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WHEN we examine in this manner into the ground of the different degrees of estimation which mankind are apt to bestow upon the different condi|tions of life, we shall find, that the exces|sive preference, which they generally give to some of them above others, is in a great measure without any foundation. If to be able to act with propriety, and to render ourselves the proper objects of the appro|bation
of mankind, be, as we have been endeavouring to show, what chiefly re|commends to us one condition above ano|ther, this may be equally attained in them all. The noblest propriety of conduct may be supported in adversity, as well as in prosperity; and tho' it is somewhat more difficult in the first, it is upon that very account more admirable. Perils and misfortunes are not only the proper school of heroism, they are the only proper the|atre which can exhibit its virtue to advan|tage, and draw upon it the full applause of the world. The man, whose whole life has been one even and uninterrupted course of prosperity, who never braved any dan|ger, who never encountered any difficulty, who never surmounted any distress, can excite but an inferior degree of admira|tion. When poets and romance-writers endeavour to invent a train of adventures, which shall give the greatest lustre to those characters for whom they mean to interest ••s, they are all of a different kind. They ••re rapid and sudden changes of fortune, ••ituations the most apt to drive those who ••re in them to frenzy and distraction, or ••o abject despair; but in which their he|roes
act with so much propriety, or at least with so much spirit and undaunted reso|lution, as still to command our esteem. Is not the unfortunate magnanimity of Cato, Brutus, and Leonidas, as much the object of admiration, as that of the successful Caesar or Alexander? To a generous mind, therefore, ought it not to be as much the object of envy? If a more dazzling splen|dor seems to attend the fortunes of suc|cessful conquerors, it is because they join together the advantages of both situations, the lustre of prosperity to the high admi|ration which is excited by dangers en|countered, and difficulties surmounted, with intrepidity and valour.
It was upon this account that, accord|ing to the stoical philosophy, to a wise man all the different conditions of life were equal. Nature, they said, had re|commended some objects to our choice, and others to our disapprobation. Our primary appetites directed us to the pur|suit of health, strength, ease, and perfec|tion, in all the qualities of mind and body▪ and of whatever could promote or secure these, riches, power, authority: and the same original principle taught us to avoid
the contrary. But in chusing or rejecting, in preferring or postponing, those first objects of original appetite and aversion, nature had likewise taught us, that there was a certain order, propriety, and grace, to be observed, of infinitely greater conse|quence to happiness and perfection, than the attainment of those objects themselves. The objects of our primary appetites or aversions were to be pursued or avoided, chiefly because a regard to this grace and propriety required such conduct. In di|recting all our actions according to these, consisted the happiness and glory of hu|man nature. In departing from those rules which they prescribed to us, its great|est wretchedness and most compleat de|pravity. The outward appearance of this order and propriety was indeed more ea|sily maintained in some circumstances than in others. To a fool, however, to one whose passions were subjected to no proper controul, to act with real grace and pro|priety, was equally impossible in every situ|ation. Tho' the giddy multitude might admire him, tho' his vanity might some|times be elated by their ignorant praises into something that resembled self-appro|bation,
yet still when he turned his view to what passed within his own breast, he was secretly conscious to himself of the absurd|ity and meanness of all his motives, and inwardly blushed and trembled at the thoughts of the contempt which he knew he deserved, and which mankind would certainly bestow upon him if they saw his conduct in the light in which in his own heart he was obliged to regard it. To a wise man, on the contrary, to one whose passions were all brought under perfect subjection to the ruling principles of his nature, to reason and the love of propri|ety, to act so as to deserve approbation was equally easy upon all occasions. Was he in prosperity, he returned thanks to Ju|piter for having joined him with circum|stances 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 oppo|sed to him a vigorous athlete, over whom, tho' the contest was likely to be more vio|lent, 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 ad|vantage. 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 mea|sure 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 su|perintendent of the universe may think proper to place him. The bounty of that divine being has provided him with vir|••ues which render him superior to every ••ituation. If it is pleasure, he has temper|ance 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 ••o despise it. He never complains of the destiny of providence, nor thinks the uni|verse in confusion when he is out of order.
He does not look upon himself, according to what self-love would suggest, as a whole, separated and detached from every other part of nature, to be taken care of by it|self, 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 be|falls him, he accepts it with joy, satisfied that, if he had known all the connexions 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 oc|casion for his presence here, he willingly goes where he is appointed. I accept, said a stoical philosopher, with equal joy and satisfaction, whatever fortune can befal 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 would be that they would inform me beforehand 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 chear|fulness with which I embraced their allot|ment. If I am going to sail, says Epicte|tus, I chuse the best ship, and the best pi|lot, 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 di|rection of my conduct, require this of me; but they require no more: and if, not|withstanding, 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, despond|ing, or afraid. Whether we are to be drowned, or to come to a harbour, is the business of Jupiter, not mine. I leave it intirely to his determination, nor ever
break my rest with considering which way he is likely to decide it, but receive what|ever comes with equal indifference and se|curity.
Such was the philosophy of the stoics. A philosophy which affords the noblest lessons of magnanimity, is the best school of heroes and patriots, and to the greater part of whose precepts there can be no other objection, except that honourable one, that they teach us to aim at a per|fection altogether beyond the reach of hu|man nature. I shall not at present stop to examine it. I shall only observe, in con|firmation of what has formerly been said, that the most dreadful calamities are not always those which it is most difficult to support. It is often more mortifying to appear in publick, under small disasters, than under great misfortunes. The first excite no sympathy; but the second, tho' they may excite none that approaches to the anguish of the sufferer, call forth, however, a very lively compassion. The sentiments of the spectators are, in this last case, therefore, less wide of those of the sufferer, and their imperfect fel|low-feeling
lends him some assistance in supporting his misery. Before a gay assembly, a gentleman would be more mortified to appear covered with filth and rags than with blood and wounds. This last situation would interest their pity; the other would provoke their laughter. The judge who orders a criminal to be set in the pillory, dishonours him more than if he had condemned him to the scaffold. The great prince, who, some years ago, caned a general officer at the head of his army, disgraced him irrecoverably. The punishment would have been much less had he shot him through the body. By the laws of honour, to strike with a cane dishonours, to strike with a sword does not, for an obvious reason. Those slighter punishments, when inflicted on a gentle|man, to whom dishonour is the greatest of all evils, come to be regarded among a hu|mane and generous people, as the most dreadful of any. With regard to persons of that rank, therefore, they are univer|••ally laid aside, and the law, while it takes ••heir life upon many occasions, respects ••heir honour upon almost all. To scourge
a person of quality, or to set him in the pillory, upon account of any crime what|ever, is a brutality of which no European government, except that of Russia, is ca|pable.
A brave man is not rendered contemp|tible by being brought to the scaffold; he is, by being set in the pillory. His beha|viour in the one situation may gain him universal esteem and admiration. No be|haviour in the other can render him agree|able. The sympathy of the spectators sup|ports him in the one case, and saves him from that shame, that consciousness that his misery is felt by himself only, which is of all sentiments the most unsupportable. There is no sympathy in the other; or, if There is any, it is not with his pain, which is a trifle, but with his consciousness of the want of sympathy with which this pain is attended. It is with his shame, not with his sorrow. Those who pity him, blush and hang down their heads for him. He droops in the same manner, and feels himself irrecoverably degraded by the pu|nishment, though not by the crime. The man, on the contrary, who dies with re|solution,
as he is naturally regarded with erect aspect of esteem and approbation, so he wears himself the same undaunted countenance; and, if the crime does not deprive him of the respect of others, the punishment never will. He has no suspi|cion that his situation is the object of con|tempt or derision to any body, and he can, with propriety, assume the air, not only of perfect serenity, but of triumph and exultation.
Great dangers, says the cardinal de Retz, have their charms, because there is some glory to be got, even when we miscarry. But moderate dangers have nothing but what is horrible, because the loss of reputation always attends the want of success.His maxim has the same foundation with what we have been observing just now, with regard to punish|ments.
Human virtue is superior to pain, to poverty, to danger, and to death; nor does it even require its remotest efforts to despise them. But to have its misery ex|posed to insult and derision, to be led in triumph, to be set up for the hand of scorn
