Chap. I
Of those Systems which make Virtue consist in Propriety
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According to Plato, to Aristotle, and to Zeno, virtue
consists in the propriety of conduct, or in the suitableness of
the affection from which we act to the object which excites it.
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| VII.II.5 |
I. In the system of Plato*10 the soul is considered as
something like a little state or republic, composed of three
different faculties or orders.
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| VII.II.6 |
The first is the judging faculty, the faculty which
determines not only what are the proper means for attaining any
end, but also what ends are fit to be pursued, and what degree of
relative value we ought to put upon each. This faculty Plato
called, as it is very properly called, reason, and considered it
as what had a right to be the governing principle of the whole.
Under this appellation, it is evident, he comprehended not only
that faculty by which we judge of truth and falsehood, but that
by which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of desires and
affections.
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| VII.II.7 |
The different passions and appetites, the natural subjects of
this ruling principle, but which are so apt to rebel against
their master, he reduced to two different classes or orders. The
first consisted of those passions, which are founded in pride and
resentment, or in what the schoolmen called the irascible part of
the soul; ambition, animosity, the love of honour, and the dread
of shame, the desire of victory, superiority, and revenge; all
those passions, in short, which are supposed either to rise from,
or to denote what, by a metaphor in our language, we commonly
call spirit or natural fire. The second consisted of those
passions which are founded in the love of pleasure, or in what
the schoolmen called the concupiscible part of the soul. It
comprehended all the appetites of the body, the love of ease and
security, and of all sensual gratifications.
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| VII.II.8 |
It rarely happens that we break in upon that plan of conduct,
which the governing principle prescribes, and which in all our
cool hours we had laid down to ourselves as what was most proper
for us to pursue, but when prompted by one or other of those two
different sets of passions; either by ungovernable ambition and
resentment, or by the importunate solicitations of present ease
and pleasure. But though these two orders of passions are so apt
to mislead us, they are still considered as necessary parts of
human nature: the first having been given to defend us against
injuries, to assert our rank and dignity in the world, to make us
aim at what is noble and honourable, and to make us distinguish
those who act in the same manner; the second, to provide for the
support and necessities of the body.
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| VII.II.9 |
In the strength, acuteness, and perfection of the governing
principle was placed the essential virtue of prudence, which,
according to Plato, consisted in a just and clear discernment,
founded upon general and scientific ideas, of the ends which were
proper to be pursued, and of the means which were proper for
attaining them.
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| VII.II.10 |
When the first set of passions, those of the irascible part
of the soul, had that degree of strength and firmness, which
enabled them, under the direction of reason, to despise all
dangers in the pursuit of what was honourable and noble; it
constituted the virtue of fortitude and magnanimity. This order
of passions, according to this system, was of a more generous and
noble nature than the other. They were considered upon many
occasions as the auxiliaries of reason, to check and restrain the
inferior and brutal appetites. We are often angry at ourselves,
it was observed, we often become the objects of our own
resentment and indignation, when the love of pleasure prompts to
do what we disapprove of; and the irascible part of our nature is
in this manner called in to assist the rational against the
concupiscible.
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| VII.II.11 |
When all those three different parts of our nature were in
perfect concord with one another, when neither the irascible nor
concupiscible passions ever aimed at any gratification which
reason did not approve of, and when reason never commanded any
thing, but what these of their own accord were willing to
perform: this happy composure, this perfect and complete harmony
of soul, constituted that virtue which in their language is
expressed by a word which we commonly translate temperance, but
which might more properly be translated good temper, or sobriety
and moderation of mind.
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| VII.II.12 |
Justice, the last and greatest of the four cardinal virtues,
took place, according to this system, when each of those three
faculties of the mind confined itself to its proper office,
without attempting to encroach upon that of any other; when
reason directed and passion obeyed, and when each passion
performed its proper duty, and exerted itself towards its proper
object easily and without reluctance, and with that degree of
force and energy, which was suitable to the value of what it
pursued. In this consisted that complete virtue, that perfect
propriety of conduct, which Plato, after some of the ancient
Pythagoreans, denominated Justice.
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| VII.II.13 |
The word, it is to be observed, which expresses justice in
the Greek language, has several different meanings; and as the
correspondent word in all other languages, so far as I know, has
the same, there must be some natural affinity among those various
significations. In one sense we are said to do justice to our
neighbour when we abstain from doing him any positive harm, and
do not directly hurt him, either in his person, or in his estate,
or in his reputation. This is that justice which I have treated
of above, the observance of which may be extorted by force, and
the violation of which exposes to punishment. In another sense we
are said not to do justice to our neighbour unless we conceive
for him all that love, respect, and esteem, which his character,
his situation, and his connexion with ourselves, render suitable
and proper for us to feel, and unless we act accordingly. It is
in this sense that we are said to do injustice to a man of merit
who is connected with us, though we abstain from hurting him in
every respect, if we do not exert ourselves to serve him and to
place him in that situation in which the impartial spectator
would be pleased to see him. The first sense of the word
coincides with what Aristotle and the Schoolmen call commutative
justice, and with what Grotius calls the justitia expletrix,
which consists in abstaining from what is another's, and in doing
voluntarily whatever we can with propriety be forced to do. The
second sense of the word coincides with what some have called
distributive justice,*11 and with the justitia attributrix of
Grotius, which consists in proper beneficence, in the becoming
use of what is our own, and in the applying it to those purposes
either of charity or generosity, to which it is most suitable, in
our situation, that it should be applied. In this sense justice
comprehends all the social virtues: There is yet another sense in
which the word justice is sometimes taken, still more extensive
than either of the former, though very much a-kin to the last;
and which runs too, so far as I know, through all languages. It
is in this last sense that we are said to be unjust, when we do
not seem to value any particular object with that degree of
esteem, or to pursue it with that degree of ardour which to the
impartial spectator it may appear to deserve or to be naturally
fitted for exciting. Thus we are said to do injustice to a poem
or a picture, when we do not admire them enough, and we are said
to do them more than justice when we admire them too much. In the
same manner we are said to do injustice to ourselves when we
appear not to give sufficient attention to any particular object
of self-interest. In this last sense, what is called justice
means the same thing with exact and perfect propriety of conduct
and behaviour, and comprehends in it, not only the offices of
both commutative and distributive justice, but of every other
virtue, of prudence, of fortitude, of temperance. It is in this
last sense that Plato evidently understands what he calls
justice, and which, therefore, according to him, comprehends in
it the perfection of every sort of virtue.
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| VII.II.14 |
Such is the account given by Plato of the nature of virtue,
or of that temper of mind which is the proper object of praise
and approbation. It consists, according to him, in that state of
mind in which every faculty confines itself within its proper
sphere without encroaching upon that of any other, and performs
its proper office with that precise degree of strength and vigour
which belongs to it. His account, it is evident, coincides in
every respect with what we have said above concerning the
propriety of conduct.
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| VII.II.15 |
II. Virtue, according to Aristotle,*12 consists in the habit
of mediocrity according to right reason. Every particular virtue,
according to him, lies in a kind of middle between two opposite
vices, of which the one offends from being too much, the other
from being too little affected by a particular species of
objects. Thus the virtue of fortitude or courage lies in the
middle between the opposite vices of cowardice and of
presumptuous rashness, of which the one offends from being too
much, and the other from being too little affected by the objects
of fear. Thus too the virtue of frugality lies in a middle
between avarice and profusion, of which the one consists in an
excess, the other in a defect of the proper attention to the
objects of self-interest. Magnanimity, in the same manner, lies
in a middle between the excess of arrogance and the defect of
pusillanimity, of which the one consists in too extravagant, the
other in too weak a sentiment of our own worth and dignity. It is
unnecessary to observe that this account of virtue corresponds
too pretty exactly with what has been said above concerning the
propriety and impropriety of conduct.
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| VII.II.16 |
According to Aristotle,*13 indeed, virtue did not so much
consist in those moderate and right affections, as in the habit
of this moderation. In order to understand this, it is to be
observed, that virtue may be considered either as the quality of
an action, or as the quality of a person. Considered as the
quality of an action, it consists, even according to Aristotle,
in the reasonable moderation of the affection from which the
action proceeds, whether this disposition be habitual to the
person or not. Considered as the quality of a person, it consists
in the habit of this reasonable moderation, in its having become
the customary and usual disposition of the mind. Thus the action
which proceeds from an occasional fit of generosity is
undoubtedly a generous action, but the man who performs it, is
not necessarily a generous person, because it may be the single
action of the kind which he ever performed. The motive and
disposition of heart, from which this action was performed, may
have been quite just and proper: but as this happy mood seems to
have been the effect rather of accidental humour than of any
thing steady or permanent in the character, it can reflect no
great honour on the performer. When we denominate a character
generous or charitable, or virtuous in any respect, we mean to
signify that the disposition expressed by each of those
appellations is the usual and customary disposition of the
person. But single actions of any kind, how proper and suitable
soever, are of little consequence to show that this is the case.
If a single action was sufficient to stamp the character of any
virtue upon the person who performed it, the most worthless of
mankind. might lay claim to all the virtues; since there is no
man who has not, upon some occasions, acted with prudence,
justice, temperance, and fortitude. But though single actions,
how laudable soever, reflect very little praise upon the person
who performs them, a single vicious action performed by one whose
conduct is usually very regular, greatly diminishes and sometimes
destroys altogether our opinion of his virtue. A single action of
this kind sufficiently shows that his habits are not perfect, and
that he is less to be depended upon, than, from the usual train
of his behaviour, we might have been apt to imagine.
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| VII.II.17 |
Aristotle too,*14 when he made virtue to consist in
practical habits, had it probably in his view to oppose the
doctrine of Plato, who seems to have been of opinion that just
sentiments and reasonable judgments concerning what was fit to be
done or to be avoided, were alone sufficient to constitute the
most perfect virtue. Virtue, according to Plato, might be
considered as a species of science, and no man, he thought, could
see clearly and demonstratively what was right and what was
wrong, and not act accordingly. Passion might make us act
contrary to doubtful and uncertain opinions, not to plain and
evident judgments. Aristotle, on the contrary, was of opinion,
that no conviction of the understanding was capable of getting
the better of inveterate habits, and that good morals arose not
from knowledge but from action.
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| VII.II.18 |
III. According to Zeno,*15 the founder of the Stoical
doctrine, every animal was by nature recommended to its own care,
and was endowed with the principle of self-love, that it might
endeavour to preserve, not only its existence, but all the
different parts of its nature, in the best and most perfect state
of which they were capable.
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| VII.II.19 |
The self-love of man embraced, if I may say so, his body and
all its different members, his mind and all its different
faculties and powers, and desired the preservation and
maintenance of them all in their best and most perfect condition.
Whatever tended to support this state of existence was,
therefore, by nature pointed out to him as fit to be chosen; and
whatever tended to destroy it, as fit to be rejected. Thus
health, strength, agility and ease of body as well as the eternal
conveniencies which could promote these; wealth, power, honours,
the respect and esteem of those we live with; were naturally
pointed out to us as things eligible, and of which the possession
was preferable to the want. On the other hand, sickness,
infirmity, unwieldiness, pain of body, as well as all the eternal
inconveniencies which tend to occasion or bring on any of them;
poverty, the want of authority, the contempt or hatred of those
we live with; were, in the same manner, pointed out to us as
things to be shunned and avoided. In each of those two opposite
classes of objects, there were some which appeared to be more the
objects either of choice or rejection, than others in the same
class. Thus, in the first class, health appeared evidently
preferable to strength, and strength to agility; reputation to
power, and power to riches. And thus too, in the second class,
sickness was more to be avoided than unwieldiness of body,
ignominy than poverty, and poverty than the loss of power. Virtue
and the propriety of conduct consisted in choosing and rejecting
all different objects and circumstances according as they were by
nature rendered more or less the objects of choice or rejection;
in selecting always from among the several objects of choice
presented to us, that which was most to be chosen, when we could
not obtain them all; and in selecting too, out of the several
objects of rejection offered to us, that which was least to be
avoided, when it was not in our power to avoid them all. By
choosing and rejecting with this just and accurate discernment,
by thus bestowing upon every object the precise degree of
attention it deserved, according to the place which it held in
this natural scale of things, we maintained, according to the
Stoics, that perfect rectitude of conduct which constituted the
essence of virtue. This was what they called to live
consistently, to live according to nature, and to obey those laws
and directions which nature, or the Author of nature, had
prescribed for our conduct.
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| VII.II.20 |
So far the Stoical idea of propriety and virtue is not very
different from that of Aristotle and the ancient Peripatetics.
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| VII.II.21 |
Among those primary objects which nature had recommended to
us as eligible, was the prosperity of our family, of our
relations, of our friends, of our country, of mankind, and of the
universe in general. Nature, too, had taught us, that as the
prosperity of two was preferable to that of one, that of many, or
of all, must be infinitely more so. That we ourselves were but
one, and that consequently wherever our prosperity was
inconsistent with that, either of the whole, or of any
considerable part of the whole, it ought, even in our own choice,
to yield to what was so vastly preferable. As all the events in
this world were conducted by the providence of a wise, powerful,
and good God, we might be assured that whatever happened tended
to the prosperity and perfection of the whole. If we ourselves,
therefore, were in poverty, in sickness, or in any other
calamity, we ought, first of all, to use our utmost endeavours,
so far as justice and our duty to others would allow, to rescue
ourselves from this disagreeable circumstance. But if, after all
we could do, we found this impossible, we ought to rest satisfied
that the order and perfection of the universe required that we
should in the mean time continue in this situation. And as the
prosperity of the whole should, even to us, appear preferable to
so insignificant a part as ourselves, our situation, whatever it
was, ought from that moment to become the object of our liking,
if we would maintain that complete propriety and rectitude of
sentiment and conduct in which consisted the perfection of our
nature. If, indeed, any opportunity of extricating ourselves
should offer, it became our duty to embrace it. The order of the
universe, it was evident, no longer required our continuance in
this situation, and the great Director of the world plainly
called upon us to leave it, by so clearly pointing out the road
which we were to follow. It was the same case with the adversity
of our relations, our friends, our country. If, without violating
any more sacred obligation, it was in our power to prevent or put
an end to their calamity, it undoubtedly was our duty to do so.
The propriety of action, the rule which Jupiter had given us for
the direction of our conduct, evidently required this of us. But
if it was altogether out of our power to do either, we ought then
to consider this event as the most fortunate which could possibly
have happened; because we might be assured that it tended most to
the prosperity and order of the whole, which was what we
ourselves, if we were wise and equitable, ought most of all to
desire. It was our own final interest considered as a part of
that whole, of which the prosperity ought to be, not only the
principal, but the sole object of our desire.
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| VII.II.22 |
'In what sense,' says Epictetus, 'are some things said to be
according to our nature, and others contrary to it? It is in that
sense in which we consider ourselves as separated and detached
from all other things. For thus it may be said to be according to
the nature of the foot to be always clean. But if you consider it
as a foot, and not as something detached from the rest of the
body, it must behove it sometimes to trample in the dirt, and
sometimes to tread upon thorns, and sometimes, too, to be cut off
for the sake of the whole body; and if it refuses this, it is no
longer a foot. Thus, too, ought we to conceive with regard to
ourselves. What are you? A man. If you consider yourself as
something separated and detached, it is agreeable to your nature
to live to old age, to be rich, to be in health. But if you
consider yourself as a man, and as a part of a whole, upon
account of that whole, it will behove you sometimes to be in
sickness, sometimes to be exposed to the inconveniency of a sea
voyage, sometimes to be in want; and at last, perhaps, to die
before your time. Why then do you complain? Do not you know that
by doing so, as the foot ceases to be a foot, so you cease to be
a man?'*16
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| VII.II.23 |
A wise man never complains of the destiny of Providence, nor
thinks the universe in confusion when he is out of order. He does
not look upon himself as a whole, separated and detached from
every other part of nature, to be taken care of by itself and for
itself. He regards himself in the light in which he imagines the
great genius of human nature, and of the world, regards him. He
enters, if I may say so, into the sentiments of that divine
Being, and considers himself as an atom, a particle, of an
immense and infinite system, which must and ought to be disposed
of, according to the conveniency of the whole. Assured of the
wisdom which directs all the events of human life, whatever lot
befalls him, he accepts it with joy, satisfied that, if he had
known all the connections and dependencies of the different parts
of the universe, it is the very lot which he himself would have
wished for. If it is life, he is contented to live; and if it is
death, as nature must have no further occasion for his presence
here, he willingly goes where he is appointed. I accept, said a
cynical philosopher, whose doctrines were in this respect the
same as those of the Stoics, I accept, with equal joy and
satisfaction, whatever fortune can befall me. Riches or poverty,
pleasure or pain, health or sickness, all is alike: nor would I
desire that the Gods should in any respect change my destination.
If I was to ask of them any thing beyond what their bounty has
already bestowed, it should be that they would inform me
before-hand what it was their pleasure should be done with me,
that I might of my own accord place myself in this situation, and
demonstrate the cheerfulness with which I embraced their
allotment. If I am going to sail, says Epictetus, I chuse the
best ship and the best pilot, and I wait for the fairest weather
that my circumstances and duty will allow. Prudence and
propriety, the principles which the Gods have given me for the
direction of my conduct, require this of me; but they require no
more: and if, notwithstanding, a storm arises, which neither the
strength of the vessel nor the skill of the pilot are likely to
withstand, I give myself no trouble about the consequence. All
that I had to do is done already. The directors of my conduct
never command me to be miserable, to be anxious, desponding, or
afraid. Whether we are to be drowned, or to come to a harbour, is
the business of Jupiter, not mine. I leave it entirely to his
determination, nor ever break my rest with considering which way
he is likely to decide it, but receive whatever comes with equal
indifference and security.
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| VII.II.24 |
From this perfect confidence in that benevolent wisdom which
governs the universe, and from this entire resignation to
whatever order that wisdom might think proper to establish, it
necessarily followed, that, to the Stoical wise man, all the
events of human life must be in a great measure indifferent. His
happiness consisted altogether, first, in the contemplation of
the happiness and perfection of the great system of the universe,
of the good government of the great republic of Gods and men, of
all rational and sensible beings; and, secondly, in discharging
his duty, in acting properly in the affairs of this great
republic whatever little part that wisdom had assigned to him.
The propriety or impropriety of his endeavours might be of great
consequence to him. Their success or disappointment could be of
none at all; could excite no passionate joy or sorrow, no
passionate desire or aversion. If he preferred some events to
others, if some situations were the objects of his choice and
others of his rejection, it was not because he regarded the one
as in themselves in any respect better than the other, or thought
that his own happiness would be more complete in what is called
the fortunate than in what is regarded as the distressful
situation; but because the propriety of action, the rule which
the Gods had given him for the direction of his conduct, required
him to chuse and reject in this manner. All his affections were
absorbed and swallowed up in two great affections; in that for
the discharge of his own duty, and in that for the greatest
possible happiness of all rational and sensible beings. For the
gratification of this latter affection, he rested with the most
perfect security upon the wisdom and power of the great
Superintendant of the universe. His sole anxiety was about the
gratification of the former; not about the event, but about the
propriety of his own endeavours. Whatever the event might be, he
trusted to a superior power and wisdom for turning it to promote
that great end which he himself was most desirous of promoting.
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| VII.II.25 |
This propriety of chusing and rejecting, though originally
pointed out to us, and as it were recommended and introduced to
our acquaintance by the things, and for the sake of the things,
chosen and rejected; yet when we had once become thoroughly
acquainted with it, the order, the grace, the beauty which we
discerned in this conduct, the happiness which we felt resulted
from it, necessarily appeared to us of much greater value than
the actual obtaining of all the different objects of choice, or
the actual avoiding of all those of rejection. From the
observation of this propriety arose the happiness and the glory;
from the neglect of it, the misery and the disgrace of human
nature.
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| VII.II.26 |
But to a wise man, to one whose passions were brought under
perfect subjection to the ruling principles of his nature, the
exact observation of this propriety was equally easy upon all
occasions. Was he in prosperity, he returned thanks to Jupiter
for having joined him with circumstances which were easily
mastered, and in which there was little temptation to do wrong.
Was he in adversity, he equally returned thanks to the director
of this spectacle of human life, for having opposed to him a
vigorous athlete, over whom, though the contest was likely to be
more violent, the victory was more glorious, and equally certain.
Can there be any shame in that distress which is brought upon us
without any fault of our own, and in which we behave with perfect
propriety? There can, therefore, be no evil, but, on the
contrary, the greatest good and advantage. A brave man exults in
those dangers in which, from no rashness of his own, his fortune
has involved him. They afford an opportunity of exercising that
heroic intrepidity, whose exertion gives the exalted delight
which flows from the consciousness of superior propriety and
deserved admiration. One who is master of all his exercises has
no aversion to measure his strength and activity with the
strongest. And, in the same manner, one who is master of all his
passions, does not dread any circumstance in which the
Superintendant of the universe may think proper to place him. The
bounty of that divine Being has provided him with virtues which
render him superior to every situation. If it is pleasure, he has
temperance to refrain from it; if it is pain, he has constancy to
bear it; if it is danger or death, he has magnanimity and
fortitude to despise it. The events of human life can never find
him unprepared, or at a loss how to maintain that propriety of
sentiment and conduct which, in his own apprehension, constitutes
at once his glory and his happiness.
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| VII.II.27 |
Human life the Stoics appear to have considered as a game of
great skill; in which, however, there was a mixture of chance, or
of what is vulgarly understood to be chance. In such games the
stake is commonly a trifle, and the whole pleasure of the game
arises from playing well, from playing fairly, and playing
skilfully. If notwithstanding all his skill, however, the good
player should, by the influence of chance, happen to lose, the
loss ought to be a matter, rather of merriment, than of serious
sorrow. He has made no false stroke; he has done nothing which he
ought to be ashamed of; he has enjoyed completely the whole
pleasure of the game. If, on the contrary, the bad player,
notwithstanding all his blunders, should, in the same manner,
happen to win, his success can give him but little satisfaction.
He is mortified by the remembrance of all the faults which he
committed. Even during the play he can enjoy no part of the
pleasure which it is capable of affording. From ignorance of the
rules of the game, fear and doubt and hesitation are the
disagreeable sentiments that precede almost every stroke which he
plays; and when he has played it, the mortification of finding it
a gross blunder, commonly completes the unpleasing circle of his
sensations. Human life, with all the advantages which can
possibly attend it, ought, according to the Stoics, to be
regarded but as a mere two-penny stake; a matter by far too
insignificant to merit any anxious concern. Our only anxious
concern ought to be, not about the stake, but about the proper
method of playing. If we placed our happiness in winning the
stake, we placed it in what depended upon causes beyond our
power, and out of our direction. We necessarily exposed ourselves
to perpetual fear and uneasiness, and frequently to grievous and
mortifying disappointments. If we placed it in playing well, in
playing fairly, in playing wisely and skilfully; in the propriety
of our own conduct in short; we placed it in what, by proper
discipline, education, and attention, might be altogether in our
own power, and under our own direction. Our happiness was
perfectly secure, and beyond the reach of fortune. The event of
our actions, if it was out of our power, was equally out of our
concern, and we could never feel either fear or anxiety about it;
nor ever suffer any grievous, or even any serious disappointment.
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| VII.II.28 |
Human life itself, as well as every different advantage or
disadvantage which can attend it, might, they said, according to
Different circumstances, be the proper object either of our
choice or of our rejection. If, in our actual situation, there
were more circumstances agreeable to nature than contrary to it;
more circumstances which were the objects of choice than of
rejection; life, in this case, was, upon the whole, the proper
object of choice, and the propriety of conduct required that we
should remain in it. If, on the other hand, there were, in our
actual situation, without any probable hope of amendment, more
circumstances contrary to nature than agreeable to it; more
circumstances which were the objects of rejection than of choice;
life itself, in this case, became, to a wise man, the object of
rejection, and he was not only at liberty to remove out of it,
but the propriety of conduct, the rule which the Gods had given
him for the direction of his conduct, required him to do so. I am
ordered, says Epictetus, not to dwell at Nicopolis. I do not
dwell there. I am ordered not to dwell at Athens. I do not dwell
at Athens. I am ordered not to dwell in Rome. I do not dwell in
Rome. I am ordered to dwell in the little and rocky island of
Gyarae. I go and dwell there. But the house smokes in Gyarae. If
the smoke is moderate, I will bear it, and stay there. If it is
excessive, I will go to a house from whence no tyrant can remove
me. I keep in mind always that the door is open, that I can walk
out when I please, and retire to that hospitable house which is
at all times open to all the world; for beyond my undermost
garment, beyond my body, no man living has any power over me. If
your situation is upon the whole disagreeable; if your house
smokes too much for you, said the Stoics, walk forth by all
means. But walk forth without, repining, without murmuring or
complaining. Walk forth calm, contented, rejoicing, returning
thanks to the Gods, who, from their infinite bounty, have opened
the safe and quiet harbour of death, at all times ready to
receive us from the stormy ocean of human life; who have prepared
this sacred, this inviolable, this great asylum, always open,
always accessible; altogether beyond the reach of human rage and
injustice; and large enough to contain both all those who wish,
and all those who do not wish to retire to it: an asylum which
takes away from every man every pretence of complaining, or even
of fancying that there can be any evil in human life, except such
as he may suffer from his own folly and weakness.
|
| VII.II.29 |
The Stoics, in the few fragments of their philosophy which
have come down to us, sometimes talk of leaving life with a
gaiety, and even with a levity, which, were we to consider those
passages by themselves, might induce us to believe that they
imagined we could with propriety leave it whenever we had a mind,
wantonly and capriciously, upon the slightest disgust or
uneasiness. 'When you sup with such a person,' says Epictetus,
'you complain of the long stories which he tells you about his
Mysian wars. "Now my friend, says he, having told you how I took
possession of an eminence at such a place, I will tell you how I
was besieged in such another place." But if you have a mind not
to be troubled with his long stories, do not accept of his
supper. If you accept of his supper, you have not the least
pretence to complain of his long stories. It is the same case
with what you call the evils of human life. Never complain of
that of which it is at all times in your power to rid yourself.'
Notwithstanding this gaiety and even levity of expression,
however, the alternative of leaving life, or of remaining in it,
was, according to the Stoics, a matter of the most serious and
important deliberation. We ought never to leave it till we were
distinctly called upon to do so by that superintending power
which had originally placed us in it. But we were to consider
ourselves as called upon to do so, not merely at the appointed
and unavoidable term of human life. Whenever the providence of
that superintending Power had rendered our condition in life upon
the whole the proper object rather of rejection than of choice;
the great rule which he had given us for the direction of our
conduct, then required us to leave it. We might then be said to
hear the awful and benevolent voice of that divine Being
distinctly calling upon us to do so.
|
| VII.II.30 |
It was upon this account that, according to the Stoics, it
might be the duty of a wise man to remove out of life though he
was perfectly happy; while, on the contrary, it might be the duty
of a weak man to remain in it, though he was necessarily
miserable. If, in the situation of the wise man, there were more
circumstances which were the natural objects of rejection than of
choice, the whole situation became the object of rejection, and
the rule which the Gods had given him for the direction of his
conduct, required that he should remove out of it as speedily as
particular circumstances might render convenient. He was,
however, perfectly happy even during the time that he might think
proper to remain in it. He had placed his happiness, not in
obtaining the objects of his choice, or in avoiding those of his
rejection; but in always choosing and rejecting with exact
propriety; not in the success, but in the fitness of his
endeavours and exertions. If, in the situation of the weak man,
on the contrary, there were more circumstances which were the
natural objects of choice than of rejection; his whole situation
became the proper object of choice, and it was his duty to remain
in it. He was unhappy, however, from not knowing how to use those
circumstances. Let his cards be ever so good, he did not know how
to play them, and could enjoy no sort of real satisfaction,
either in the progress, or in the event of the game, in whatever
manner it might happen to turn out.*17
|
| VII.II.31 |
The propriety, upon some occasions, of voluntary death,
though it was, perhaps, more insisted upon by the Stoics, than by
any other sect of ancient philosophers, was, however, a doctrine
common to them all, even to the peaceable and indolent
Epicureans. During the age in which flourished the founders of
all the principal sects of ancient philosophy; during the
Peloponnesian war and for many years after its conclusion, all
the different republics of Greece were, at home, almost always
distracted by the most furious factions; and abroad, involved in
the most sanguinary wars, in which each sought, not merely
superiority or dominion, but either completely to extirpate all
its enemies, or, what was not less cruel, to reduce them into the
vilest of all states, that of domestic slavery, and to sell them,
man, woman, and child, like so many herds of cattle, to the
highest bidder in the market. The smallness of the greater part
of those states, too, rendered it, to each of them, no very
improbable event, that it might itself fall into that very
calamity which it had so frequently, either, perhaps, actually
inflicted, or at least attempted to inflict upon some of its
neighbours. In this disorderly state of things, the most perfect
innocence, joined to both the highest rank and the greatest
public services, could give no security to any man that, even at
home and among his own relations and fellow-citizens, he was not,
at some time or another, from the prevalence of some hostile and
furious faction, to be condemned to the most cruel and
ignominious punishment. If he was taken prisoner in war, or if
the city of which he was a member was conquered, he was exposed,
if possible, to still greater injuries and insults. But every man
naturally, or rather necessarily, familiarizes his imagination
with the distresses to which he foresees that his situation may
frequently expose him. It is impossible that a sailor should not
frequently think of storms and shipwrecks, and foundering at sea,
and of how he himself is likely both to feel and to act upon such
occasions. It was impossible, in the same manner, that a Grecian
patriot or hero should not familiarize his imagination with all
the different calamities to which he was sensible his situation
must frequently, or rather constantly expose him. As an American
savage prepares his death-song, and considers how he should act
when he has fallen into the hands of his enemies, and is by them
put to death in the most lingering tortures, and amidst the
insults and derision of all the spectators; so a Grecian patriot
or hero could not avoid frequently employing his thoughts in
considering what he ought both to suffer and to do in banishment,
in captivity, when reduced to slavery, when put to the torture,
when brought to the scaffold. But the philosophers of all the
different sects very justly represented virtue; that is, wise,
just, firm, and temperate conduct; not only as the most probable,
but as the certain and infallible road to happiness even in this
life. This conduct, however, could not always exempt, and might
even sometimes expose the person who followed it to all the
calamities which were incident to that unsettled situation of
public affairs. They endeavoured, therefore, to show that
happiness was either altogether, or at least in a great measure,
independent of fortune; the Stoics, that it was so altogether;
the Academic and Peripatetic philosophers, that it was so in a
great measure. Wise, prudent, and good conduct was, in the first
place, the conduct most likely to ensure success in every species
of undertaking; and secondly, though it should fail of success,
yet the mind was not left without consolation. The virtuous man
might still enjoy the complete approbation of his own breast; and
might still feel that, how untoward soever things might be
without, all was calm and peace and concord within. He might
generally comfort himself, too, with the assurance that he
possessed the love and esteem of every intelligent and impartial
spectator, who could not fail both to admire his conduct, and to
regret his misfortune.
|
| VII.II.32 |
Those philosophers endeavoured, at the same time, to show,
that the greatest misfortunes to which human life was liable,
might be supported more easily than was commonly imagined. They
endeavoured to point out the comforts which a man might still
enjoy when reduced to poverty, when driven into banishment, when
exposed to the injustice of popular clamour, when labouring under
blindness, under deafness, in the extremity of old age, upon the
approach of death. They pointed out, too, the considerations
which might contribute to support his constancy under the agonies
of pain and even of torture, in sickness, in sorrow for the loss
of children, for the death of friends and relations, etc. The few
fragments which have come down to us of what the ancient
philosophers had written upon these subjects, form, perhaps, one
of the most instructive, as well as one of the most interesting
remains of antiquity. The spirit and manhood of their doctrines
make a wonderful contrast with the desponding, plaintive, and
whining tone of some modern systems.
|
| VII.II.33 |
But while those ancient philosophers endeavoured in this
manner to suggest every consideration which could, as Milton
says, arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience, as with
triple steel; they, at the same time, laboured above all to
convince their followers that there neither was nor could be any
evil in death; and that, if their situation became at any time
too hard for their constancy to support, the remedy was at hand,
the door was open, and they might, without fear, walk out when
they pleased. If there was no world beyond the present, death,
they said, could be no evil; and if there was another world, the
Gods must likewise be in that other, and a just man could fear no
evil while under their protection. Those philosophers, in short,
prepared a death-song, if I may say so, which the Grecian
patriots and heroes might make use of upon the proper occasions;
and, of all the different sects, the Stoics, I think it must be
acknowledged, had prepared by far the most animated and spirited
song.
|
| VII.II.34 |
Suicide, however, never seems to have been very common among
the Greeks. Excepting Cleomenes, I cannot at present recollect
any very illustrious either patriot or hero of Greece, who died
by his own hand. The death of Aristomenes is as much beyond the
period of true history as that of Ajax. The common story of the
death of Themistocles, though within that period, bears upon its
face all the marks of a most romantic fable. Of all the Greek
heroes whose lives have been written by Plutarch, Cleomenes
appears to have been the only one who perished in this manner.
Theramines, Socrates, and Phocion, who certainly did not want
courage, suffered themselves to be sent to prison, and submitted
patiently to that death to which the injustice of their
fellow-citizens had condemned them. The brave Eumenes allowed
himself to be delivered up, by his own mutinous soldiers, to his
enemy Antigonus, and was starved to death, without attempting any
violence. The gallant Philopoemen suffered himself to be taken
prisoner by the Messenians, was thrown into a dungeon, and was
supposed to have been privately poisoned. Several of the
philosophers, indeed, are said to have died in this manner; but
their lives have been so very foolishly written, that very little
credit is due to the greater part of the tales which are told of
them. Three different accounts have been given of the death of
Zeno the Stoic. One is, that after enjoying, for ninety-eight
years, the most perfect state of health, he happened, in going
out of his school, to fall; and though he suffered no other
damage than that of breaking or dislocating one of his fingers,
he struck the ground with his hand, and, in the words of the
Niobe of Euripides, said, I come, why doest thou call me? and
immediately went home and hanged himself. At that great age, one
should think, he might have had a little more patience. Another
account is, that, at the same age, and in consequence of a like
accident, he starved himself to death. The third account is,
that, at seventy-two years of age, he died in the natural way; by
far the most probable account of the three, and supported too by
the authority of a co-temporary, who must have had every
opportunity of being well informed; of Persaeus, originally the
slave, and afterwards the friend and disciple of Zeno. The first
account is given by Apollonius of Tyre, who flourished about the
time of Augustus Caesar, between two and three hundred years
after the death of Zeno. I know not who is the author of the
second account. Apollonius, who was himself a Stoic, had probably
thought it would do honour to the founder of a sect which talked
so much about voluntary death, to die in this manner by his own
hand. Men of letters, though, after their death, they are
frequently more talked of than the greatest princes or statesmen
of their times, are generally, during their life, so obscure and
insignificant that their adventures are seldom recorded by
co-temporary historians. Those of after-ages, in order to satisfy
the public curiosity, and having no authentic documents either to
support or to contradict their narratives, seem frequently to
have fashioned them according to their own fancy; and almost
always with a great mixture of the marvellous. In this particular
case the marvellous, though supported by no authority, seems to
have prevailed over the probable, though supported by the best.
Diogenes Laertius plainly gives the preference to the story of
Apollonius. Lucian and Lactantius appear both to have given
credit to that of the great age and of the violent death.
|
| VII.II.35 |
This fashion of voluntary death appears to have been much
more prevalent among the proud Romans, than it ever was among the
lively, ingenious, and accommodating Greeks. Even among the
Romans, the fashion seems not to have been established in the
early and, what are called, the virtuous ages of the republic.
The common story of the death of Regulus, though probably a
fable, could never have been invented, had it been supposed that
any dishonour could fall upon that hero, from patiently
submitting to the tortures which the Carthaginians are said to
have inflicted upon him. In the later ages of the republic some
dishonour I apprehend, would have attended this submission. In
the different civil wars which preceded the fall of the
commonwealth, many of the eminent men of all the contending
parties chose rather to perish by their own hands, than to fall
into those of their enemies. The death of Cato, celebrated by
Cicero, and censured by Caesar, and become the subject of a very
serious controversy between, perhaps, the two most illustrious
advocates that the world had ever beheld, stamped a character of
splendour upon this method of dying which it seems to have
retained for several ages after. The eloquence of Cicero was
superior to that of Caesar. The admiring prevailed greatly over
the censuring party, and the lovers of liberty, for many ages
afterwards, looked up to Cato as to the most venerable martyr of
the republican party. The head of a party, the Cardinal de Retz
observes, may do what he pleases; as long as he retains the
confidence of his own friends, he can never do wrong; a maxim of
which his Eminence had himself, upon several occasions, an
opportunity of experiencing the truth. Cato, it seems, joined to
his other virtues that of an excellent bottle companion. His
enemies accused him of drunkenness, but, says Seneca, whoever
objected this vice to Cato, will find it much easier to prove
that drunkenness is a virtue, than that Cato could be addicted to
any vice.
|
| VII.II.36 |
Under the Emperors this method of dying seems to have been,
for a long time, perfectly fashionable. In the epistles of Pliny
we find an account of several persons who chose to die in this
manner, rather from vanity and ostentation, it would seem, than
from what would appear, even to a sober and judicious Stoic, any
proper or necessary reason. Even the ladies, who are seldom
behind in following the fashion, seem frequently to have chosen,
most unnecessarily, to die in this manner; and, like the ladies
in Bengal, to accompany, upon some occasions, their husbands to
the tomb. The prevalence of this fashion certainly occasioned
many deaths which would not otherwise have happened. All the
havock, however, which this, perhaps the highest exertion of
human vanity and impertinence, could occasion, would, probably,
at no time, be very great.
|
| VII.II.37 |
The principle of suicide, the principle which would teach us,
upon some occasions, to consider that violent action as an object
of applause and approbation, seems to be altogether a refinement
of philosophy. Nature, in her sound and healthful state, seems
never to prompt us to suicide. There is, indeed, a species of
melancholy (a disease to which human nature, among its other
calamities, is unhappily subject) which seems to be accompanied
with, what one may call, an irresistible appetite for
self-destruction. In circumstances often of the highest external
prosperity, and sometimes too, in spite even of the most serious
and deeply impressed sentiments of religion, this disease has
frequently been known to drive its wretched victims to this fatal
extremity. The unfortunate persons who perish in this miserable
manner, are the proper objects, not of censure, but of
commiseration. To attempt to punish them, when they are beyond
the reach of all human punishment, is not more absurd than it is
unjust. That punishment can fall only on their surviving friends
and relations, who are always perfectly innocent, and to whom the
loss of their friend, in this disgraceful manner, must always be
alone a very heavy calamity. Nature, in her sound and healthful
state, prompts us to avoid distress upon all occasions; upon many
occasions to defend ourselves against it, though at the hazard,
or even with the certainty of perishing in that defence. But,
when we have neither been able to defend ourselves from it, nor
have perished in that defence, no natural principle, no regard to
the approbation of the supposed impartial spectator, to the
judgment of the man within the breast, seems to call upon us to
escape from it by destroying ourselves. It is only the
consciousness of our own weakness, of our own incapacity to
support the calamity with proper manhood and firmness, which can
drive us to this resolution. I do not remember to have either
read or heard of any American savage, who, upon being taken
prisoner by some hostile tribe, put himself to death, in order to
avoid being afterwards put to death in torture, and amidst the
insults and mockery of his enemies. He places his glory in
supporting those torments with manhood, and in retorting those
insults with tenfold contempt and derision.
|
| VII.II.38 |
This contempt of life and death, however, and, at the same
time, the most entire submission to the order of Providence; the
most complete contentment with every event which the current of
human affairs could possibly cast up, may be considered as the
two fundamental doctrines upon which rested the whole fabric of
Stoical morality. The independent and spirited, but often harsh
Epictetus, may be considered as the great apostle of the first of
those doctrines: the mild, the humane, the benevolent Antoninus,
of the second.
|
| VII.II.39 |
The emancipated slave of Epaphriditus, who, in his youth, had
been subjected to the insolence of a brutal master, who, in his
riper years, was, by the jealousy and caprice of Domitian,
banished from Rome and Athens, and obliged to dwell at Nicopolis,
and who, by the same tyrant, might expect every moment to be sent
to Gyarae, or, perhaps, to be put to death; could preserve his
tranquillity only by fostering in his mind the most sovereign
contempt of human life. He never exults so much, accordingly his
eloquence is never so animated as when he represents the futility
and nothingness of all its pleasures and all its pains.
|
| VII.II.40 |
The good-natured Emperor, the absolute sovereign of the whole
civilized part of the world, who certainly had no peculiar reason
to complain of his own allotment, delights in expressing his
contentment with the ordinary course of things, and in pointing
out beauties even in those parts of it where vulgar observers are
not apt to see any. There is a propriety and even an engaging
grace, he observes, in old age as well as in youth; and the
weakness and decrepitude of the one state are as suitable to
nature as the bloom and vigour of the other. Death, too, is just
as proper a termination of old age, as youth is of childhood, or
manhood of youth. As we frequently say, he remarks upon another
occasion, that the physician has ordered to such a man to ride on
horseback, or to use the cold bath, or to walk barefooted; so
ought we to say, that Nature, the great conductor and physician
of the universe, has ordered to such a man a disease, or the
amputation of a limb, or the loss of a child. By the
prescriptions of ordinary physicians the patient swallows many a
bitter potion; undergoes many a painful operation. From the very
uncertain hope, however, that health may be the consequence, he
gladly submits to all. The harshest prescriptions of the great
Physician of nature, the patient may, in the same manner, hope
will contribute to his own health, to his own final prosperity
and happiness: and he may be perfectly assured that they not only
contribute, but are indispensably necessary to the health, to the
prosperity and happiness of the universe, to the furtherance and
advancement of the great plan of Jupiter. Had they not been so,
the universe would never have produced them; its all-wise
Architect and Conductor would never have suffered them to happen.
As all, even the smallest of the co-existent parts of the
universe, are exactly fitted to one another, and all contribute
to compose one immense and connected system; so all, even
apparently the most insignificant of the successive events which
follow one another, make parts, and necessary parts, of that
great chain of causes and effects which had no beginning, and
which will have no end; and which, as they all necessarily result
from the original arrangement and contrivance of the whole; so
they are all essentially necessary, not only to its prosperity,
but to its continuance and preservation. Whoever does not
cordially embrace whatever befals him, whoever is sorry that it
has befallen him, whoever wishes that it had not befallen him,
wishes, so far as in him lies, to stop the motion of the
universe, to break that great chain of succession, by the
progress of which that system can alone be continued and
preserved, and, for some little conveniency of his own, to
disorder and discompose the whole machine of the world. 'O
world,' says he, in another place, 'all things are suitable to me
which are suitable to thee. Nothing is too early or too late to
me which is seasonable for thee. All is fruit to me which thy
seasons bring forth. From thee are all things; in thee are all
things; for thee are all things. One man says, O beloved city of
Cecrops. Wilt not thou say, O beloved city of God?'
|
| VII.II.41 |
From these very sublime doctrines the Stoics, or at least
some of the Stoics, attempted to deduce all their paradoxes.
|
| VII.II.42 |
The Stoical wise man endeavoured to enter into the views of
the great Superintendant of the universe, and to see things in
the same light in which that divine Being beheld them. But, to
the great Superintendant of the universe, all the different
events which the course of his providence may bring forth, what
to us appear the smallest and the greatest, the bursting of a
bubble, as Mr. Pope says, and that of a world, for example, were
perfectly equal, were equally parts of that great chain which he
had predestined from all eternity, were equally the effects of
the same unerring wisdom, of the same universal and boundless
benevolence. To the Stoical wise man, in the same manner, all
those different events were perfectly equal. In the course of
those events, indeed, a little department, in which he had
himself some little management and direction, had been assigned
to him. In this department he endeavoured to act as properly as
he could, and to conduct himself according to those orders which,
he understood, had been prescribed to him. But he took no anxious
or passionate concern either in the success, or in the
disappointment of his own most faithful endeavours. The highest
prosperity and the total destruction of that little department,
of that little system which had been in some measure committed to
his charge, were perfectly indifferent to him. If those events
had depended upon him, he would have chosen the one, and he would
have rejected the other. But as they did not depend upon him, he
trusted to a superior wisdom, and was perfectly satisfied that
the event which happened, whatever it might be, was the very
event which he himself, had he known all the connections and
dependencies of things, would most earnestly and devoutly have
wished for. Whatever he did under the influence and direction of
those principles was equally perfect; and when he stretched out
his finger, to give the example which they commonly made use of,
he performed an action in every respect as meritorious, as worthy
of praise and admiration, as when he laid down his life for the
service of his country. As, to the great Superintendant of the
universe, the greatest and the smallest exertions of his power,
the formation and dissolution of a world, the formation and
dissolution of a bubble, were equally easy, were equally
admirable, and equally the effects of the same divine wisdom and
benevolence; so, to the Stoical wise man, what we would call the
great action required no more exertion than the little one, was
equally easy, proceeded from exactly the same principles, was in
no respect more meritorious, nor worthy of any higher degree of
praise and admiration.
|
| VII.II.43 |
As all those who had arrived at this state of perfection,
were equally happy. so all those who fell in the smallest degree
short of it, how nearly soever they might approach to it, were
equally miserable. As the man, they said, who was but an inch
below the surface of the water, could no more breathe than he who
was an hundred yards below it; so the man who had not completely
subdued all his private, partial, and selfish passions, who had
any other earnest desire but that for the universal happiness,
who had not completely emerged from that abyss of misery and
disorder into which his anxiety for the gratification of those
private, partial, and selfish passions had involved him, could no
more breathe the free air of liberty and independency, could no
more enjoy the security and happiness of the wise man, than he
who was most remote from that situation. As all the actions of
the wise man were perfect, and equally perfect; so all those of
the man who had not arrived at this supreme wisdom were faulty,
and, as some Stoics pretended, equally faulty. As one truth, they
said, could not be more true, nor one falsehood more false than
another; so an honourable action could not be more honourable,
nor a shameful one more shameful than another. As in shooting at
a mark, the man who missed it by an inch had equally missed it
with him who had done so by a hundred yards; so the man who, in
what to us appears the most insignificant action, had acted
improperly and without a sufficient reason, was equally faulty
with him who had done so in, what to us appears, the most
important; the man who has killed a cock, for example, improperly
and without a sufficient reason, with him who had murdered his
father.
|
| VII.II.44 |
If the first of those two paradoxes should appear
sufficiently violent, the second is evidently too absurd to
deserve any serious consideration. It is, indeed, so very absurd
that one can scarce help suspecting that it must have been in
some measure misunderstood or misrepresented. At any rate, I
cannot allow myself to believe that such men as Zeno or
Cleanthes, men, it is said, of the most simple as well as of the
most sublime eloquence, could be the authors, either of these, or
of the greater part of the other Stoical paradoxes, which are in
general mere impertinent quibbles, and do so little honour to
their system that I shall give no further account of them. I am
disposed to impute them rather to Chrysippus, the disciple and
follower, indeed, of Zeno and Cleanthes, but who, from all that
has been delivered down to us concerning him, seems to have been
a mere dialectical pedant, without taste or elegance of any kind.
He may have been the first who reduced their doctrines into a
scholastic or technical system of artificial definitions,
divisions, and subdivisions; one of the most effectual
expedients, perhaps, for extinguishing whatever degree of good
sense there may be in any moral or metaphysical doctrine. Such a
man may very easily be supposed to have understood too literally
some animated expressions of his masters in describing the
happiness of the man of perfect virtue, and the unhappiness of
whoever fell short of that character.
|
| VII.II.45 |
The Stoics in general seem to have admitted that there might
be a degree of proficiency in those who had not advanced to
perfect virtue and happiness. They distributed those proficients
into different classes, according to the degree of their
advancement; and they called the imperfect virtues which they
supposed them capable of exercising, not rectitudes, but
proprieties, fitnesses, decent and becoming actions, for which a
plausible or probable reason could be assigned, what Cicero
expresses by the Latin word officia, and Seneca, I think more
exactly, by that of convenientia. The doctrine of those
imperfect, but attainable virtues, seems to have constituted what
we may call the practical morality of the Stoics. It is the
subject of Cicero's Offices; and is said to have been that of
another book written by Marcus Brutus, but which is now lost.
|
| VII.II.46 |
The plan and system which Nature has sketched out for our
conduct, seems to be altogether different from that of the
Stoical philosophy.
|
| VII.II.47 |
By Nature the events which immediately affect that little
department in which we ourselves have some little management and
direction, which immediately affect ourselves, our friends, our
country, are the events which interest us the most, and which
chiefly excite our desires and aversions, our hopes and fears,
our joys and sorrows. Should those passions be, what they are
very apt to be, too vehement, Nature has provided a proper remedy
and correction. The real or even the imaginary presence of the
impartial spectator, the authority of the man within the breast,
is always at hand to overawe them into the proper tone and temper
of moderation.
|
| VII.II.48 |
If, notwithstanding our most faithful exertions, all the
events which can affect this little department, should turn out
the most unfortunate and disastrous, Nature has by no means left
us without consolation. That consolation may be drawn, not only
from the complete approbation of the man within the breast, but,
if possible, from a still nobler and more generous principle,
from a firm reliance upon, and a reverential submission to, that
benevolent wisdom which directs all the events of human life, and
which, we may be assured, would never have suffered those
misfortunes to happen, had they not been indispensably necessary
for the good of the whole.
|
| VII.II.49 |
Nature has not prescribed to us this sublime contemplation as
the great business and occupation of our lives. She only points
it out to us as the consolation of our misfortunes. The Stoical
philosophy prescribes it as the great business and occupation of
our lives. That philosophy teaches us to interest ourselves
earnestly and anxiously in no events, external to the good order
of our own minds, to the propriety of our own choosing and
rejecting, except in those which concern a department where we
neither have nor ought to have any sort of management or
direction, the department of the great Superintendant of the
universe. By the perfect apathy which it prescribes to us, by
endeavouring, not merely to moderate, but to eradicate all our
private, partial, and selfish affections, by suffering us to feel
for whatever can befall ourselves, our friends, our country, not
even the sympathetic and reduced passions of the impartial
spectator, it endeavours to render us altogether indifferent and
unconcerned in the success or miscarriage of every thing which
Nature has prescribed to us as the proper business and occupation
of our lives.
|
| VII.II.50 |
The reasonings of philosophy, it may be said, though they may
confound and perplex the understanding, can never break down the
necessary connection which Nature has established between causes
and their effects. The causes which naturally excite our desires
and aversions, our hopes and fears, our joys and sorrows, would
no doubt, notwithstanding all the reasonings of Stoicism, produce
upon each individual, according to the degree of his actual
sensibility, their proper and necessary effects. The judgments of
the man within the breast, however, might be a good deal affected
by those reasonings, and that great inmate might be taught by
them to attempt to overawe all our private, partial, and selfish
affections into a more or less perfect tranquillity. To direct
the judgments of this inmate is the great purpose of all systems
of morality. That the Stoical philosophy had very great influence
upon the character and conduct of its followers, cannot be
doubted; and that though it might sometimes incite them to
unnecessary violence, its general tendency was to animate them to
actions of the most heroic magnanimity and most extensive
benevolence.
|
| VII.II.51 |
IV. Besides these ancient, there are some modern systems,
according to which virtue consists in propriety; or in the
suitableness of the affection from which we act, to the cause or
object which excites it. The system of Dr. Clark, which places
virtue in acting according to the relations of things, in
regulating our conduct according to the fitness or incongruity
which there may be in the application of certain actions to
certain things, or to certain relations: that of Mr. Woollaston,
which places it in acting according to the truth of things,
according to their proper nature and essence, or in treating them
as what they really are, and not as what they are not: that of my
Lord Shaftesbury, which places it in maintaining a proper balance
of the affections, and in allowing no passion to go beyond its
proper sphere; are all of them more or less inaccurate
descriptions of the same fundamental idea.
|
| VII.II.52 |
None of those systems either give, or even pretend to give,
any precise or distinct measure by which this fitness or
propriety of affection can be ascertained or judged of. That
precise and distinct measure can be found nowhere but in the
sympathetic feelings of the impartial and well-informed
spectator.
|
| VII.II.53 |
The description of virtue, besides, which is either given, or
at least meant and intended to be given in each of those systems,
for some of the modern authors are not very fortunate in their
manner of expressing themselves, is no doubt quite just, so far
as it goes. There is no virtue without propriety, and wherever
there is propriety some degree of approbation is due. But still
this description is imperfect. For though propriety is an
essential ingredient in every virtuous action, it is not always
the sole ingredient. Beneficent actions have in them another
quality by which they appear not only to deserve approbation but
recompense. None of those systems account either easily or
sufficiently for that superior degree of esteem which seems due
to such actions, or for that diversity of sentiment which they
naturally excite. Neither is the description of vice more
complete. For, in the same manner, though impropriety is a
necessary ingredient in every vicious action, it is not always
the sole ingredient; and there is often the highest degree of
absurdity and impropriety in very harmless and insignificant
actions. Deliberate actions, of a pernicious tendency to those we
live with, have, besides their impropriety, a peculiar quality of
their own by which they appear to deserve, not only
disapprobation, but punishment; and to be the objects, not of
dislike merely, but of resentment and revenge: and none of those
systems easily and sufficiently account for that superior degree
of detestation which we feel for such actions.
|
| VII.II.54 |
Chap. II
Of those Systems which make Virtue consist in Prudence
|
| |
The most ancient of those systems which make virtue consist
in prudence, and of which any considerable remains have come down
to us, is that of Epicurus, who is said, however, to have
borrowed all the leading principles of his philosophy from some
of those who had gone before him, particularly from Aristippus;
though it is very probable, notwithstanding this allegation of
his enemies, that at least his manner of applying those
principles was altogether his own.
|
| VII.II.55 |
According to Epicurus,*18 bodily pleasure and pain were the
sole ultimate objects of natural desire and aversion. That they
were always the natural objects of those passions, he thought
required no proof. Pleasure might, indeed, appear sometimes to be
avoided; not, however, because it was pleasure, but because, by
the enjoyment of it, we should either forfeit some greater
pleasure, or expose ourselves to some pain that was more to be
avoided than this pleasure was to be desired. Pain, in the same
manner, might appear sometimes to be eligible; not, however,
because it was pain, but because by enduring it we might either
avoid a still greater pain, or acquire some pleasure of much more
importance. That bodily pain and pleasure, therefore, were always
the natural objects of desire and aversion, was, he thought,
abundantly evident. Nor was it less so, he imagined, that they
were the sole ultimate objects of those passions. Whatever else
was either desired or avoided, was so, according to him, upon
account of its tendency to produce one or other of those
sensations. The tendency to procure pleasure rendered power and
riches desirable, as the contrary tendency to produce pain made
poverty and insignificancy the objects of aversion. Honour and
reputation were valued, because the esteem and love of those we
live with were of the greatest consequence both to procure
pleasure and to defend us from pain. Ignominy and bad fame, on
the contrary, were to be avoided, because the hatred, contempt
and resentment of those we lived with, destroyed all security,
and necessarily exposed us to the greatest bodily evils.
|
| VII.II.56 |
All the pleasures and pains of the mind were, according to
Epicurus, ultimately derived from those of the body. The mind was
happy when it thought of the past pleasures of the body, and
hoped for others to come: and it was miserable when it thought of
the pains which the body had formerly endured, and dreaded the
same or greater thereafter.
|
| VII.II.57 |
But the pleasures and pains of the mind, though ultimately
derived from those of the body, were vastly greater than their
originals. The body felt only the sensation of the present
instant, whereas the mind felt also the past and the future, the
one by remembrance, the other by anticipation, and consequently
both suffered and enjoyed much more. When we are under the
greatest bodily pain, he observed, we shall always find, if we
attend to it, that it is not the suffering of the present instant
which chiefly torments us, but either the agonizing remembrance
of the past, or the yet more horrible dread of the future. The
pain of each instant, considered by itself, and cut off from all
that goes before and all that comes after it, is a trifle, not
worth the regarding. Yet this is all which the body can ever be
said to suffer. In the same manner, when we enjoy the greatest
pleasure, we shall always find that the bodily sensation, the
sensation of the present instant, makes but a small part of our
happiness, that our enjoyment chiefly arises either from the
cheerful recollection of the past, or the still more joyous
anticipation of the future, and that the mind always contributes
by much the largest share of the entertainment.
|
| VII.II.58 |
Since our happiness and misery, therefore, depended chiefly
on the mind, if this part of our nature was well disposed, if our
thoughts and opinions were as they should be, it was of little
importance in what manner our body was affected. Though under
great bodily pain, we might still enjoy a considerable share of
happiness, if our reason and judgment maintained their
superiority. We might entertain ourselves with the remembrance of
past, and with the hopes of future pleasure; we might soften the
rigour of our pains, by recollecting what it was which, even in
this situation, we were under any necessity of suffering. That
this was merely the bodily sensation, the pain of the present
instant, which by itself could never be very great. That whatever
agony we suffered from the dread of its continuance, was the
effect of an opinion of the mind, which might be corrected by
juster sentiments; by considering that, if our pains were
violent, they would probably be of short duration; and that if
they were of long continuance, they would probably be moderate,
and admit of many intervals of ease; and that, at any rate, death
was always at hand and within call to deliver us, which as,
according to him, it put an end to all sensation, either of pain
or pleasure, could not be regarded as an evil. When we are, said
he, death is not; and when death is, we are not; death therefore
can be nothing to us.
|
| VII.II.59 |
If the actual sensation of positive pain was in itself so
little to be feared, that of pleasure was still less to be
desired. Naturally the sensation of pleasure was much less
pungent than that of pain. If, therefore, this last could take so
very little from the happiness of a well-disposed mind, the other
could add scarce any thing to it. When the body was free from
pain and the mind from fear and anxiety, the superadded sensation
of bodily pleasure could be of very little importance; and though
it might diversify could not properly be said to increase the
happiness of the situation.
|
| VII.II.60 |
In ease of body, therefore, and in security or tranquillity
of mind, consisted, according to Epicurus, the most perfect state
of human nature, the most complete happiness which man was
capable of enjoying. To obtain this great end of natural desire
was the sole object of all the virtues, which, according to him,
were not desirable upon their own account, but upon account of
their tendency to bring about this situation.
|
| VII.II.61 |
Prudence, for example, though, according to this philosophy,
the source and principle of all the virtues, was not desirable
upon its own account. That careful and laborious and circumspect
state of mind, ever watchful and ever attentive to the most
distant consequences of every action. could not be a thing
pleasant or agreeable for its own sake, but upon account of its
tendency to procure the greatest goods and to keep off the
greatest evils.
|
| VII.II.62 |
To abstain from pleasure too, to curb and restrain our
natural passions for enjoyment, which was the office of
temperance, could never be desirable for its own sake. The whole
value of this virtue arose from its utility, from its enabling us
to postpone the present enjoyment for the sake of a greater to
come, or to avoid a greater pain that might ensue from it.
Temperance, in short, was nothing but prudence with regard to
pleasure.
|
| VII.II.63 |
To support labour, to endure pain, to be exposed to danger or
to death, the situations which fortitude would often lead us
into, were surely still less the objects of natural desire. They
were chosen only to avoid greater evils. We submitted to labour,
in order to avoid the greater shame and pain of poverty, and we
exposed ourselves to danger and to death in defence of our
liberty and property, the means and instruments of pleasure and
happiness; or in defence of our country, in the safety of which
our own was necessarily comprehended. Fortitude enabled us to do
all this cheerfully, as the best which, in our present situation,
could possibly be done, and was in reality no more than prudence,
good judgment, and presence of mind in properly appreciating
pain, labour, and danger, always choosing the less in order to
avoid the greater.
|
| VII.II.64 |
It is the same case with justice. To abstain from what is
another's was not desirable on its own account, and it could not
surely be better for you, that I should possess what is my own,
than that you should possess it. You ought, however, to abstain
from whatever belongs to me, because by doing otherwise you will
provoke the resentment and indication of mankind. The security
and tranquillity of your mind will be entirely destroyed. You
will be filled with fear and consternation at the thought of that
punishment which you will imagine that men are at all times ready
to inflict upon you, and from which no power, no art, no
concealment, will ever, in your own fancy, be sufficient to
protect you. That other species of justice which. consists in
doing proper good offices to different persons, according to the
various relations of neighbours, kinsmen, friends, benefactors,
superiors, or equals, which they may stand in to us, is
recommended by the same reasons. To act properly in all these
different relations procures us the esteem and love of those we
live with; as to do otherwise excites their contempt and hatred.
By the one we naturally secure, by the other we necessarily
endanger our own ease and tranquillity, the great and ultimate
objects of all our desires. The whole virtue of justice,
therefore, the most important of all the virtues, is no more than
discreet and prudent conduct with regard to our neighbours.
|
| VII.II.65 |
Such is the doctrine of Epicurus concerning the nature of
virtue. It may seem extraordinary that this philosopher, who is
described as a person of the most amiable manners, should never
have observed, that, whatever may be the tendency of those
virtues, or of the contrary vices, with regard to our bodily ease
and security, the sentiments which they naturally excite in
others are the objects of a much more passionate desire or
aversion than all their other consequences; that to be amiable,
to be respectable, to be the proper object of esteem, is by every
well-disposed mind more valued than all the ease and security
which love, respect, and esteem can procure us; that, on the
contrary, to be odious, to be contemptible, to be the proper
object of indignation, is more dreadful than all that we can
suffer in our body from hatred, contempt, or indignation; and
that consequently our desire of the one character, and our
aversion to the other, cannot arise from any regard to the
effects which either of them is likely to produce upon the body.
|
| VII.II.66 |
This system is, no doubt, altogether inconsistent with that
which I have been endeavouring to establish. It is not difficult,
however, to discover from what phasis, if I may say so, from what
particular view or aspect of nature, this account of things
derives its probability. By the wise contrivance of the Author of
nature, virtue is upon all ordinary occasions, even with regard
to this life, real wisdom, and the surest and readiest means of
obtaining both safety and advantage. Our success or
disappointment in our undertakings must very much depend upon the
good or bad opinion which is commonly entertained of us, and upon
the general disposition of those we live with, either to assist
or to oppose us. But the best, the surest, the easiest, and the
readiest way of obtaining the advantageous and of avoiding the
unfavourable judgments of others, is undoubtedly to render
ourselves the proper objects of the former and not of the latter.
'Do you desire,' said Socrates, 'the reputation of a good
musician? The only sure way of obtaining it, is to become a good
musician. Would you desire in the same manner to be thought
capable of serving your country either as a general or as a
statesman? The best way in this case too is really to acquire the
art and experience of war and government, and to become really
fit to be a general or a statesman. And in the same manner if you
would be reckoned sober, temperate, just, and equitable, the best
way of acquiring this reputation is to become sober, temperate,
just, and equitable. If you can really render yourself amiable,
respectable, and the proper object of esteem, there is no fear of
your not soon acquiring the love, the respect, and esteem of
those you live with.' Since the practice of virtue, therefore, is
in general so advantageous, and that of vice so contrary to our
interest, the consideration of those opposite tendencies
undoubtedly stamps an additional beauty and propriety upon the
one, and a new deformity and impropriety upon the other.
Temperance, magnanimity, justice, and beneficence, come thus to
be approved of, not only under their proper characters, but under
the additional character of the highest wisDom and most real
prudence. And in the same manner, the contrary vices of
intemperance, pusillanimity, injustice, and either malevolence or
sordid selfishness, come to be disapproved of, not only under
their proper characters, but under the additional character of
the most short-sighted folly and weakness. Epicurus appears in
every virtue to have attended to this species of propriety only.
It is that which is most apt to occur to those who are
endeavouring to persuade others to regularity of conduct. When
men by their practice, and perhaps too by their maxims,
manifestly show that the natural beauty of virtue is not like to
have much effect upon them, how is it possible to move them but
by representing the folly of their conduct, and how much they
themselves are in the end likely to suffer by it?
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| VII.II.67 |
By running up all the different virtues too to this one
species of propriety, Epicurus indulged a propensity, which is
natural to all men, but which philosophers in particular are apt
to cultivate with a peculiar fondness, as the great means of
displaying their ingenuity, the propensity to account for all
appearances from as few principles as possible. And he, no doubt,
indulged this propensity still further, when he referred all the
primary objects of natural desire and aversion to the pleasures
and pains of the body. The great patron of the atomical
philosophy, who took so much pleasure in deducing all the powers
and qualities of bodies from the most obvious and familiar, the
figure, motion, and arrangement of the small parts of matter,
felt no doubt a similar satisfaction, when he accounted, in the
same manner, for all the sentiments and passions of the mind from
those which are most obvious and familiar.
|
| VII.II.68 |
The system of Epicurus agreed with those of Plato, Aristotle,
and Zeno, in making virtue consist in acting in the most suitable
manner to obtain the*19 primary objects of natural desire. It
differed from all of them in two other respects; first, in the
account which it gave of those primary objects of natural desire;
and secondly, in the account which it gave of the excellence of
virtue, or of the reason why that quality ought to be esteemed.
|
| VII.II.69 |
The primary objects of natural desire consisted, according to
Epicurus, in bodily pleasure and pain, and in nothing else:
whereas, according to the other three philosophers, there were
many other objects, such as knowledge, such as the happiness of
our relations, of our friends, of our country, which were
ultimately desirable for their own sakes.
|
| VII.II.70 |
Virtue too, according to Epicurus, did not deserve to be
pursued for its own sake, nor was itself one of the ultimate
objects of natural appetite, but was eligible only upon account
of its tendency to prevent pain and to procure ease and pleasure.
In the opinion of the other three, on the contrary, it was
desirable, not merely as the means of procuring the other primary
objects of natural desire, but as something which was in itself
more valuable than them all. Man, they thought, being born for
action, his happiness must consist, not merely in the
agreeableness of his passive sensations, but also in the
propriety of his active exertions.
|
| VII.II.71 |
Of the Questions which ought to be examined in a Theory of Moral
Sentiments
f we examine the most celebrated and remarkable of the
different theories which have been given concerning the nature
and origin of our moral sentiments, we shall find that almost all
of them coincide with some part or other of that which I have
been endeavouring to give an account of; and that if every thing
which has already been said be fully considered, we shall be at
no loss to explain what was the view or aspect of nature which
led each particular author to form his particular system. From
some one or other of those principles which I have been
endeavouring to unfold, every system of morality that ever had
any reputation in the world has, perhaps, ultimately been
derived. As they are all of them, in this respect, founded upon
natural principles, they are all of them in some measure in the
right. But as many of them are derived from a partial and
imperfect view of nature, there are many of them too in some
respects in the wrong.
he different accounts which have been given of the nature of
virtue, or of the temper of mind which constitutes the excellent
and praise-worthy character, may be reduced to three different
classes. According to some, the virtuous temper of mind does not
consist in any one species of affections, but in the proper
government and direction of all our affections, which may be
either virtuous or vicious according to the objects which they
pursue, and the degree of vehemence with which they pursue them.
According to these authors, therefore, virtue consists in
propriety.