A letter concerning ENTHUSIASM
One of the pleasures of the edition that I am using is that it has, largely, retained the punctuation and formatting of the original. This means a juvenile reliance on ALL CAPS.
I cannot imagine lecturing this man for using CAPS. If the frontispiece is to be believed, Shaftesbury spent (at least some of) his time posing for etchings, wearing a powdered wig, pajamas, standing in front of his own bed sheets.
It’s a strange letter, and tiny in comparison to the other pieces. It’s also not at all clear what he wants to do. It begins with a frontal attack on enthusiasm, largely because for Shaftesbury, God (or the Mind of Nature) must be either decent, or indifferent.
His argument here is rather clever:
- Malice occurs where “reasons are opposed”
- If there is a God, or some kind of Mind of Nature, it’s not going to be opposed to anything (because it’s the only game in town)
- Therefore: “if unhappily there be no Mind we can comfort ourselves, however, that Nature has no Malice: if there really be a Mind we may rest satisfy’d, that it is the best natur’d one in the World” 
Enthusiasm, it seems, is too malicious and humourless to be an appropriate reaction to such a Mind. The whole piece hinges on the difference between enthusiasm (which is false) and inspiration (which is true)—
“But the passion they raise is much alike”. And this is the difficulty, and strength, of the letter, which at the end turns around and presents a defense of enthusiasm, provided it is inspired. It is not a complete reversal: magnanimity and good humour are the test of real inspiration; inspiration can handle both, enthusiasm cannot. Humour–the subject of the next, much longer section–becomes the fire that tests: those inspired by God can withstand it, enthusiasts projecting their own flaws onto the divine, cannot.
Having begun by attacking enthusiasm, and ending in praise of it, Shaftesbury apologizes for the letter’s contradictions, blaming his own enthusiasm .
I sometimes worry that contemporary writing is being poisoned by the emails and funding applications we write. The email destroys all formality and punctuation, while the funding application forces us into a mold of crude simplicity. The proposal is more dangerous than the email (or, eletter): they trade in simplifications and pitches, and the perpetual question ‘what can this do for my work?’, is answered with an irritating mixture of academic codes and crude generalizations, with an imaginary method attached as an epigraph. We write these to sell, assuming our real project will be more meaningful than the fiction we have sold. But, by the time we have spent our energy asking for money with a fictitious project, one gone over countless times, sculpted and sanded it so it can pass through a committee of disinterested and hostile academics and administrators, we are spent. And the project, while uninspired, is ready to go, and more often than not we complete it out of need and inertia.