Preface, 261
The First Dialogue, 279
The Second Dialogue, 302
The Third Dialogue, 331
The Fourth Dialogue, 366
The Fifth Dialogue, 400
The Sixth Dialogue, 451
PREFACE.
Laws and government are to the political bodies of civil societies,
what the vital spirits and life itself are to the natural bodies
of animated creatures; and as those that study the anatomy of dead
carcases may see, that the chief organs and nicest springs more
immediately required to continue the motion of our machine, are not
hard bones, strong muscles and nerves, nor the smooth white skin,
that so beautifully covers them, but small trifling films, and little
pipes, that are either overlooked or else seem inconsiderable to vulgar
eyes; so they that examine into the nature of man, abstract from art
and education, may observe, that what renders him a sociable animal,
consists not in his desire of company, good nature, pity, affability,
and other graces of a fair outside; but that his vilest and most
hateful qualities are the most necessary accomplishments to fit him
for the largest, and, according to the world, the happiest and most
flourishing societies.
The following Fable, in which what I have said is set forth at large,
was printed above eight years ago [1], in a six penny pamphlet,
called, The Grumbling Hive, or Knaves turn'd Honest; and being soon
after pirated, cried about the streets in a halfpenny sheet. Since
the first publishing of it, I have met with several that, either
wilfully or ignorantly mistaking the design, would have it, that
the scope of it was a satire upon virtue and morality, and the whole
wrote for the encouragement of vice. This made me resolve, whenever
it should be reprinted, some way or other to inform the reader of
the real intent this little poem was wrote with. I do not dignify
these few loose lines with the name of Poem, that I would have the
reader expect any poetry in them, but barely because they are rhyme,
and I am in reality puzzled what name to give them; for they are
neither heroic nor pastoral, satire, burlesque, nor heroi-comic;
to be a tale they want probability, and the whole is rather too
long for a fable. All I can say of them is, that they are a story
told in doggerel, which, without the least design of being witty,
I have endeavoured to do in as easy and familiar a manner as I was
able: the reader shall be welcome to call them what he pleases. It
was said of Montaigne, that he was pretty well versed in the defects
of mankind, but unacquainted with the excellencies of human nature:
if I fare no worse, I shall think myself well used.
What country soever in the universe is to be understood by the
Bee-Hive represented here, it is evident, from what is said of the
laws and constitution of it, the glory, wealth, power, and industry
of its inhabitants, that it must be a large, rich and warlike nation,
that is happily governed by a limited monarchy. The satire, therefore,
to be met with in the following lines, upon the several professions
and callings, and almost every degree and station of people, was not
made to injure and point to particular persons, but only to show the
vileness of the ingredients that altogether compose the wholesome
mixture of a well-ordered society; in order to extol the wonderful
power of political wisdom, by the help of which so beautiful a machine
is raised from the most contemptible branches. For the main design of
the Fable (as it is briefly explained in the Moral), is to show the
impossibility of enjoying all the most elegant comforts of life, that
are to be met with in an industrious, wealthy and powerful nation,
and at the same time, be blessed with all the virtue and innocence
that can be wished for in a golden age; from thence to expose the
unreasonableness and folly of those, that desirous of being an opulent
and flourishing people, and wonderfully greedy after all the benefits
they can receive as such, are yet always murmuring at and exclaiming
against those vices and inconveniences, that from the beginning of the
world to this present day, have been inseparable from all kingdoms and
states, that ever were famed, for strength, riches, and politeness,
at the same time.
To do this, I first slightly touch upon some of the faults and
corruptions the several professions and callings are generally charged
with. After that I show that those very vices, of every particular
person, by skilful management, were made subservient to the grandeur
and worldly happiness of the whole. Lastly, by setting forth what
of necessity must be the consequence of general honesty and virtue,
and national temperance, innocence and content, I demonstrate that if
mankind could be cured of the failings they are naturally guilty of,
they would cease to be capable of being raised into such vast potent
and polite societies, as they have been under the several great
commonwealths and monarchies that have flourished since the creation.
If you ask me, why I have done all this, cui bono? and what good
these notions will produce? truly, besides the reader's diversion,
I believe none at all; but if I was asked what naturally ought to
be expected from them, I would answer, that, in the first place,
the people who continually find fault with others, by reading them,
would be taught to look at home, and examining their own consciences,
be made ashamed of always railing at what they are more or less guilty
of themselves; and that, in the next, those who are so fond of the ease
and comforts, and reap all the benefits that are the consequence of
a great and flourishing nation, would learn more patiently to submit
to those inconveniences, which no government upon earth can remedy,
when they should see the impossibility of enjoying any great share
of the first, without partaking likewise of the latter.
This, I say, ought naturally to be expected from the publishing of
these notions, if people were to be made better by any thing that
could be said to them; but mankind having for so many ages remained
still the same, notwithstanding the many instructive and elaborate
writings, by which their amendment has been endeavoured, I am not so
vain as to hope for better success from so inconsiderable a trifle.
Having allowed the small advantage this little whim is likely to
produce, I think myself obliged to show that it cannot be prejudicial
to any; for what is published, if it does no good, ought at least
to do no harm: in order to this, I have made some explanatory notes,
to which the reader will find himself referred in those passages that
seem to be most liable to exceptions.
The censorious, that never saw the Grumbling Hive, will tell me,
that whatever I may talk of the Fable, it not taking up a tenth
part of the book, was only contrived to introduce the Remarks;
that instead of clearing up the doubtful or obscure places, I have
only pitched upon such as I had a mind to expatiate upon; and that
far from striving to extenuate the errors committed before, I have
made bad worse, and shown myself a more barefaced champion for vice,
in the rambling digressions, than I had done in the Fable itself.
I shall spend no time in answering these accusations: where men are
prejudiced, the best apologies are lost; and I know that those who
think it criminal to suppose a necessity of vice in any case whatever,
will never be reconciled to any part of the performance; but if this
be thoroughly examined, all the offence it can give must result from
the wrong inferences that may perhaps be drawn from it, and which I
desire nobody to make. When I assert that vices are inseparable from
great and potent societies, and that it is impossible their wealth
and grandeur should subsist without, I do not say that the particular
members of them who are guilty of any should not be continually
reproved, or not be punished for them when they grow into crimes.
There are, I believe, few people in London, of those that are at
any time forced to go a-foot, but what could wish the streets of it
much cleaner than generally they are; while they regard nothing but
their own clothes and private conveniency; but when once they come
to consider, that what offends them, is the result of the plenty,
great traffic, and opulency of that mighty city, if they have
any concern in its welfare, they will hardly ever wish to see the
streets of it less dirty. For if we mind the materials of all sorts
that must supply such an infinite number of trades and handicrafts,
as are always going forward; the vast quantity of victuals, drink,
and fuel, that are daily consumed in it; the waste and superfluities
that must be produced from them; the multitudes of horses, and other
cattle, that are always dawbing the streets; the carts, coaches, and
more heavy carriages that are perpetually wearing and breaking the
pavement of them; and, above all, the numberless swarms of people that
are continually harassing and trampling through every part of them:
If, I say, we mind all these, we shall find, that every moment must
produce new filth; and, considering how far distant the great streets
are from the river side, what cost and care soever be bestowed to
remove the nastiness almost as fast as it is made, it is impossible
London should be more cleanly before it is less flourishing. Now would
I ask, if a good citizen, in consideration of what has been said,
might not assert, that dirty streets are a necessary evil, inseparable
from the felicity of London, without being the least hinderance to the
cleaning of shoes, or sweeping of streets, and consequently without
any prejudice either to the blackguard or the scavingers.
But if, without any regard to the interest or happiness of the city,
the question was put, What place I thought most pleasant to walk
in? Nobody can doubt, but before the stinking streets of London, I
would esteem a fragrant garden, or a shady grove in the country. In the
same manner, if laying aside all worldly greatness and vain glory, I
should be asked where I thought it was most probable that men might
enjoy true happiness, I would prefer a small peaceable society,
in which men, neither envied nor esteemed by neighbours, should be
contented to live upon the natural product of the spot they inhabit,
to a vast multitude abounding in wealth and power, that should always
be conquering others by their arms abroad, and debauching themselves
by foreign luxury at home.
Thus much I had said to the reader in the first edition; and have
added nothing by way of preface in the second. But since that,
a violent outcry has been made against the book, exactly answering
the expectation I always had of the justice, the wisdom, the charity,
and fair-dealing of those whose good will I despaired of. It has been
presented by the Grand Jury, and condemned by thousands who never saw
a word of it. It has been preached against before my Lord Mayor; and
an utter refutation of it is daily expected from a reverend divine,
who has called me names in the advertisements, and threatened to
answer me in two months time for above five months together. What
I have to say for myself, the reader will see in my Vindication at
the end of the book, where he will likewise find the Grand Jury's
Presentment, and a letter to the Right Honourable Lord C. which is
very rhetorical beyond argument or connection. The author shows a fine
talent for invectives, and great sagacity in discovering atheism,
where others can find none. He is zealous against wicked books,
points at the Fable of the Bees, and is very angry with the author:
He bestows four strong epithets on the enormity of his guilt, and by
several elegant innuendos to the multitude, as the danger there is
in suffering such authors to live, and the vengeance of Heaven upon
a whole nation, very charitably recommends him to their care.
Considering the length of this epistle, and that it is not wholly
levelled at me only, I thought at first to have made some extracts
from it of what related to myself; but finding, on a nearer inquiry,
that what concerned me was so blended and interwoven with what did not,
I was obliged to trouble the reader with it entire, not without hopes
that, prolix as it is, the extravagancy of it will be entertaining
to those who have perused the treatise it condemns with so much horror.
THE
GRUMBLING HIVE:
OR,
KNAVES TURN'D HONEST.
A spacious hive well stock'd with bees,
That liv'd in luxury and ease;
And yet as fam'd for laws and arms,
As yielding large and early swarms;
Was counted the great nursery 5
Of sciences and industry.
No bees had better government,
More fickleness, or less content:
They were not slaves to tyranny.
Nor rul'd by wild democracy; 10
But kings, that could not wrong, because
Their power was circumscrib'd by laws.
These insects liv'd like men, and all
Our actions they performed in small:
They did whatever's done in town, 15
And what belongs to sword or gown:
Though th' artful works, by nimble slight
Of minute limbs, 'scap'd human sight;
Yet we've no engines, labourers,
Ships, castles, arms, artificers, 20
Craft, science, shop, or instrument,
But they had an equivalent:
Which, since their language is unknown,
Must be call'd, as we do our own.
As grant, that among other things, 25
They wanted dice, yet they had kings;
And those had guards; from whence we may
Justly conclude, they had some play;
Unless a regiment be shown
Of soldiers, that make use of none. 30
Vast numbers throng'd the fruitful hive;
Yet those vast numbers made 'em thrive;
Millions endeavouring to supply
Each other's lust and vanity;
While other millions were employ'd, 35
To see their handy-works destroy'd;
They furnish'd half the universe;
Yet had more work than labourers.
Some with vast flocks, and little pains,
Jump'd into business of great gains; 40
And some were damn'd to scythes and spades,
And all those hard laborious trades;
Where willing wretches daily sweat,
And wear out strength and limbs to eat:
While others follow'd mysteries, 45
To which few folks binds 'prentices;
That want no stock, but that of brass,
And may set up without a cross;
As sharpers, parasites, pimps, players,
Pickpockets, coiners, quacks, soothsayers, 50
And all those, that in enmity,
With downright working, cunningly
Convert to their own use the labour
Of their good-natur'd heedless neighbour.
These were call'd Knaves, but bar the name, 55
The grave industrious were the same:
All trades and places knew some cheat,
No calling was without deceit.
The lawyers, of whose art the basis
Was raising feuds and splitting cases, 60
Oppos'd all registers, that cheats
Might make more work with dipt estates;
As were't unlawful, that one's own,
Without a law-suit, should be known.
They kept off hearings wilfully, 65
To finger the refreshing fee;
And to defend a wicked cause,
Examin'd and survey'd the laws,
As burglar's shops and houses do,
To find out where they'd best break through. 70
Physicians valu'd fame and wealth
Above the drooping patient's health,
Or their own skill: the greatest part
Study'd, instead of rules of art,
Grave pensive looks and dull behaviour, 75
To gain th' apothecary's favour;
The praise of midwives, priests, and all
That serv'd at birth or funeral.
To bear with th' ever-talking tribe,
And hear my lady's aunt prescribe; 80
With formal smile, and kind how d'ye,
To fawn on all the family;
And, which of all the greatest curse is,
T' endure th' impertinence of nurses.
Among the many priests of Jove, 85
Hir'd to draw blessings from above,
Some few were learn'd and eloquent,
But thousands hot and ignorant:
Yet all pass'd muster that could hide
Their sloth, lust, avarice and pride; 90
For which they were as fam'd as tailors
For cabbage, or for brandy sailors,
Some, meagre-look'd, and meanly clad,
Would mystically pray for bread,
Meaning by that an ample store, 95
Yet lit'rally received no more;
And, while these holy drudges starv'd,
The lazy ones, for which they serv'd,
Indulg'd their ease, with all the graces
Of health and plenty in their faces. 100
The soldiers, that were forc'd to fight,
If they surviv'd, got honour by't;
Though some, that shunn'd the bloody fray,
Had limbs shot off, that ran away:
Some valiant gen'rals fought the foe; 105
Others took bribes to let them go:
Some ventur'd always where 'twas warm,
Lost now a leg, and then an arm;
Till quite disabled, and put by,
They liv'd on half their salary; 110
While others never came in play,
And staid at home for double pay.
Their kings were serv'd, but knavishly,
Cheated by their own ministry;
Many, that for their welfare slaved, 115
Robbing the very crown they saved:
Pensions were small, and they liv'd high,
Yet boasted of their honesty.
Calling, whene'er they strain'd their right,
The slipp'ry trick a perquisite; 120
And when folks understood their cant,
They chang'd that for emolument;
Unwilling to be short or plain,
In any thing concerning gain;
For there was not a bee but would 125
Get more, I won't say, than he should;
But than he dar'd to let them know,
That pay'd for't; as your gamesters do,
That, though at fair play, ne'er will own
Before the losers that they've won. 130
But who can all their frauds repeat?
The very stuff which in the street
They sold for dirt t' enrich the ground,
Was often by the buyers found
Sophisticated with a quarter 135
Of good-for-nothing stones and mortar;
Though Flail had little cause to mutter.
Who sold the other salt for butter.
Justice herself, fam'd for fair dealing,
By blindness had not lost her feeling; 140
Her left hand, which the scales should hold,
Had often dropt 'em, brib'd with gold;
And, though she seem'd impartial,
Where punishment was corporal,
Pretended to a reg'lar course, 145
In murder, and all crimes of force;
Though some first pillory'd for cheating,
Were hang'd in hemp of their own beating;
Yet, it was thought, the sword she bore
Check'd but the desp'rate and the poor; 150
That, urg'd by mere necessity,
Were ty'd up to the wretched tree
For crimes, which not deserv'd that fate,
But to secure the rich and great.
Thus every part was full of vice, 155
Yet the whole mass a paradise;
Flatter'd in peace, and fear'd in wars
They were th' esteem of foreigners,
And lavish of their wealth and lives,
The balance of all other hives. 160
Such were the blessings of that state;
Their crimes conspir'd to make them great:
And virtue, who from politics
Has learn'd a thousand cunning tricks,
Was, by their happy influence, 165
Made friends with vice: And ever since,
The worst of all the multitude
Did something for the common good.
This was the state's craft, that maintain'd
The whole of which each part complain'd: 170
This, as in music harmony
Made jarrings in the main agree,
Parties directly opposite,
Assist each other, as 'twere for spite;
And temp'rance with sobriety, 175
Serve drunkenness and gluttony.
The root of evil, avarice,
That damn'd ill-natur'd baneful vice,
Was slave to prodigality,
That noble sin; whilst luxury 180
Employ'd a million of the poor,
And odious pride a million more:
Envy itself, and vanity,
Were ministers of industry;
Their darling folly, fickleness, 185
In diet, furniture, and dress,
That strange ridic'lous vice, was made
The very wheel that turn'd the trade.
Their laws and clothes were equally
Objects of mutability! 190
For, what was well done for a time,
In half a year became a crime;
Yet while they altered thus their laws,
Still finding and correcting flaws,
They mended by inconstancy 195
Faults, which no prudence could foresee.
Thus vice nurs'd ingenuity,
Which join'd the time and industry,
Had carry'd life's conveniences,
Its real pleasures, comforts, ease, 200
To such a height, the very poor }
Liv'd better than the rich before. }
And nothing could be added more. }
How vain is mortal happiness!
Had they but known the bounds of bliss; 205
And that perfection here below
Is more than gods can well bestow;
The grumbling brutes had been content
With ministers and government.
But they, at every ill success, 210
Like creatures lost without redress,
Curs'd politicians, armies, fleets;
While every one cry'd, damn the cheats,
And would, though conscious of his own,
In others barb'rously bear none. 215
One, that had got a princely store,
By cheating master, king, and poor,
Dar'd cry aloud, the land must sink
For all its fraud; and whom d'ye think
The sermonizing rascal chid? 220
A glover that sold lamb for kid.
The least thing was not done amiss,
Or cross'd the public business;
But all the rogues cry'd brazenly,
Good gods, had we but honesty! 225
Merc'ry smil'd at th' impudence,
And others call'd it want of sense,
Always to rail at what they lov'd:
But Jove with indignation mov'd,
At last in anger swore, he'd rid 230
The bawling hive of fraud; and did.
The very moment it departs,
And honesty fills all their hearts;
There shows 'em, like th' instructive tree,
Those crimes which they're asham'd to see; 235
Which now in silence they confess,
By blushing at their ugliness:
Like children, that would hide their faults,
And by their colour own their thoughts:
Imag'ning, when they're look'd upon, 240
That others see what they have done.
But, O ye gods! what consternation,
How vast and sudden was th' alteration!
In half an hour, the nation round,
Meat fell a penny in the pound. 245
The mask hypocrisy's sitting down,
From the great statesman to the clown:
And in some borrow'd looks well known,
Appear'd like strangers in their own.
The bar was silent from that day; 250
For now the willing debtors pay,
Ev'n what's by creditors forgot;
Who quitted them that had it not.
Those that were in the wrong, stood mute,
And dropt the patch'd vexatious suit: 255
On which since nothing else can thrive,
Than lawyers in an honest hive,
All, except those that got enough,
With inkhorns by their sides troop'd off.
Justice hang'd some, set others free; 260
And after gaol delivery,
Her presence being no more requir'd,
With all her train and pomp retir'd.
First march'd some smiths with locks and grates,
Fetters, and doors with iron plates: 265
Next gaolers, turnkeys and assistants:
Before the goddess, at some distance,
Her chief and faithful minister,
'Squire Catch, the law's great finisher,
Bore not th' imaginary sword, 270
But his own tools, an ax and cord:
Then on a cloud the hood-wink'd fair,
Justice herself was push'd by air:
About her chariot, and behind,
Were serjeants, bums of every kind, 275
Tip-staffs, and all those officers,
That squeeze a living out of tears.
Though physic liv'd, while folks were ill,
None would prescribe, but bees of skill,
Which through the hive dispers'd so wide, 280
That none of them had need to ride;
Wav'd vain disputes, and strove to free
The patients of their misery;
Left drugs in cheating countries grown,
And us'd the product of their own; 285
Knowing the gods sent no disease,
To nations without remedies.
Their clergy rous'd from laziness,
Laid not their charge on journey-bees;
But serv'd themselves, exempt from vice, 290
The gods with pray'r and sacrifice;
All those, that were unfit, or knew,
Their service might be spar'd, withdrew:
Nor was their business for so many,
(If th' honest stand in need of any,) 295
Few only with the high-priest staid,
To whom the rest obedience paid:
Himself employ'd in holy cares;
Resign'd to others state-affairs.
He chas'd no starv'ling from his door, 300
Nor pinch'd the wages of the poor:
But at his house the hungry's fed, }
The hireling finds unmeasur'd bread, }
The needy trav'ller board and bed. }
Among the king's great ministers, 305
And all th' inferior officers,
The change was great; for frugally
They now liv'd on their salary:
That a poor bee should ten times come
To ask his due, a trifling sum, 310
And by some well-hir'd clerk be made
To give a crown, or ne'er be paid,
Would now be call'd a downright cheat,
Though formerly a perquisite.
All places manag'd first by three, 315
Who watch'd each other's knavery
And often for a fellow-feeling,
Promoted one another's stealing,
Are happily supply'd by one,
By which some thousands more are gone. 320
No honour now could be content,
To live and owe for what was spent;
Liv'ries in brokers shops are hung,
They part with coaches for a song;
Sell stately horses by whole sets; 325
And country-houses, to pay debts.
Vain cost is shunn'd as much as fraud;
They have no forces kept abroad;
Laugh at th' esteem of foreigners,
And empty glory got by wars; 330
They fight but for their country's sake,
When right or liberty's at stake.
Now mind the glorious hive, and see
How honesty and trade agree.
The show is gone, it thins apace; 335
And looks with quite another face.
For 'twas not only that they went,
By whom vast sums were yearly spent;
But multitudes that liv'd on them,
Were daily forc'd to do the same. 340
In vain to other trades they'd fly;
All were o'er-stock'd accordingly.
The price of land and houses falls;
Mirac'lous palaces, whose walls,
Like those of Thebes, were rais'd by play, 345
Are to be let; while the once gay,
Well-seated household gods would be
More pleas'd to expire in flames, than see
The mean inscription on the door
Smile at the lofty ones they bore. 350
The building trade is quite destroy'd,
Artificers are not employ'd;
No limner for his art is fam'd,
Stone-cutters, carvers are not nam'd.
Those, that remain'd, grown temp'rate, strive, 355
Not how to spend, but how to live;
And, when they paid their tavern score,
Resolv'd to enter it no more:
No vintner's jilt in all the hive
Could wear now cloth of gold, and thrive; 360
Nor Torcol such vast sums advance,
For Burgundy and Ortolans;
The courtier's gone that with his miss
Supp'd at his house on Christmas peas;
Spending as much in two hours stay, 365
As keeps a troop of horse a day.
The haughty Chloe, to live great,
Had made her husband rob the state:
But now she sells her furniture,
Which th' Indies had been ransack'd for; 370
Contracts the expensive bill of fare,
And wears her strong suit a whole year:
The slight and fickle age is past;
And clothes, as well as fashions, last.
Weavers, that join'd rich silk with plate, 375
And all the trades subordinate,
Are gone; still peace and plenty reign,
And every thing is cheap, though plain:
Kind nature, free from gard'ners force,
Allows all fruits in her own course; 380
But rarities cannot be had,
Where pains to get them are not paid.
As pride and luxury decrease,
So by degrees they leave the seas.
Not merchants now, but companies 385
Remove whole manufactories.
All arts and crafts neglected lie;
Content, the bane of industry,
Makes 'em admire their homely store,
And neither seek nor covet more. 390
So few in the vast hive remain,
The hundredth part they can't maintain
Against th' insults of numerous foes;
Whom yet they valiantly oppose:
'Till some well fenc'd retreat is found, 395
And here they die or stand their ground.
No hireling in their army's known;
But bravely fighting for their own,
Their courage and integrity
At last were crown'd with victory. 400
They triumph'd not without their cost,
For many thousand bees were lost.
Harden'd with toils and exercise,
They counted ease itself a vice;
Which so improv'd their temperance; 405
That, to avoid extravagance,
They flew into a hollow tree,
Blest with content and honesty.
THE MORAL.
Then leave complaints: fools only strive
To make a great an honest hive. 410
T' enjoy the world's conveniences,
Be fam'd in war, yet live in ease,
Without great vices, is a vain
Eutopia seated in the brain.
Fraud, luxury, and pride must live, 415
While we the benefits receive:
Hunger's a dreadful plague, no doubt,
Yet who digests or thrives without?
Do we not owe the growth of wine
To the dry shabby crooked vine? 420
Which, while its shoots neglected stood,
Chok'd other plants, and ran to wood;
But blest us with its noble fruit,
As soon as it was ty'd and cut:
So vice is beneficial found, 425
When it's by justice lopp'd and bound;
Nay, where the people would be great, }
As necessary to the state, }
As hunger is to make 'em eat. }
Bare virtue can't make nations live 430
In splendor; they, that would revive
A golden age, must be as free,
For acorns as for honesty. 433
THE
INTRODUCTION.
One of the greatest reasons why so few people understand themselves,
is, that most writers are always teaching men what they should be,
and hardly ever trouble their heads with telling them what they really
are. As for my part, without any compliment to the courteous reader,
or myself, I believe man (besides skin, flesh, bones, &c. that are
obvious to the eye) to be a compound of various passions; that all of
them, as they are provoked and come uppermost, govern him by turns,
whether he will or no. To show that these qualifications, which we
all pretend to be ashamed of, are the great support of a flourishing
society, has been the subject of the foregoing poem. But there being
some passages in it seemingly paradoxical, I have in the preface
promised some explanatory remarks on it; which, to render more useful,
I have thought fit to inquire, how man, no better qualified, might yet
by his own imperfections be taught to distinguish between virtue and
vice: and here I must desire the reader once for all to take notice,
that when I say men, I mean neither Jews nor Christians; but mere man,
in the state of nature and ignorance of the true Deity.
AN
INQUIRY
INTO THE
ORIGIN OF MORAL VIRTUE.
All untaught animals are only solicitous of pleasing themselves,
and naturally follow the bent of their own inclinations, without
considering the good or harm that, from their being pleased, will
accrue to others. This is the reason that, in the wild state of
nature, those creatures are fittest to live peaceably together in
great numbers, that discover the least of understanding, and have the
fewest appetites to gratify; and consequently no species of animals
is, without the curb of government, less capable of agreeing long
together in multitudes, than that of man; yet such are his qualities,
whether good or bad I shall not determine, that no creature besides
himself can ever be made sociable: but being an extraordinary selfish
and headstrong, as well as cunning animal, however he may be subdued
by superior strength, it is impossible by force alone to make him
tractable, and receive the improvements he is capable of.
The chief thing, therefore, which lawgivers, and other wise men that
have laboured for the establishment of society, have endeavoured,
has been to make the people they were to govern, believe, that
it was more beneficial for every body to conquer than indulge his
appetites, and much better to mind the public than what seemed his
private interest. As this has always been a very difficult task,
so no wit or eloquence has been left untried to compass it; and the
moralists and philosophers of all ages employed their utmost skill to
prove the truth of so useful an assertion. But whether mankind would
have ever believed it or not, it is not likely that any body could
have persuaded them to disapprove of their natural inclinations,
or prefer the good of others to their own, if, at the same time,
he had not showed them an equivalent to be enjoyed as a reward for
the violence, which, by so doing, they of necessity must commit upon
themselves. Those that have undertaken to civilize mankind, were
not ignorant of this; but being unable to give so many real rewards
as would satisfy all persons for every individual action, they were
forced to contrive an imaginary one, that, as a general equivalent
for the trouble of self-denial, should serve on all occasions, and
without costing any thing either to themselves or others, be yet a
most acceptable recompence to the receivers.
They thoroughly examined all the strength and frailties of our nature,
and observing that none were either so savage as not to be charmed
with praise, or so despicable as patiently to bear contempt, justly
concluded, that flattery must be the most powerful argument that could
be used to human creatures. Making use of this bewitching engine, they
extolled the excellency of our nature above other animals, and setting
forth with unbounded praises the wonders of our sagacity and vastness
of understanding, bestowed a thousand encomiums on the rationality
of our souls, by the help of which we were capable of performing
the most noble achievements. Having, by this artful way of flattery,
insinuated themselves into the hearts of men, they began to instruct
them in the notions of honour and shame; representing the one as the
worst of all evils, and the other as the highest good to which mortals
could aspire: which being done, they laid before them how unbecoming
it was the dignity of such sublime creatures to be solicitous about
gratifying those appetites, which they had in common with brutes, and
at the same time unmindful of those higher qualities that gave them
the pre-eminence over all visible beings. They indeed confessed, that
those impulses of nature were very pressing; that it was troublesome to
resist, and very difficult wholly to subdue them. But this they only
used as an argument to demonstrate, how glorious the conquest of them
was on the one hand, and how scandalous on the other not to attempt it.
To introduce, moreover, an emulation amongst men, they divided the
whole species into two classes, vastly differing from one another:
the one consisted of abject, low-minded people, that always hunting
after immediate enjoyment, were wholly incapable of self-denial,
and without regard to the good of others, had no higher aim than
their private advantage; such as being enslaved by voluptuousness,
yielded without resistance to every gross desire, and make no use of
their rational faculties but to heighten their sensual pleasure. These
wild grovelling wretches, they said, were the dross of their kind,
and having only the shape of men, differed from brutes in nothing
but their outward figure. But the other class was made up of
lofty high-spirited creatures, that, free from sordid selfishness,
esteemed the improvements of the mind to be their fairest possessions;
and, setting a true value upon themselves, took no delight but in
embellishing that part in which their excellency consisted; such
as despising whatever they had in common with irrational creatures,
opposed by the help of reason their most violent inclinations; and
making a continual war with themselves, to promote the peace of others,
aimed at no less than the public welfare, and the conquest of their
own passion.
Fortior est qui se quàm qui fortissima Vincit
Moenia ---- ----
These they called the true representatives of their sublime species,
exceeding in worth the first class by more degrees, than that itself
was superior to the beasts of the field.
As in all animals that are not too imperfect to discover pride,
we find, that the finest, and such as are the most beautiful and
valuable of their kind, have generally the greatest share of it; so
in man, the most perfect of animals, it is so inseparable from his
very essence (how cunningly soever some may learn to hide or disguise
it), that without it the compound he is made of would want one of
the chiefest ingredients: which, if we consider, it is hardly to be
doubted but lessons and remonstrances, so skilfully adapted to the
good opinion man has of himself, as those I have mentioned, must,
if scattered amongst a multitude, not only gain the assent of most
of them, as to the speculative part, but likewise induce several,
especially the fiercest, most resolute, and best among them, to
endure a thousand inconveniences, and undergo as many hardships,
that they may have the pleasure of counting themselves men of the
second class, and consequently appropriating to themselves all the
excellencies they have heard of it.
From what has been said, we ought to expect, in the first place, that
the heroes who took such extraordinary pains to master some of their
natural appetites, and preferred the good of others to any visible
interest of their own, would not recede an inch from the fine notions
they had received concerning the dignity of rational creatures; and
having ever the authority of the government on their side, with all
imaginable vigour assert the esteem that was due to those of the second
class, as well as their superiority over the rest of their kind. In
the second, that those who wanted a sufficient stock of either pride
or resolution, to buoy them up in mortifying of what was dearest to
them, followed the sensual dictates of nature, would yet be ashamed of
confessing themselves to be those despicable wretches that belonged
to the inferior class, and were generally reckoned to be so little
removed from brutes; and that therefore, in their own defence, they
would say, as others did, and hiding their own imperfections as well
as they could, cry up self-denial and public spiritedness as much
as any: for it is highly probable, that some of them, convinced by
the real proofs of fortitude and self-conquest they had seen, would
admire in others what they found wanting in themselves; others be
afraid of the resolution and prowess of those of the second class,
and that all of them were kept in awe by the power of their rulers;
wherefore is it reasonable to think, that none of them (whatever they
thought in themselves) would dare openly contradict, what by every
body else was thought criminal to doubt of.
This was (or at least might have been) the manner after which savage
man was broke; from whence it is evident, that the first rudiments
of morality, broached by skilful politicians, to render men useful
to each other, as well as tractable, were chiefly contrived, that
the ambitious might reap the more benefit from, and govern vast
numbers of them with the greater ease and security. This foundation
of politics being once laid, it is impossible that man should long
remain uncivilized: for even those who only strove to gratify their
appetites, being continually crossed by others of the same stamp,
could not but observe, that whenever they checked their inclinations
or but followed them with more circumspection, they avoided a world
of troubles, and often escaped many of the calamities that generally
attended the too eager pursuit after pleasure.
First, they received, as well as others, the benefit of those actions
that were done for the good of the whole society, and consequently
could not forbear wishing well to those of the superior class that
performed them. Secondly, the more intent they were in seeking their
own advantage, without regard to others, the more they were hourly
convinced, that none stood so much in their way as those that were
most like themselves.
It being the interest then of the very worst of them, more than any,
to preach up public-spiritedness, that they might reap the fruits of
the labour and self-denial of others, and at the same time indulge
their own appetites with less disturbance, they agreed with the
rest, to call every thing, which, without regard to the public,
man should commit to gratify any of his appetites, vice; if in that
action there could be observed the least prospect, that it might
either be injurious to any of the society, or ever render himself
less serviceable to others: and to give the name of virtue to every
performance, by which man, contrary to the impulse of nature, should
endeavour the benefit of others, or the conquest of his own passions,
out of a rational ambition of being good.
It shall be objected, that no society was ever any ways civilized
before the major part had agreed upon some worship or other of an
over-ruling power, and consequently that the notions of good and evil,
and the distinction between virtue and vice, were never the contrivance
of politicians, but the pure effect of religion. Before I answer
this objection, I must repeat what I have said already, that in this
inquiry into the origin of moral virtue, I speak neither of Jews or
Christians, but man in his state of nature and ignorance of the true
Deity; and then I affirm, that the idolatrous superstitions of all
other nations, and the pitiful notions they had of the Supreme Being,
were incapable of exciting man to virtue, and good for nothing but
to awe and amuse a rude and unthinking multitude. It is evident from
history, that in all considerable societies, how stupid or ridiculous
soever people's received notions have been, as to the deities they
worshipped, human nature has ever exerted itself in all its branches,
and that there is no earthly wisdom or moral virtue, but at one time
or other men have excelled in it in all monarchies and commonwealths,
that for riches and power have been any ways remarkable.
The Egyptians, not satisfied with having deified all the ugly
monsters they could think on, were so silly as to adore the onions
of their own sowing; yet at the same time their country was the most
famous nursery of arts and sciences in the world, and themselves more
eminently skilled in the deepest mysteries of nature than any nation
has been since.
No states or kingdoms under heaven have yielded more or greater
patterns in all sorts of moral virtues, than the Greek and Roman
empires, more especially the latter; and yet how loose, absurd and
ridiculous were their sentiments as to sacred matters? For without
reflecting on the extravagant number of their deities, if we only
consider the infamous stories they fathered upon them, it is not to
be denied but that their religion, far from teaching men the conquest
of their passions, and the way to virtue, seemed rather contrived to
justify their appetites, and encourage their vices. But if we would
know what made them excel in fortitude, courage, and magnanimity, we
must cast our eyes on the pomp of their triumphs, the magnificence of
their monuments and arches; their trophies, statues, and inscriptions;
the variety of their military crowns, their honours decreed to the
dead, public encomiums on the living, and other imaginary rewards
they bestowed on men of merit; and we shall find, that what carried
so many of them to the utmost pitch of self-denial, was nothing but
their policy in making use of the most effectual means that human
pride could be flattered with.
It is visible, then, that it was not any heathen religion, or other
idolatrous superstition, that first put man upon crossing his appetites
and subduing his dearest inclinations, but the skilful management
of wary politicians; and the nearer we search into human nature, the
more we shall be convinced, that the moral virtues are the political
offspring which flattery begot upon pride.
There is no man, of what capacity or penetration soever, that is wholly
proof against the witchcraft of flattery, if artfully performed, and
suited to his abilities. Children and fools will swallow personal
praise, but those that are more cunning, must be managed with much
greater circumspection; and the more general the flattery is, the
less it is suspected by those it is levelled at. What you say in
commendation of a whole town is received with pleasure by all the
inhabitants: speak in commendation of letters in general, and every
man of learning will think himself in particular obliged to you. You
may safely praise the employment a man is of, or the country he was
born in; because you give him an opportunity of screening the joy
he feels upon his own account, under the esteem which he pretends to
have for others.
It is common among cunning men, that understand the power which
flattery has upon pride, when they are afraid they shall be imposed
upon, to enlarge, though much against their conscience, upon the
honour, fair dealing, and integrity of the family, country, or
sometimes the profession of him they suspect; because they know
that men often will change their resolution, and act against their
inclination, that they may have the pleasure of continuing to appear in
the opinion of some, what they are conscious not to be in reality. Thus
sagacious moralists draw men like angels, in hopes that the pride at
least of some will put them upon copying after the beautiful originals
which they are represented to be.
When the incomparable Sir Richard Steele, in the usual elegance of
his easy style, dwells on the praises of his sublime species, and
with all the embellishments of rhetoric, sets forth the excellency
of human nature, it is impossible not to be charmed with his happy
turns of thought, and the politeness of his expressions. But though
I have been often moved by the force of his eloquence, and ready to
swallow the ingenious sophistry with pleasure, yet I could, never
be so serious, but, reflecting on his artful encomiums, I thought
on the tricks made use of by the women that would teach children
to be mannerly. When an awkward girl before she can either speak
or go, begins after many entreaties to make the first rude essays
of curtseying, the nurse falls in an ecstacy of praise; "There is a
delicate curtsey! O fine Miss! there is a pretty lady! Mamma! Miss
can make a better curtsey than her sister Molly!" The same is echoed
over by the maids, whilst Mamma almost hugs the child to pieces;
only Miss Molly, who being four years older, knows how to make a very
handsome curtsey, wonders at the perverseness of their judgment, and
swelling with indignation, is ready to cry at the injustice that is
done her, till, being whispered in the ear that it is only to please
the baby, and that she is a woman, she grows proud at being let into
the secret, and rejoicing at the superiority of her understanding,
repeats what has been said with large additions, and insults over
the weakness of her sister, whom all this while she fancies to be the
only bubble among them. These extravagant praises would by any one,
above the capacity of an infant, be called fulsome flatteries, and,
if you will, abominable lies; yet experience teaches us, that by
the help of such gross encomiums, young misses will be brought to
make pretty curtesies, and behave themselves womanly much sooner,
and with less trouble, than they would without them. It is the same
with boys, whom they will strive to persuade, that all fine gentlemen
do as they are bid, and that none but beggar boys are rude, or dirty
their clothes; nay, as soon as the wild brat with his untaught fist
begins to fumble for his hat, the mother, to make him pull it off,
tells him before he is two years old, that he is a man; and if he
repeats that action when she desires him, he is presently a captain,
a lord mayor, a king, or something higher if she can think of it,
till edged on by the force of praise, the little urchin endeavours
to imitate man as well as he can, and strains all his faculties to
appear what his shallow noddle imagines he is believed to be.
The meanest wretch puts an inestimable value upon himself, and the
highest wish of the ambitious man is to have all the world, as to
that particular, of his opinion: so that the most insatiable thirst
after fame that ever heroe was inspired with, was never more than an
ungovernable greediness to engross the esteem and admiration of others
in future ages as well as his own; and (what mortification soever this
truth might be to the second thoughts of an Alexander or a Cæsar) the
great recompense in view, for which the most exalted minds have with
so much alacrity sacrificed their quiet, health, sensual pleasures,
and every inch of themselves, has never been any thing else but the
breath of man, the aerial coin of praise. Who can forbear laughing
when he thinks on all the great men that have been so serious on
the subject of that Macedonian madman, his capacious soul, that
mighty heart, in one corner of which, according to Lorenzo Gratian,
the world was so commodiously lodged, that in the whole there was
room for six more? Who can forbear laughing, I say, when he compares
the fine things that have been said of Alexander, with the end he
proposed to himself from his vast exploits, to be proved from his
own mouth; when the vast pains he took to pass the Hydaspes forced
him to cry out? Oh ye Athenians, could you believe what dangers I
expose myself to, to be praised by you! To define then, the reward
of glory in the amplest manner, the most that can be said of it,
is, that it consists in a superlative felicity which a man, who is
conscious of having performed a noble action, enjoys in self-love,
whilst he is thinking on the applause he expects of others.
But here I shall be told, that besides the noisy toils of war and
public bustle of the ambitious, there are noble and generous actions
that are performed in silence; that virtue being its own reward, those
who are really good, have a satisfaction in their consciousness of
being so, which is all the recompence they expect from the most worthy
performances; that among the heathens there have been men, who, when
they did good to others, were so far from coveting thanks and applause,
that they took all imaginable care to be for ever concealed from those
on whom they bestowed their benefits, and consequently that pride
has no hand in spurring man on to the highest pitch of self-denial.
In answer to this, I say, that it is impossible to judge of a man's
performance, unless we are thoroughly acquainted with the principle
and motive from which he acts. Pity, though it is the most gentle and
the least mischievous of all our passions, is yet as much a frailty of
our nature, as anger, pride, or fear. The weakest minds have generally
the greatest share of it, for which reason none are more compassionate
than women and children. It must be owned, that of all our weaknesses,
it is the most amiable, and bears the greatest resemblance to virtue;
nay, without a considerable mixture of it, the society could hardly
subsist: but as it is an impulse of nature, that consults neither the
public interest nor our own reason, it may produce evil as well as
good. It has helped to destroy the honour of virgins, and corrupted
the integrity of judges; and whoever acts from it as a principle,
what good soever he may bring to the society, has nothing to boast of,
but that he has indulged a passion that has happened to be beneficial
to the public. There is no merit in saving an innocent babe ready
to drop into the fire: the action is neither good nor bad, and
what benefit soever the infant received, we only obliged ourselves;
for to have seen it fall, and not strove to hinder it, would have
caused a pain, which self preservation compelled us to prevent: Nor
has a rich prodigal, that happens to be of a commiserating temper,
and loves to gratify his passions, greater virtue to boast of, when
he relieves an object of compassion with what to himself is a trifle.
But such men, as without complying with any weakness of their own,
can part from what they value themselves, and, from no other motive
but there love to goodness, perform a worthy action in silence:
such men, I confess, have acquired more refined notions of virtue
than those I have hitherto spoke of; yet even in these (with which
the world has yet never swarmed) we may discover no small symptoms
of pride, and the humblest man alive must confess, that the reward
of a virtuous action, which is the satisfaction that ensues upon it,
consists in a certain pleasure he procures to himself by contemplating
on his own worth: which pleasure, together with the occasion of it,
are as certain signs of pride, as looking pale and trembling at any
imminent danger, are the symptoms of fear.
If the too scrupulous reader should at first view condemn these notions
concerning the origin of moral virtue, and think them perhaps offensive
to Christianity, I hope he will forbear his censures, when he shall
consider, that nothing can render the unsearchable depth of the Divine
Wisdom more conspicuous, than that man, whom Providence had designed
for society, should not only by his own frailties and imperfections,
be led into the road to temporal happiness, but likewise receive, from
a seeming necessity of natural causes, a tincture of that knowledge,
in which he was afterwards to be made perfect by the true religion,
to his eternal welfare.
REMARKS.
Line 45. Whilst others follow'd mysteries,
To which few folks bind 'prentices.
In the education of youth, in order to their getting of a livelihood
when they shall be arrived at maturity, most people look out for some
warrantable employment or other, of which there are whole bodies or
companies, in every large society of men. By this means, all arts
and sciences, as well as trades and handicrafts, are perpetuated in
the commonwealth, as long as they are found useful; the young ones
that are daily brought up to them, continually supplying the loss of
the old ones that die. But some of these employments being vastly
more creditable than others, according to the great difference of
the charges required to set up in each of them, all prudent parents,
in the choice of them, chiefly consult their own abilities, and the
circumstances they are in. A man that gives three or four hundred
pounds with his son to a great merchant, and has not two or three
thousand pounds to spare against he is out of his time to begin
business with, is much to blame not to have brought his child up to
something that might be followed with less money.
There are abundance of men of a genteel education, that have but very
small revenues, and yet are forced, by their reputable callings, to
make a greater figure than ordinary people of twice their income. If
these have any children, it often happens, that as their indigence
renders them incapable of bringing them up to creditable occupations,
so their pride makes them unwilling to put them out to any of the
mean laborious trades, and then, in hopes either of an alteration
in their fortune, or that some friends, or favourable opportunity
shall offer, they from time to time put off the disposing of them,
until insensibly they come to be of age, and are at last brought up
to nothing. Whether this neglect be more barbarous to the children,
or prejudicial to the society, I shall not determine. At Athens all
children were forced to assist their parents, if they came to want:
But Solon made a law, that no son should be obliged to relieve his
father, who had not bred him up to any calling.
Some parents put out their sons to good trades very suitable to their
then present abilities, but happen to die, or fail in the world,
before their children have finished their apprenticeships, or are
made fit for the business they are to follow: A great many young men
again, on the other hand, are handsomely provided for and set up for
themselves, that yet (some for want of industry, or else a sufficient
knowledge in their callings, others by indulging their pleasures,
and some few by misfortunes) are reduced to poverty, and altogether
unable to maintain themselves by the business they were brought
up to. It is impossible but that the neglects, mismanagements, and
misfortunes I named, must very frequently happen in populous places,
and consequently great numbers of people be daily flung unprovided
for into the wide world, how rich and potent a commonwealth may be,
or what care soever a government may take to hinder it. How must
these people be disposed of? The sea, I know, and armies, which the
world is seldom without, will take off some. Those that are honest
drudges, and of a laborious temper, will become journeymen to the
trades they are of, or enter into some other service: such of them
as studied and were sent to the university, may become schoolmasters,
tutors, and some few of them get into some office or other: But what
must become of the lazy, that care for no manner of working, and the
fickle, that hate to be confined to any thing?
Those that ever took delight in plays and romances, and have a spice
of gentility, will, in all probability, throw their eyes upon the
stage, and if they have a good elocution, with tolerable mien, turn
actors. Some that love their bellies above any thing else, if they
have a good palate, and a little knack at cookery, will strive to get
in with gluttons and epicures, learn to cringe and bear all manner of
usage, and so turn parasites, ever flattering the master, and making
mischief among the rest of the family. Others, who by their own and
companions lewdness, judge of people's incontinence, will naturally
fall to intriguing, and endeavour to live by pimping for such as
either want leisure or address to speak for themselves. Those of the
most abandoned principles of all, if they are sly and dexterous, turn
sharpers, pick-pockets, or coiners, if their skill and ingenuity give
them leave. Others again, that have observed the credulity of simple
women, and other foolish people, if they have impudence and a little
cunning, either set up for doctors, or else pretend to tell fortunes;
and every one turning the vices and frailties of others to his own
advantage, endeavours to pick up a living the easiest and shortest
way his talents and abilities will let him.
These are certainly the bane of civil society; but they are fools,
who, not considering what has been said, storm at the remissness of
the laws that suffer them to live, while wise men content themselves
with taking all imaginable care not to be circumvented by them,
without quarrelling at what no human prudence can prevent.
Line 55. These we call'd Knaves, but bar the name,
The grave industrious were the same.
This, I confess, is but a very indifferent compliment to all the
trading part of the people. But if the word Knave may be understood
in its full latitude, and comprehend every body that is not sincerely
honest, and does to others what he would dislike to have done to
himself, I do not question but I shall make good the charge. To pass
by the innumerable artifices, by which buyers and sellers outwit one
another, that are daily allowed of and practised among the fairest of
dealers, show me the tradesmen that has always discovered the defects
of his goods to those that cheapened them; nay, where will you find
one that has not at one time or other industriously concealed them,
to the detriment of the buyer? Where is the merchant that has never,
against his conscience, extolled his wares beyond their worth, to
make them go off the better.
Decio, a man of great figure, that had large commissions for sugar
from several parts beyond sea, treats about a considerable parcel
of that commodity with Alcander, an eminent West India merchant;
both understood the market very well, but could not agree: Decio was
a man of substance, and thought no body ought to buy cheaper than
himself; Alcander was the same, and not wanting money, stood for his
price. While they were driving their bargain at a tavern near the
exchange, Alcander's man brought his master a letter from the West
Indies, that informed him of a much greater quantity of sugars coming
for England than was expected. Alcander now wished for nothing more
than to sell at Decio's price, before the news was public; but being
a cunning fox, that he might not seem too precipitant, nor yet lose
his customer, he drops the discourse they were upon, and putting
on a jovial humour, commends the agreeableness of the weather, from
whence falling upon the delight he took in his gardens, invites Decio
to go along with him to his country house, that was not above twelve
miles from London. It was in the month of May, and, as it happened,
upon a Saturday in the afternoon: Decio, who was a single man, and
would have no business in town before Tuesday, accepts of the other's
civility, and away they go in Alcander's coach. Decio was splendidly
entertained that night and the day following; the Monday morning,
to get himself an appetite, he goes to take the air upon a pad of
Alcander's, and coming back meets with a gentleman of his acquaintance,
who tells him news was come the night before that the Barbadoes fleet
was destroyed by a storm, and adds, that before he came out it had
been confirmed at Lloyd's coffee house, where it was thought sugars
would rise 25 per cent, by change-time. Decio returns to his friend,
and immediately resumes the discourse they had broke off at the tavern:
Alcander, who thinking himself sure of his chap, did not design to
have moved it till after dinner, was very glad to see himself so
happily prevented; but how desirous soever he was to sell, the other
was yet more eager to buy; yet both of them afraid of one another,
for a considerable time counterfeited all the indifference imaginable;
until at last, Decio fired with what he had heard, thought delays
might prove dangerous, and throwing a guinea upon the table, struck
the bargain at Alcander's price. The next day they went to London;
the news proved true, and Decio got five hundred pounds by his sugars,
Alcander, whilst he had strove to over-reach the other, was paid in his
own coin: yet all this is called fair dealing; but I am sure neither
of them would have desired to be done by, as they did to each other.
Line 101. The soldiers that were forc'd to fight,
If they surviv'd got honour by't.
So unaccountable is the desire to be thought well of in men, that
though they are dragged into the war against their will, and some
of them for their crimes, and are compelled to fight with threats,
and often blows, yet they would be esteemed for what they would have
avoided, if it had been in their power: whereas, if reason in man
was of equal weight with his pride, he could never be pleased with
praises, which he is conscious he does not deserve.
By honour, in its proper and genuine signification, we mean nothing
else but the good opinion of others, which is counted more or less
substantial, the more or less noise or bustle there is made about the
demonstration of it; and when we say the sovereign is the fountain of
honour, it signifies that he has the power, by titles or ceremonies,
or both together, to stamp a mark upon whom he pleases, that shall
be as current as his coin, and procure the owner the good opinion of
every body, whether he deserves it or not.
The reverse of honour is dishonour, or ignominy, which consists in
the bad opinion and contempt of others; and as the first is counted
a reward for good actions, so this is esteemed a punishment for bad
ones; and the more or less public or heinous the manner is in which
this contempt of others is shown, the more or less the person so
suffering is degraded by it. This ignominy is likewise called shame,
from the effect it produces; for though the good and evil of honour
and dishonour are imaginary, yet there is a reality in shame, as it
signifies a passion, that has its proper symptoms, over-rules our
reason, and requires as much labour and self-denial to be subdued, as
any of the rest; and since the most important actions of life often
are regulated according to the influence this passion has upon us,
a thorough understanding of it must help to illustrate the notions
the world has of honour and ignominy. I shall therefore describe it
at large.
First, to define the passion of shame, I think it may be called
a sorrowful reflection on our own unworthiness, proceeding from
an apprehension that others either do, or might, if they knew all,
deservedly despise us. The only objection of weight that can be raised
against this definition is, that innocent virgins are often ashamed,
and blush when they are guilty of no crime, and can give no manner of
reason for this frailty: and that men are often ashamed for others,
for, or with whom, they have neither friendship or affinity, and
consequently that there may be a thousand instances of shame given, to
which the words of the definition are not applicable. To answer this,
I would have it first considered, that the modesty of women is the
result of custom and education, by which all unfashionable denudations
and filthy expressions are rendered frightful and abominable to them,
and that notwithstanding this, the most virtuous young woman alive
will often, in spite of her teeth, have thoughts and confused ideas
of things arise in her imagination, which she would not reveal to
some people for a thousand worlds. Then, I say, that when obscene
words are spoken in the presence of an unexperienced virgin, she is
afraid that some body will reckon her to understand what they mean, and
consequently that she understands this, and that, and several things,
which she desires to be thought ignorant of. The reflecting on this,
and that thoughts are forming to her disadvantage, brings upon her
that passion which we call shame; and whatever can sting her, though
never so remote from lewdness, upon that set of thoughts I hinted,
and which she thinks criminal, will have the same effect, especially
before men, as long as her modesty lasts.
To try the truth of this, let them talk as much bawdy as they please
in the room next to the same virtuous young woman, where she is sure
that she is undiscovered, and she will hear, if not hearken to it,
without blushing at all, because then she looks upon herself as no
party concerned; and if the discourse should stain her cheeks with red,
whatever her innocence may imagine, it is certain that what occasions
her colour, is a passion not half so mortifying as that of shame;
but if, in the same place, she hears something said of herself that
must tend to her disgrace, or any thing is named, of which she is
secretly guilty, then it is ten to one but she will be ashamed and
blush, though nobody sees her; because she has room to fear, that
she is, or, if all was known, should be thought of contemptibly.
That we are often ashamed, and blush for others, which was the second
part of the objection, is nothing else but that sometimes we make
the case of others too nearly our own; so people shriek out when
they see others in danger: Whilst we are reflecting with too much
earnest on the effect which such a blameable action, if it was ours,
would produce in us, the spirits, and consequently the blood, are
insensibly moved, after the same manner as if the action was our own,
and so the same symptoms must appear.
The shame that raw, ignorant, and ill-bred people, though seemingly
without a cause, discover before their betters, is always accompanied
with, and proceeds from a consciousness of their weakness and
inabilities; and the most modest man, how virtuous, knowing, and
accomplished soever he might be, was never yet ashamed without some
guilt or diffidence. Such as out of rusticity, and want of education
are unreasonably subject to, and at every turn overcome by this
passion, we call bashful; and those who out of disrespect to others,
and a false opinion of their own sufficiency, have learned not to
be affected with it, when they should be, are called impudent or
shameless. What strange contradictions man is made of! The reverse
of shame is pride, (see Remark on l. 182) yet no body can be touched
with the first, that never felt any thing of the latter; for that
we have such an extraordinary concern in what others think of us,
can proceed from nothing but the vast esteem we have of ourselves.
That these two passions, in which the seeds of most virtues are
contained, are realities in our frame, and not imaginary qualities,
is demonstrable from the plain and different effects, that, in spite of
our reason, are produced in us as soon as we are affected with either.
When a man is overwhelmed with shame, he observes a sinking of the
spirits! the heart feels cold and condensed, and the blood flies
from it to the circumference of the body; the face glows, the neck
and part of the breast partake of the fire: he is heavy as lead;
the head is hung down, and the eyes through a mist of confusion are
fixed on the ground: no injuries can move him; he is weary of his
being, and heartily wishes he could make himself invisible: but when,
gratifying his vanity, he exults in his pride, he discovers quite
contrary symptoms; his spirits swell and fan the arterial blood;
a more than ordinary warmth strengthens and dilates the heart;
the extremities are cool; he feels light to himself, and imagines
he could tread on air; his head is held up, his eyes rolled about
with sprightliness; he rejoices at his being, is prone to anger,
and would be glad that all the world could take notice of him.
It is incredible how necessary an ingredient shame is to make us
sociable; it is a frailty in our nature; all the world, whenever
it affects them, submit to it with regret, and would prevent it
if they could; yet the happiness of conversation depends upon it,
and no society could be polished, if the generality of mankind were
not subject to it. As, therefore, the sense of shame is troublesome,
and all creatures are ever labouring for their own defence, it is
probable, that man striving to avoid this uneasiness, would, in a great
measure, conquer his shame by that he was grown up; but this would be
detrimental to the society, and therefore from his infancy, throughout
his education, we endeavour to increase, instead of lessening or
destroying this sense of shame; and the only remedy prescribed, is a
strict observance of certain rules, to avoid those things that might
bring this troublesome sense of shame upon him. But as to rid or cure
him of it, the politician would sooner take away his life.
The rules I speak of, consist in a dextrous management of ourselves,
a stifling of our appetites, and hiding the real sentiments of
our hearts before others. Those who are not instructed in these
rules long before they come to years of maturity, seldom make any
progress in them afterwards. To acquire and bring to perfection the
accomplishment I hint at, nothing is more assisting than pride and
good sense. The greediness we have after the esteem of others, and the
raptures we enjoy in the thoughts of being liked, and perhaps admired,
are equivalents that over-pay the conquest of the strongest passions,
and consequently keep us at a great distance from all such words or
actions that can bring shame upon us. The passions we chiefly ought
to hide, for the happiness and embellishment of the society, are lust,
pride, and selfishness; therefore the word modesty has three different
acceptations, that vary with the passions it conceals.
As to the first, I mean the branch of modesty, that has a general
pretension to chastity for its object, it consists in a sincere and
painful endeavour, with all our faculties, to stifle and conceal before
others, that inclination which nature has given us to propagate our
species. The lessons of it, like those of grammar, are taught us
long before we have occasion for, or understand the usefulness of
them; for this reason children often are ashamed, and blush out of
modesty, before the impulse of nature I hint at makes any impression
upon them. A girl who is modestly educated, may, before she is two
years old, begin to observe how careful the women she converses with,
are of covering themselves before men; and the same caution being
inculcated to her by precept, as well as example, it is very probable
that at six she will be ashamed of showing her leg, without knowing
any reason why such an act is blameable, or what the tendency of it is.
To be modest, we ought, in the first place, to avoid all unfashionable
denudations: a woman is not to be found fault with for going with
her neck bare, if the custom of the country allows of it; and when
the mode orders the stays to be cut very low, a blooming virgin may,
without fear of rational censure, show all the world:
How firm her pouting breasts, that white as snow,
On th' ample chest at mighty distance grow.
But to suffer her ancle to be seen, where it is the fashion for
women to hide their very feet, is a breach of modesty; and she
is impudent, who shows half her face in a country where decency
bids her to be veiled. In the second, our language must be chaste,
and not only free, but remote from obscenities, that is, whatever
belongs to the multiplication of our species is not to be spoke of,
and the least word or expression, that, though at a great distance,
has any relation to that performance, ought never to come from our
lips. Thirdly, all postures and motions that can any ways sully the
imagination, that is, put us in mind of what I have called obscenities,
are to be forbore with great caution.
A young woman, moreover, that would be thought well-bred, ought to
be circumspect before men in all her behaviour, and never known to
receive from, much less to bestow favours upon them, unless the great
age of the man, near consanguinity, or a vast superiority on either
side, plead her excuse. A young lady of refined education keeps a
strict guard over her looks, as well as actions, and in her eyes we
may read a consciousness that she has a treasure about her, not out
of danger of being lost, and which yet she is resolved not to part
with at any terms. Thousand satires have been made against prudes, and
as many encomiums to extol the careless graces, and negligent air of
virtuous beauty. But the wiser sort of mankind are well assured, that
the free and open countenance of the smiling fair, is more inviting,
and yields greater hopes to the seducer, than the ever-watchful look
of a forbidding eye.
This strict reservedness is to be complied with by all young women,
especially virgins, if they value the esteem of the polite and knowing
world; men may take greater liberty, because in them the appetite is
more violent and ungovernable. Had equal harshness of discipline been
imposed upon both, neither of them could have made the first advances,
and propagation must have stood still among all the fashionable people:
which being far from the politician's aim, it was advisable to ease
and indulge the sex that suffered most by the severity, and make the
rules abate of their rigour, where the passion was the strongest, and
the burden of a strict restraint would have been the most intolerable.
For this reason, the man is allowed openly to profess the veneration
and great esteem he has for women, and show greater satisfaction, more
mirth and gaiety in their company, than he is used to do out of it. He
may not only be complaisant and serviceable to them on all occasions,
but it is reckoned his duty to protect and defend them. He may praise
the good qualities they are possessed of, and extol their merit with as
many exaggerations as his invention will let him, and are consistent
with good sense. He may talk of love, he may sigh and complain of the
rigours of the fair, and what his tongue must not utter he has the
privilege to speak with his eyes, and in that language to say what
he pleases; so it be done with decency, and short abrupted glances:
but too closely to pursue a woman, and fasten upon her with ones eyes,
is counted very unmannerly; the reason is plain, it makes her uneasy,
and, if she be not sufficiently fortified by art and dissimulation,
often throws her into visible disorders. As the eyes are the windows
of the soul, so this staring impudence flings a raw, unexperienced
woman, into panic fears, that she may be seen through; and that the
man will discover, or has already betrayed, what passes within her:
it keeps her on a perpetual rack, that commands her to reveal her
secret wishes, and seems designed to extort from her the grand truth,
which modesty bids her with all her faculties to deny.
The multitude will hardly believe the excessive force of education,
and in the difference of modesty between men and women, ascribe that
to nature which is altogether owing to early instruction: Miss is
scarce three years old, but she is spoke to every day to hide her leg,
and rebuked in good earnest if she shows it; while little Master at
the same age is bid to take up his coats, and piss like a man. It is
shame and education that contains the seeds of all politeness, and
he that has neither, and offers to speak the truth of his heart, and
what he feels within, is the most contemptible creature upon earth,
though he committed no other fault. If a man should tell a woman,
that he could like no body so well to propagate his species upon, as
herself, and that he found a violent desire that moment to go about
it, and accordingly offered to lay hold of her for that purpose; the
consequence would be, that he would be called a brute, the woman would
run away, and himself be never admitted in any civil company. There is
no body that has any sense of shame, but would conquer the strongest
passion rather than be so served. But a man need not conquer his
passions, it is sufficient that he conceals them. Virtue bids us
subdue, but good breeding only requires we should hide our appetites. A
fashionable gentleman may have as violent an inclination to a woman
as the brutish fellow; but then he behaves himself quite otherwise;
he first addresses the lady's father, and demonstrates his ability
splendidly to maintain his daughter; upon this he is admitted into
her company, where, by flattery, submission, presents, and assiduity,
he endeavours to procure her liking to his person, which if he can
compass, the lady in a little while resigns herself to him before
witnesses in a most solemn manner; at night they go to bed together,
where the most reserved virgin very tamely suffers him to do what he
pleases, and the upshot is, that he obtains what he wanted without
ever having asked for it.
The next day they receive visits, and no body laughs at them, or
speaks a word of what they have been doing. As to the young couple
themselves, they take no more notice of one another, I speak of
well-bred people, than they did the day before; they eat and drink,
divert themselves as usually, and having done nothing to be ashamed
of, are looked upon as, what in reality they may be, the most modest
people upon earth. What I mean by this, is to demonstrate, that by
being well-bred, we suffer no abridgement in our sensual pleasures,
but only labour for our mutual happiness, and assist each other in
the luxurious enjoyment of all worldly comforts. The fine gentleman
I spoke of need not practise any greater self-denial than the savage,
and the latter acted more according to the laws of nature and sincerity
than the first. The man that gratifies his appetites after the manner
the custom of the country allows of, has no censure to fear. If he is
hotter than goats or bulls, as soon as the ceremony is over, let him
sate and fatigue himself with joy and ecstacies of pleasure, raise and
indulge his appetites by turns, as extravagantly as his strength and
manhood will give him leave, he may with safety laugh at the wise men
that should reprove him: all the women, and above nine in ten of the
men are of his side; nay, he has the liberty of valuing himself upon
the fury of his unbridled passion, and the more he wallows in lust,
and strains every faculty to be abandonedly voluptuous, the sooner
he shall have the good-will and gain the affection of the women,
not the young, vain, and lascivious only, but the prudent, grave,
and most sober matrons.
Because impudence is a vice, it does not follow that modesty is
a virtue; it is built upon shame, a passion in our nature, and
may be either good or bad according to the actions performed from
that motive. Shame may hinder a prostitute from yielding to a man
before company, and the same shame may cause a bashful good-natured
creature, that has been overcome by frailty, to make away with her
infant. Passions may do good by chance, but there can be no merit
but in the conquest of them.
Was there virtue in modesty, it would be of the same force in the
dark as it is in the light, which it is not. This the men of pleasure
know very well, who never trouble their heads with a woman's virtue,
so they can but conquer her modesty; seducers, therefore, do not make
their attacks at noon-day, but cut their trenches at night.
Illa verecundis lux est præbenda puellis,
Qua timidus latebras sperat habere pudor.
People of substance may sin without being exposed for their stolen
pleasure; but servants, and the poorer sort of women, have seldom the
opportunity of concealing a big belly, or at least the consequences
of it. It is impossible that an unfortunate girl of good parentage
may be left destitute, and know no shift for a livelihood than to
become a nursery, or a chambermaid: she may be diligent, faithful,
and obliging, have abundance of modesty, and if you will, be
religious: she may resist temptations, and preserve her chastity
for years together, and yet at last meet with an unhappy moment in
which she gives up her honour to a powerful deceiver, who afterwards
neglects her. If she proves with child, her sorrows are unspeakable,
and she cannot be reconciled with the wretchedness of her condition;
the fear of shame attacks her so lively, that every thought distracts
her. All the family she lives in have a great opinion of her virtue,
and her last mistress took her for a saint. How will her enemies,
that envied her character, rejoice! How will her relations detest
her! The more modest she is now, and the more violently the dread of
coming to shame hurries her away, the more wicked and more cruel her
resolutions will be, either against herself or what she bears.
It is commonly imagined, that she who can destroy her child, her own
flesh and blood, must have a vast stock of barbarity, and be a savage
monster, different from other women; but this is likewise a mistake,
which we commit for the want of understanding nature and the force
of passions. The same woman that murders her bastard in the most
execrable manner, if she is married afterwards, may take care of,
cherish, and feel all the tenderness for her infant that the fondest
mother can be capable of. All mothers naturally love their children:
but as this is a passion, and all passions centre in self-love,
so it may be subdued by any superior passion, to sooth that same
self-love, which if nothing had intervened, would have bid her fondle
her offspring. Common whores, whom all the world knows to be such,
hardly ever destroy their children; nay, even those who assist in
robberies and murders seldom are guilty of this crime; not because
they are less cruel or more virtuous, but because they have lost their
modesty to a greater degree, and the fear of shame makes hardly any
impression upon them.
Our love to what never was within the reach of our senses is but
poor and inconsiderable, and therefore women have no natural love
to what they bear; their affection begins after the birth: what they
feel before is the result of reason, education, and the thoughts of
duty. Even when children first are born, the mother's love is but
weak, and increases with the sensibility of the child, and grows
up to a prodigious height, when by signs it begins to express his
sorrows and joys, makes his wants known, and discovers his love to
novelty and the multiplicity of his desires. What labours and hazards
have not women undergone to maintain and save their children, what
force and fortitude beyond their sex have they not shown in their
behalf! but the vilest women have exerted themselves on this head as
violently as the best. All are prompted to it by a natural drift and
inclination, without any consideration of the injury or benefit the
society receives from it. There is no merit in pleasing ourselves,
and the very offspring is often irreparably ruined by the excessive
fondness of parents: for though infants, for two or three years,
may be the better for this indulging care of mothers, yet afterwards,
if not moderated, it may totally spoil them, and many it has brought
to the gallows.
If the reader thinks I have been too tedious on that branch of modesty,
by the help of which we endeavour to appear chaste, I shall make him
amends in the brevity with which I design to treat of the remaining
part, by which we would make others believe, that the esteem we have
for them exceeds the value we have for ourselves, and that we have no
disregard so great to any interest as we have to our own. This laudable
quality is commonly known by the name of Manners and Good-breeding,
and consists in a fashionable habit, acquired by precept and example,
of flattering the pride and selfishness of others, and concealing our
own with judgment and dexterity. This must be only understood of our
commerce with our equals and superiors, and whilst we are in peace
and amity with them; for our complaisance must never interfere with
the rules of honour, nor the homage that is due to us from servants
and others that depend upon us.
With this caution, I believe, that the definition will quadrate
with every thing that can be alleged as a piece, or an example of
either good-breeding or ill manners; and it will be very difficult
throughout the various accidents of human life and conversation, to
find out an instance of modesty or impudence that is not comprehended
in, and illustrated by it, in all countries and in all ages. A man
that asks considerable favours of one who is a stranger to him,
without consideration, is called impudent, because he shows openly
his selfishness, without having any regard to the selfishness of
the other. We may see in it, likewise, the reason why a man ought to
speak of his wife and children, and every thing that is dear to him,
as sparing as is possible, and hardly ever of himself, especially in
commendation of them. A well-bred man may be desirous, and even greedy
after praise and the esteem of others, but to be praised to his face
offends his modesty: the reason is this; all human creatures, before
they are yet polished, receive an extraordinary pleasure in hearing
themselves praised: this we are all conscious of, and therefore when
we see a man openly enjoy and feast on this delight, in which we have
no share, it rouses our selfishness, and immediately we begin to envy
and hate him. For this reason, the well-bred man conceals his joy,
and utterly denies that he feels any, and by this means consulting
and soothing our selfishness, he averts that envy and hatred, which
otherwise he would have justly to fear. When from our childhood
we observe how those are ridiculed who calmly can hear their own
praises, it is possible that we may strenuously endeavour to avoid that
pleasure, that in tract of time we grow uneasy at the approach of it:
but this is not following the dictates of nature, but warping her by
education and custom; for if the generality of mankind took no delight
in being praised, there could be no modesty in refusing to hear it.
The man of manners picks not the best, but rather takes the worst out
of the dish, and gets of every thing, unless it be forced upon him,
always the most indifferent share. By this civility the best remains
for others, which being a compliment to all that are present, every
body is pleased with it: the more they love themselves, the more they
are forced to approve of his behaviour, and gratitude stepping in,
they are obliged almost, whether they will or not, to think favourably
of him. After this manner, it is the well-bred man insinuates himself
in the esteem of all the companies he comes in, and if he gets nothing
else by it, the pleasure he receives in reflecting on the applause
which he knows is secretly given him, is to a proud man more than an
equivalent for his former self-denial, and overpays to self-love with
interest, the loss it sustained in his complaisance to others.
If there are seven or eight apples or peaches among six people of
ceremony, that are pretty near equal, he who is prevailed upon to
choose first, will take that, which, if there be any considerable
difference, a child would know to be the worst: this he does to
insinuate, that he looks upon those he is with to be of superior merit,
and that there is not one whom he wishes not better to than he does to
himself. It is custom and a general practice that makes this modish
deceit familiar to us, without being shocked at the absurdity of it;
for if people had been used to speak from the sincerity of their
hearts, and act according to the natural sentiments they felt within,
until they were three or four and twenty, it would be impossible
for them to assist at this comedy of manners, without either loud
laughter or indignation; and yet it is certain, that such behaviour
makes us more tolerable to one another, than we could be otherwise.
It is very advantageous to the knowledge of ourselves, to be able
well to distinguish between good qualities and virtues. The bond
of society exacts from every member a certain regard for others,
which the highest is not exempt from in the presence of the meanest
even in an empire: but when we are by ourselves, and so far removed
from company, as to be beyond the reach of their senses, the words
modesty and impudence lose their meaning; a person may be wicked,
but he cannot be immodest while he is alone, and no thought can be
impudent that never was communicated to another. A man of exalted
pride may so hide it, that no body shall be able to discover that he
has any; and yet receive greater satisfaction from that passion than
another, who indulges himself in the declaration of it before all
the world. Good manners having nothing to do with virtue or religion;
instead of extinguishing, they rather inflame the passions. The man
of sense and education never exults more in his pride than when he
hides it with the greatest dexterity; and in feasting on the applause,
which he is sure all good judges will pay to his behaviour, he enjoys
a pleasure altogether unknown to the short-sighted surly alderman,
that shows his haughtiness glaringly in his face, pulls off his hat
to nobody, and hardly deigns to speak to an inferior.