This appears to have been the sentiment of the wise preacher in the text. Avoid, says he, this impertinent curiosity, lest thou hear thy servant curse thee; lest the very persons that live under thy roof and are most obliged to thee, who are reasonably presumed to have the warmest concern for thy honour and interest, and on whose fidelity and gratitude the security and comfort of thy whole life more immediately depends, lest even these be found to make free with thy character. For there is a time, when even these may be carried to speak undutifully and disrespectfully of thee.
And would any man wish to make this discovery of those, who are esteemed to be, and, notwithstanding these occasional freedoms, perhaps are, his true servants and affectionate friends?
For think not, when this unlucky discovery is made, that the offended party will treat it with neglect, or be in a condition to consider it with those allowances, that, in reason and equity, may be required of him. No such thing: It will appear to him in the light of a heinous and unpardonable indignity; it will occasion warm resentments, and not only fill his mind with present disquiet, but most probably provoke him to severe expostulations; the usual fruit of which is, to make a deliberate and active enemy of him, who was, before, only an incautious and indiscreet friend: at the best, it will engender I know not what uneasy jealousies and black suspicions; which will mislead his judgment on many occasions; and inspire an anxious distrust, not of the faulty person himself only, but of others, who stand in the same relation to him, and, perhaps, of all mankind.
These several ill effects may be supposed, as I said, to flow from the discovery: and it will be useful to set the malignity of each in its true and proper light.
1. First, then, consider that a likely, or rather infallible effect of this discovery, is, to fire the mind with quick and passionate resentments. And what is it to be in this state, but to lose the enjoyment of ourselves; to have the relish of every thing, we possess, embittered by pungent reflexions on the perfidy and baseness of those, with whom we live, and of whom it is our happiness to think well; to have the repose of our lives disturbed by the most painful of all sensations, that of supposed injury from our very friends? And for what is this wretchedness, this misery, encountered? For the idleness of an unweighed discourse; for something, which, if kept secret from us, had been perfectly insignificant; for a discourtesy, which meant nothing and tended to nothing; for a word, which came from the tongue, rather than the heart; or, if the heart had any share in producing it, was recalled perhaps, at least forgotten, in the moment it was spoken. And can it be worth while to indulge a curiosity which leads to such torment, when the object of our inquiry is itself so frivolous, as well as the concern we have in it?
2. Another mischief attending the gratification of this impertinent curiosity, is, That the unwelcome discoveries we make, naturally lead to peevish complaints and severe expostulations; the effect of which is, not only to continue and inflame the sense of the injury already received, but to draw fresh and greater indignities on ourselves, to push the offending party on extremes, and compell him, almost, whether he will or no, to open acts of hostility against us. The former ill treatment of us, whatever it might be, was perhaps forgotten; at least it had hitherto gone no further than words, and, while it was, or was supposed to be, undiscovered, there was no thought of repeating the provocation, and there was time and opportunity left for repenting of it, and for recovering a just sense of violated duty. But when the offence is understood to be no longer a secret, the discovery provokes fresh offences. Either pride puts the aggressor on justifying what he has done; or the shame of conviction, and the despair of pardon, turns indifference into hate; ready to break out into all sorts of ill offices, and the readier, because the strong resentment of so slight a matter, as a careless expression, is itself, in turn, accounted an atrocious injury. And thus a small discourtesy, which, if unnoticed, had presently died away, shall grow and spread into a rooted ill-will, productive of gross reciprocal hostilities, and permanent as life itself.
It is on this account that wise men have always thought it better to connive at moderate injuries, than, by an open resentment of them, to provoke greater: and nothing is mentioned so much to the honour of a noble Roman[186], as that, when he had the papers of an enemy in his hands (which would certainly have discovered the disaffection of many persons towards the republic and himself) he destroyed them all, and prudently, as well as generously, resolved to know nothing of what they contained. And this conduct, which was thought so becoming a great man in public life, is unquestionably (on the same principle of prudence and magnanimity, to say nothing of higher motives) the duty and concern of every private man.
3. But, lastly, supposing the resentment conceived on the discovery of an ungrateful secret, should not break out into overt acts of hatred and revenge, still the matter would not be much mended. For, it would surely breed a thousand uneasy suspicions, which would prey on the hurt mind; and do irreparable injury to the moral character, as well as embitter the whole life of him who was unhappily conscious to them.
The experience of such neglect or infidelity in those whom we had hitherto loved and trusted, and from whom we had expected a suitable return of trust and love, would infallibly sour the temper, and create a constant apprehension of future unkindness. It would efface the native candour of the mind, and bring a cloud of jealousy over it; which would darken our views of human life. It would make us cold, and gloomy, and reserved; indifferent to those who deserved best of us, and unapt for the offices of society and friendship. The more we suppressed these sentiments, the more would they fester and rankle within us; till the mind became all over tenderness and sensibility, and felt equal pain from its own groundless surmises, as from real substantial injuries. In a word, we should have no relish of conversation, no sincere enjoyment of any thing, we should only be miserable in, and from ourselves.
And is this a condition to be officiously courted, and sought after? Or rather, could we suffer more from the malice of our bitterest enemy, than we are ready to do from our own anxious curiosity to pry into the infirmities of our friends?