1793
Contentſ
Amiens, January, 1793.
Vanity, I believe, my dear brother, is not ſo innoxious a quality as we are deſirous of ſuppoſing. As it is the moſt general of all human failings, ſo is it regarded with the moſt indulgence: a latent conſciouſneſs averts the cenſure of the weak; and the wiſe, who flatter themſelves with being exempt from it, plead in its favour, by ranking it as a foible too light for ſerious condemnation, or too inoffenſive for puniſhment. Yet, if vanity be not an actual vice, it is certainly a potential one—it often leads us to ſeek reputation rather than virtue, to ſubſtitute appearances for realities, and to prefer the eulogiums of the world to the approbation of our own minds. When it takes poſſeſſion of an uninformed or an ill-conſtituted mind, it becomes the ſource of a thouſand errors, and a thouſand abſurdities. Hence, youth ſeeks a preeminence in vice, and age in folly; hence, many boaſt of errors they would not commit, or claim diſtinction by inveſting themſelves with an imputation of exceſs in ſome popular abſurdity—duels are courted by the daring, and vaunted by the coward—he who trembles at the idea of death and a future ſtate when alone, proclaims himſelf an atheiſt or a free-thinker in public—the water-drinker, who ſuffers the penitence of a week for a ſupernumerary glaſs, recounts the wonders of hiſ intemperance—and he who does not mount the gentleſt animal without trepidation, plumes himſelf on breaking down horſes, and his perils in the chace. In ſhort, whatever order of mankind we contemplate, we ſhall perceive that the portion of vanity allotted us by nature, when it iſ not corrected by a ſound judgement, and rendered ſubſervient to uſeful purpoſes, is ſure either to degrade or miſlead us.
I was led into this train of reflection by the conduct of our Anglo-Gallican legiſlator, Mr. Thomas Paine. He has lately compoſed a ſpeech, which was tranſlated and read in his preſence, (doubtleſs to hiſ great ſatiſfaction,) in which he inſiſts with much vehemence on the neceſſity of trying the King; and he even, with little credit to hiſ humanity, gives intimations of preſumed guilt. Yet I do not ſuſpect Mr. Paine to be of a cruel or unmerciful nature; and, moſt probably, vanity alone has inſtigated him to a proceeding which, one would wiſh to believe, his heart diſapproves. Tired of the part he was playing, and which, it muſt be confeſſed, was not calculated to flatter the cenſurer of Kings and the reformer of conſtitutions, he determined to ſit no longer for whole hours in colloquy with his interpreter, or in mute contemplation, like the Chancellor in the Critic; and the ſpeech to which I have alluded was compoſed. Knowing that lenient opinions would meet no applauſe from the tribunes, he inliſts himſelf on the ſide of ſeverity, accuſes all the Princes in the world as the accomplices of Louis the Sixteenth, expreſſes his deſire for an univerſal revolution, and, after previouſly aſſuring the Convention the King is guilty, recommends that they may inſtantly proceed to his trial. But, after all this tremendous eloquence, perhaps Mr. Paine had no malice in his heart: he may only be ſolicitous to preſerve his reputation from decay, and to indulge his ſelf-importance by aſſiſting at the trial of a Monarch whom he may not wiſh to ſuffer.—I think, therefore, I am not wrong in aſſerting, that Vanity is a very miſchievous counſellor.