_The disadvantages of solitude._
The retirement which is not the result of cool and deliberate reason,
so far from improving the feelings of the heart, or strengthening the
powers of the mind, generally renders men less able to discharge the
duties and endure the burdens of life. The wisest and best formed system
of retirement is, indeed, surrounded with a variety of dangers, which
are not, without the greatest care and caution, easily avoided. But in
every species of total solitude, the perils are not only innumerable, but
almost irresistible. It would, however, be erroneous to impute all the
defects which may characterize such a recluse merely to the loneliness
of his situation. There are original defects implanted by the hand
of nature in every constitution, which no species of retirement and
discipline can totally eradicate: there are certain vices, the seeds of
which are so inherent, that no care, however great, can totally destroy.
The advantages or disadvantages arising from retirement, will always be
proportionate to the degrees of virtue and vice which prevail in the
character of the recluse. It is certain that an occasional retreat from
the business of the world will greatly improve the virtues, and increase
the happiness, of him on whom nature has bestowed a sound understanding
and a sensible heart; but when the heart is corrupt, the understanding
weak, the imagination flighty, and the disposition depraved, solitude
only tends to increase the evil and to render the character more rank
and vicious; for whatever be the culture, the produce will unavoidably
partake of the quality of the seeds and the nature of the soil; and
solitude, by allowing a weak and wicked mind leisure to brood over its
own suggestions, recreates and rears the mischief it was intended to
prevent.
“… Where solitude, sad nurse of care,
To sickly musing gives the pensive mind,
There madness enters: and the dim-eyed fiend,
Lorn melancholy, night and day provokes
Her own eternal wound. The sun grows pale;
A mournful visionary light o’erspreads
The cheerful face of nature; earth becomes
A dreary desert; and the heavens frown above.
The various shapes of cursed illusion rise;
Whate’er the wretched fear, creating fear
Forms out of nothing; and with monsters teems
Unknown in hell. The prostrate soul beneath
A load of huge imagination heaves:
And all the horrors that the guilty feel,
With anxious flutterings wake the guilty breast.
From other cares absolved, the busy mind
Finds in itself a theme to pore upon;
And finds it miserable, or makes it so.”
To enable the mind, however, to form an accurate judgment of the
probable consequences of solitude, it is, perhaps, necessary to have
seen instances both of its advantageous and detrimental effects. The
consequences vary with the subject on which it operates; and the same
species of solitude which to one character would be injurious, will
prove to another of the highest benefit and advantage. The same person,
indeed, may at different periods, as his disposition changes, experience,
under similar circumstances of retirement, very different effects.
Certain, however, it is, that an occasional retreat from the tumultuous
intercourses of society, or a judicious and well arranged retirement,
cannot be prejudicial. To have pointed out the train of virtues it is
capable of producing, and to have been silent upon the black catalogue of
vices that may result from extreme seclusion, would have been the more
pleasing task; but I have undertaken to draw the character of solitude
impartially, and must therefore point out its possible defects.
Man in a sate of solitary indolence and inactivity, sinks by degrees
like stagnant water into impurity and corruption. The body suffers with
the mind’s decay. It is more fatal than excess of action. It is a malady
that renders every hope of recovery vain and visionary. To sink from
action into rest, is only indulging the common course of nature; but to
rise from long continued indolence to voluntary activity, is extremely
difficult, and almost impracticable. A celebrated poet has finely
described this class of unhappy beings in the following lines:
“Then look’d, and saw a lazy lolling sort,
Unseen at church, at senate, or at court,
Of ever listless loiterers, that attend
No cause, no trust, no duty, and no friend.
Thee, too, my Paridel! she mark’d thee there,
Stretch’d on the rack of a too easy chair,
And heard the everlasting yawn confess
The pains and penalties of idleness.”
To preserve the proper strength, both of the body and the mind, labor
must be regularly and seasonably mingled with rest. Each of them require
their suited exercise and relaxations. Philosophers, who aim at the
attainment of every superior excellency, do not indulge themselves in
ease, and securely and indolently wait for the cruelties of fortune
to attack them in their retirement; but, for fear she should surprise
them in the state of inexperienced and raw soldiers, undisciplined for
the battle they sally out to meet her, and put themselves into regular
training, and even upon the proof of hardships. Those only who observe a
proper interchange of exercise and rest, can expect to enjoy health of
body, or cheerfulness of mind. It is the only means by which the economy
of the human frame can be regularly preserved.
He, therefore, who does not possess sufficient activity to keep the body
and mind in proper exercise; he who is unacquainted with the art of
varying his amusements, of changing the subjects of his contemplation,
and of finding within himself all the materials of enjoyment, will
soon feel solitude not only burdensome, but insupportable. To such
a character, solitude will not only be disagreeable, but dangerous;
for the moment the temporary passion which draws him from society has
subsided, he will sink into languor and indifference; and this temper is
always unfavorable to moral sentiment. The world, perhaps, with all its
disadvantages, is less likely to be injurious to such a man, than the
calm and silent shades of unenjoyed retirement.
Solitude also, particularly when carried to an extreme, is apt to render
the character of the recluse rigid, austere, and inflexible, and of
course, unsuited to the enjoyments of society. The notions he contracts
are as singular and abstracted as his situation: he adheres to them
with inflexible pertinacity: his mind moves only in the accustomed
track: he cherishes his preconceived errors and prejudices with fond
attachment, and despises those whose sentiments are contrary to his
own. A promiscuous intercourse with society has the effect of rendering
the mind docile, and his judgment of men and things correct: for in
the world every subject is closely examined, every question critically
discussed; and, while the spirit of controversy and opposition elicits
truth, the mind is led into a train of rational investigation, and its
powers strengthened and enlarged; but the mind of the recluse being
uninterruptedly confined to its own course of reasoning, and to the habit
of viewing objects on one side, it is unable to appreciate the respective
weights which different arguments may deserve, or to judge in doubtful
cases, on which side, truth is most likely to be found. A commixture
of different opinions, on any particular subject, provokes a free and
liberal discussion of it, an advantage which the prepossession engendered
by solitude uniformly prevents.
Solitude, while it establishes a dangerous confidence in the powers
and opinions of its votaries, not only fastens on the characters the
errors and imperfections it has produced and fostered, but recommends
them strongly to their esteem. How frequently do we observe, even in
persons of rank and fortune, who reside continually on their own estates,
a haughty manner and arbitrary disposition, totally incompatible with
that candid conduct, that open minded behavior, that condescending
urbanity, that free spirit, which mark the character of the polite and
liberal minded gentleman, and render him the veneration and delight of
all around him! “Obstinacy and pride,” says Plato, “are the inevitable
consequences of a solitary life;” and the frequency of the fact certainly
justifies the observation. Retired, secluded characters, having no
opportunity of encountering the opinions of others, or of listening to
any other judgment than their own, establish a species of tyranny over
their understandings, and check that free excursion of the intellect
which the discovery of truth requires. They reject, with disdain, the
close investigations of logic, and repel all attempts to examine their
arguments, and expose their fallacies. Their preconceived opinions, which
they dignify with the appellation of settled truths, and mistake for
indisputable axioms, have infixed themselves so deeply in their minds
that they cannot endure the idea of their being rooted out or removed:
and they are fearful of submitting them to the test of controversy, only
because they were originally received without due examination, and have
been confirmed by the implicit consent and approbation of their inferiors
and dependants.
Solitude also, even the solitude which poets and philosophers have so
feelingly described as blissful and beneficial, has frequently proved
injurious to its delighted votaries. Men of letters are, in general, too
inattentive to those easy and captivating manners which give such high
spirit to the address, and splendid decoration to the characters, of well
bred men. They seldom qualify the awkwardness of scholastic habits by a
free and intimate intercourse either with the world or with each other;
but being secluded from society, and engaged in abstracted pursuits,
adopt a pedantic phraseology, an unaccommodating address, formal notions,
and a partial attachment to their recondite pursuits. The common topics
of conversation, and usual entertainment of company, they treat with
high, but unjustifiable disdain; and, blinded by fogs of pride, and ideal
superiority, are rendered incapable of discerning their errors.
The correction of this disposition in authors has been thought of so
much importance to the interests of morals, and to the manners of the
rising generation, that scholars in general have been exhorted, in the
highest strains of eloquence, by one of the most powerful preachers of
Germany, from the pulpit of the politest city in the empire, to guard
with unceasing vigilance against those defects which are so apt to mingle
with the habits of the profession, and which tend to sully the brightness
of their characters. The orator invokes them to shake off that distant
demeanor, that unsocial reserve, that supercilious behavior and almost
express contempt, from which few of them are free, and which most of them
practise when in unlettered company; and to treat their fellow citizens,
however inferior they may be in erudition and scholastic knowledge,
with affability and attention; to listen to their conversation with
politeness; to regard their errors with lenity; to view their failings
with compassion, and their defects with liberality; to lead them into the
paths of truth and science by mild persuasion, to lure them to knowledge
by gentle means, and, by reducing their conversation and subjects
of discourse to a level with the unlettered understandings of their
auditors, to please the heart while they instruct the mind.
Good sense and learning may esteem obtain,
Humor and wit a laugh, if rightly ta’en:
Fair virtue admiration may impart;
But ’tis good nature only wins the heart:
It moulds the body to an easy grace,
And brightens every feature of the face:
It smooths th’ unpolish’d tongue with eloquence,
And adds persuasion to the finest sense.
Learning and good sense, indeed, to whatever degree they may be
possessed, can only render the possessor happy in proportion as he
employs them to increase the happiness of others. To effect this, he must
occasionally endure the jokes of dullness without petulance, and listen
with complacency to the observations of ignorance, but, above all, he
must carefully avoid all inclination to exhibit his own superiority, and
to shine at the expense of others.
Learning and wisdom, indeed, however they may be confounded by arrogant
and self-conceited scholars, are in no respects synonymous terms; but,
on the contrary, are not unfrequently quite at variance with each other.
The high admiration which scholars are too apt to entertain of the
excellency of their own talents, and the vast importance they generally
ascribe to their own characters and merit, instead of producing that
sound judgment upon men and things which constitutes true wisdom, only
engenders an effervescence in the imagination, the effect of which
is in general, the most frothy folly. Many of those who thus pride
themselves on the pursuits of literature, having nothing to boast of
but an indefatigable attention to some idle and unprofitable study; a
study which, perhaps only tends to contract the feelings of the heart,
and impoverish the powers of the mind. True wisdom and genuine virtue
are the produce of those enlarged views which arise from a general
and comprehensive knowledge both of books and men: but scholars, who
confine their attention entirely to books, and feel no interest or
concern for the world, despise every object that does not lie within the
range of their respective studies. By poring over obsolete works, they
acquire sentiments quite foreign to the manners of the age in which we
live; form opinions as ridiculous as they are unfashionable; fabricate
systems incomprehensible to the rest of mankind; and maintain arguments
so offensive and absurd, that whenever they venture to display their
acquirements in society, they are, like the bird of night, hooted back
with derision into their daily obscurity. Many studious characters are
so puffed up by arrogance, presumption, self-conceit, and vanity, that
they can scarcely speak upon any subject without hurting the feelings
of their friends and giving cause of triumph to their enemies. The
counsel and instruction they affect to give is so mixed with ostentatious
pedantry, that they destroy the very end they wish to promote: and,
instead of acquiring honorable approbation, cover themselves with merited
disgrace. Plato, the illustrious chief of the academic set of Athenian
philosophers was so totally free from this vice of inferior minds, that
it was impossible to discover in him by ordinary and casual conversation,
that sublime imagination and almost divine intellect, which rendered him
the idol of his age, and the admiration of succeeding generations. On his
return from Syracuse, to which place he had been invited by Dionysius
the younger, he visited Olympia, to be present at the performance of the
Olympic games; and he was placed on the seat appropriated to foreigners
of the highest distinction, but to whom he was not personally known. Some
of them were so pleased with the ease, politeness, wisdom, and vivacity
of his conversation, that they accompanied him to Athens, and, on their
arrival in that city, requested him to procure them an interview with
Plato. But how pleasing and satisfactory was their surprise, when, on his
replying with a smile, “_I am the person whom you wish to see_,” they
discovered that this affable and entertaining companion, with whom they
had travelled without discerning his excellency, was the most learned and
profound philosopher at that time existing in the world! The studious
and retired life of this extraordinary character had not decreased his
urbanity and politeness, nor deprived him of the exercise of those easy
and seducing manners which so entirely engage the affection and win the
heart. He wisely prevented seclusion from robbing him of that amenity and
unassuming ease so necessary to the enjoyment of society. Like those two
eminent philosophers of the present day, the wise Mendelsohm, and the
amiable Garve, he derived from solitude all the benefits it is capable
of conferring, without suffering any of those injuries which it too
frequently inflicts on less powerful minds.
Culpable, however, as studious characters in general are, by neglecting
to cultivate that social address, and to observe that civility of
manners, and urbane attention, which an intercourse not only with
the world, but even with private society, so indispensably requires,
certain it is, that men of fashion expect from them a more refined good
breeding, and a nicer attention to the forms of politeness, than all
their endeavors can produce. The fashionable world, indeed, are blamable
for their constant attempts to deride the awkwardness of their more
erudite and abstracted companions. The severity with which they treat the
defective manners of a scholastic visitor, is a violation of the first
rules of true politeness, which consists entirely of a happy combination
of good sense and good nature, both of which dictate a different conduct,
and induce rather a friendly concealment than a triumphant exposure
of such venial failings. The inexperienced scholastic is entitled to
indulgence, for he cannot be expected nicely to practice customs which
he has had no opportunity to learn. To the eye of polished life, his
austerity, his reserve, his mistakes, his indecorums, may, perhaps,
appear ridiculous; but to expose him to derision on this subject is
destructive to the general interests of society, inasmuch as it tends to
repress and damp endeavors to please. How is it possible that men who
devote the greater portion of their time to the solitary and abstracted
pursuits of literature, can possess that promptitude of thought, that
variety of expression, those easy manners, and that varying humor, which
prevail so agreeably in mixed society, and which can only be acquired
by a constant intercourse with the world? It was not only cruel, but
unjust, of the Swedish courtiers to divert themselves with the confusion
and embarrassments into which Miebom and Naude, two celebrated writers
on the music and dances of the ancients were thrown, when the celebrated
Christina desired the one to sing and the other to dance in public, for
the entertainment of the court. Still less excusable were those imps of
fashion in France, who exposed the celebrated mathematician, Nicole,
to the derision of a large company, for the misapplication of a word.
A fashionable female at Paris, having heard that Nicole, who had then
lately written a profound and highly approved treatise on the doctrine
of curves, was greatly celebrated in all the circles of science, and
affecting to be thought the patroness and intimate of all persons of
distinguished merit, sent him such an invitation to one of her parties
that he could not refuse to accept of. The abstracted geometrician, who
had never before been present at an assembly of the kind, received the
civilities of his fair hostess, and her illustrious friends, with all the
awkwardness and confusion which such a scene must naturally create. After
passing an uncomfortable evening, in answering the observations of those
who addressed him, in which he experienced much greater difficulties than
he would have found in solving the most intricate problem, he prepared
to take his leave, and pouring out a profusion of declarations to the
lady of the house, of the grateful sense he entertained of the high honor
she had conferred on him, by her generous invitation, distinguishing
attention, polite regard, and extraordinary civility, rose to the climax
of his compliments, by assuring her, that the _lovely little eyes of
his fair entertainer had made an impression which never could be erased
from his breast_, and immediately departed. But a kind friend, who was
accompanying him home, whispering in his ear, as they were passing the
stairs, that he had paid the lady a very ill compliment, by telling
her that her eyes were little, for that little eyes were universally
understood by the whole sex to be a great defect. Nicole, mortified to
an extreme by the mistake he had thus innocently made, and resolving
to apologize to the lady whom he conceived he had offended, returned
abruptly to the company, and entreated her with great humility, to pardon
the error into which his confusion had betrayed him of imputing any thing
like _littleness_ to so high, so elegant, so distinguished a character,
declaring that he had never beheld _such fine large eyes, such fine large
lips, such fine large hands, or so fine and large a person altogether_,
in the whole course of his life!
The professional pursuits of students confine them, during the early
periods of life, to retirement and seclusion, and prevent them in
general, from attempting to mix in the society of the world until age, or
professional habits, have rendered them unfit for this scene. Discouraged
by the neglect they experience, and by the ridicule to which they are
exposed, on their first introduction into active life, from persevering
in their attempts to shake off the uncouth manner they have acquired,
they immediately shrink from the displeasing prospect into their original
obscurity, in despair of ever attaining the talents necessary to render
them agreeable to the elegant and gay. There are, indeed, some men, who,
on attempting to change the calm and rational enjoyments of a retired and
studious life, for the more lively and loquacious pleasures of public
society, perceive the manners and maxims of the world so repugnant to
their principles, and so disagreeable to their taste and inclinations,
that they instantly abandon society, and, renouncing all future attempts
to enter into its vortex, calmly and contentedly return to their beloved
retreat under an idea that it is wrong for persons of such different
dispositions to intermix or invade the provinces of each other. There
are also many studious characters who avoid society, under an idea that
they have transferred their whole minds into their own compositions;
that they have exhausted all that they possessed of either instruction
or entertainment; and that they would, like empty bottles, or squeezed
oranges, be thrown aside with disregard, and, perhaps, with contempt, as
persons no longer capable of contributing to companionable pleasures.
But there are others of sounder sense and better judgment, who gladly
relinquish the noisy assemblies of public life, and joyfully retire to
the sweet and tranquil scenes of rural solitude, because they seldom meet
among the candidates for public approbation, a single individual capable
of enjoying a just thought, or making a rational reflection; but, on the
contrary, have to encounter a host of vain, frivolous pretenders to wit
and learning, who herd together, like the anarchs of insurrection, to
oppose with noise and violence, the progress of truth and the exertions
of reason.
Sentiments like these too frequently banish from the circles of society
characters of useful knowledge and of distinguished genius, and from
whose endowments mankind might receive both instruction and delight.
The loss, in such a case, to the individual is, perhaps, trifling; his
comforts may possibly be increased by his seclusion; but the interests of
truth and good sense are thereby considerably injured: for the mind of
man, however powerful and informed it may be in itself, cannot employ its
energies and acquisitions with the same advantage and effect, as when it
is whetted by a collision with other minds, and polished by the manners
of the world. An acquaintance with the living characters and manners of
the world, teaches the mind to direct its powers to their proper and
most useful points: exhibits the means and furnishes the instruments,
by which the best exertions of virtue can attain her ends; gives morals
their brightest color, taste its highest refinement, and truth its
fairest objects. The wisest and best philosophers have acknowledged
the obligations they were under to society for the knowledge they
acquired in its extensive, though dangerous school, and have strongly
recommended the study of mankind, by viewing all the various classes with
a discriminating eye, as the best means of becoming acquainted with the
beauties of _virtue_, and the deformities of _vice_, and, of course, as
the best means of discovering the true road to earthly happiness; for--
Virtue, immortal virtue! born to please,
The child of nature and the source of ease,
Bids every bliss on human life attend;
To every rank a kind and faithful friend;
Inspirits nature ’midst the scenes of toil,
Smooths languor’s cheek, and bids fell want recoil:
Shines from the mitre with unsullied rays,
Glares on the crest, and gives the star to blaze;
Supports distinction, spreads ambition’s wings,
Forms saints of queens, and demi-gods of kings;
O’er grief, oppression, envy, scorn, prevails,
And makes a cottage greater than Versailles.
A free, open, unconstrained intercourse with mankind, has also the
advantage of reconciling us to the peculiarities of others, and of
teaching us the important lesson how to accommodate our minds and
manners to such principles, opinions, and dispositions, as may differ
from our own. The learned and enlightened cannot maintain an intercourse
with the illiterate, without exercising an extraordinary degree of
patience, conceding many points which appear unnatural, and forbearing
to feel those little vexations so adherent to characters who have
lived in retirement. The philosopher, in order to teach virtue to the
world with any hope of success, must humor its vices to a certain
degree, and sometimes even adopt the follies he intends to destroy. To
inculcate wisdom, it is necessary to follow the examples of Socrates and
Wieland, and, separating from morals all that is harsh, repulsive, and
anti-social, adopt only the kind and complacent tenets of the science. A
German author of the present day, whom I glory to call both my countryman
and my friend, observes, with the sagacity and discrimination of a
critic, in his “Remarks on the Writings and Genius of Franklin,” that
the compositions of that great and extraordinary character are totally
free from that pomp of style and parade of erudition, which so frequently
disfigure the writings of other authors, and defeat their intended
effect. The pen of Franklin renders the most abstract principles easy
and familiar. He conveys his instructions in pleasing narrations, lively
adventures, or humorous observations; and while his manner wins upon
the heart, by the friendly interest he appears to take in the concerns
of mankind, his matter instils into the mind the soundest principles
of morals and good policy. He makes fancy the handmaid to reason in
her researches into science, and penetrates the understanding through
the medium of the affections. A secret charm pervades every part of his
works. He rivets the attention by the strength of his observations, and
relieves it by the variety of pleasing images with which he embellishes
his subject. The perspicuity of his style, and the equally easy and
eloquent turn of his periods, give life and energy to his thoughts; and,
while the reader feels his heart bounding with delight, he finds his mind
impregnated with instruction. These high advantages resulted entirely
from his having studied the world, and gained an accurate knowledge
of mankind. An author, indeed, may acquire an extraordinary fund of
knowledge in solitude; but it is in society alone that he can learn how
to render it useful. Before he can instruct the world, he must be enabled
to view its fooleries and vices with calm inspection; to contemplate
them without anger, as the unavoidable consequences of human infirmity;
to treat them with tenderness; and to avoid exasperating the feelings of
those whose depravity he is attempting to correct. A moral censor whose
disposition is kind and benevolent, never suffers his superior virtue,
knowledge, or talents, however great they may be, to offend the feelings
of others; but, like Socrates, he will appear as if he were receiving
himself the instruction he is imparting. It is a fine observation of the
celebrated Goethe, that kindness is the golden chain by which society
is bound together: those who have had the happiness to converse with
that extraordinary man, must have perceived the anxiety with which he
endeavors to temper the strength of his genius by the mildness and
amenity of his conversation.
Men of letters, however awkward the habits of seclusion may have rendered
them, would, I am convinced, be, in general, if not always, treated with
great politeness and attention, if they would be careful to treat others
with the common candor which humanity requires, and with that indulgence
and affability which true liberality of sentiment will ever dictate; but
how few, alas! are there who, by complacency and condescension, entitle
themselves to the kindness and civility of which they stand so much in
need, and so arrogantly expect! How is it possible for those who are
vigilantly anxious to depress the rising merit of others, ever to gain
their friendship or esteem? Friendship can only be acquired by an open,
sincere, liberal, and manly conduct; but he whose breast is filled with
envy and jealousy, who cautiously examines, before he speaks, every
sentiment and feeling, lest his tongue should betray the meanness of his
heart, and the poverty of his mind; who seizes every light indiscretion,
or trifling error, that many inadvertently escape from his companions;
who silently repines at every excellency, both moral and intellectual,
which they may discover; who, even when surrounded by those who wish him
well, continues with guarded circumspection, and suspicious caution,
to weigh the motives of their actions and conversation, as if he were
surrounded by the bitterest enemies, must be utterly incapable of
esteeming others, or being esteemed himself; and to suppose that the
generous flame of friendship, that holy fire which, under the deepest
adversity, so comfortably warms and cheers the heart, can ever spring
up from such cold materials, and ashy embers, would be extravagant and
ridiculous.
The delight which the heart experiences in pouring forth the fulness
of its feelings, with honest confidence, into the bosom of a faithful
friend, is permanent and unbounded. The pleasures which spring from
the acquisition of fame, whether resulting from the generous voice of
an approving public, or extorted from the reluctant tongues of envious
rivals and contemporaries, will bear no comparison with those which
thrill through the exulting bosom of him who can justly exclaim, “To the
heart of this unhappy man I have given returning hopes, and made him
look forward with confidence to the enjoyment of peace; to his wounded
spirit I have imparted the balm of comfort and tranquillity; and from
the bleeding bosom of my friend have driven despair!” But to perform
such offices as these, it is indispensably necessary that we should have
recommended ourselves to the confidence, and have gained the affections
of those we intend to serve. This great and necessary property, however,
those who live secluded lives very seldom possess: but, much as they may
in general disdain to practise this high virtue, it is necessary that
they should know that it tends more to ennoble the sentiments of the
mind, and to raise the feelings of the heart, than their most successful
researches to discover something before unheard of in the regions of
science, and which they pursue with as much avidity as if truth were
liable to decay, unless sustained by the aid of novelty.
It is justly and beautifully said by one of the apocryphal writers, that
_a faithful friend is the medicine of life_. A variety of occasions
happen, when to pour forth the heart to one whom we love and trust, is
the chief comfort, perhaps the only relief we can enjoy. Miserable is
he who, shut up within the narrow inclosure of selfish interest, has
no person to whom he can at all times, with full confidence, expand
his soul. But he who can only feel an affection for such as listen
continually to the suggestions of vanity, as applaud indiscriminately
the imaginary prodigies of his wit, or never contradict the egotism of
his opinions, is totally unfit for friendship, and utterly unworthy
of respect. It is men of learning and of retired habits, who are most
likely to adopt this disengaging disposition. There are, I am sorry to
say it, many men, distinguished in the paths of science, who affect to
possess the most refined sensibility, and whose tongues are continually
proclaiming the virtues of benevolence, but who, when they are called
upon to practise those virtues in behalf of some distressed companion,
turn a deaf ear to the appeal, form some poor excuse for not interfering,
and, if pressed to come forward with some promised assistance, deny to
afford it, because the unhappy sufferer has neglected to approve of
some extravagant conjecture, or to adopt all the visionary notions and
Utopian systems they may have framed. He who neglects to perform the
common charities of life, because his idle vanity may have been offended
by the neglect or indifference of his companions, will never find, and
cannot become, a real friend. There is also an inferior order of fops
in literature, (if any order can be inferior to that which I have last
described,) who carry with them, wherever they go, a collection of their
latest compositions, and by importunately reading them to every one they
meet, and expecting an unreserved approbation of their merits, render
themselves so unpleasantly troublesome on all occasions that, instead of
conciliating the least regard or esteem, their very approach is dreaded
as much as a pestilence or a famine. Every man of real genius will shun
this false ambition of gratifying vanity by forced applause; because he
will immediately perceive, that instead of gaining the hearts of his
auditors, he only exposes himself to the ridicule, and loses all chance
of their esteem.
The disadvantages, however, which studious characters have been described
to experience from habits of solitary seclusion, and by neglecting the
manners of society, must not be indiscriminately applied. It is the
morose and surly pedant, who sits silently in his solitary study, and
endeavors to enforce a character for genius in opposition to nature, who
adopts the mean and unworthy arts of jealousy, suspicion, and dishonest
praise. Far different the calm, happy, and honorable life of him who,
devoted to the cultivation of a strong understanding, and the improvement
of a feeling heart, is enabled, by his application and genius, to
direct the taste of the age by his liberality of spirit, to look on his
equals without jealousy, and his superiors with admiration; and, by his
benevolence, to feel for the multitude he instructs, indulgence and
affection; who, relying on the real greatness of his temper, makes no
attempt to increase his importance by low raillery or unfounded satire;
whose firm temper never sinks into supine indolence, or grovelling
melancholy; who only considers his profession as the means of meliorating
mankind; who perseveres in the cause of truth with cheerful rectitude,
and virtuous dignity; whose intellectual resources satisfactorily supply
the absence of society; whose capacious mind enables him to increase
his stores of useful knowledge; whose discriminating powers enable him
to elucidate the subject he explores; who feels as great a delight in
promoting the beneficial discoveries of others, as in executing his own;
and who regards his professional contemporaries, not as jealous rivals,
but as generous friends, striving to emulate each other in the noble
pursuits of science, and in the laudable task of endeavoring to improve
the morals of mankind.
Characters of this description, equally venerable and happy, are numerous
in Europe, both within and without the shades of academic bowers,
and afford examples which, notwithstanding the tribe of errors and
absurdities solitude occasionally engenders, should induce men of worldly
pleasures to repress the antipathies they are in general inclined to feel
against persons of studious and retired lives.