ture was capable of great
things, and they perceived that some great goods must be attainable in
some way or other, though they did not well know what they were.
Feelings such as these, acting upon men in the tumult of life, with
their passions awake, keenly set on (what are called) political
objects, and averse to those self-denying habits which conscience (if
listened to) would have suggested to be the way to that unknown
happiness which their heart was imagining, led them to think of what
they called glory and popularity as the greatest of goods, and that to
which they ought especially to aspire.

Now what exactly they wished to signify by the word "glory," is
difficult to say, for they were apt to speak of it as if it were some
real thing, and that, too, which one could possess and make one's own;
yet, if we come to consider its real meaning, it plainly stands for
nothing else than the praise of other men, the being admired, honoured,
and feared; or, more commonly, having a celebrated name; that is, for a
something external to ourselves. But whatever precise notions they
wished to attach to the word, they used to talk in glowing language of
the necessity of going through dangers and sufferings for glory's
sake,--labouring to benefit the world for glory,--and dying for glory.

Now when we read of poor heathens using this language, it is our duty
to pity them, for it is plain enough to any sober reasoner, that
nothing is so vain as to talk of this glory being a real and
substantial good; for there is no better reason for my being happy
because my name is celebrated, than because any thing else is
celebrated which, accidentally, and for a time, is connected with
myself, and called mine. My name is my own only in the case of those
who use it in speaking of me; i. e. of those who happen to see and know
me. But when those who never saw me talk much of my name, they do me
no more good or harm than if they celebrated any thing else which _I_
may know to be mine. They may praise a house that was once mine--that
is not praising me; nor, in like manner, is it doing me any good, or
honouring me, when those who never saw me use my name respectfully. It
is a mere imagination, which can give no solid or lasting pleasure.
There is some meaning and sense (though great wickedness) in coveting
our neighbour's house or garden, horse or ass; the unjust steward,
though a bad man, at least acted wisely, i. e. according to a worldly