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scarcely one. Do not multitudes pursue, said he, infinite objects of desire, acknowledged, every one of them, to be in no respect necessaries? Exquisite viands, delicious wines, splendid apparel, curious gardens; magnificent apartments adorned with pictures and sculptures; music and poetry, and the whole tribe of elegant arts? It is evident, said I. If it be, continued he, it should seem that they all considered the Chief or Sovereign Good, not to be that which conduces to bare existence or mere being; for to this the necessaries alone are adequate. I replied they were. But if not this, it must be somewhat conducive to that, which is superior to mere-being. It must. what, continued he, can this be, but well-being, under the various shapes, in which different opinions paint it? Or can you suggest any thing else? I replied, I could not. Mark here, then, continued he, another pre-conception, in which they all agree; the Sovereign Good is somewhat conducive, not to mere being, but to well-being. I replied, it had so appeared.
Again, continued he. What labour, what expense, to procure those rarities, which our own poor country is un-able to afford us! How is the world ransacked to its utmost verges, and luxury and arts imported from every quarter! Nay, more: How do we baffle Nature herself; invert her order; seek the vegetables of spring in the ri gours of winter, and winter's ice during the heats of summer! I replied, we did. And what disappointment, what remorse, when endeavours fail? It is true. If this then be evident, said he, it would seem, that whatever we desire as our Chief and Sovereign Good, is something which, as far as possible, we would accommodate to all places and times. I answered, so it appeared. See then, said he, another of its characteristics, another pre-conception.
But farther still: What contests for wealth! What scrambling for property! What perils in the pursuit ! What solicitude in the maintenance! And why all this? To what purpose, what end? Or is not the reason plain ? Is it not that wealth may continually procure us whatever we fancy good; and make that perpetual, which would otherwise be transient? I replied, it seemed so. Is it not farther desired, as supplying us from ourselves; when
without it, we must be beholden to the benevolence of others, and depend on their caprice for all that we enjoy? It is true, said I, this seems a reason.
Again; Is not power of every degree as much contested for as wealth? Are not magistracies, honours, principalities, and empire, the subjects of strife and everlasting contention? I replied, they were. And why, said he, this? To obtain what end? Is it not to help us, like wealth, to the possession of what we desire? Is it not farther to ascertain, to secure our enjoyments; that when others would deprive us, we may be strong enough to resist them? I replied it was.
Or, to invert the whole: Why are there, who seek recesses the most distant and retired; flee courts and power, and submit to parsimony and obscurity? Why all this, but from the same intention? From an opinion, that small possessions, used moderately, are permanent: that larger possessions raise envy, and are more frequently invaded: that the safety of power and dignity is more precarious than that of retreat, and that therefore they have chosen, what is most eligible upon the whole! It is not, said I, 'improbable that they act by some such motive.
Do you not see then, continued he, two or three more pre-conceptions of the Sovereign Good, which are sought for by all, as essential to constitute it? And what, said I, are these? That it should not be transient, nor derived from the will of others, nor in their power to take away; but be durable, self-derived, and (if I may use the expression) indeprivable. I confess, said I, it appears so. But we have already found it to be considered, as something agreeable to our nature; conducive, not to merebeing, but to well-being; and what we aim to have accommodated to all places and times. We have.
There may be other characteristics, said he, but these I think sufficient. See then its idea; behold it, as collected from the original, natural and universal pre-conceptions of all mankind. The Sovereign Good, they have taught us, ought to be something agreeable to our nature; conducive to well-being; accommodated to all places and times; durable, self-derived, and indeprivable. Your account, said I, appears just, HARRIS.
THE SAME SUBJECT.
BIUTUS perished untimely, and Cæsar did no more.These words I was repeating the next day to myself, when my friend appeared, and cheerfully bade me good-morrow. I could not return his compliment with an equal gaiety, being intent, somewhat more than usual, on what had passed the day before. Seeing this, he proposed a walk into the fiekis. The face of nature, said he, will perhaps dispel these gooms. No assistance, on my part, shall be wanting, you may be assured. I accepted his proposal; the walk began; and our former conversation insensibly renewed.
Brutus, said he, perished untimely, and Cæsar did no more. It was thus, as I remember, not long since, you were expressing yourself. And yet suppose their fortunes to have been exactly parallel-Which would you have preferred? Would you have been Cæsar, or Brutus? Brutus, replied I, beyond all controversy. He asked me, Why? Where was the difference, when their fortunes, as we now suppose them, were considered as the same? There seems, said I, abstract from their fortunes, something, I know not what, intrinsically preferable in the life and character of Brutus. If that, said he, be true, then must we derive it, not from the success of his endeavours, but from their truth and rectitude. He had the comfort to be conscious, that his cause was a just one. It was impossible the other should have any such feeling. I believe, said I you have explained it.
Suppose then, continued he, (it is but merely an bypothesis) suppose, I say, we were to place the sovereign good in such a rectitude of conduct, in the conduct merely, and not in the event. Suppose we were to fix our happiness, not in the actual attainment of that health, that perfection of a social state, that fortunate concurrence of externals, which is congruous to our nature, and which all have a right to pursue; but solely fix it in the mere doing whatever is correspondent to such an end, even thougn
we never attain, or are near attaining it. In fewer words: What if we make our natural state the standard only to determine our conduct; and place our happiness in the rectitude of this conduct alone? On such an hypothesis (and we consider it as nothing farther) we should not want a good, perhaps, to correspond to our pre-conceptions; for this, it is evident, would be correspondent to them all. Your doctrine, replied I, is so new and strange, that though you have been copious in explaining, I can hardly yet comprehend you.
It amounts all, said he, but to this: Place your happiness, where your praise is. I asked, Where he supposed that? Not, replied he, in the pleasures which you feel, more than your disgrace lies in the pain; not in the casual prosperity of fortune, more than your disgrace in the casual adversity; but in just complete action throughout every part of life, whatever be the face of things, whether favourable or the contrary.
But why then, said I, such accuracy about externals? So much pains to be informed, what are pursuable, what avoidable? It behoves the pilot, replied he, to know the seas and the winds; the nature of tempests, calins, and tides. They are the subjects about which his art is conversant. Without a just experience of them, he can never prove himself an artist. Yet we look not for his reputation either in fair gales, or in adverse; but in the skilfulness of his conduct, be these events as they happen. In like manner fares it with the moral artist. He, for a subject, has the whole of human life: health and sickness; pleasure and pain; with every other possible incident, which can befall him during his existence. If his knowledge of all these be accurate and exact, so too must his conduct, in which we place his happiness. But if his knowledge be defective, must not his conduct be defective also I replied, so it should seem. And if his conduct, then his happines? It is true.
You see then, continued he, even though externals were as nothing; though it was true, in their own nature, they were neither good nor evil; yet an accurate knowledge of them is, from our hypothesis, absolutely necessary. Indeed, said I, you have proved it.
He continued-Inferior artists may be at a stand, because they want materials. From their stubbornness and intractability, they may often be disappointed. But as long as life is passing, and nature continues to operate, the moral artist of life has at all times all he desires. He can never want a subject fit to exercise him in his proper calling; and that with this happy motive to the constancy of his endeavours, that the crosser, the harsher, the more untoward the events, the greater his praise, the more illustrious his reputation.
All this, said I, is true, and cannot be denied. But one circumstance there appears, where your simile seems to fail. The praise indeed of the pilot we allow to be in his conduct; but it is in the success of that conduct where we look for his happiness. If a storm arise, and the ship be lost, we call him not happy, how well soever he may have conducted it. It is then only we congratulate him when he has reached the desired haven. Your distinction, said he, is just. And it is here lies the noble prerogative of moral artists, above all others. But yet I know not how to explain myself, I fear my doctrine will appear so strauge. You may proceed, said I, safely, since you advance it but as an hypothesis
Thus, then, continued he―The end in other arts is ever distant and removed. It consists not in the mere conduct, much less in a single energy; but in the just result of many energies, each of which are essential to it. Hence, by obstacles unavoidable, it may often be retarded: nay more, may be so embarrassed, as never possibly to be attained. But in the moral art of life, the very conduct is the end, the very conduct, I say, itself, throughout its every minutest energy; because each of these, however minute, partakes as truly of rectitude, as the largest combinations of them, when considered collectively. Hence, of all arts this is the only one perpetually complete in every instance, because it needs not, like other arts, time to arrive at that perfection, at which in every instant it is arrived already. Hence by duration, it is not rendered either more or less perfect; completion, hike truth, admitting of no degrees, and being in no sense capable of either intention or remission.
And hence too by necessary connexion (which is