcadia is agreeable from a like principle, as has been observed above.
[Footnote: Sect. v. Part 2.]
Who would live amidst perpetual wrangling, and scolding, and mutual
reproaches? The roughness and harshness of these emotions disturb and
displease us: we suffer by contagion and sympathy; nor can we remain
indifferent spectators, even though certain that no pernicious
consequences would ever follow from such angry passions.
As a certain proof that the whole merit of benevolence is not derived
from its usefulness, we may observe, that in a kind way of blame, we
say, a person is TOO GOOD; when he exceeds his part in society, and
carries his attention for others beyond the proper bounds. In
like manner, we say, a man is too HIGH-SPIRITED, TOO INTREPID, TOO
INDIFFERENT ABOUT FORTUNE: reproaches, which really, at bottom, imply
more esteem than many panegyrics. Being accustomed to rate the merit and
demerit of characters chiefly by their useful or pernicious tendencies,
we cannot forbear applying the epithet of blame, when we discover a
sentiment, which rises to a degree, that is hurtful; but it may happen,
at the same time, that its noble elevation, or its engaging tenderness
so seizes the heart, as rather to increase our friendship and concern
for the person.
[Footnote: Cheerfulness could scarce admit of blame from its
excess, were it not that dissolute mirth, without a proper cause or
subject, is a sure symptom and characteristic of folly, and on that
account disgustful.]
The amours and attachments of Harry the IVth of France, during the civil
wars of the league, frequently hurt his interest and his cause; but all
the young, at least, and amorous, who can sympathize with the tender
passions, will allow that this very weakness, for they will readily call
it such, chiefly endears that hero, and interests them in his fortunes.
The excessive bravery and resolute inflexibility of Charles the XIIth
ruined his own country, and infested all his neighbours; but have
such splendour and greatness in their appearance, as strikes us with
admiration; and they might, in some degree, be even approved of, if they
betrayed not sometimes too evident symptoms of madness and disorder.
The Athenians pretended to the first invention of agriculture and of
laws: and always valued themselves extremely on the benefit thereby
procured to the whole race of mankind. They also boasted, and with
reason, of their war like enterprises; particularly against those
innumerable fleets and armies of Persians, which invaded Greece during
the reigns of Darius and Xerxes. But though there be no comparison in
point of utility, between these peaceful and military honours; yet we
find, that the orators, who have writ such elaborate panegyrics on
that famous city, have chiefly triumphed in displaying the warlike
achievements. Lysias, Thucydides, Plato, and Isocrates discover, all of
them, the same partiality; which, though condemned by calm reason and
reflection, appears so natural in the mind of man.
It is observable, that the great charm of poetry consists in lively
pictures of the sublime passions, magnanimity, courage, disdain of
fortune; or those of the tender affections, love and friendship; which
warm the heart, and diffuse over it similar sentiments and emotions. And
though all kinds of passion, even the most disagreeable, such as
grief and anger, are observed, when excited by poetry, to convey a
satisfaction, from a mechanism of nature, not easy to be explained: Yet
those more elevated or softer affections have a peculiar influence, and
please from more than one cause or principle. Not to mention that
they alone interest us in the fortune of the persons represented, or
communicate any esteem and affection for their character.
And can it possibly be doubted, that this talent itself of poets, to
move the passions, this pathetic and sublime of sentiment, is a very
considerable merit; and being enhanced by its extreme rarity, may exalt
the person possessed of it, above every character of the age in which
he lives? The prudence, address, steadiness, and benign government of
Augustus, adorned with all the splendour of his noble birth and imperial
crown, render him but an unequal competitor for fame with Virgil, who
lays nothing into the opposite scale but the divine beauties of his
poetical genius.
The very sensibility to these beauties, or a delicacy of taste, is
itself a beauty in any character; as conveying the purest, the most
durable, and most innocent of all enjoyments.
These are some instances of the several species of merit, that are
valued for the immediate pleasure which they communicate to the
person possessed of them. No views of utility or of future beneficial
consequences enter into this sentiment of approbation; yet is it of
a kind similar to that other sentiment, which arises from views of a
public or private utility. The same social sympathy, we may observe, or
fellow-feeling with human happiness or misery, gives rise to both; and
this analogy, in all the parts of the present theory, may justly be
regarded as a confirmation of it.