alect. But on the whole,
it seems to me, that though it is always allowed, that there are virtues
of many different kinds, yet, when a man is called virtuous, or is
denominated a man of virtue, we chiefly regard his social qualities,
which are, indeed, the most valuable. It is, at the same time, certain,
that any remarkable defect in courage, temperance, economy, industry,
understanding, dignity of mind, would bereave even a very good-natured,
honest man of this honourable appellation. Who did ever say, except
by way of irony, that such a one was a man of great virtue, but an
egregious blockhead?

But, Secondly, it is no wonder that languages should not be very
precise in marking the boundaries between virtues and talents, vices
and defects; since there is so little distinction made in our internal
estimation of them. It seems indeed certain, that the SENTIMENT of
conscious worth, the self-satisfaction proceeding from a review of a
man's own conduct and character; it seems certain, I say, that this
sentiment, which, though the most common of all others, has no proper
name in our language,

[Footnote: The term, pride, is commonly taken in a bad sense; but
this sentiment seems indifferent, and may be either good or bad,
according as it is well or ill founded, and according to the other
circumstances which accompany it. The French express this sentiment by
the term, AMOUR PROPRE, but as they also express self-love as well
as vanity by the same term, there arises thence a great confusion in
Rochefoucault, and many of their moral writers.]

arises from the endowments of courage and capacity, industry and
ingenuity, as well as from any other mental excellencies. Who, on the
other hand, is not deeply mortified with reflecting on his own folly and
dissoluteness, and feels not a secret sting or compunction whenever his
memory presents any past occurrence, where he behaved with stupidity of
ill-manners? No time can efface the cruel ideas of a man's own foolish
conduct, or of affronts, which cowardice or impudence has brought
upon him. They still haunt his solitary hours, damp his most aspiring
thoughts, and show him, even to himself, in the most contemptible and
most odious colours imaginable.

What is there too we are more anxious to conceal from others than such
blunders, infirmities, and meannesses, or more dread to have exposed by
raillery and satire? And is not the chief object of vanity, our bravery
or learning,