Paris.
I am uneasy when I hear people assert, that mankind always act from
motives of self-interest. It creates a suspicion that those who maintain
this system, judge of others by their own feelings. This conclusion,
however, may be as erroneous as the general assertion; for I have heard
it maintained (perhaps from affectation) by very disinterested people,
who, when pushed, could not support their argument without perverting the
received meaning of language.—Those who perform generous or apparently
disinterested actions, say they, are prompted by selfish motives—by the
pleasure which they themselves feel.—There are people who have this
feeling so strong, that they cannot pass a miserable object without
endeavouring to assist him.—Such people really relieve themselves when
they relieve the wretched.
All this is very true: but is it not a strange assertion, that people are
not benevolent, because they cannot be otherwise?
Two men are standing near a fruit-shop in St. James’s street. There are
some pine-apples within the window, and a poor woman, with an infant
crying at her empty breast, without. One of the gentlemen walks in, pays
a guinea for a pine-apple, which he calmly devours; while the woman
implores him for a penny, to buy her a morsel of bread—and implores in
vain: not that this fine gentleman values a penny; but to put his hand in
his pocket would give him some trouble;—the distress of the woman gives
him none. The other man happens to have a guinea in his pocket also; he
gives it to the woman, walks home, and dines on beef-steaks, with his
wife and children.
Without doing injustice to the taste of the former, we may believe,
that the latter received the greater gratification for his guinea.—You
will never convince me, however, that his motive in bestowing it was as
selfish as the other’s.
Some few days after the adventure I mentioned in my last letter, I met
F—— and B—— at the opera. They had become acquainted with each other
at my lodgings two days before, according to B——’s desire.—It gave me
pleasure to see them on so good a footing.
F—— invited us to go home and sit an hour with him before we went to
bed;—to which we assented.
The Marquis then told us, we should have the pleasure of seeing Fanchon,
in her best gown, and Dubois, with his new leg—for he had ordered his
valet to invite them, with two or three of his companions, to a little
supper.
While the Marquis was speaking, his coach drove up to the door of the
opera—where a well-known lady was at that moment waiting for her carriage.
B—— seemed to recollect himself of a sudden, saying, he must be excused
from going with us, having an affair of some importance to transact at
home.
The Marquis smiled—shook B—— by the hand—saying, c’est apparemment
quelque affaire qui regarde la constitution, vivent les Anglois pour
l’amour patriotique.
When we arrived at the Marquis’s, the servants and their guests were
assembled in the little garden behind the hotel, and dancing, by
moon-light, to Dubois’s music.
He and Fanchon were invited to a glass of wine in the Marquis’s
parlour.—The poor fellow’s heart swelled at the sight of his
benefactor.—He attempted to express his gratitude; but his voice failed,
and he could not articulate a word.
Vous n’avez pas à faire a des ingrats, Monsieur le Colonel, said Fanchon.
My husband, continued she, is more affected with your goodness, that he
was by the loss of his leg, or the cruelty of my relations.—She then,
in a serious manner, with the voice of gratitude, and in the language
of Nature, expressed her own and her husband’s obligations to the
Marquis; and, amongst others, she alluded to twenty louis which her
husband had received _de sa part_ that very afternoon.—You intend to
make a saint of a sinner, my dear, said the Marquis, and to succeed the
better, you invent false miracles. I know nothing of the twenty louis
you mention.—But I know a great deal; for here they are in my pocket,
says Dubois.—The Marquis still insisted they had not come from him.
The soldier then declared, that he had called about one o’clock, to
pay his duty to Monsieur de F——; but not finding him at home, he was
returning to his lodgings, when, in the street, he observed a gentleman
looking at him with attention, who soon accosted him, demanding if his
name was not Dubois? If he had not lost his leg at Corsica? and several
other questions, which being answered in the affirmative, he slipped
twenty louis into his hand, telling him that it would help to furnish
his house.—Dubois in astonishment had exclaimed—Mon Dieu! voilà encore
Monsieur de F——. Upon which the stranger had replied:—Yes, he sends you
that, by me: and immediately he turned into another street, and Dubois
saw no more of him.
We were all equally surprised at the singularity of this little
adventure. On enquiring more particularly about the appearance of the
stranger, I was convinced he could be no other than B——.
I remembered he had been affected with the story of Dubois when I told
it him. You know B—— is not one of those, who allow any emotions of that
nature to pass unimproved, or to evaporate in sentiment. He generally
puts them to some practical use.—So having met Dubois accidentally in the
street, he had made him this small present, in the manner above related;
and on his understanding that Dubois and Fanchon were at F——’s, he had
declined going, to avoid any explanation on the subject.
Had our friend B—— been a man of system, or much reflection, in his
charity, he would have considered, that as the soldier had already been
taken good care of, and was under the protection of a generous man, there
was no call for his interfering in the business; and he would probably
have kept his twenty guineas for some more pressing occasion.
There are men in the world (and very useful and most respectable men no
doubt they are), who examine the pro’s and the con’s before they decide,
upon the most indifferent occasion; who are directed in all their actions
by propriety, and by the general received notions of duty. They weigh,
in the nicest scales, every claim that an acquaintance, a relation, or
a friend may have on them; and they endeavour to pay them on demand,
as they would a bill of exchange. They calculate their income, and
proportion every expence; and hearing it asserted every week from the
pulpit, that there is exceeding good interest to be paid one time or
other, for the money that is given to the poor, they risk a little every
year upon that venture. Their passions, and their affairs are always in
excellent order; they walk through life undisturbed by the misfortunes of
others. And when they come to the end of their journey, they are decently
interred in a church-yard.
There is another set of men, who never calculate; for they are generally
guided by the heart, which never was taught arithmetic, and knows nothing
of accounts. Their heads have scarcely a vote in the choice of their
acquaintances; and without the consent of the heart, most certainly
none in their friendships. They perform acts of benevolence, without
recollecting that this is a duty, merely for the pleasure they afford;
and perhaps forget them, as they do their own pleasures, when past.
As for little occasional charities, these are as natural to such
characters as breathing; and they claim as little merit for the one as
for the other, the whole seeming an affair of instinct rather than of
reflection.
That the first of these two classes of men is the most useful in society;
that their affairs will be conducted with most circumspection; that they
will keep out of many scrapes and difficulties that the others may fall
into; and that they are (if you insist upon it very violently) the most
virtuous of the two, I shall not dispute: Yet for the soul of me I
cannot help preferring the other; for almost all the friends I have ever
had in my life, are of the second class.