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Part I, Section III, Chapter II, 2
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Do the great seem insensible of the easy price at which they may acquire the public admiration; or do they seem to imagine that to them, as to other men, it must be the purchase either of sweat or of blood? By what important accomplishments is the young nobleman instructed to support the dignity of his rank, and to render himself worthy of that superiority over his fellow-citizens, to which the virtue of his ancestors had raised them? Is it by knowledge, by industry, by patience, by self-denial, or by virtue of any kind? As all his words, as all his motions are attended to, he learns an habitual regard to every circumstance of ordinary behaviour, and studies to perform all those small duties with the most exact propriety. As he is conscious how much he is observed, and how much mankind are disposed to favour all his inclinations, he acts, upon the most indifferent occasions, with that freedom and elevation which the thought of this naturally inspires. His air, his manner, his deportment, all mark that elegant and graceful sense of his own superiority, which those who are born to inferior stations can hardly ever arrive at: these are the arts by which he proposes to make mankind more easily submit to his authority, and to govern their inclinations according to his own pleasure: and in this he is seldom disappointed. These arts, supported by rank and pre-eminence, are, upon ordinary occasions, sufficient to govern the world. Lewis XIV. during the greater part of his reign, was regarded, not only in France, but over all Europe, as the most perfect model of a great prince. But what were the talents and virtues by which he acquired this great reputation? Was it by the scrupulous and inflexible justice of all his undertakings, by the immense dangers and difficulties with which they were attended, or by the unwearied and unrelenting application with which he pursued them? Was it by his extensive knowledge, by his exquisite judgment, or by his heroic valour? It was by none of these qualities. But he was, first of all, the most powerful prince in Europe, and consequently held the highest rank among kings; and then, says his historian, “he surpassed all his courtiers in the gracefulness of his shape, and the majestic beauty of his features. The sound of his voice, noble and affecting, gained those hearts which his presence intimidated. He had a step and deportment which could suit only him and his rank, and which would have been ridiculous in any other person. The embarrassment which he occasioned to those who spoke to him, flattered that secret satisfaction with which he felt his own superiority. The old officer, who was confounded and faultered in asking him a favour, and not being able to conclude his discourse, said to him, Sir, your majesty, I hope, will believe that I do not tremble thus before your enemies: had no difficulty to obtain what he demanded.” These frivolous accomplishments, supported by his rank, and, no doubt, too, by a degree of other talents and virtues, which seems, however, not to have been much above mediocrity, established this prince in the esteem of his own age, and have drawn, even from posterity, a good deal of respect for his memory. Compared with those of his own times, and in his own presence, no other virtue, it seems, appeared to have any merit. Knowledge, industry, valour, and beneficence, trembled, were abashed, and lost all dignity before them.
But it is not by accomplishments of this kind, that the man of inferior rank must hope to distinguish himself. Politeness is so much the virtue of the great, that it will do little honour to any body but themselves. The coxcomb, who imitates their manner, and affects to be eminent by the superior propriety of his ordinary behaviour, is rewarded with a double share of contempt for his folly and presumption. Why should the man, whom nobody thinks it worth while to look at, be very anxious about the manner in which he holds up his head, or disposes of his arms while he walks through a room? He is occupied surely with a very superfluous attention, and with an attention too that marks a sense of his own importance, which no other mortal can go along with. The most perfect modesty and plainness, joined to as much negligence as is consistent with the respect due to the company, ought to be the chief characteristics of the behaviour of a private man. If ever he hopes to distinguish himself, it must be by more important virtues. He must acquire dependants to balance the dependants of the great, and he has no other fund to pay them from, but the labour of his body, and the activity of his mind. He must cultivate these therefore: he must acquire superior knowledge in his profession, and superior industry in the exercise of it. He must be patient in labour, resolute in danger, and firm in distress. These talents he must bring into public view, by the difficulty, importance, and, at the same time, good judgment of his undertakings, and by the severe and unrelenting application with which he pursues them. Probity and prudence, generosity and frankness, must characterize his behaviour upon all ordinary occasions; and he must, at the same time, be forward to engage in all those situations in which it requires the greatest talents and virtues to act with propriety, but in which the greatest applause is to be acquired by those who can acquit themselves with honour. With what impatience does the man of spirit and ambition, who is depressed by his situation, look round for some great opportunity to distinguish himself? No circumstances, which can afford this, appear to him undesirable. He even looks forward with satisfaction to the prospect of foreign war, or civil dissension; and, with secret transport and delight, sees through all the confusion and bloodshed which attend them, the probability of those wished for occasions presenting themselves, in which he may draw upon himself the attention and admiration of mankind. The man of rank and distinction, on the contrary, whose whole glory consists in the propriety of his ordinary behaviour, who is contented with the humble renown which this can afford him, and has no talents to acquire any other, is unwilling to embarrass himself with what can be attended either with difficulty or distress. To figure at a ball is his great triumph, and to succeed in an intrigue of gallantry, his highest exploit. He has an aversion to all public confusions, not from the love of mankind, for the great never look upon their inferiors as their fellow-creatures; nor yet from want of courage, for in that he is seldom defective; but from a consciousness that he possesses none of the virtues which are required in such situations, and that the public attention will certainly be drawn away from him by others. He may be willing to expose himself to some little danger, and to make a campaign when it happens to be the fashion. But he shudders with horror at the thought of any situation which demands the continual and long exertion of patience, industry, fortitude, and application of thought. These virtues are hardly ever to be met with in men who are born to those high stations. In all governments accordingly, even in monarchies, the highest offices are generally possessed, and the whole detail of the administration conducted by men who were educated in the middle and inferior ranks of life, who have been carried forward by their own industry and abilities, though loaded with the jealousy, and opposed by the resentment of all those who were born their superiors, and to whom the great, after having regarded them first with contempt, and afterwards with envy, are at last contented to truckle with the same abject meanness with which they desire that the rest of mankind should behave to themselves.
It is the loss of this easy empire over the affections of mankind which renders the fall from greatness so insupportable. When the family of the King of Macedon was led in triumph by Paulus Æmilius, their misfortunes, it is said, made them divide with their conqueror the attention of the Roman people. The sight of the royal children, whose tender age rendered them insensible of their situation, struck the spectators, amidst the public rejoicings and prosperity, with the tenderest sorrow and compassion. The King appeared next in the procession; and seemed like one confounded and astonished, and bereft of all sentiment, by the greatness of his calamities. His friends and ministers followed after him. As they moved along, they often cast their eye upon their fallen sovereign, and always burst into tears at the sight; their whole behaviour demonstrating that they thought not of their misfortunes, but were occupied entirely by the superior greatness of his. The generous Romans, on the contrary, beheld him with disdain and indignation, and regarded as unworthy of all compassion the man who could be so mean-spirited as to bear to live under such calamities. Yet what did those calamities amount to? According to the greater part of historians, he was to spend the remainder of his days under the protection of a powerful and humane people, in a state which in itself should seem worthy of envy, a state of plenty, ease, leisure, and security, from which it was impossible for him even by his own folly to fall. But he was no longer to be surrounded by that admiring mob of fools, flatterers, and dependants, who had formerly been accustomed to attend upon all his motions. He was no longer to be gazed upon by multitudes, nor to have it in his power to render himself the object of their respect, their gratitude, their love, their admiration. The passions of nations were no longer to mould themselves upon his inclinations. This was that insupportable calamity which bereaved the King of all sentiment; which made his friends forget their own misfortunes; and which the Roman magnanimity could scarce conceive how any man could be so mean-spirited as to bear to survive.
“Love, says my Lord Rochefoucault, is commonly succeeded by ambition; but ambition is hardly ever succeeded by love.” That passion when once it has got entire possession of the breast, will admit neither a rival nor a successor. To those who have been accustomed to the possession, or even to the hope of public admiration, all other pleasures sicken and decay. Of all the discarded statesmen who for their own ease have studied to get the better of ambition, and to despise those honours which they could no longer arrive at, how few have been able to succeed? The greater part have spent their time in the most listless and insipid indolence, chagrined at the thoughts of their own insignificancy, incapable of being interested in the occupations of private life, without enjoyment except when they talked of their former greatness, and without satisfaction except when they were employed in some vain project to recover it. Are you in earnest resolved never to barter your liberty for the lordly servitude of a Court, but to live free, fearless, and independent? There seems to be one way to continue in that virtuous resolution; and perhaps but one. Never enter the place from whence so few have been able to return; never come within the circle of ambition; nor even bring yourself into comparison with those masters of the earth who have already engrossed the attention of half mankind before you.
Of such mighty importance does it appear to be, in the imaginations of men, to stand in that situation which sets them most in the view of general sympathy and attention. And thus, place, that great object which divides the wives of aldermen, is the end of half the labours of life; and is the cause of all the tumult and bustle, all the rapine and injustice, which avarice and ambition have introduced into this world. People of sense, it is said, indeed despise place; that is, they despise sitting at the head of the table, and are indifferent who it is that is pointed out to the company by that frivolous circumstance, which the smallest advantage is capable of overbalancing. But rank, distinction, pre-eminence, no man despises, unless he is either raised very much above, or sunk very much below, the ordinary standard of human nature; unless he is either so confirmed in wisdom and real philosophy, as to be satisfied that, while the propriety of his conduct renders him the just object of approbation, it is of little consequence though he be neither attended to, nor approved of; or so habituated to the idea of his own meanness, so sunk in slothful and sottish indifference, as entirely to have forgot the desire, and almost the very wish, for superiority.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the complete sixth-edition English text of all parts (the appended Dissertation on the Origin of Languages is not included) for fidelity, the author’s force and cadence, and modern clarity.
Do the great seem unaware how cheaply they can win public admiration? Or do they seem to imagine that they, like others, must purchase it with sweat or blood? What important accomplishments is a young nobleman taught so that he may uphold the dignity of his rank and make himself worthy of the superiority over his fellow citizens to which his ancestors' virtue raised them? Knowledge, industry, patience, self-denial, or any kind of virtue? Because every word and movement of his attracts notice, he develops a habitual concern for every detail of ordinary behavior and studies to perform all its small duties with the utmost propriety. Aware how closely he is watched and how ready people are to favor his inclinations, he acts even on the most insignificant occasions with the freedom and confidence this awareness naturally inspires. His bearing, manners, and deportment all express that elegant, graceful sense of his own superiority which people born to lower stations can scarcely ever attain. These are the arts by which he hopes to make others submit more readily to his authority and bend their inclinations to his pleasure, and he is seldom disappointed. Such arts, supported by rank and preeminence, are usually sufficient to govern the world. Lewis XIV, for most of his reign, was regarded not only in France but throughout Europe as the most perfect model of a great prince. But what talents and virtues gave him this great reputation? Was it the scrupulous and unbending justice of all his undertakings, the immense dangers and difficulties that attended them, or the tireless, unrelenting effort with which he pursued them? Was it his extensive knowledge, his exquisite judgment, or his heroic courage? None of these qualities gave him his reputation. First, however, he was the most powerful prince in Europe and therefore held the highest rank among kings; and then, as his historian says, "he surpassed all his courtiers in the grace of his figure and the majestic beauty of his features. His voice, noble and moving, won the hearts that his presence intimidated. His gait and bearing suited only him and his rank and would have been ridiculous in anyone else. The embarrassment he caused those who spoke to him flattered the secret satisfaction he took in his own superiority. An old officer, confused and faltering as he asked him a favor, could not finish his speech and said: 'Sir, I hope your majesty will believe that I do not tremble like this before your enemies.' He had no difficulty obtaining what he requested." These trivial accomplishments, supported by his rank and, no doubt, by a degree of other talents and virtues—though apparently not much above average—established this prince in the esteem of his age and have drawn considerable respect for his memory even from later generations. In comparison with these qualities, in his own time and in his presence, no other virtue seemed to count for anything. Knowledge, industry, courage, and beneficence trembled, were abashed, and lost all dignity before them.
But a man of lower rank cannot hope to distinguish himself by accomplishments of this kind. Politeness is so especially the virtue of the great that it brings little honor to anyone else. The conceited fop who imitates their manner and affects distinction through the superior propriety of his ordinary behavior earns a double measure of contempt for his folly and presumption. Why should a man whom nobody thinks worth looking at be so anxious about the way he holds his head or positions his arms as he walks across a room? Surely he is giving these things quite unnecessary attention, an attention that also betrays a sense of his own importance no one else can share. Perfect modesty and plainness, together with as much unstudied ease as respect for the company permits, should be the chief marks of a private man's behavior. If he ever hopes to distinguish himself, he must do so through more important virtues. He must acquire dependents to counterbalance those of the great, and he has no resources with which to support them except his bodily labor and his mental activity. These, then, he must cultivate. He must gain superior knowledge of his profession and superior diligence in practicing it. He must be patient in labor, resolute in danger, and steadfast in distress. He must bring these talents before the public through the difficulty, importance, and sound judgment of his undertakings, and through the severe, unrelenting effort with which he pursues them. Integrity and prudence, generosity and frankness, must mark his ordinary conduct. At the same time he must be ready to enter every situation in which acting with propriety requires the greatest talents and virtues, but in which those who acquit themselves honorably can win the greatest applause. How impatiently a man of spirit and ambition, held down by his station, looks about for a great opportunity to distinguish himself! No circumstance offering such an opportunity appears undesirable to him. He even looks forward with satisfaction to foreign war or civil strife, and with secret excitement and delight sees, through all their confusion and bloodshed, the likelihood that the longed-for occasions will arise on which he can draw the attention and admiration of humanity to himself. By contrast, a man of rank and distinction whose whole glory lies in the propriety of his ordinary behavior, who is content with the modest renown it can bring and lacks the talents to gain any other, is reluctant to involve himself in anything attended by difficulty or distress. To shine at a ball is his great triumph, and success in a romantic intrigue his highest feat. He dislikes public disorder not from love of humanity—for the great never regard their inferiors as their fellow creatures—nor from lack of courage, which he seldom lacks, but from awareness that he has none of the virtues such circumstances require and that others will certainly draw public attention away from him. He may be willing to expose himself to a little danger and serve in a military campaign when it happens to be fashionable. But he shudders at the thought of any situation demanding continuous and prolonged patience, industry, fortitude, and application of mind. Such virtues are hardly ever found among those born to high station. Accordingly, in every form of government, even monarchies, the highest offices are generally held and the detailed work of administration carried out by men brought up in the middle and lower ranks. Their own industry and abilities have carried them forward, though they have borne the jealousy and faced the resentment of all those born above them. The great, after looking upon them first with contempt and then with envy, finally consent to bow to them with the same abject servility they expect from the rest of humanity toward themselves.
The loss of this effortless command over people's affections makes a fall from greatness so unbearable. When the family of the King of Macedon was led in triumph by Paulus Æmilius, their misfortunes, it is said, made them divide the Roman people's attention with their conqueror. The sight of the royal children, too young to understand their condition, moved the spectators amid public rejoicing and prosperity to the tenderest sorrow and compassion. The King came next in the procession, seeming bewildered and stunned, stripped of all feeling by the magnitude of his calamities. His friends and ministers followed. As they went, they often looked at their fallen sovereign and always burst into tears at the sight. Their entire behavior showed that they were thinking not of their own misfortunes but solely of the far greater magnitude of his. The generous Romans, by contrast, looked at him with disdain and indignation, considering a man so weak in spirit as to bear living under such calamities unworthy of any compassion. Yet what did those calamities amount to? According to most historians, he was to spend the rest of his days under the protection of a powerful and humane people, in a state that in itself would seem enviable: one of plenty, ease, leisure, and security, from which even his own folly could not make him fall. But the admiring mob of fools, flatterers, and dependents who had formerly attended his every movement would no longer surround him. Crowds would no longer gaze upon him, nor would he be able to make himself the object of their respect, gratitude, love, and admiration. The passions of nations would no longer shape themselves to his inclinations. This was the unbearable calamity that robbed the King of all feeling, made his friends forget their own misfortunes, and left the Romans, with their magnanimity, scarcely able to imagine how a man could be so weak in spirit as to survive it.
"Love," says my Lord Rochefoucault, "is commonly followed by ambition; but ambition is hardly ever followed by love." Once that passion has taken full possession of the heart, it admits neither rival nor successor. To those accustomed to enjoying, or even hoping for, public admiration, every other pleasure grows stale and fades. Of all the discarded statesmen who, for their own peace, have tried to overcome ambition and despise the honors now beyond their reach, how few have succeeded! Most have spent their time in the most listless and tasteless idleness, embittered by thoughts of their own insignificance, unable to take an interest in the pursuits of private life, enjoying nothing except talk of their former greatness and finding no satisfaction except in some futile project to recover it. Are you truly resolved never to exchange your freedom for the lordly servitude of a Court, but to live free, fearless, and independent? There seems to be one way, and perhaps only one, to keep that virtuous resolution. Never enter the place from which so few have been able to return; never step into the circle of ambition; do not even compare yourself with those masters of the earth who have already captured the attention of half humanity before you.
So supremely important does it seem in people's imaginations to occupy the position that brings them most fully into public view and wins them general sympathy and attention! Thus precedence, that great object of contention among aldermen's wives, is the goal of half the labors of life and the cause of all the commotion and bustle, all the plunder and injustice, that greed and ambition have brought into the world. Sensible people, it is said, despise precedence: that is, they despise sitting at the head of the table and do not care who is singled out to the company by that trifling circumstance, which the smallest advantage can outweigh. But nobody despises rank, distinction, and preeminence unless raised far above or sunk far below the ordinary standard of human nature. Such a person must either be so firmly grounded in wisdom and real philosophy as to be satisfied that, so long as the propriety of his conduct makes him justly worthy of approval, it matters little whether he is noticed or approved of; or he must be so used to the idea of his own lowliness, so sunk in idle and stupefied indifference, that he has entirely forgotten the desire, and almost the very wish, for superiority.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the complete sixth-edition English text of all parts (the appended Dissertation on the Origin of Languages is not included).
Do powerful people seem unaware of how cheaply they can win public admiration? Or do they imagine that, like everyone else, they must work or shed blood for it? What important skills is a young nobleman taught so he can uphold the dignity of his rank and deserve the position his ancestors' virtue gave him above his fellow citizens? Is he taught knowledge, hard work, patience, self-denial, or any kind of virtue? People watch everything he says and does, so he learns to pay constant attention to every detail of ordinary behavior. He studies how to carry out all the small duties of social life with exact propriety. He knows how closely people watch him and how eager they are to support his wishes. So even in the most unimportant situations he acts with the confidence and pride this knowledge naturally gives him. His expression, manners, and bearing all show a graceful awareness of his own higher status, something people born into lower positions can hardly ever achieve. These are the ways he hopes to make others accept his authority more readily and guide their wishes as he pleases. He rarely fails. Combined with high status, such manners are usually enough to govern the world. For most of his reign, Lewis XIV. was considered the perfect model of a great ruler, not only in France but throughout Europe. What skills and virtues earned him that reputation? Was it the strict, unwavering justice of everything he undertook, the huge dangers and difficulties he faced, or his tireless determination in pursuing his goals? Was it his extensive knowledge, excellent judgment, or heroic courage? None of these explains it. To begin with, he was Europe's most powerful ruler and therefore held the highest place among kings. Then, as his historian says, “His graceful figure and majestic, handsome face surpassed those of all his courtiers. His impressive, stirring voice won over the hearts of those intimidated by his presence. His walk and manner suited only him and his rank; they would have looked ridiculous in anyone else. He took private pleasure in his own superiority when people became flustered speaking to him. An old officer, confused and stumbling over his words as he asked a favor, could not finish his request. He said, ‘Sir, I hope your majesty believes that I do not tremble like this before your enemies.’ The officer had no trouble getting what he wanted.” These trivial qualities, backed by his rank and doubtless by some other abilities and virtues—though those do not seem to have been much above average—won him the esteem of his own time and a good deal of respect from later generations. Compared with his qualities, when he was present, no other virtue seemed worth much. Knowledge, hard work, courage, and beneficence seemed to tremble in embarrassment and lose all dignity before them.
But a lower-ranking man cannot hope to stand out through such qualities. Polished manners are so closely associated with the powerful that they bring little honor to anyone else. A vain fool who imitates their manners and tries to look exceptional by behaving especially properly in ordinary situations earns twice the contempt for his foolish presumption. Why should a man whom no one bothers to look at worry so much about how he holds his head or arranges his arms while walking across a room? He is giving needless attention to these things and displaying a sense of self-importance no one else can share. A private man's behavior should mainly be completely modest and simple, with as much lack of fuss as respect for his company allows. If he hopes to distinguish himself, he must do so through more important virtues. He needs supporters to rival the supporters of the powerful, but he can pay them only with the work of his body and the effort of his mind. He must develop both. He must gain greater knowledge of his profession and work harder at it than others do. He must be patient at work, determined in danger, and steadfast in trouble. He must bring these strengths to public attention by taking on difficult and important projects, choosing them wisely, and pursuing them with strict, relentless effort. Honesty, good judgment, generosity, and openness must mark his everyday behavior. He must also readily take on situations that demand the greatest abilities and virtues to handle properly and offer the greatest praise to those who handle them honorably. How impatiently a spirited and ambitious man, held down by his position, searches for a great chance to stand out! He welcomes any circumstances that might give him one. He even looks forward to foreign war or conflict within his country. Amid all the disorder and bloodshed, he secretly takes delighted hope in the chances he may get to draw public attention and admiration to himself. By contrast, a high-ranking man whose whole glory lies in behaving properly in ordinary situations is satisfied with the modest fame that brings, and lacks the abilities to earn any other kind. He does not want to involve himself in anything difficult or distressing. His greatest triumph is standing out at a ball; his greatest achievement is succeeding in a romantic affair. He dislikes public upheaval, not out of love for humanity—the powerful never see those below them as fellow human beings—and not from a lack of courage, which he rarely lacks. He knows he does not have the virtues these situations demand and that others will certainly take the public's attention away from him. He may be willing to face a little danger and spend a season on a military campaign when that is fashionable. But he shudders at any situation requiring sustained patience, hard work, courage, and careful thought. Such virtues are hardly ever found among people born to high rank. Accordingly, in every government, even a monarchy, the highest offices are generally held and the detailed work of governing done by men raised in the middle and lower ranks. They have advanced through their own hard work and ability despite the jealousy and resentment of those born above them. At first the powerful looked down on these men, then envied them, and finally accepted a position beneath them with the same humiliating submission they expect from everyone else.
Losing this effortless power over people's feelings is what makes a fall from greatness so unbearable. When the family of the King of Macedon was paraded in Paulus Æmilius's victory procession, their troubles reportedly made the Roman crowd split its attention between them and their conqueror. The royal children were too young to understand what had happened. Seeing them moved spectators, amid the public celebration and success, to profound sorrow and compassion. The King came next in the procession. He seemed stunned and bewildered, as if the scale of his misfortune had left him unable to feel anything. His friends and ministers followed. As they passed, they often looked back at their fallen ruler and burst into tears every time. Their behavior showed that they were not thinking of their own misfortunes, only of the greater magnitude of his. The proud Romans, however, watched him with contempt and indignation. They thought a man willing to go on living after such a downfall deserved no pity. But what exactly did his misfortunes involve? According to most historians, he was to live out his days under the protection of a powerful, humane people, with plenty, comfort, free time, and safety. That condition would seem enviable in itself. Not even his own foolishness could make him lose it. But he would no longer have a crowd of admiring fools, flatterers, and dependents around him, watching his every move as they had before. Multitudes would no longer stare at him, and he could no longer make himself the object of their respect, gratitude, love, and admiration. Whole nations would no longer adjust their feelings to fit his wishes. This was the unbearable misfortune that left the King numb, made his friends forget their own troubles, and left the Romans barely able to understand how anyone could be so lacking in spirit as to survive it.
“Love,” says my Lord Rochefoucault, “is usually followed by ambition, but ambition is hardly ever followed by love.” Once ambition has completely taken hold of the heart, it allows neither a rival nor a successor. For those used to receiving public admiration, or even hoping to receive it, every other pleasure grows dull and loses its appeal. Think of all the former statesmen who, for their own peace of mind, tried to overcome ambition and stop caring about honors they could no longer reach. How few succeeded! Most spent their time in bored and lifeless idleness, upset by thoughts of their own lack of importance. They could not take an interest in private life. They enjoyed themselves only when talking about their past greatness, and found satisfaction only in useless plans to regain it. Are you truly determined never to trade your freedom for the prestigious servitude of a Court? Do you mean to live free, fearless, and independent? There seems to be one way, perhaps the only way, to keep that admirable resolution. Never enter the place so few have managed to leave. Stay outside the circle of ambition. Do not even compare yourself with those rulers of the earth who already command half the world's attention.
How important people imagine it is to occupy a position that brings them the most widespread attention and sympathy! Social precedence, the great prize that divides the wives of aldermen, is the goal of half the work people do. It also causes all the commotion, theft, and injustice that greed and ambition have brought into the world. Sensible people are said to look down on precedence. By that, people mean that they do not care about sitting at the head of the table or being pointed out to everyone for that trivial distinction, which even the smallest real advantage outweighs. But no one looks down on rank, distinction, and high standing unless he is far above or far below ordinary human nature. He must either have enough wisdom and genuine philosophy to know that, if his conduct properly deserves approval, it hardly matters whether anyone notices or approves of him; or be so used to thinking himself insignificant, so sunk in lazy, foolish indifference, that he has completely forgotten his desire, and almost even his wish, to rise above others.