's house. One day, the earl's sons being called to dinner,
a lad who was playing with them, said that he would wait until they
returned--"There is no dinner for me at home," said the poor boy.
"Come with us, then," said the earl's sons. The boy refused, and when
they asked him if he had any money to buy a dinner, he answered, "No."
"Papa," said the eldest of the young gentlemen when he got home, "what
was the price of the silver buckles you gave me?" "Five shillings."
"Let me have the money, and I'll give you the buckles." It was done
accordingly, says Lord Kames. The earl, inquiring privately, found
that the money was given to the lad _who had no dinner_. The buckles
were returned, and the boy was highly commended for being kind to his
companion. The commendations were just, but the buckles should not
have been returned: the boy should have been suffered steadily to
abide by his own bargain; he should have been let to feel the
pleasure, and pay the exact price of his own generosity.

If we attempt to teach children that they can be generous, without
giving up some of their own pleasures for the sake of other people, we
attempt to teach them what is false. If we once make them amends for
any sacrifice they have made, we lead them to expect the same
remuneration upon a future occasion; and then, in fact, they act with
a direct view to their own interest, and govern themselves by the
calculations of prudence, instead of following the dictates of
benevolence. It is true, that if we speak with accuracy, we must
admit, that the most benevolent and generous persons act from the hope
of receiving pleasure, and their enjoyment is more exquisite than that
of the most refined selfishness; in the language of M. de
Rochefoucault, we should therefore be forced to acknowledge, that the
most benevolent is always the most selfish person. This seeming
paradox is answered, by observing, that the epithet _selfish_ is given
to those who prefer pleasures in which other people have no share; we
change the meaning of words when we talk of its being selfish to like
the pleasures of sympathy or benevolence, because these pleasures
cannot be confined solely to the idea of self. When we say that a
person pursues his own interest more by being generous than by being
covetous, we take into the account the general sum of his agreeable
feelings; we do not balance prudentially his loss or gain upon
particular occasions. The generous man may himself be