The system of morals contained in the writings of the Orientals, is at once sublime without being impracticable, and levelled to the use of mankind, without being loose or low. Yet it is usual with us to talk of their brutal stupidity! But this system is not practised among them—and is the Christian system of morals practised among Christian nations?
The Arabian and Persian histories and romances abound with traits of magnanimity, of generosity, justice, and courage, no way inferior to, but in some instances exceeding those of other nations. The Greeks and ourselves have indeed stigmatised them with the name of barbarians; but impartial inquiry proves that they are susceptible of all that is admired in a polished people; that crimes are treated among them as among other nations, and that though their passions may be expressed in a different way, they have always the same source and the same object.
No man who reflects on his past enjoyments and sufferings can doubt but that the latter, by their intenseness, duration, and frequency, have been decidedly predominant.
To render them more equal, that is, to be less miserable, or to make life tolerable, either the number of pleasures must be augmented, according to the system of the Epicureans, or that of pains must be diminished, according to that of the Stoics. The Orientals strive to attain the one object like ourselves, by sensuality; and here it is not to be conceived that they are happier than we are; but the other they gain in a much more complete degree than ourselves, and are much more exercised in the stoical system, which seems the most effectual to the purpose.
The passions, indeed, it is said, are to the mind what motion is to the body; and the absence of either causes and marks, in each respectively, symptoms that may be termed morbid.
A perfect absence of passion is certainly preternatural, if it may not be called impossible; but as our passions are more likely to be called into action by painful than by pleasurable sensations, it seems little doubtful, that the mind, on which they operate most feebly, will remain in the most tranquil state. This tranquillity, this absence of pain, (for joy, however poignant, is but a transient gleam, a coruscation, which passing, renders the obscurity which succeeds it more sensible,) is the single species of happiness of which mankind is allowed to partake.
A man of great sensibility has his feelings hourly wounded by minute accidents, at which one of less lively sensations would smile.
Such a one is transported with love, and, if that love be successful, his gratification is exquisite. He is suddenly moved by compassion,—how refined his feeling in offering relief to distress! He ardently desires fame,—how is he elated with the slightest praises! But how often is his warm affection requited with neglect, or its gratification found impossible? How often will his compassion be excited, without the means of affording relief? And how much more is mankind disposed to obloquy than to eulogy?
But this is not all; the same mind which is strongly acted on by these passions will also have its peace disturbed by pride, ambition, anger, jealousy, and resentment. The subjects of all these tormenting emotions crowd on it too closely to allow its complacency to be permanent. The sunshine of the morning will inevitably, ere night, be succeeded by a tempest.
Some slight omission of ceremonial will offend its pride, some sordid repulse will check its ambition; it will flame with anger at the breaking of a jar, or pine with jealousy at the like frailty in a mistress.