_Of the motives to solitude._
The motives which induce men to exchange the tumultuous joys of society,
for the calm and temperate pleasures of solitude, are various and
accidental; but whatever may be the final cause of such an exchange, it
is generally founded on an inclination to escape from some present or
impending constraint; to shake off the shackles of the world; to taste
the sweets of soft repose; to enjoy the free and undisturbed exertion of
the intellectual faculties; or to perform, beyond the reach of ridicule,
the important duties of religion. But the busy pursuits of worldly minded
men prevent the greater part of the species from feeling these motives,
and, of course, from tasting the sweets of unmolested existence. Their
pleasures are pursued in paths which lead to very different goals: and
the real, constant, and unaffected lover of retirement is a character
so rarely found, that it seems to prove the truth of lord Verulam’s
observation, that he who is really attached to solitude, must be either
more or less than man; and certain it is, that while the wise and
virtuous discover in retirement an uncommon and transcending brightness
of character, the vicious and the ignorant are buried under its weight,
and sink even beneath their ordinary level. Retirement gives additional
firmness to the principles of those who seek it from a noble love of
independence, but loosens the feeble consistency of those who only seek
it from novelty and caprice.
To render solitude serviceable, the powers of the mind, and the
sensibilities of the heart, must be co-equal, and reciprocally regulate
each other; weakness of intellect, when joined with quick feelings,
hurries its possessor into all the tumult of worldly pleasure; and when
mingled with torpid insensibility, impels him to the cloister. Extremes,
both in solitude and in society, are equally baneful.
A strong sense of shame, the keen compunctions of conscience, a deep
regret for past follies, the mortification arising from disappointed
hopes, and the dejection which accompanies disordered health, sometimes
so affect the spirits, and destroy the energies of the mind, that the
soul shrinks back upon itself at the very approach of company, and
withdraws to the shades of solitude, only to brood and languish in
obscurity. The inclination to retire, in cases of this description,
arises from a fear of meeting the reproaches or disregard of an unpitying
and unreflecting world, and not from that erect spirit which disposes the
mind to self enjoyment.
The disgust arising from satiety of worldly pleasures, frequently induces
a temporary desire for solitude. The dark and gloomy nature, indeed, of
this disposition, is such as neither the splendors of a throne, nor the
light of philosophy, are able to irradiate and dispel. The austere and
petulant Heraclitus abandoned all the pleasures and comforts of society,
in the vain hope of being able to gratify his discontented mind, by
indulging an antipathy against his fellow creatures; flying from their
presence he retired, like his predecessor Timon, to a high mountain,
where he lived for many years among the beasts of the desert, on the
rude produce of the earth, regardless of all the comforts a civilized
society is capable of bestowing. Such a temper of mind proceeds from a
sickened intellect and disordered sensibility, and indicates the loss
of that fine, but firm sense of pleasure, from which alone all real
enjoyment must spring. He who having tasted all that can delight the
senses, warm the heart, and satisfy the mind, secretly sighs over the
vanity of his enjoyments, and beholds all the cheering objects of life
with indifference, is, indeed, a melancholy example of the sad effects
which result from an intemperate pursuit of worldly pleasures. Such a man
may, perhaps, abandon society, for it is no longer capable of affording
him delight; but he will be debarred from all rational solitude, because
he is incapable of enjoying it, and a refuge to the brute creation seems
his only resource. I have, indeed, observed even noblemen and princes
in the midst of abundance, and surrounded by all the splendor that
successful ambition, high state, vast riches, and varying pleasures can
confer, sinking the sad victims of satiety; disgusted with their glories;
and dissatisfied with all those enjoyments which are supposed to give
a higher relish to the soul; but they had happily enriched their minds
with notions far superior to all those which flow from the corrupted
scenes of vitiated pleasures; and they found, in solitude, a soft and
tranquil pillow, which invited their perturbed minds, and at length
lulled their feelings into calm repose. These characters were betrayed
for a time by the circumstances which surrounded their exalted stations
into an excess of enjoyment; but they were able to relish the simple
occupations, and to enjoy the tranquil amusements of retirement, with as
much satisfaction as they had formerly pursued the political intrigues of
the cabinet, the hostile glories of the field, or the softer indulgences
of peaceful luxury; and were thereby rendered capable of deriving comfort
and consolation from that source which seems only to heighten and
exasperate the miseries of those whose minds are totally absorbed in the
dissipations of life.
The motives, indeed, which lead men either to temporary retirement, or
absolute solitude, are innumerably various. Minds delicately susceptible
to the impressions of virtue, frequently avoid society, only to avoid
the pain they feel in observing the vices and follies of the world.
Minds active and vigorous, frequently retire to avoid the clogs and
incumbrances by which the tumults and engagements of society distract and
impede the free and full enjoyment of their faculties. The basis, indeed,
of every inclination to solitude is the love of liberty, either mental
or corporeal; a freedom from all constraint and interruption: but the
form in which the inclination displays itself, varies according to the
character and circumstances of the individual.
Men who are engaged in pursuits foreign to the natural inclination of
their minds, sigh continually for retirement, as the only means of
recruiting their fatigued spirits, and procuring a comfortable repose.
Scenes of tranquillity can alone afford them any idea of enjoyment.
A refined sense of duty, indeed, frequently induces noble minds to
sacrifice all personal pleasures to the great interests of the public,
or the private benefits of their fellow creatures; and they resist
every opposing obstacle with courage, and bear every adversity with
fortitude, under those cheering sentiments, and proud delights, which
result from the pursuits of active charity and benevolence, even
though their career be thwarted by those whose advantages they design
to promote. The exhilarating idea of being instrumental in affording
relief to suffering humanity, reconciles every difficulty, however
great: prompts to new exertions, however fruitless; and sustains them
in those arduous conflicts, in which all who aspire to promote the
interest, and improve the happiness of mankind, must occasionally engage,
especially when opposed by the pride and profligacy of the rich and
great, and the obstinacy and caprice of the ignorant and unfeeling. But
the most virtuous and steady minds cannot always bear up against “a sea
of troubles, or by opposing, end them:” and, depressed by temporary
adversities, will arraign the cruelty of their condition, and sigh for
the shades of peace and tranquillity. How transcendent must be the
enjoyment of a great and good minister who, after having anxiously
attended to the important business of the state, and disengaged himself
from the necessary but irksome occupation of official detail, refreshes
his mind in the calm of some delightful retreat, with works of taste, and
thoughts of fancy and imagination! A change, indeed, both of scene and
sentiment, is absolutely necessary, not only in the serious and important
employments, but even in the common occupations and idle amusements of
life. Pleasure springs from contrast. The most charming object loses a
portion of its power to delight, by being continually beheld. Alternate
society and solitude are necessary to the full enjoyment of both the
pleasures of the world and the delights of retirement. It is, however,
asserted that the celebrated Pascal, whose life was far from being
inactive, that quietude is a beam of the original purity of our nature,
and that the height of human happiness is in solitude and tranquillity.
Tranquillity, indeed, is the wish of all: the good, while pursuing the
track of virtue; the great while following the star of glory; and the
little, while creeping in the styes of dissipation, sigh for tranquillity
and make it the great object which they ultimately hope to attain. How
anxiously does the sailor, on the high and giddy mast, when rolling
through tempestuous seas, cast his eyes over the foaming billows, and
anticipate the calm security he hopes to enjoy when he reaches the wished
for shore! Even kings grow weary of their splendid slavery, and nobles
sicken under increasing dignities. All, in short, feel less delight in
the actual enjoyment of worldly pursuits, however great and honorable
they may be, than in the idea of their being able to relinquish them and
retire to
“… some calm sequestered spot;
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.”
The restless and ambitious Pyrrhus hoped that ease and tranquillity
would be the ultimate reward of his enterprising conquests. Frederic the
great, discovered, perhaps unintentionally, how pleasing and satisfactory
the idea of tranquillity was to his mind, when immediately after he
had gained a glorious and important victory, he exclaimed on the field
of battle, “Oh that my anxieties may now be ended!” The emperor Joseph
also displayed the predominancy of his passion for tranquillity and
retirement, when on asking the famous German pedestrian, Baron Grothaus,
what countries he next intended to traverse, was told a long number in
rapid succession. “And what then?” continued the emperor. “Why then,”
replied the baron, “I intend to retire to the place of my nativity, and
enjoy myself in rural quietude, and the cultivation of my patrimonial
farm.” “Ah, my good friend,” exclaimed the emperor, “if you will trust
the voice of sad experience, you had better neglect the walk, and retire
before it is too late, to the quietude and tranquillity you propose.”
Publius Scipio, surnamed Africanus, during the time that he was invested
with the highest offices of Rome, and immediately engaged in the most
important concerns of the empire, withdrew whenever an opportunity
occurred, from public observation, to peaceful privacy; and though
not devoted, like Tully, to the elegant occupations of literature and
philosophy, declared that “he was never less alone than when alone.” He
was, says Plutarch, incomparably the first both in virtue and power,
of the Romans of his time; but in his highest tide of fortune, he
voluntarily abandoned the scene of his glory, and calmly retired to his
beautiful villa in the midst of a romantic forest, near Liturnum, where
he closed, in philosophic tranquillity, the last years of a long and
splendid life.
Cicero, in the plenitude of his power, at a time when his influence over
the minds of his fellow citizens was at its height, retired, with the
retiring liberties of his country, to his Tusculum villa, to deplore the
approaching fate of his beloved city, and to ease, in soothing solitude,
the anguish of his heart.
Horace, also, the gay and elegant favorite of the great Augustus, even in
the meridian rays of royal favor, renounced the smiles of greatness, and
all the seductive blandishments of an imperial court, to enjoy his happy
muse among the romantic wilds of his sequestered villa of Tibur, near the
lake Albunea.
But there are few characters who have passed the concluding scenes
of life with more real dignity than the emperor Dioclesian. In the
twenty-first year of his reign, though he had never practised the lessons
of philosophy either in the attainment or the use of supreme power, and
although his reign had flowed with a tide of uninterrupted success, he
executed his memorable resolution of abdicating the empire, and gave
the world the first example of a resignation which has not been very
frequently imitated by succeeding monarchs. Dioclesian was at this
period only fifty-nine years of age, and in the full possession of his
mental faculties; but he had vanquished all his enemies, and executed
all his designs; and his active life, his wars, his journeys, the
cares of royalty, and his application to business having impaired his
constitution, and brought on the infirmities of a premature old age, he
resolved to pass the remainder of his days in honorable repose; to place
his glory beyond the reach of fortune, and to relinquish the theatre
of the world to his younger and more active associates. The ceremony
of his abdication was performed in a spacious plain, about three miles
from Nicomedia. The emperor ascended a lofty throne, and, in a speech
full of reason and dignity, declared his intention both to the people
and to the soldiers, who were assembled on this extraordinary occasion.
As soon as he had divested himself of the purple, he withdrew from the
gazing multitude; and traversing the city in a covered chariot, proceeded
without delay to the favorite retirement which he had chosen in his
native country of Dalmatia. The emperor, who, from a servile origin, had
raised himself to the throne, passed the last nine years of his life in
a private condition at Salona. Reason had dictated, and content seems to
have accompanied, his retreat, in which he enjoyed for a long time the
respect of those princes to whom he had resigned the possession of the
world. It is seldom that minds long exercised in business have formed
any habits of conversing with themselves, and in the loss of power, they
principally regret the want of occupation. The amusements of letters and
of devotion, which afford so many resources in solitude, were incapable
of fixing the attention of Dioclesian: but he had preserved, or, at
least, he soon recovered, a taste for the most innocent as well as
natural pleasures; and his leisure hours were sufficiently employed in
building, planting, and gardening. His answer to Maximian is deservedly
celebrated. He was solicited by that restless old man to resume the
reins of government and the imperial purple. He rejected the temptation
with a smile of pity, calmly observing, that if he could show Maximian
the cabbages he had planted at Salona, he should be no longer urged
to relinquish the enjoyment of happiness for the pursuit of power. In
his conversations with his friends he frequently acknowledged, that of
all the arts the most difficult was that of reigning; and he expressed
himself on that favorite topic with a degree of warmth which could be
the result only of experience. “How often,” was he accustomed to say,
“is it the interest of four or five ministers to combine together to
deceive the sovereign! Secluded from mankind by his exalted dignity,
the truth is concealed from his knowledge: he can only see with their
eyes; he hears nothing but their misrepresentations. He confers the most
important offices upon vice and weakness, and disgraces the most virtuous
and deserving among his subjects; and by such infamous acts the best and
wisest princes are sold to the venal corruption of their courtiers.” A
just estimate of greatness, and the assurance of immortal fame, improve
our relish for the pleasures of retirement.
Zenobia, the celebrated queen of Palmyra and the east; a female whose
superior genius broke through the servile indolence imposed on her sex
by the climate and manners of Asia, the most lovely as well as the
most heroic of her sex, who spread the terror of her arms over Arabia,
Armenia, and Persia, and kept even the legions of the Roman empire in
awe, was, after the two great battles of Antioch and Emesa, at length
subdued, and made the illustrious captive of the emperor Aurelian; but
the conqueror, respecting the sex, the beauty, the courage and endowments
of the Syrian queen, not only preserved her life, but presented her
with an elegant villa at Tibur or Tivoli, about twenty miles from Rome;
where, in happy tranquillity, she fed the greatness of her soul with the
noble images of Homer, and the exalted precepts of Plato; supported the
adversity of her fortunes with fortitude and resignation; and learnt
that the anxieties attendant on ambition are happily exchanged for the
enjoyments of ease and the comforts of philosophy.
Charles V. resigned the government of the empire to his brother the king
of the Romans; and transferred all claims of obedience and allegiance
to him from the Germanic body, in order that he might no longer be
detained from that retreat for which he long had languished. In passing,
some years before, from Valladolid to Placentia, in the Province of
Estremadura, he was struck with the delightful situation of the monastery
of St. Justus, belonging to the order of St. Jerome, not many miles
distant from the town; and observed to some of his attendants, that
this was a spot to which Dioclesian might have retired with pleasure.
The impression remained upon his mind, and he determined to make it the
place of his own retreat. It was seated in a vale of no great extent,
watered by a small brook, and surrounded by rising grounds covered with
lofty trees; and from the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature
of the climate, was esteemed the most healthful and delicious situation
in Spain. Some months before his resignation, he had sent an architect
thither to add a new apartment to the monastery for his accommodation;
but he gave strict orders that the style of the building should be
such as suited his present station rather than his former dignity. It
consisted only of six rooms; four of them in the form of friar’s cells,
with naked walls; the other two, each twenty feet square, were hung with
brown cloth, and furnished in the most simple manner; they were all
on a level with the ground, with a door on one side into a garden of
which Charles himself had given the plan, and had filled it with various
plants, which he intended to cultivate with his own hands. On the other
side they communicated with the chapel of the monastery, in which he
was to perform his devotions. In this humble retreat, hardly sufficient
for the comfortable accommodation of a private gentleman, did Charles
enter with twelve domestics only, and buried in solitude and silence his
grandeur, his ambition, and all those vast projects which, during almost
half a century, had alarmed and agitated Europe; filling every kingdom in
it by turns with the terror of his arms, and the dread of being subdued
by his power.
These instances of resignation and retirement, to which many others
might have been added, sufficiently prove that a desire to live in free
leisure, independent of the restraints of society, is one of the most
powerful affections of the human mind; and that solitude, judiciously and
rationally employed, amply compensates all that is sacrificed for the
purpose of enjoying it.
But there are many other resources from whence an anti-social disposition
may arise, which merits consideration. That terrible malady, the
hypocondria, frequently renders the unhappy sufferer not only averse
to society in general, but even fearful of meeting a human being; and
the still more dreadful malady a wounded heart, increases our antipathy
to mankind. The fear of unfounded calumny also sometimes drives weak
and dejected minds into the imaginary shelter of obscurity; and even
strong and honest characters, prone to disclose their real sentiments,
are disgusted at the world from a consciousness of its being unable
to listen temperately to the voice of truth. The obstinacy with which
mankind persist in habitual errors, and the violence with which they
indulge inveterate passions, a deep regret for their follies, and
the horror which their vices create, drives us frequently from their
presence. The love of science, a fondness for the arts, and an attachment
to the immortal works of genius, induce, I trust, not a few to neglect
all anxiety to learn the common news of the day, and keep them in some
calm, sequestered retreat far from the unmeaning manners of the noisy
world, improving the genuine feelings of their hearts, and storing their
minds with the principles of true philosophy. There are others, though
I fear they are few, who, impressed by a strong sense of the duties of
religion, and feeling how incompatible with their practice are most, if
not all, the factitious joys of social life, retire from the corrupted
scene, to contemplate, in sacred privacy, the attributes of a Being
unalterably pure, and infinitely good; to impress upon their minds so
strong a sense of the importance of obedience to the divine will, of the
value of the reward promised to virtue, and the terrors of the punishment
denounced against crimes, as may overbear all temptations which temporal
hope or fear can bring in their way, and enable them to bid equal
defiance to joy and sorrow; to turn away at one time from the allurements
of ambition, and press forward at another against the threats of calamity.
The dejection occasioned by the hypochondria renders the mind not
only averse from, but wholly incapable of, any pleasure, and induces
the unhappy sufferer to seek a solitude by which it is increased. The
influence of this dreadful malady is so powerful, that it destroys all
hope of remedy, and prevents those exertions, by which alone, we are told
it can be cured.
To cure the mind’s wrong bias--spleen,
Some recommend the bowling-green;
Some, hilly walks; all, exercise;
Fling but a stone, the giant dies;
Laugh, and be well. Monkies have been
Extreme good doctors for the spleen;
And kittens, if the humor hit,
Have harlequined away the fit.
But, alas! the heart shuts itself against every pleasing sensation, and
the mind dismisses every cheering sentiment. Joy opens in vain its festal
arms to receive him; and he shuns embraces, whose light and mirthful
air would only serve to increase the melancholy of his dreary and
distempered mind. Even the tender, affectionate offices of friendship,
in endeavoring to sooth and divert his mind by lively conversation and
social intercourse, appear officious and ill-timed. His spirits are
quite dejected; his faculties become torpid; and his sense of enjoyment
is annihilated. The charming air which breathes to us the sweetest
fragrance, and most invigorating delights, feels to him like a pestilent
congregation of vapors.
His pensive spirit takes the lonely grove
Nightly he visits all the sylvan scenes,
Where, far remote, a melancholy moon
Raising her head, serene and shorn of beams,
Throws here and there the glimmerings through the trees,
To make more awful darkness.
Conscious that his frame is totally unstrung, and that his pulse is
incapable of beating in any pleasant unison with the feelings of his
healthful friends, he withers into sorrowful decay. Every object around
him appears to be at enmity with his feelings, and comes shapeless and
discolored to his disordered eyes. The gentle voice of pity grates
his ears with harsh and hollow sounds, and seems to reproach him with
insulting tones. Stricken by his dreadful malady, the lamentable effects
of which a cruel and unfeeling world so often ridicule and despise, and
constantly tearing open the wound it has occasioned, the afflicted spirit
flies from every scene of social joy and animating pleasure, seeks as a
sole resource, to hide its sorrows in solitary seclusion, and awaits, in
lingering sufferance, the stroke of death.
The erroneous opinions, perverse dispositions, and inveterate prejudices
of the world, are sometimes the causes which induce men to retire from
society, and seek in solitude the enjoyments of innocence and truth.
Careless of a commerce with those for whom they can entertain no esteem,
their minds naturally incline toward those scenes in which their
fancy paints the fairest form of felicity. He, indeed, whose free and
independent spirit is resolved to permit his mind to think for itself;
who disdains to form his feelings, and to fashion his opinions, upon
the capricious notions of the world; who is too candid to expect that
others should be guided by his notions, and sufficiently firm not to
obey implicitly the hasty notions of others; who seeks to cultivate the
just and manly feelings of the heart, and to pursue truth in the paths
of science, must detach himself from the degenerate crowd, and seek his
enjoyments in retirement. For to those who love to consult their own
ideas, to form opinions upon their own reasonings and discernment, and
to express only such sentiments as they really feel, a society whose
judgments are borrowed, whose literature is only specious, and whose
principles are unfounded, must not only be irksomely insipid, but morally
dangerous. The firm and noble minded disdain to bow their necks to
the slavish yoke of vulgar prejudice, and appeal, in support of their
opinions, to the higher tribunal of sense and reason, from the partial
and ill-formed sentences of conceited critics, who, destitute themselves
of any sterling merit, endeavor to depreciate the value of that coin
whose weight and purity render it current, and to substitute their own
base and varnished compositions in its stead. Those self-created who
proudly place themselves in the professor’s chair, look with an envious
and malignant eye on all the works of genius, taste, and sense; and as
their interests are intimately blended with the destruction of every
sublime and elegant production, their cries are raised against them the
moment they appear. To blast the fame of merit is their chief object and
their highest joy: and their lives are industriously employed to stifle
the discoveries, to impede the advancement, to condemn the excellency,
and to pervert the meaning of their more ingenious contemporaries. Like
loathsome toads, they grovel on the ground, and, as they move along,
emit a nasty slime, or frothy venom, on the sweetest shrubs and fairest
flowers of the fields.
From the society of such characters, who seem to consider the noble
productions of superior intellect, the fine and vigorous flights of
fancy, the brilliant effusions of a sublime imagination, and the refined
feelings of the heart, as fancied conceits or wild deliriums, those who
examine them by a better standard than that of fashion or common taste,
fly with delight.
The reign of envy, however, although it is perpetual as to the existence
of the passion, is only transitory as to the objects of its tyranny; and
the merit which has fallen the victim of its rage, is frequently raised
by the hand of truth, and placed on the throne of public applause. A
production of genius, however the ears of its author were deafened,
during his life, by the clamors of calumny, and hisses of ignorance, is
reviewed with impartiality when he dies, and revived by the acclamations
of ingenuous applause. The reproach which the life of a great and good
man is continually casting on his mean and degenerate contemporaries,
is silenced by his death. He is remembered only in the character of his
works; and his fame increases with the successive generations, which his
sentiments and opinions contribute to enlighten and adorn.
The history of the celebrated English philosopher, David Hume, affords,
perhaps, a stronger instance of the dangers to which wit and learning are
exposed from the malicious shafts of envy, ignorance, and intolerance,
than that of any other author. The tax indeed, is common to authors of
every description, but it frequently falls the heaviest on the highest
heads. This profound philosopher and elegant historian, possessed a
mild temper; a lively, social disposition; a high sense of friendship,
and incorruptible integrity. His manners, indeed, appeared, at first
sight, cold and repulsive; for he had sacrificed little to the graces:
but his mind was invariably cheerful, and his affections uncommonly warm
and generous: and neither his ardent desire of fame, nor the gross and
unfounded calumnies of his enemies, were capable of disturbing the happy
tranquillity of his heart. His life was passed in the constant exercise
of humanity and benevolence; and even those who had been seduced, by the
jealous and vindictive artifices of others, wantonly to attack his fame
and character with obloquy and reproach, experienced his kindness, and
acknowledged his virtues. He would never indeed confess that his friends
had ever had occasion to vindicate any one circumstance of his character
or conduct, or that he had ever been attacked either by the baleful
tooth of envy, or the rage of civil or religious faction. His company,
indeed, was equally agreeable to all classes of society; and young and
old, rich and poor, listened with pleasure to his conversation, and
quitted his company with regret; for although he was deeply learned, and
his discourses replete with sagacity and science, he had the happy art
of delivering his sentiments upon all subjects without the appearance of
ostentation, or in any way offending the feelings of his hearers.
The interests of religion are said to have suffered by the abuse of his
talents; but the precepts of Christianity were never more powerfully
recommended, than by the integrity of his morals, and the purity of his
life. His benign and gentle spirit, attached to virtue, and averse from
every species of vice, essentially promoted the practice of piety, and
the duties of a religious mind; and did not, as is always the case with
the zeal of persecution and martyrdom, tear away the very foundation of
that fabric which it pretends to support. The excellency, indeed, both
of the head and the heart of this great and good man, enabled him not
only to enjoy himself with perfect felicity, but to contribute to the
improvement, and increase the happiness of mankind. This is the opinion
now generally entertained of the character of Hume; but far different
were the sentiments of his contemporaries upon this subject. It was
neither in a barbarous country, or in an unenlightened age, that he
lived; but although the land was free, the people philosophical, and the
spirit of the times provoked the minds of learned men to metaphysical
inquiry, the fame of Hume was wrecked upon his moral and religious
writings. He was charged with being a sceptic; but from the propagation
of certain doctrines, and the freedom of inquiry which had then gone
forth, it is impossible to attribute his disappointments to this cause.
A kind of natural prejudice, indeed, prevailed in England at this period
against the Scots; but as he did not experience much favor from his own
countrymen, no conclusion can be fairly drawn from this circumstance;
and the extraordinary History of his Literary Transactions, a work
written by himself, cannot be perused without an equal degree of surprise
and concern. The contemptuous repulses which his several compositions
received from the public, appear incredible; but the facts he relates
are undoubtedly authentic; and while they raise a sorrowful regret for
the fate of Hume in particular, they most unhappily tend to diminish the
ardor of the student, who contemplates the various dangers to which his
desire of fame may be exposed, and may, perhaps, induce him to quit the
pursuit of an object “so hard to gain, so easy to be lost.”
The melancholy history of the literary career of the celebrated Hume,
as appears from the short sketch he made of _his own life_, while he
calmly waited, under an incurable disorder, the moment of approaching
dissolution; a work which proclaims the mildness, the modesty, and the
resignation of his temper, as clearly as his other works demonstrate
the power and extent of his mind. The history, indeed, of every man who
attempts to destroy the reigning prejudices, or correct the prevailing
errors, of his age and country, is nearly the same. He who has the
happiness to see objects of any description with greater perspicuity than
his contemporaries, and presumes to disseminate his superior knowledge,
by the unreserved publication of his opinions, sets himself up as a
common mark for the shafts of envy and resentment to pierce, and seldom
escapes from being charged with wicked designs against the interests of
mankind. A writer, whatever his character, station, or talents may be,
will find that he has a host of malevolent inferiors ready to seize every
opportunity of gratifying their humbled pride, by attempting to level
his superior merits, and subdue his rising fame. Even the compassionate
few, who are ever ready to furnish food to the hungry, clothing to the
naked, and consolation to the afflicted, seldom feel any other sensation
than that of jealousy on beholding the wreath of merit placed on the
brow of a deserving rival. The Ephesians, with republican pride, being
unable to endure the reproach which they felt from the pre-eminency of
any individual, banished to some other state, the citizen who presumed
to excel the generality of his countrymen. It would be, in some measure,
adopting this egregious and tyrannical folly, were I to exhort the man
whose merits transcend those who are his equals in rank, or station,
to break off all intercourse and connexion with them; but I am certain
that he might, by an occasional retirement, elude the effects of their
envy, and avoid those provocations to which, by his superiority, he will
otherwise be continually exposed.
To treat the frailties of our fellow creatures with tenderness, to
correct their errors with kindness, to view even their vices with pity,
and to induce, by every friendly attention, a mutual complacency and good
will, is not only an important moral duty, but a means of increasing the
sum of earthly happiness. It is, indeed, difficult to prevent an honest
mind from bursting forth with generous indignation against those artful
hypocrites who, by specious and plausible practices, obtain the false
character of being wise and good, and obtrude their flimsy and heterodox
opinions upon the unthinking world, as the fair and genuine sentiments
of truth and virtue. The anger which arises in a generous and ardent
mind, on hearing a noble action calumniated, or a useful work illiberally
attacked, is not easily restrained; but such feelings should be checked
and regulated with a greater degree of caution than even if they were
less virtuous and praiseworthy; for, if they are indulged with frequency,
their natural violence may weaken the common charities of the mind, and
convert its very goodness and love of virtue into a mournful misanthropy,
or virulent detestation of mankind.
Let not the man, whose exalted mind, improved by study and observation,
surveys with a discriminating eye the moral depravities and mental
weaknesses of human nature, submit to treat his envious inferiors with
inveterate anger, and undistinguishing revenge. Their envy as a tribute
of approbation to his greatness. Let him look with the gentle eye of
pity upon those who err rather from the wicked suggestions of others,
than from the malevolence of their own hearts: let him not confound
the weak and innocent reptile with the scorpion and the viper; let him
listen, without emotion, to the malignant barking and envious hissings
that everywhere attend the footsteps of transcendent merit; let him
disregard, with philosophic dignity, the senseless clamors of those noisy
adversaries who are blinded by prejudice, and deaf to the arguments
of sense and reason: let him rather, by a mild and forbearing temper,
endeavor to make some impression on their hearts; and if he should find
their bosoms susceptible, he may hope in time to convince them of their
errors, and, without violence or compulsion, bring back their deluded
understandings to a sense of truth, and the practice of virtue; but, if
experience convince him that every endeavor to reform them is fruitless
and vain, let him--
Neglect the grumblers of an envious age,
Vapid in spleen, or brisk in frothy rage;
Critics, who, ere they understand, defame;
And seeming friends who only do not blame,
And puppet prattlers, whose unconscious throat
Transmits what the pert witling prompts by rote:
Let him neglect this blind and babbling crowd,
To enjoy the favor of the wise and good.
Slander, however, by fixing her talons on the most virtuous characters,
generally defeats her own malice, and proclaims their merit. It may,
indeed, tend to diminish their inclination for general society, and to
render them, in some degree, apprehensive of the danger of even well
deserved fame. “Durable fame,” says Petrarch, “is only to be derived from
the practice of virtue, and from such works as are worthy of descending
from generation to generation. As to praters, gowned gentlemen, that
walk in their silks, glitter in their jewels, and are pointed at by the
people, all their bravery and pomp, their show of knowledge, and their
thundering speeches, last only with their lungs, and then vanish into
thin smoke; for the acquisition of wealth, and the desires of ambition,
are no witnesses of true desert. I think I shall have fame after my
death; and that is a fame from which no profit is derived; but, on the
contrary, frequently injures, while alive, the person who is to enjoy it
when dead. What procured the destruction of Cicero, Demosthenes, and
Zeno, but foul and haggard envy of their fame? What brought the chosen
men of the great ship Argos to Colchis, but the fame of that king’s
riches? For what else was signified by the Golden Fleece, but the riches
seized by these marauders, destitute of true riches, and who were clad
with fleeces not their own?” Many, indeed, whose merits have cast a
radiance around their characters, have hidden its splendors with the
shades of retirement to avoid giving uneasiness to envy; and, by being
deprived of that warm and aspiring tribute of applause which they had
gloriously and justly earned, have, in some instances at least, indulged
too keen a sense of the depravity of mankind. Solon, after having in vain
exhorted the Athenians to resist the tyranny of Pisistratus, and save the
liberties of that country, on which he had conferred such distinguished
services, returned to his own house, and placing his weapons at the
street door, exclaimed, as a last effort, “_I have done all in my power
to save my country and defend its laws!_” and then retired from the
tumults of public life, to weep in silence over the servility of the
Athenians, and the fate of Athens. History affords many illustrious
instances, both ancient and modern, of the like kind: for there never
was a statesman, who possessed a great mind and manly feelings, that did
not, even during the plentitude of his power, occasionally wish to escape
from the incorrigible vices which prevail in courts, to the enjoyment
of the more innocent pleasures and humble virtues which surround the
cottage. Such exalted characters cannot observe, without the highest
disgust, and keenest indignation, the virtues of the best, and the
services of the bravest men of the nation, blasted by the envious breath
of brainless placemen, or the insidious insinuations of female favorites,
whose whole time is employed in caressing their monkies and paroquets,
or in aspersing the merits of those who boldly seek their fortune by
the open and manly road of true desert, and not by the deep, dark, and
crooked paths of flattery and intrigue. Can such a man behold the double
dealing and deceitful artifices by which the excellency of princes is
corrupted, their imaginations dazzled, their discernment blinded, and
their minds led astray without feeling uncommon indignation? Certainly
not. But however acutely his bosom may feel, or tongue express his
sense of such prevailing practices, he must still be forced to see,
with even a more contemptuous and painful sensation, that envious rage
and jealous asperity, which burst from the cringing crowd of mean and
abject courtiers, on hearing the monarch, in the grateful feelings of
his heart, applaud the eminent and faithful services of some gallant
officer. Dion was the principal statesman at the court of Dionysius, and
the deliverer of Sicily. When the younger Dionysius succeeded to the
throne of his father, Dion, in the first council that he held, spoke
with so much propriety on the existing state of affairs, and on the
measures which ought to be taken, that the surrounding courtiers appeared
to be mere children in comparison. By the freedom of his counsels he
exposed, in a strong light, the slavish principles of those who, through
a timorous disingenuity, advised such measures as they thought would
please their prince, rather than such as might advance his interest. But
what alarmed them most, were the steps he proposed to take with regard to
the impending war with Carthage; for he offered either to go in person
to Carthage, and settle an honorable peace with the Carthagenians, or,
if war should be inevitable, to fit out and maintain fifty gallies at
his own expense. Dionysius was pleased with the magnificence of his
spirit; but his courtiers felt that it made them appear little; and
agreeing that, at all events, Dion was to be crushed, they spared for
that purpose no calumny that malice could suggest. They represented to
the king that this favorite certainly meant to make himself master by
sea, and by that means to obtain the kingdom for his sister’s children.
There was, moreover, another and obvious cause of their hatred to him, in
the reserve of his manners, and the sobriety of his life. They led the
young and ill-educated king through every species of debauchery, and were
the shameless panders of his wrong directed passions. Their enmity to
Dion, who had no taste for luxurious enjoyments, was a thing of course;
and as he refused to partake with them in their vices, they resolved
to strip him of his virtues; to which they gave the name of such vices
as are supposed to resemble them. His gravity of manners they called
pride; his freedom of speech, insolence; his declining to join in their
licentiousness, contempt. It is true, there was a natural haughtiness
in his deportment and an asperity that was unsociable, and difficult
of access; so that it was not to be wondered at if he found no ready
admission to the ears of a young king, already spoiled by flattery.
Willing to impute the irregularities of Dionysius to ignorance and bad
education, Dion endeavored to engage him in a course of liberal studies,
and to give him a taste for those sciences which have a tendency to moral
improvement. But in this wise and virtuous resolution he was opposed by
all the artifices of court intrigue.
Men, in proportion as their minds are dignified with noble sentiments,
and their hearts susceptible of refined sensibility, feel a justifiable
aversion to the society of such characters, and shrink from the scenes
they frequent; but they should cautiously guard against the intrusions
of that austerity and moroseness with which such a conduct is but too
apt to inspire the most benevolent minds. Disgusted by the vices and
follies of the age, the mind becomes insensibly impressed with a hatred
toward the species, and loses, by degrees, that mild and humane temper
which is so indispensably necessary to the enjoyment of social happiness.
Even he who merely observes the weak or vicious frailties of his fellow
creatures with an intention to study philosophically the nature and
disposition of man, cannot avoid remembering their defects with severity,
and viewing the character he contemplates with contempt, especially if
he happens to be the object of their artifices, and the dupe of their
villanies. Contempt is closely allied with hatred; and hatred of mankind
will corrupt, in time, the fairest mind: it tinges, by degrees, every
object with the bile of misanthropy; perverts the judgment; and at length
looks indiscriminately with an evil eye on the good and bad, engenders
suspicion, fear, jealousy, revenge, and all the black catalogue of
unworthy and malignant passions: and when these dreadful enemies have
extirpated every generous sentiment from the breast, the unhappy victim
abhors society, disclaims his species, sighs, like St. Hyacinth, for
some distant and secluded island, and with savage barbarity, defends the
inviolability of its boundaries by the cruel repulsion, and, perhaps, the
death of those unhappy mortals whom misfortune may drive, hapless and
unpitied, to its inhospitable shores.
But if misanthropy be capable of producing such direful effects on well
disposed minds, how shocking must be the character whose disposition,
naturally rancorous, is heightened and inflamed by an habitual hatred and
malignancy toward his fellow creatures! In Swisserland, I once beheld
a monster of this description; I was compelled to visit him by the
duties of my profession; but I shudder while I recollect the enormity of
his character. His body was almost as deformed as his mind. Enmity was
seated on his distorted brow. Scales of livid incrustation, the joint
produce of his corrupted body and distempered mind, covered his face. His
horrid figure made me fancy that I saw Medusa’s serpents wreathing their
baleful folds among the black and matted locks of his dishevelled hair;
while his red and fiery eyes glared like malignant meteors through the
obscurity of his impending eyebrows. Mischief was his sole delight, his
greatest luxury, and his highest joy. To sow discord among his neighbors,
and to tear open the closing wounds of misery, was his only occupation.
His residence was the resort of the disorderly, the receptacle of
the vicious, and the asylum of the guilty. Collecting around him the
turbulent and discontented of every description, he became the patron
of injustice, the protector of villany, the perpetrator of malice, the
inventer of fraud, the propagator of calumny, and the zealous champion
of cruelty and revenge; directing, with malignant aim, the barbed shafts
of his adherents equally against the comforts of private peace and the
blessings of public tranquillity. The bent and inclination of his nature
had been so aggravated and confirmed by the “multiplying villanies of
his life,” that it was impossible for him to refrain one moment from the
practice of them, without feeling uneasiness and discontent; and he never
appeared perfectly happy, but when new opportunities occurred to glut his
infernal soul with the spectacle of human miseries.
The Timon of Lucian was in some measure excusable for his excessive
hatred to mankind, by the unparallelled wrongs they had heaped upon
him. The inexorable antipathy he entertained against the species had
been provoked by injuries almost too great for the common fortitude of
humanity to endure. His probity humanity, and charity to the poor, had
been the ruin of him; or rather his own folly, easiness of disposition,
and want of judgment in his choice of friends. He never discovered that
he was giving away his all to wolves and ravens. Whilst these vultures
were preying on his liver, he thought them his best friends, and that
they fed upon him out of pure love and affection. After they had gnawed
him all round, ate his bones bare, and whilst there was any marrow in
them, sucked it carefully out, they left him cut down to the roots
and withered; and so far from relieving him, or assisting him in their
turns, would not so much as know or look upon him. This made him turn a
common laborer; and, dressed in his skin garment, he tilled the earth
for hire; ashamed to show himself in the city, and venting his rage
against the ingratitude of those who, enriched, as they had been by
him now proudly passed along without noticing him. But although such a
character is not to be despised or neglected, no provocation, however
great can justify the violent and excessive invectives which he profanely
bellowed forth from the bottom of Hymettus; “this spot of earth shall
be my only habitation while I live; and when I am dead, my sepulchre.
From this time forth, it is my fixed resolution to have no commerce or
connexion with mankind; but to despise them, and avoid it. I will pay
no regard to acquaintance, friendship, pity or compassion. To pity the
distressed, or to relieve the indigent, I shall consider as a weakness,
nay, as a crime; my life, like that of the beasts of the field, shall
be spent in solitude; and Timon alone shall be Timon’s friend. I will
treat all beside as enemies and betrayers. To converse with them were
profanation! to herd with them impiety. Accursed be the day that brings
them to my sight! I will look upon men, in short, as no more than so
many statues of brass or stone; will make no truce, have no connexion
with them. My retreat shall be the boundary to separate us for ever.
Relations, friends, and country, are empty names, respected by fools
alone. Let Timon only be rich and despise all the world beside. Abhorring
idle praise, and odious flattery, he shall be delighted with himself
alone. Alone shall he sacrifice to the gods, feast alone, be his own
neighbor, and his own companion. I am determined to be alone for life;
and when I die, to place the crown upon my own head. The fairest name I
would be distinguished by is that of a misanthrope. I would be known and
marked out by my asperity of manners; by moroseness, cruelty, anger, and
inhumanity. Were I to see a man perishing in the flames, and imploring
me to extinguish them, I would throw pitch or oil into the fire to
increase it; or, if the winter flood should overwhelm another, who, with
out-stretched hands should beg me to assist him, I would plunge him still
deeper in the stream, that he might never rise again. Thus shall I be
revenged of mankind. This is Timon’s law, and this hath Timon ratified.
I should be glad, however, that all might know how I abound in riches,
because that I know will make them miserable.”
The moral to be drawn from this dialogue of the celebrated Grecian
philosopher, is the extreme danger to which the best and most benevolent
characters may be exposed, by an indiscreet and unchecked indulgence
of those painful feelings with which the baseness and ingratitude of
the world are apt to wound the heart. There are, however, those who,
without having received ill treatment from the world, foster in their
bosoms a splenetic animosity against society, and secretly exult in the
miseries and misfortunes of their fellow creatures. Indulging themselves
in the indolent habits of vice and vanity, and feeling a mortification
in being disappointed of those rewards which virtuous industry can alone
bestow, they seek a gloomy solitude to hide them from those lights which
equally discover the errors of vice and the rectitude of virtue. Unable
to attain glory for themselves, and incapable of enduring the lustre of
it in others, they creep into discontented retirement, from which they
only emerge to envy the satisfaction which accompanies real merit, to
calumniate the character to which it belongs; and, like satan, on the
view of paradise, to “see undelighted all delight.”
There are, however, a class of a very different description, who,
unoppressed by moody melancholy, untinctured by petulance or spleen,
free from resentment, and replete with every generous thought and
manly sentiment, calmly and contentedly retire from society, to enjoy,
uninterruptedly, a happy communion with those high and enlightened minds,
who have adorned by their actions the page of history, enlarged by their
talents the powers of the human mind, and increased by their virtues the
happiness of mankind.
Retirement, however solitary it may be, when entered into with such a
temper of mind, instead of creating or encouraging any hatred toward
the species, raises our ideas of the possible dignity of human nature;
disposes our hearts to feel, and our hands to relieve, the misfortunes
and necessities of our fellow creatures; calls to our minds what high
capacious powers lie folded up in man; and giving to every part of
creation its finest forms, and richest colors, exhibits to our admiration
its brightest glories and highest perfections, and induces us to
transplant the charm which exists in our own bosoms into the bosoms of
others.
… The spacious west,
And all the teeming regions of the south,
Hold not a quarry, to the curious flight
Of knowledge, half so tempting, or so fair,
As man to man: nor only where the smiles
Of love invite; nor only where the applause
Of cordial honor turns the attentive eye
On virtue’s graceful deeds; for since the course
Of things external acts in different ways
On human apprehension, as the hand
Of nature tempered to a different frame
Peculiar minds, so haply where the powers
Of fancy neither lessen nor enlarge
The images of things, but paint, in all
Their genuine hues, the features which they wear
In nature, there opinions will be true,
And action right.…
A rational solitude, while it corrects the passions, improves the
benevolent dispositions of the heart, increases the energies of the mind,
and draws forth its latent powers. The Athenian orator, Callistratus,
was to plead in the cause which the city of Oropus had depending; and
the expectation of the public was greatly raised, both by the powers of
the orator, which were then in the highest repute, and the importance
of the trial. Demosthenes, hearing the governors and tutors agree among
themselves to attend the trial, with much importunity prevailed on
his master to take him to hear the pleaders. The master having some
acquaintance with the officer who opened the court, got his young pupil a
seat where he could hear the orators without being seen. Callistratus had
great success, and his abilities were extremely admired. Demosthenes was
fired with the spirit of emulation. When he saw with what distinction the
orator was conducted home, and complimented by the people, he was struck
still more with the power of that commanding eloquence which would carry
all before it. From this time, therefore, he bade adieu to the other
studies and exercises in which boys are engaged, and applied himself
with great assiduity to declaiming, in hope of being one day numbered
among the orators. Satyrus, the player who was an acquaintance of his,
and to whom he lamented, after having been for some time called to the
bar, “that though he had almost sacrificed his health to his studies, he
could gain no favor with the people,” promised to provide him with a
remedy, if he would repeat some speech in Euripides or Sophocles. When
Demosthenes had finished his recitation, Satyrus pronounced the same
speech; and he did it with such propriety of action, and so much in
character, that it appeared to the orator quite a different passage; and
Demosthenes now understanding how much grace and dignity of action adds
to the best oration, quitted the practice of composition, and, building a
subterraneous study repaired thither, for two or three months together,
to form his action, and exercise his voice; and, by this means formed
that strong, impassioned, and irresistible eloquence, which rendered
him the glory of Athens, and the admiration of the world. Most of the
exalted heroes, both of Greece and Rome, who devoted their attention to
arts and to arms, acquired their chief excellency in their respective
pursuits, by retiring from public observation, and cultivating their
talents in the silence of solitude. St. Jerome, the most learned of all
the Latin fathers, and son of the celebrated Eusebius, retired from the
persecution of religious fury into an obscure and dreary desert in Syria,
where he attained that rich, animated, and sublime style of eloquence,
which afterward so essentially contributed to support the rising church,
and to enlighten while it dazzled the Christian world. The Druids, or
ministers of religion among the ancient Gauls, Britons, and Germans,
retired, in the intervals of their sacred functions, into awful forests
and consecrated groves, where they passed their time in useful study and
pious prayers; and while they acquired a complete knowledge of astrology,
geometry, natural philosophy, politics, geography, morals, and religion,
rendered themselves happy and revered, and produced, by the wise
instruction they were capable of affording to others, but particularly
to youth, whose education they superintended, a bright succession of
priests, legislators, counsellors, judges, physicians, philosophers, and
tutors, to the respective nations in which they resided.
The modern Julian, the justly celebrated Frederic, king of Prussia,
derives the highest advantages from his disguised retirement at Sans
Souci, where he contrives the means of hurling inevitable destruction
against the enemies of his country; listens to and relieves with all the
anxiety of a tender parent, the complaints and injuries of his meanest
subjects; and recreates his excursive mind, by revising and correcting
his immortal works for the admiration of posterity. Philosophy, poetry,
and politics, are the successive objects of his attention; and while he
extends his views, and strengthens his understanding, by the study of
ancient wisdom, he meliorates his heart by the delightful offerings of
the muses, and increases the public strength by the wise and economical
management of his resources. An awful silence, interrupted only by gentle
airs with which it is refreshed, pervades this delightful retreat. It
was during the twilight of an autumnal evening that I visited this
solemn scene. As I approached the apartment of this philosophic hero,
I discovered him sitting, “nobly pensive,” near a small table, from
which shone the feeble rays of a common taper. No jealous sentinels, or
ceremonious chamberlain, impeded my progress by scrutinizing inquiries
of suspicion and mistrust; and I walked free and unchecked, except by
respect and veneration, through the humble unostentatious retreat of this
extraordinary man. All characters, however high and illustrious they may
be, who wish to attain a comprehensive view of things, and to shine in
the highest spheres of virtue, must learn the rudiments of glory under
the discipline of occasional retirement.
Solitude is frequently sought from an inclination to extend the knowledge
of our talents and characters to those with whom we have no opportunity
of being immediately acquainted; by preparing with greater care, and
closer application, for the inspection of our contemporaries, works
worthy of the fame we are so anxious to acquire: but it seldom happens,
alas! that those whose labors are most pregnant with instruction and
delight, have received, from the age or country in which they lived,
or even from the companions with whom they associated, the tribute of
kindness or applause that is justly due to their merits. The work which
is stigmatized and traduced by the envy, ignorance, or local prejudices
of a country, for whose delight and instruction it was particularly
intended, frequently receives from the generous suffrages of impartial
and unprejudiced strangers, the highest tribute of applause. Even those
pretended friends, under whose auspices it was at first undertaken, upon
whose advice it proceeded, and upon whose judgment it was at length
published, no sooner hear its praises resounded from distant quarters,
than they permit the poisoned shafts of calumny to fly unaverted around
the unsuspecting author, and warrant, by their silence, or assist, by
their sneers, every insidious insinuation against his motives or his
principles. This species of malevolence has been feelingly painted by
the celebrated Petrarch. “No sooner had my fame,” says he, “risen above
the level of that which my contemporaries had acquired, than every
tongue babbled, and every pen was brandished against me: those who had
before appeared to be my dearest friends, instantly became my deadliest
enemies: the shafts of envy were industriously directed against me from
every quarter: the critics, to whom my poetry had before been much more
familiar than their psalms or their prayers, seized, with malignant
delight, every opportunity of traducing my morals; and those with whom
I had been most intimate, were the most eager to injure my character,
and destroy my fame.” The student, however, ought not to be discouraged
by this instance of envy and ingratitude. He who, conscious of his
merit, learns to depend only on himself for support, will forget the
injustice of the world, and draw his comfort and satisfaction from more
infallible sources: like the truly benevolent and great, he will confer
his favors on the public without the expectation of a return; and look
with perfect indifference upon all the efforts his treacherous friends,
or open enemies, are capable of using. He will, like Petrarch, appeal to
posterity for his reward; and the justice and generosity of future ages
will preserve his fame to succeeding generations, heightened and adorned
in proportion as it has been contemporaneously mutilated and depressed.
The genius of many noble minded authors, particularly in Germany,
are obscured and blighted by the thick and baneful fogs with which
ignorance and envy overwhelm their works. Unable to withstand the
incessant opposition they meet with, the powers of the mind grow feeble
and relaxed; and many a fair design and virtuous pursuit is quitted
in despair. How frequently does the desponding mind exclaim, “I feel
my powers influenced by the affections of the heart. I am certainly
incapable of doing to any individual an intentional injury, and I seek
with anxiety every opportunity of doing good; but, alas! my motives are
perverted, my designs misrepresented, my endeavors counteracted, my very
person ridiculed, and my character defamed.” There are, indeed, those
whose courage and fortitude no opposition can damp, and no adversity
subdue; whose firm and steady minds proceed with determined resolution
to accomplish their designs in defiance of all resistance; and whose
bright talents drive away the clouds of surrounding dulness, like
fogs before the sun. Wieland, the happy Wieland, the adopted child of
every muse, the favorite pupil of the graces, formed the powers of his
extraordinary mind in a lonely and obscure retreat, the little village of
Biberach, in the circle of Suabia, and thereby laid the foundation for
that indisputable glory he has since attained. In solitude and silence
he enriched his mind with all the stores that art and science could
produce, and enabled himself to delight and instruct mankind, by adorning
the sober mien of philosophy, and the lively smiles of wit, with the
true spirit and irresistible charms of poetry. Retirement is the true
parent of the great and good, and the kind nurse of nature’s powers. It
is to occasional retirement that politics owe the ablest statesmen, and
philosophy the most celebrated sages. Did Aristotle, the peripatetic
chief, compose his profound systems in the tumultuous court of Philip, or
were the sublime theories of his master conceived among the noisy feasts
of the tyrant Dionysius? No. The celebrated groves of the Academy, and
the shades of Atarnya, bear witness of the important advantages which,
in the opinion of both Plato and Aristotle, learning may derive from a
rational retirement. These great men, like all others who preceded or
have followed them, found in the ease and quietude of retirement the
best means of forming their minds and extending their discoveries. The
celebrated Leibnitz, to whom the world is deeply indebted, passed a great
part of every year at an humble, quiet, retired, and beautiful villa
which he possessed in the vicinity of Hanover.
To this catalogue of causes, conducing to a love of solitude, or hatred
of society, we may add religion and fanaticism. The benign genius
of religion leads the mind to a love of retirement from motives the
highest, the most noble, and most really interesting, that can possibly
be conceived, and produces the most perfect state of human happiness,
by instilling into the heart the most virtuous propensities, and
inspiring the mind with its finest energies: but fanaticism must ever be
unhappy: for it proceeds from a subversion of nature itself, is formed
on a perversion of reason, and a violation of truth; it is the vice of
low and little understandings, is produced by an ignorance of human
nature, a misapprehension of the Deity, and cannot be practised without
renunciation of real virtue. The passion of retirement, which a sense
of religion enforces, rises in proportion as the heart is pure, and the
mind correct; but the disposition to solitude, which fanaticism creates,
arises from a wild enthusiastic notion of inspiration, and increases in
proportion as the heart is corrupt, and the mind deranged. Religion is
the offspring of truth and love, and the parent of benevolence, hope,
and joy: but the monster fanaticism is the child of discontent, and
her followers are fear and sorrow. Religion is not confined to cells
and closets, nor restrained to sullen retirement; these are the gloomy
retreats of fanaticism, by which she endeavors to break those chains
of benevolence and social affection that link the welfare of every
individual with that of the whole. The greatest honor we can pay to the
Author of our being, is such a cheerful behavior as discovers a mind
satisfied with his dispensations. But this temper of mind is most likely
to be attained by a rational retirement from the cares and pleasures of
the world.
The disposition to solitude, however, of whatever kind or complexion it
may be, is greatly influenced by the temper and constitution of the body,
as well as by the frame and turn of the mind. The action of those causes
proceeds, perhaps, by slow and insensible degrees, and varies in its
form and manner in each individual; but though gradual or multiform, it
at length reaches its point, and confirms the subject of it in habits of
rational retreat, or unnatural solitude.
The motives which conduce to a love of solitude might, without doubt,
be assigned to other causes; but a discussion of all the refined
operations to which the mind may be exposed, and its bent and inclination
determined, by the two great powers of sensation and reflection, would
be more curious than useful. Relinquishing all inquiry into the primary
or remote causes of human action, to those who are fond of the useless
subtilties of metaphysics, and confining our researches to those final or
immediate causes which produce this disposition to enjoy the benefits of
rational retirement, or encounter the mischiefs of irrational solitude,
we shall proceed to show the mischiefs which may result from the one, in
order that they may be contrasted with the advantages which, in the first
part, we have already shown may be derived from the other.