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How much Satisfaction Self-Love Begets Everywhere
And though I am in haste, yet I cannot yet pass by them who, though
they differ nothing from the meanest cobbler, yet 'tis scarcely
credible how they flatter themselves with the empty title of nobility.
One derives his pedigree from Aeneas, another from Brutus, a third
from the star by the tail of Ursa Major. They show you on every side
the statues and pictures of their ancestors; run over their
great-grandfathers and the great-great-grandfathers of both lines, and
the ancient matches of their families, when themselves yet are but
once removed from a statue, if not worse than those trifles they boast
of. And yet by means of this pleasant self-love they live a happy
life. Nor are they less fools who admire these beasts as if they
were gods.
But what do I speak of any one or the other particular kind of men,
as if this self-love had not the same effect everywhere and rendered
most men superabundantly happy? As when a fellow, more deformed than a
baboon, shall believe himself handsomer than Homer's Nereus.
Another, as soon as he can draw two or three lines with a compass,
presently thinks himself a Euclid. A third, that understands music
no more than my horse, and for his voice as hoarse as a dunghill cock,
shall yet conceive himself another Hermogenes. But of all madness
that's the most pleasant when a man, seeing another any way
excellent in what he pretends to himself, makes his boasts of it as
confidently as if it were his own. And such was that rich fellow in
Seneca, who whenever he told a story had his servants at his elbow
to prompt him the names; and to that height had they flattered him
that he did not question but he might venture a rubber at cuffs, a man
otherwise so weak he could scarce stand, only presuming on this,
that he had a company of sturdy servants about him.
Or to what purpose is it I should mind you of our professors of
arts? Forasmuch as this self-love is so natural to them all that
they had rather part with their father's land than their foolish
opinions; but chiefly players, fiddlers, orators, and poets, of
which the more ignorant each of them is, the more insolently he
pleases himself, that is to say vaunts and spreads out his plumes. And
like lips find like lettuce; nay, the more foolish anything is, the
more 'tis admired, the greater number being ever tickled at the
worst things, because, as I said before, most men are so subject to
folly. And therefore if the more foolish a man is, the more he pleases
himself and is admired by others, to what purpose should he beat his
brains about true knowledge, which first will cost him dear, and
next render him the more troublesome and less confident, and lastly,
please only a few?
And now I consider it, Nature has planted, not only in particular
men but even in every nation, and scarce any city is there without it,
a kind of common self-love. And hence is it that the English,
besides other things, particularly challenge to themselves beauty,
music, and feasting. The Scots are proud of their nobility, alliance
to the crown, and logical subtleties. The French think themselves
the only well-bred men. The Parisians, excluding all others,
arrogate to themselves the only knowledge of divinity. The Italians
affirm they are the only masters of good letters and eloquence, and
flatter themselves on this account, that of all others they only are
not barbarous. In which kind of happiness those of Rome claim the
first place, still dreaming to themselves of somewhat, I know not
what, of old Rome. The Venetians fancy themselves happy in the opinion
of their nobility, The Greeks, as if they were the only authors of
sciences, swell themselves with the titles of the ancient heroes.
The Turk, and all that sink of the truly barbarous, challenge to
themselves the only glory of religion and laugh at Christians as
superstitious. And much more pleasantly the Jews expect to this day
the coming of the Messiah, and so obstinately contend for their Law of
Moses. The Spaniards give place to none in the reputation of soldiery.
The Germans pride themselves in their tallness of stature and skill in
magic.
And, not to instance in every particular, you see, I conceive,
how much satisfaction this Self-love, who has a sister also not unlike
herself called Flattery, begets everywhere; for self-love is no more
than the soothing of a man's self, which, done to another, is
flattery. And though perhaps at this day it may be thought infamous,
yet it is so only with them that are more taken with words than
things. They think truth is inconsistent with flattery, but that it is
much otherwise we may learn from the examples of true beasts. What
more fawning than a dog? And yet what more trusty? What has more of
those little tricks than a squirrel? And yet what more loving to
man? Unless, perhaps you'll say, men had better converse with fierce
lions, merciless tigers, and furious leopards. For that flattery is
the most pernicious of all things, by means of which some
treacherous persons and mockers have run the credulous into such
mischief.
But this of mine proceeds from a certain gentleness and uprightness
of mind and comes nearer to virtue than its opposite, austerity, or
a morose and troublesome peevishness, as Horace calls it. This
supports the dejected, relieves the distressed, encourages the
fainting, awakens the stupid, refreshes the sick, supplies the
untractable, joins loves together, and keeps them so joined. It
entices children to take their learning, makes old men frolic, and,
under the color of praise, does without offense both tell princes
their faults and show them the way to amend them. In short, it makes
every man the more jocund and acceptable to himself, which is the
chiefest point of felicity. Again, what is more friendly than when two
horses scrub one another? And to say nothing of it, that it's a main
part of physic, and the only thing in poetry; 'tis the delight and
relish of all human society.
But 'tis a sad thing, they say, to be mistaken. Nay rather, he is
most miserable that is not so. For they are quite beside the mark that
place the happiness of men in things themselves, since it only depends
upon opinion. For so great is the obscurity and variety of human
affairs that nothing can be clearly known, as it is truly said by
our academics, the least insolent of all the philosophers; or if it
could, it would but obstruct the pleasure of life. Lastly, the mind of
man is so framed that it is rather taken with the false colors than
truth; of which if anyone has a mind to make the experiment, let him
go to church and hear sermons, in which if there be anything serious
delivered, the audience is either asleep, yawning, or weary of it; but
if the preacher- pardon my mistake, I would have said declaimer- as
too often it happens, fall but into an old wives' story, they're
presently awake, prick up their ears and gape after it. In like
manner, if there be any poetical saint, or one of whom there goes more
stories than ordinary, as for example, a George, a Christopher, or a
Barbara, you shall see him more religiously worshiped than Peter,
Paul, or even Christ himself. But these things are not for this place.
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