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LECTURE LXII.

I. IMMEDIATE EMOTIONS, NECESSARILY INVOLVING SOME MORAL EMOTION.-3. SYMPATHY, CONCLUDED.-4. PRIDE AND HUMI

LITY.

GENTLEMEN, my last Lecture was employed in considering that principle of our nature,-whether original, or the result of other principles,-by which, without any accession of advantage to ourselves, or any misfortune that can affect our own immediate interest, we enter into the happiness or the sorrows of others as if they were our own.

The reality of this species of ever-changing transmigration, by which, not after death merely, but during every successive hour of our waking existence, we pass, as it were, from one form of being to another, as the joys or sorrows of different individuals present themselves to our view, I traced and illustrated with various examples.

Of the gladdening influence of sympathy, we found sufficíent proof in the cheerfulness which the society of the cheerful naturally diffuses on all who come within the circle of their gaiety, an enchantment as powerful, as that by which the magician was supposed to change, at his will, the passions of all those who entered within the circle to which his influence extended. Even the melancholy, who began at first by striv ing, perhaps painfully, to assume an appearance, not of the mirth, indeed, which was before them, but at least of a serenity which might not be absolutely discordant with it, at last yield unconsciously to the fascination; and, when a sigh sometimes comes upon them, and forces them to pause, are astonished to look back, and to find that they have been happy.

Of the saddening influence of sympathy, the whole phenomena of pity furnish abundant evidence,-when the mere sight of grief, far from leading us to fly from a disagreeable object, leads us to form with it for the time the closest union. Our sympathy indentifies us with the sufferer with an influence so VOL. II.-3 F

irresistible, that it would be impossible for us to feel even rapture itself, if amid all possible objects of delight, there were only a single being in agony, that turned his eye on ours, even though it were without a groan, as he sank beneath the lash, or writhed upon the wheel.

The advantages that arise from this constitution of our nature, we found to be not unimportant in the diffusion and participation even of our gayer feelings; since those who mingle in society are thus brought nearer to one general temper, and enjoy, consequently, an intercourse which could afford little delight if each retained his own particular emotions, that might be in absolute opposition to the emotions of those around. But it was chiefly in the other class of feelings that we found its inestimable benefits, in that instant participation of grief, and consequent eagerness to relieve it, which procures for the sufferer assistance in situations in which he is incapable even of imploring aid; which makes friendlessness itself a claim to more general friendship; and which, in any accident that befals the obscurest individual, interests in his fate whole multitudes, to whom, before the accident, he was unknown, or an object of indifference. If, at midnight, in a crowded city, a house were observed to be in flames, and at some high window, beyond the reach of any succour which could be given, were seen by glimpses, through the darkness and the gloomy light that flashed across it, some unfortunate being, irresolute whether to leap down the dreadful height,-seeming at one moment on the point of making the attempt, and then, after repeated trials, shrinking back at last into the flames that burst over him; with what lively emotions of interest would he be viewed by the whole crowd, in which there would not be an eye that would not be fixed upon him! What agitation of hopes and fears, and what shrieks of many voices at the last dreadful moment! It would truly seem, in such a case, as if, in the peril of a single human being, the whole multitude that gazed on him were threatened with destruction, from which his escape, if escape were possible, was to be the pledge, and the only pledge, of safety to all.

The emotions, next to be considered by us, are those of pride and humility-the vivid feelings of joy or sadness, which attend the contemplation of ourselves, when we regard our superiority or inferiority, in any qualities of mind or body, or in the external circumstances in which we may be placed.

Pride and humility, therefore, always imply some comparison. We can as little be proud, without the consideration of an inferior, as we can be taller in stature, without some one

who is shorter;-unless when, by a sort of indirect comparison, we measure ourselves with ourselves, in the present and the past, and feel a delightful emotion, as we look back on the progress which we have made.

When I define pride, to be that emotion, which attends the contemplation of our excellence, I must be understood, as limiting the phrase to the single emotion, that immediately follows the contemplation. The feeling of our excellence, may give rise directly or indirectly, to various other affections of the mind. It may lead us, to impress others, as much as possible, with our superiority-which we may do in two ways, by presenting to them, at every moment, some proofs of our advantages, mental, bodily, or in the gifts of fortune; or by bringing to their mind, directly, their inferiority, by the scorn with which we treat them. The former of these modes of conduct, in which we studiously bring forward any real or supposed advantages which we possess, is what is commonly termed vanity,-the latter, in which we wish to make more directly felt, the real or supposed comparative meanness of these, is what is commonly termed haughtiness: but both, though they may arise from our mere comparison of ourselves and others, and our consequent feeling of superiority, are the results of pride, not the pride itself. We may have the internal emotion, which is all that is truly pride, together with too much sense to seek the gratification of our vanity, by any childish display of excellencies, subtantial or frivolous: since, however desirous we may be, that these advantages should be known, we may have the certainty, that they could not be made known by ourselves, without the risk of our appearing ridiculous. In like manner, we may be, internally, very full of our own importance, and yet too desirous of the good opinion, even of our inferiors, to treat them with the scorn which we feel, or, to make a more pleasing supposition, too humanely considerate of their uneasiness, to shock them, by forcing on them the painful feeling of their inferiority, however gratifying our felt superiority may be to ourselves. Vanity, then, and haughtiness, are not to be confounded, with the simple pride, which leads to them, in some minds, but which may exist, and exist as readily without them, as with them.

The mere pleasure of excellence attained, thus separated from the vanity or haughtiness, that would lead to any ridiculous or cruel display of it,-involves nothing which is actually worthy of censure,-if the superiority be not in circumstances that are frivolous, still less in circumstances that, although sanctioned by the fashion of the times, imply demerit

rather than merit. In the circumstances, in which it is truly praiseworthy to desire to excel, it must be truly noble to have excelled. It is impossible to be desirous of excelling, without a pleasure, in having excelled; and, where it would be culpable, to feel pleasure in the attainments that have made us nobler than we were before, it must, of course, have been culpable, to desire such excellence.

It is not in pride, therefore, or the pleasure of excellence, as a mere direct emotion, that moral error consists, but in those ill-ordered affections, which may have led us to the pursuit of excellence, that is unworthy of our desire, and that cannot, therefore, shed any glory on our attainment of it. If our desires are fixed only on excellence in what is good, it is impossible for us to feel too lively a pleasure, in the gratification of these desires. We may, indeed, become ridiculous, by our vanity in displaying our attainments,-and, which is far worse, we may exercise a sort of cruelty, in reminding others by our scorn, how inferior we consider them to ourselves; but what is morally improper, in these cases, is in the vanity and the haughtiness, not in the vivid delight, which we feel, in the acquisition of excellence, the attainment of which is the great end, and the glorious labour, of virtue-an excellence, that renders us more useful to mankind, and a nobler image of the Power which created us.

What renders the feeling of delight in excellence attained, not excusable merely, but praise-worthy, is then, a right estimate of those objects, in which we are desirous of excelling. I need not say, that, to be proud of being pre-eminent in vice, implies the deepest degradation of our moral, and even of our intellectual nature,-a degradation, far more complete and hopeless, than the commission of the same guilt, with the consciousness of imperfection. But on this species of pride, I surely need not dwell. To be proud, however, of eminence in what is frivolous only,--but not absolutely profligate,itself implies no slight degree of moral degradation; because it implies a blindness to those better qualities, that confer the only distinctions, which Virtue can covet, and God approve.

These distinctions are the distinctions of the understanding and of the heart,-of the heart, in the noble desires of which it may be conscious, of the understanding, in that knowledge, by the acquisition of which, we are able to open a wider field to our generous desires, and to promote more effectually their honourable purposes. In this preparatory scene, we are placed to enjoy as much happiness, as is consistent with the preparation for a nobler world,--to diffuse to others all the happiness, which it is in our power to communicate to them,

and to offer to him, who made us, that best adoration, which consists in love of his goodness, and an unremitting zeal, to execute the honourable charge which he has consigned to us, of furthering those great views of good, which men, indeed, may thus instrumentally promote, but which only the divine mind could have originally conceived. In this glorious delegation, all earthly, and, I may say, all eternal excellence consists. With whatever illusion human pride may delight to flatter itself, he is truly the noblest, in the sight of wisdom, and of Heaven, however small his share may be of that adventitious grandeur, which in those who are morally great, is nothing, and less than nothing, in those who are morally vile, -he is the noblest, who applies his faculties, most sedulously, to the most generous purposes, with the warmest impression of that divine goodness, which has formed the heart to be susceptible of wishes so divine. If we be proud of any thing, which does not confer dignity on the intellectual, or moral, or religious nature of man, we may be certain, that we are proud of that, which, if considered without relation to objects that may be indirectly promoted by it, is, in itself, more worthy of our contempt, than of our pride. The peace and good order, and consequently the happiness of society, require, indeed, that forms of respect should be paid to mere station, and to the accidental possession of wealth, and hereditary honours; but they do not require, that the possessor of these should conceive himself truly raised above others, in that only real dignity, which is more than a trapping, or form of courteous salutation, in the gaudy pageantries of the day. "If the great," says Massillon, "have no other glory, than that of their ancestors; if their titles are their only virtues; if we must recall past ages, to find in them something that is worthy of our homage, their birth dishonours them, even in the estimation of the world. Their name is opposed by us to their person, we read the histories that record the great deeds of their ancestors, and we demand of their unworthy successors the virtues, which formerly conferred so much glory on their country. The weight of honour, which they inherit, is to them but a burthen, that sinks them still lower to the ground. Yet, how visible on every brow is the pride of their origin. They count the degrees of their grandeur by ages, which are no more, by dignities, which they no longer possess,-by_actions, which they have not performed,-by ancestors, of whom a little indistinguishable dust is all that remains,-by monuments, which the passing injuries of season after season have effaced; and they think themselves superior to the rest of mankind, because they have more domestic ruins to mark the

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