are in the presence of the sufferer, to feel
that he and ourselves are not perfectly one.

(24) Douglas.

But with our own distempers and adversities it is altogether different.
It is this that barbs the arrow. We may change the place of our local
existence; but we cannot go away from ourselves. With chariots, and
embarking ourselves on board of ships, we may seek to escape from the
enemy. But grief and apprehension enter the vessel along with us; and,
when we mount on horseback, the discontent that specially annoyed
us, gets up behind, and clings to our sides with a hold never to be
loosened(25).

(25) Horace.

Is it then indeed a proof of selfishness, that we are in a greater or
less degree relieved from the anguish we endured for our friend, when
other objects occupy us, and we are no longer the witnesses of his
sufferings? If this were true, the same argument would irresistibly
prove, that we are the most generous of imaginable beings, the most
disregardful of whatever relates to ourselves. Is it not the first
ejaculation of the miserable, "Oh, that I could fly from myself? Oh,
for a thick, substantial sleep!" What the desperate man hates is his own
identity. But he knows that, if for a few moments he loses himself in
forgetfulness, he will presently awake to all that distracted him. He
knows that he must act his part to the end, and drink the bitter cup
to the dregs. He can do none of these things by proxy. It is the
consciousness of the indubitable future, from which we can never be
divorced, that gives to our present calamity its most fearful empire.
Were it not for this great line of distinction, there are many that
would feel not less for their friend than for themselves. But they are
aware, that his ruin will not make them beggars, his mortal disease will
not bring them to the tomb, and that, when he is dead, they may yet be
reserved for many years of health, of consciousness and vigour.

The language of the hypothesis of self-love was well adapted to
the courtiers of the reign of Louis the Fourteenth. The language of
disinterestedness was adapted to the ancient republicans in the purest
times of Sparta and Rome.

But these ancients were not always disinterested; and the moderns are
not always narrow, self-centred and cold. The ancients paid, though with
comparative infrequency, the tax imposed upon mortals, and thought
of their own gratification and ease; and the moderns are not utterly