The Theory of Moral Sentiments.
by Adam Smith
Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Glasgow.
London: Printed for A. Millar, in the Strand; And A. Kincaid and J. Bell
in Edinburgh. MDCCLIX
Part I Of the Propriety of Action Consisting of Three Sections
Section I
Of the Sense of Propriety
Chap. I Of Sympathy
How selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some principles
in his nature, which interest him in the fortune of others, and render
their happiness necessary to him, though he derives nothing from it except
the pleasure of seeing it. Of this kind is pity or compassion, the emotion
which we feel for the misery of others, when we either see it, or are made
to conceive it in a very lively manner. That we often derive sorrow from
the sorrow of others, is a matter of fact too obvious to require any instances
to prove it; for this sentiment, like all the other original passions of
human nature, is by no means confined to the virtuous and humane, though
they perhaps may feel it with the most exquisite sensibility. The greatest
ruffian, the most hardened violator of the laws of society, is not altogether
without it.
As we have no immediate experience of what other men feel, we can form
no idea of the manner in which they are affected, but by conceiving what
we ourselves should feel in the like situation. Though our brother is upon
the rack, as long as we ourselves are at our ease, our senses will never
inform us of what he suffers. They never did, and never can, carry us beyond
our own person, and it is by the imagination only that we can form any
conception of what are his sensations. Neither can that faculty help us
to this any other way, than by representing to us what would be our own,
if we were in his case. It is the impressions of our own senses only, not
those of his, which our imaginations copy. By the imagination we place
ourselves in his situation, we conceive ourselves enduring all the same
torments, we enter as it were into his body, and become in some measure
the same person with him, and thence form some idea of his sensations,
and even feel something which, though weaker in degree, is not altogether
unlike them. His agonies, when they are thus brought home to ourselves,
when we have thus adopted and made them our own, begin at last to affect
us, and we then tremble and shudder at the thought of what he feels. For
as to be in pain or distress of any kind excites the most excessive sorrow,
so to conceive or to imagine that we are in it, excites some degree of
the same emotion, in proportion to the vivacity or dulness of the conception.
That this is the source of our fellow-feeling for the misery of others,
that it is by changing places in fancy with the sufferer, that we come
either to conceive or to be affected by what he feels, may be demonstrated
by many obvious observations, if it should not be thought sufficiently
evident of itself. When we see a stroke aimed and just ready to fall upon
the leg or arm of another person, we naturally shrink and draw back our
own leg or our own arm; and when it does fall, we feel it in some measure,
and are hurt by it as well as the sufferer. The mob, when they are gazing
at a dancer on the slack rope, naturally writhe and twist and balance their
own bodies, as they see him do, and as they feel that they themselves must
do if in his situation. Persons of delicate fibres and a weak constitution
of body complain, that in looking on the sores and ulcers which are exposed
by beggars in the streets, they are apt to feel an itching or uneasy sensation
in the correspondent part of their own bodies. The horror which they conceive
at the misery of those wretches affects that particular part in themselves
more than any other; because that horror arises from conceiving what they
themselves would suffer, if they really were the wretches whom they are
looking upon, and if that particular part in themselves was actually affected
in the same miserable manner. The very force of this conception is sufficient,
in their feeble frames, to produce that itching or uneasy sensation complained
of. Men of the most robust make, observe that in looking upon sore eyes
they often feel a very sensible soreness in their own, which proceeds from
the same reason; that organ being in the strongest man more delicate, than
any other part of the body is in the weakest.
Neither is it those circumstances only, which create pain or sorrow, that
call forth our fellow-feeling. Whatever is the passion which arises from
any object in the person principally concerned, an analogous emotion springs
up, at the thought of his situation, in the breast of every attentive spectator.
Our joy for the deliverance of those heroes of tragedy or romance who interest
us, is as sincere as our grief for their distress, and our fellow-feeling
with their misery is not more real than that with their happiness. We enter
into their gratitude towards those faithful friends who did not desert
them in their difficulties; and we heartily go along with their resentment
against those perfidious traitors who injured, abandoned, or deceived them.
In every passion of which the mind of man is susceptible, the emotions
of the by-stander always correspond to hat, by bringing the case home to
himself, he imagines should be the sentiments of the sufferer.
Pity and compassion are words appropriated to signify our fellow-feeling
with the sorrow of others. Sympathy, though its meaning was, perhaps, originally
the same, may now, however, without much impropriety, be made use of to
denote our fellow-feeling with any passion whatever.
Upon some occasions sympathy may seen to arise merely from the view of
a certain emotion in another person. The passions, upon some occasions,
may seem to be transfused from one man to another, instantaneously and
antecedent to any knowledge of what excited them in the person principally
concerned. Grief and joy, for example, strongly expressed in the look and
gestures of any one, at once affect the spectator with some degree of a
like painful or agreeable emotion. A smiling face is, to every body that
sees it, a cheerful object; as a sorrowful countenance, on the other hand,
is a melancholy one.
This, however, does not hold universally, or with regard to every passion.
There are some passions of which the expressions excite no sort of sympathy,
but before we are acquainted with what gave occasion to them, serve rather
to disgust and provoke us against them. The furious behaviour of an angry
man is more likely to exasperate us against himself than against his enemies.
As we are unacquainted with his provocation, we cannot bring his case home
to ourselves, nor conceive any thing like the passions which it excites.
But we plainly see what is the situation of those with whom he is angry,
and to what violence they may be exposed from so enraged an adversary.
We readily, therefore, sympathize with their fear or resentment, and are
immediately disposed to take part against the man from whom they appear
to be in so much danger.
If the very appearances of grief and joy inspire us with some degree of
the like emotions, it is because they suggest to us the general idea of
some good or bad fortune that has befallen the person in whom we observe
them: and in these passions this is sufficient to have some little influence
upon us. The effects of grief and joy terminate in the person who feels
those emotions, of which the expressions do not, like those of resentment,
suggest to us the idea of any other person for whom we are concerned, and
whose interests are opposite to his. The general idea of good or bad fortune,
therefore, creates some concern for the person who has met with it, but
the general idea of provocation excites no sympathy with the anger of the
man who has received it. Nature, it seems, teaches us to be more averse
to enter into this passion, and, till informed of its cause, to be disposed
rather to take part against it.
Even our sympathy with the grief or joy of another, before we are informed
of the cause of either, is always extremely imperfect. General lamentations,
which express nothing but the anguish of the sufferer, create rather a
curiosity to inquire into his situation, along with some disposition to
sympathize with him, than any actual sympathy that is very sensible. The
first question which we ask is, What has befallen you? Till this be answered,
though we are uneasy both from the vague idea of his misfortune, and still
more from torturing ourselves with conjectures about what it may be, yet
our fellow-feeling is not very considerable.
Sympathy, therefore, does not arise so much from the view of the passion,
as from that of the situation which excites it. We sometimes feel for another,
a passion of which he himself seems to be altogether incapable; because,
when we put ourselves in his case, that passion arises in our breast from
the imagination, though it does not in his from the reality. We blush for
the impudence and rudeness of another, though he himself appears to have
no sense of the impropriety of his own behaviour; because we cannot help
feeling with what confusion we ourselves should be covered, had we behaved
in so absurd a manner.
Of all the calamities to which the condition of mortality exposes mankind,
the loss of reason appears, to those who have the least spark of humanity,
by far the most dreadful, and they behold that last stage of human wretchedness
with deeper commiseration than any other. But the poor wretch, who is in
it, laughs and sings perhaps, and is altogether insensible of his own misery.
The anguish which humanity feels, therefore, at the sight of such an object,
cannot be the reflection of any sentiment of the sufferer. The compassion
of the spectator must arise altogether from the consideration of what he
himself would feel if he was reduced to the same unhappy situation, and,
what perhaps is impossible, was at the same time able to regard it with
his present reason and judgment.
What are the pangs of a mother, when she hears the moanings of her infant
that during the agony of disease cannot express what it feels? In her idea
of what it suffers, she joins, to its real helplessness, her own consciousness
of that helplessness, and her own terrors for the unknown consequences
of its disorder; and out of all these, forms, for her own sorrow, the most
complete image of misery and distress. The infant, however, feels only
the uneasiness of the present instant, which can never be great. With regard
to the future, it is perfectly secure, and in its thoughtlessness and want
of foresight, possesses an antidote against fear and anxiety, the great
tormentors of the human breast, from which reason and philosophy will,
in vain, attempt to defend it, when it grows up to a man.
We sympathize even with the dead, and overlooking what is of real importance
in their situation, that awful futurity which awaits them, we are chiefly
affected by those circumstances which strike our senses, but can have no
influence upon their happiness. It is miserable, we think, to be deprived
of the light of the sun; to be shut out from life and conversation; to
be laid in the cold grave, a prey to corruption and the reptiles of the
earth; to be no more thought of in this world, but to be obliterated, in
a little time, from the affections, and almost from the memory, of their
dearest friends and relations. Surely, we imagine, we can never feel too
much for those who have suffered so dreadful a calamity. The tribute of
our fellow-feeling seems doubly due to them now, when they are in danger
of being forgot by every body; and, by the vain honours which we pay to
their memory, we endeavour, for our own misery, artificially to keep alive
our melancholy remembrance of their misfortune. That our sympathy can afford
them no consolation seems to be an addition to their calamity; and to think
that all we can do is unavailing, and that, what alleviates all other distress,
the regret, the love, and the lamentations of their friends, can yield
no comfort to them, serves only to exasperate our sense of their misery.
The happiness of the dead, however, most assuredly, is affected by none
of these circumstances; nor is it the thought of these things which can
ever disturb the profound security of their repose. The idea of that dreary
and endless melancholy, which the fancy naturally ascribes to their condition,
arises altogether from our joining to the change which has been produced
upon them, our own consciousness of that change, from our putting ourselves
in their situation, and from our lodging, if I may be allowed to say so,
our own living souls in their inanimated bodies, and thence conceiving
what would be our emotions in this case. It is from this very illusion
of the imagination, that the foresight of our own dissolution is so terrible
to us, and that the idea of those circumstances, which undoubtedly can
give us no pain when we are dead, makes us miserable while we are alive.
And from thence arises one of the most important principles in human nature,
the dread of death, the great poison to the happiness, but the great restraint
upon the injustice of mankind, which, while it afflicts and mortifies the
individual, guards and protects the society. Chap. II Of the Pleasure of
mutual Sympathy
But whatever may be the cause of sympathy, or however it may be excited,
nothing pleases us more than to observe in other men a fellow-feeling with
all the emotions of our own breast; nor are we ever so much shocked as
by the appearance of the contrary. Those who are fond of deducing all our
sentiments from certain refinements of self-love, think themselves at no
loss to account, according to their own principles, both for this pleasure
and this pain. Man, say they, conscious of his own weakness, and of the
need which he has for the assistance of others, rejoices whenever he observes
that they adopt his own passions, because he is then assured of that assistance;
and grieves whenever he observes the contrary, because he is then assured
of their opposition. But both the pleasure and the pain are always felt
so instantaneously, and often upon such frivolous occasions, that it seems
evident that neither of them can be derived from any such self-interested
consideration. A man is mortified when, after having endeavoured to divert
the company, he looks round and sees that nobody laughs at his jests but
himself. On the contrary, the mirth of the company is highly agreeable
to him, and he regards this correspondence of their sentiments with his
own as the greatest applause.
Neither does his pleasure seem to arise altogether from the additional
vivacity which his mirth may receive from sympathy with theirs, nor his
pain from the disappointment he meets with when he misses this pleasure;
though both the one and the other, no doubt, do in some measure. When we
have read a book or poem so often that we can no longer find any amusement
in reading it by ourselves, we can still take pleasure in reading it to
a companion. To him it has all the graces of novelty; we enter into the
surprise and admiration which it naturally excites in him, but which it
is no longer capable of exciting in us; we consider all the ideas which
it presents rather in the light in which they appear to him, than in that
in which they appear to ourselves, and we are amused by sympathy with his
amusement which thus enlivens our own. On the contrary, we should be vexed
if he did not seem to be entertained with it, and we could no longer take
any pleasure in reading it to him. It is the same case here. The mirth
of the company, no doubt, enlivens our own mirth, and their silence, no
doubt, disappoints us. But though this may contribute both to the pleasure
which we derive from the one, and to the pain which we feel from the other,
it is by no means the sole cause of either; and this correspondence of
the sentiments of others with our own appears to be a cause of pleasure,
and the want of it a cause of pain, which cannot be accounted for in this
manner. The sympathy, which my friends express with my joy, might, indeed,
give me pleasure by enlivening that joy: but that which they express with
my grief could give me none, if it served only to enliven that grief. Sympathy,
however, enlivens joy and alleviates grief. It enlivens joy by presenting
another source of satisfaction; and it alleviates grief by insinuating
into the heart almost the only agreeable sensation which it is at that
time capable of receiving.
It is to be observed accordingly, that we are still more anxious to communicate
to our friends our disagreeable than our agreeable passions, that we derive
still more satisfaction from their sympathy with the former than from that
with the latter, and that we are still more shocked by the want of it.
How are the unfortunate relieved when they have found out a person to whom
they can communicate the cause of their sorrow? Upon his sympathy they
seem to disburthen themselves of a part of their distress: he is not improperly
said to share it with them. He not only feels a sorrow of the same kind
with that which they feel, but as if he had derived a part of it to himself,
what he feels seems to alleviate the weight of what they feel. Yet by relating
their misfortunes they in some measure renew their grief. They awaken in
their memory the remembrance of those circumstances which occasioned their
affliction. Their tears accordingly flow faster than before, and they are
apt to abandon themselves to all the weakness of sorrow. They take pleasure,
however, in all this, and, it is evident, are sensibly relieved by it;
because the sweetness of his sympathy more than compensates the bitterness
of that sorrow, which, in order to excite this sympathy, they had thus
enlivened and renewed. The cruelest insult, on the contrary, which can
be offered to the unfortunate, is to appear to make light of their calamities.
To seem not to be affected with the joy of our companions is but want of
politeness; but not to wear a serious countenance when they tell us their
afflictions, is real and gross inhumanity.
Love is an agreeable; resentment, a disagreeable passion; and accordingly
we are not half so anxious that our friends should adopt our friendships,
as that they should enter into our resentments. We can forgive them though
they seem to be little affected with the favours which we may have received,
but lose all patience if they seem indifferent about the injuries which
may have been done to us: nor are we half so angry with them for not entering
into our gratitude, as for not sympathizing with our resentment. They can
easily avoid being friends to our friends, but can hardly avoid being enemies
to those with whom we are at variance. We seldom resent their being at
enmity with the first, though upon that account we may sometimes affect
to make an awkward quarrel with them; but we quarrel with them in good
earnest if they live in friendship with the last. The agreeable passions
of love and joy can satisfy and support the heart without any auxiliary
pleasure. The bitter and painful emotions of grief and resentment more
strongly require the healing consolation of sympathy.
As the person who is principally interested in any event is pleased with
our sympathy, and hurt by the want of it, so we, too, seem to be pleased
when we are able to sympathize with him, and to be hurt when we are unable
to do so. We run not only to congratulate the successful, but to condole
with the afflicted; and the pleasure which we find in the conversation
of one whom in all the passions of his heart we can entirely sympathize
with, seems to do more than compensate the painfulness of that sorrow with
which the view of his situation affects us. On the contrary, it is always
disagreeable to feel that we cannot sympathize with him, and instead of
being pleased with this exemption from sympathetic pain, it hurts us to
find that we cannot share his uneasiness. If we hear a person loudly lamenting
his misfortunes, which, however, upon bringing the case home to ourselves,
we feel, can produce no such violent effect upon us, we are shocked at
his grief; and, because we cannot enter into it, call it pusillanimity
and weakness. It gives us the spleen, on the other hand, to see another
too happy or too much elevated, as we call it, with any little piece of
good fortune. We are disobliged even with his joy; and, because we cannot
go along with it, call it levity and folly. We are even put out of humour
if our companion laughs louder or longer at a joke than we think it deserves;
that is, than we feel that we ourselves could laugh at it. Chap. III Of
the manner in which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of the affections
of other men, by their concord or dissonance with out own.
When the original passions of the person principally concerned are in perfect
concord with the sympathetic emotions of the spectator, they necessarily
appear to this last just and proper, and suitable to their objects; and,
on the contrary, when, upon bringing the case home to himself, he finds
that they do not coincide with what he feels, they necessarily appear to
him unjust and improper, and unsuitable to the causes which excite them.
To approve of the passions of another, therefore, as suitable to their
objects, is the same thing as to observe that we entirely sympathize with
them; and not to approve of them as such, is the same thing as to observe
that we do not entirely sympathize with them. The man who resents the injuries
that have been done to me, and observes that I resent them precisely as
he does, necessarily approves of my resentment. The man whose sympathy
keeps time to my grief, cannot but admit the reasonableness of my sorrow.
He who admires the same poem, or the same picture, and admires them exactly
as I do, must surely allow the justness of my admiration. He who laughs
at the same joke, and laughs along with me, cannot well deny the propriety
of my laughter. On the contrary, the person who, upon these different occasions,
either feels no such emotion as that which I feel, or feels none that bears
any proportion to mine, cannot avoid disapproving my sentiments on account
of their dissonance with his own. If my animosity goes beyond what the
indignation of my friend can correspond to; if my grief exceeds what his
most tender compassion can go along with; if my admiration is either too
high or too low to tally with his own; if I laugh loud and heartily when
he only smiles, or, on the contrary, only smile when he laughs loud and
heartily; in all these cases, as soon as he comes from considering the
object, to observe how I am affected by it, according as there is more
or less disproportion between his sentiments and mine, I must incur a greater
or less degree of his disapprobation: and upon all occasions his own sentiments
are the standards and measures by which he judges of mine.
To approve of another man's opinions is to adopt those opinions, and to
adopt them is to approve of them. If the same arguments which convince
you convince me likewise, I necessarily approve of your conviction; and
if they do not, I necessarily disapprove of it: neither can I possibly
conceive that I should do the one without the other. To approve or disapprove,
therefore, of the opinions of others is acknowledged, by every body, to
mean no more than to observe their agreement or disagreement with our own.
But this is equally the case with regard to our approbation or disapprobation
of the sentiments or passions of others.
There are, indeed, some cases in which we seem to approve without any sympathy
or correspondence of sentiments, and in which, consequently, the sentiment
of approbation would seem to be different from the perception of this coincidence.
A little attention, however, will convince us that even in these cases
our approbation is ultimately founded upon a sympathy or correspondence
of this kind. I shall give an instance in things of a very frivolous nature,
because in them the judgments of mankind are less apt to be perverted by
wrong systems. We may often approve of a jest, and think the laughter of
the company quite just and proper, though we ourselves do not laugh, because,
perhaps, we are in a grave humour, or happen to have our attention engaged
with other objects. We have learned, however, from experience, what sort
of pleasantry is upon most occasions capable of making us laugh, and we
observe that this is one of that kind. We approve, therefore, of the laughter
of the company, and feel that it is natural and suitable to its object;
because, though in our present mood we cannot easily enter into it, we
are sensible that upon most occasions we should very heartily join in it.
The same thing often happens with regard to all the other passions. A stranger
passes by us in the street with all the marks of the deepest affliction;
and we are immediately told that he has just received the news of the death
of his father. It is impossible that, in this case, we should not approve
of his grief. Yet it may often happen, without any defect of humanity on
our part, that, so far from entering into the violence of his sorrow, we
should scarce conceive the first movements of concern upon his account.
Both he and his father, perhaps, are entirely unknown to us, or we happen
to be employed about other things, and do not take time to picture out
in our imagination the different circumstances of distress which must occur
to him. We have learned, however, from experience, that such a misfortune
naturally excites such a degree of sorrow, and we know that if we took
time to consider his situation, fully and in all its parts, we should,
without doubt, most sincerely sympathize with him. It is upon the consciousness
of this conditional sympathy, that our approbation of his sorrow is founded,
even in those cases in which that sympathy does not actually take place;
and the general rules derived from our preceding experience of what our
sentiments would commonly correspond with, correct upon this, as upon many
other occasions, the impropriety of our present emotions.
The sentiment or affection of the heart from which any action proceeds,
and upon which its whole virtue or vice must ultimately depend, may be
considered under two different aspects, or in two different relations;
first, in relation to the cause which excites it, or the motive which gives
occasion to it; and secondly, in relation to the end which it proposes,
or the effect which it tends to produce.
In the suitableness or unsuitableness, in the proportion or disproportion
which the affection seems to bear to the cause or object which excites
it, consists the propriety or impropriety, the decency or ungracefulness
of the consequent action.
In the beneficial or hurtful nature of the effects which the affection
aims at, or tends to produce, consists the merit or demerit of the action,
the qualities by which it is entitled to reward, or is deserving of punishment.
Philosophers have, of late years, considered chiefly the tendency of affections,
and have given little attention to the relation which they stand in to
the cause which excites them. In common life, however, when we judge of
any person's conduct, and of the sentiments which directed it, we constantly
consider them under both these aspects. When we blame in another man the
excesses of love, of grief, of resentment, we not only consider the ruinous
effects which they tend to produce, but the little occasion which was given
for them. The merit of his favourite, we say, is not so great, his misfortune
is not so dreadful, his provocation is not so extraordinary, as to justify
so violent a passion. We should have indulged, we say; perhaps, have approved
of the violence of his emotion, had the cause been in any respect proportioned
to it.
When we judge in this manner of any affection, as proportioned or disproportioned
to the cause which excites it, it is scarce possible that we should make
use of any other rule or canon but the correspondent affection in ourselves.
If, upon bringing the case home to our own breast, we find that the sentiments
which it gives occasion to, coincide and tally with our own, we necessarily
approve of them as proportioned and suitable to their objects; if otherwise,
we necessarily disapprove of them, as extravagant and out of proportion.
Every faculty in one man is the measure by which he judges of the like
faculty in another. I judge of your sight by my sight, of your ear by my
ear, of your reason by my reason, of your resentment by my resentment,
of your love by my love. I neither have, nor can have, any other way of
judging about them. Chap. IV The same subject continued
We may judge of the propriety or impropriety of the sentiments of another
person by their correspondence or disagreement with our own, upon two different
occasions; either, first, when the objects which excite them are considered
without any peculiar relation, either to ourselves or to the person whose
sentiments we judge of; or, secondly, when they are considered as peculiarly
affecting one or other of us.
1. With regard to those objects which are considered without any peculiar
relation either to ourselves or to the person whose sentiments we judge
of; wherever his sentiments entirely correspond with our own, we ascribe
to him the qualities of taste and good judgment. The beauty of a plain,
the greatness of a mountain, the ornaments of a building, the expression
of a picture, the composition of a discourse, the conduct of a third person,
the proportions of different quantities and numbers, the various appearances
which the great machine of the universe is perpetually exhibiting, with
the secret wheels and springs which product them; all the general subjects
of science and taste, are what we and our companion regard as having no
peculiar relation to either of us. We both look at them from the same point
of view, and we have no occasion for sympathy, or for that imaginary change
of situations from which it arises, in order to produce, with regard to
these, the most perfect harmony of sentiments and affections. If, notwithstanding,
we are often differently affected, it arises either from the different
degrees of attention, which our different habits of life allow us to give
easily to the several parts of those complex objects, or from the different
degrees of natural acuteness in the faculty of the mind to which they are
addressed.
When the sentiments of our companion coincide with our own in things of
this kind, which are obvious and easy, and in which, perhaps, we never
found a single person who differed from us, though we, no doubt, must approve
of them, yet he seems to deserve no praise or admiration on account of
them. But when they not only coincide with our own, but lead and direct
our own; when in forming them he appears to have attended to many things
which we had overlooked, and to have adjusted them to all the various circumstances
of their objects; we not only approve of them, but wonder and are surprised
at their uncommon and unexpected acuteness and comprehensiveness, and he
appears to deserve a very high degree of admiration and applause. For approbation
heightened by wonder and surprise, constitutes the sentiment which is properly
called admiration, and of which applause is the natural expression. The
decision of the man who judges that exquisite beauty is preferable to the
grossest deformity, or that twice two are equal to four, must certainly
be approved of by all the world, but will not, surely, be much admired.
It is the acute and delicate discernment of the man of taste, who distinguishes
the minute, and scarce perceptible differences of beauty and deformity;
it is the comprehensive accuracy of the experienced mathematician, who
unravels, with ease, the most intricate and perplexed proportions; it is
the great leader in science and taste, the man who directs and conducts
our own sentiments, the extent and superior justness of whose talents astonish
us with wonder and surprise, who excites our admiration, and seems to deserve
our applause: and upon this foundation is grounded the greater part of
the praise which is bestowed upon what are called the intellectual virtues.
The utility of those qualities, it may be thought, is what first recommends
them to us; and, no doubt, the consideration of this, when we come to attend
to it, gives them a new value. Originally, however, we approve of another
man's judgment, not as something useful, but as right, as accurate, as
agreeable to truth and reality: and it is evident we attribute those qualities
to it for no other reason but because we find that it agrees with our own.
Taste, in the same manner, is originally approved of, not as useful, but
as just, as delicate, and as precisely suited to its object. The idea of
the utility of all qualities of this kind, is plainly an after-thought,
and not what first recommends them to our approbation.
2. With regard to those objects, which affect in a particular manner either
ourselves or the person whose sentiments we judge of, it is at once more
difficult to preserve this harmony and correspondence, and at the same
time, vastly more important. My companion does not naturally look upon
the misfortune that has befallen me, or the injury that has been done me,
from the same point of view in which I consider them. They affect me much
more nearly. We do not view them from the same station, as we do a picture,
or a poem, or a system of philosophy, and are, therefore, apt to be very
differently affected by them. But I can much more easily overlook the want
of this correspondence of sentiments with regard to such indifferent objects
as concern neither me nor my companion, than with regard to what interests
me so much as the misfortune that has befallen me, or the injury that has
been done me. Though you despise that picture, or that poem, or even that
system of philosophy, which I admire, there is little danger of our quarrelling
upon that account. Neither of us can reasonably be much interested about
them. They ought all of them to be matters of great indifference to us
both; so that, though our opinions may be opposite, our affections may
still be very nearly the same. But it is quite otherwise with regard to
those objects by which either you or I are particularly affected. Though
your judgments in matters of speculation, though your sentiments in matters
of taste, are quite opposite to mine, I can easily overlook this opposition;
and if I have any degree of temper, I may still find some entertainment
in your conversation, even upon those very subjects. But if you have either
no fellow-feeling for the misfortunes I have met with, or none that bears
any proportion to the grief which distracts me; or if you have either no
indignation at the injuries I have suffered, or none that bears any proportion
to the resentment which transports me, we can no longer converse upon these
subjects. We become intolerable to one another. I can neither support your
company, nor you mine. You are confounded at my violence and passion, and
I am enraged at your cold insensibility and want of feeling.
In all such cases, that there may be some correspondence of sentiments
between the spectator and the person principally concerned, the spectator
must, first of all, endeavour, as much as he can, to put himself in the
situation of the other, and to bring home to himself every little circumstance
of distress which can possibly occur to the sufferer. He must adopt the
whole case of his companion with all its minutest incidents; and strive
to render as perfect as possible, that imaginary change of situation upon
which his sympathy is founded.
After all this, however, the emotions of the spectator will still be very
apt to fall short of the violence of what is felt by the sufferer. Mankind,
though naturally sympathetic, never conceive, for what has befallen another,
that degree of passion which naturally animates the person principally
concerned. That imaginary change of situation, upon which their sympathy
is founded, is but momentary. The thought of their own safety, the thought
that they themselves are not really the sufferers, continually intrudes
itself upon them; and though it does not hinder them from conceiving a
passion somewhat analogous to what is felt by the sufferer, hinders them
from conceiving any thing that approaches to the same degree of violence.
The person principally concerned is sensible of this, and at the same time
passionately desires a more complete sympathy. He longs for that relief
which nothing can afford him but the entire concord of the affections of
the spectators with his own. To see the emotions of their hearts, in every
respect, beat time to his own, in the violent and disagreeable passions,
constitutes his sole consolation. But he can only hope to obtain this by
lowering his passion to that pitch, in which the spectators are capable
of going along with him. He must flatten, if I may be allowed to say so,
the sharpness of its natural tone, in order to reduce it to harmony and
concord with the emotions of those who are about him. What they feel, will,
indeed, always be, in some respects, different from what he feels, and
compassion can never be exactly the same with original sorrow; because
the secret consciousness that the change of situations, from which the
sympathetic sentiment arises, is but imaginary, not only lowers it in degree,
but, in some measure, varies it in kind, and gives it a quite different
modification. These two sentiments, however, may, it is evident, have such
a correspondence with one another, as is sufficient for the harmony of
society. Though they will never be unisons, they may be concords, and this
is all that is wanted or required.
In order to produce this concord, as nature teaches the spectators to assume
the circumstances of the person principally concerned, so she teaches this
last in some measure to assume those of the spectators. As they are continually
placing themselves in his situation, and thence conceiving emotions similar
to what he feels; so he is as constantly placing himself in theirs, and
thence conceiving some degree of that coolness about his own fortune, with
which he is sensible that they will view it. As they are constantly considering
what they themselves would feel, if they actually were the sufferers, so
he is as constantly led to imagine in what manner he would be affected
if he was only one of the spectators of his own situation. As their sympathy
makes them look at it, in some measure, with his eyes, so his sympathy
makes him look at it, in some measure, with theirs, especially when in
their presence and acting under their observation: and as the reflected
passion, which he thus conceives, is much weaker than the original one,
it necessarily abates the violence of what he felt before he came into
their presence, before he began to recollect in what manner they would
be affected by it, and to view his situation in this candid and impartial
light.
The mind, therefore, is rarely so disturbed, but that the company of a
friend will restore it to some degree of tranquillity and sedateness. The
breast is, in some measure, calmed and composed the moment we come into
his presence. We are immediately put in mind of the light in which he will
view our situation, and we begin to view it ourselves in the same light;
for the effect of sympathy is instantaneous. We expect less sympathy from
a common acquaintance than from a friend: we cannot open to the former
all those little circumstances which we can unfold to the latter: we assume,
therefore, more tranquillity before him, and endeavour to fix our thoughts
upon those general outlines of our situation which he is willing to consider.
We expect still less sympathy from an assembly of strangers, and we assume,
therefore, still more tranquillity before them, and always endeavour to
bring down our passion to that pitch, which the particular company we are
in may be expected to go along with. Nor is this only an assumed appearance:
for if we are at all masters of ourselves, the presence of a mere acquaintance
will really compose us, still more than that of a friend; and that of an
assembly of strangers still more than that of an acquaintance.
Society and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful remedies for
restoring the mind to its tranquillity, if, at any time, it has unfortunately
lost it; as well as the best preservatives of that equal and happy temper,
which is so necessary to self-satisfaction and enjoyment. Men of retirement
and speculation, who are apt to sit brooding at home over either grief
or resentment, though they may often have more humanity, more generosity,
and a nicer sense of honour, yet seldom possess that equality of temper
which is so common among men of the world. Chap. V Of the amiable and respectable
virtues
Upon these two different efforts, upon that of the spectator to enter into
the sentiments of the person principally concerned, and upon that of the
person principally concerned, to bring down his emotions to what the spectator
can go along with, are founded two different sets of virtues. The soft,
the gentle, the amiable virtues, the virtues of candid condescension and
indulgent humanity, are founded upon the one: the great, the awful and
respectable, the virtues of self-denial, of self-government, of that command
of the passions which subjects all the movements of our nature to what
our own dignity and honour, and the propriety of our own conduct require,
take their origin from the other.
How amiable does he appear to be, whose sympathetic heart seems to reecho
all the sentiments of those with whom he converses, who grieves for their
calamities, who resents their injuries, and who rejoices at their good
fortune! When we bring home to ourselves the situation of his companions,
we enter into their gratitude, and feel what consolation they must derive
from the tender sympathy of so affectionate a friend. And for a contrary
reason, how disagreeable does he appear to be, whose hard and obdurate
heart feels for himself only, but is altogether insensible to the happiness
or misery of others! We enter, in this case too, into the pain which his
presence must give to every mortal with whom he converses, to those especially
with whom we are most apt to sympathize, the unfortunate and the injured.
On the other hand, what noble propriety and grace do we feel in the conduct
of those who, in their own case, exert that recollection and self-command
which constitute the dignity of every passion, and which bring it down
to what others can enter into! We are disgusted with that clamorous grief,
which, without any delicacy, calls upon our compassion with sighs and tears
and importunate lamentations. But we reverence that reserved, that silent
and majestic sorrow, which discovers itself only in the swelling of the
eyes, in the quivering of the lips and cheeks, and in the distant, but
affecting, coldness of the whole behaviour. It imposes the like silence
upon us. We regard it with respectful attention, and watch with anxious
concern over our whole behaviour, lest by any impropriety we should disturb
that concerted tranquillity, which it requires so great an effort to support.
The insolence and brutality of anger, in the same manner, when we indulge
its fury without check or restraint, is, of all objects, the most detestable.
But we admire that noble and generous resentment which governs its pursuit
of the greatest injuries, not by the rage which they are apt to excite
in the breast of the sufferer, but by the indignation which they naturally
call forth in that of the impartial spectator; which allows no word, no
gesture, to escape it beyond what this more equitable sentiment would dictate;
which never, even in thought, attempts any greater vengeance, nor desires
to inflict any greater punishment, than what every indifferent person would
rejoice to see executed.
And hence it is, that to feel much for others and little for ourselves,
that to restrain our selfish, and to indulge our benevolent affections,
constitutes the perfection of human nature; and can alone produce among
mankind that harmony of sentiments and passions in which consists their
whole grace and propriety. As to love our neighbour as we love ourselves
is the great law of Christianity, so it is the great precept of nature
to love ourselves only as we love our neighbour, or what comes to the same
thing, as our neighbour is capable of loving us.
As taste and good judgment, when they are considered as qualities which
deserve praise and admiration, are supposed to imply a delicacy of sentiment
and an acuteness of understanding not commonly to be met with; so the virtues
of sensibility and self-command are not apprehended to consist in the ordinary,
but in the uncommon degrees of those qualities. The amiable virtue of humanity
requires, surely, a sensibility, much beyond what is possessed by the rude
vulgar of mankind. The great and exalted virtue of magnanimity undoubtedly
demands much more than that degree of self-command, which the weakest of
mortals is capable of exerting. As in the common degree of the intellectual
qualities, there is no abilities; so in the common degree of the moral,
there is no virtue. Virtue is excellence, something uncommonly great and
beautiful, which rises far above what is vulgar and ordinary. The amiable
virtues consist in that degree of sensibility which surprises by its exquisite
and unexpected delicacy and tenderness. The awful and respectable, in that
degree of self-command which astonishes by its amazing superiority over
the most ungovernable passions of human nature.
There is, in this respect, a considerable difference between virtue and
mere propriety; between those qualities and actions which deserve to be
admired and celebrated, and those which simply deserve to be approved of.
Upon many occasions, to act with the most perfect propriety, requires no
more than that common and ordinary degree of sensibility or self-command
which the most worthless of mankind are possest of, and sometimes even
that degree is not necessary. Thus, to give a very low instance, to eat
when we are hungry, is certainly, upon ordinary occasions, perfectly right
and proper, and cannot miss being approved of as such by every body. Nothing,
however, could be more absurd than to say it was virtuous.
On the contrary, there may frequently be a considerable degree of virtue
in those actions which fall short of the most perfect propriety; because
they may still approach nearer to perfection than could well be expected
upon occasions in which it was so extremely difficult to attain it: and
this is very often the case upon those occasions which require the greatest
exertions of self-command. There are some situations which bear so hard
upon human nature, that the greatest degree of self-government, which can
belong to so imperfect a creature as man, is not able to stifle, altogether,
the voice of human weakness, or reduce the violence of the passions to
that pitch of moderation, in which the impartial spectator can entirely
enter into them. Though in those cases, therefore, the behaviour of the
sufferer fall short of the most perfect propriety, it may still deserve
some applause, and even in a certain sense, may be denominated virtuous.
It may still manifest an effort of generosity and magnanimity of which
the greater part of men are incapable; and though it fails of absolute
perfection, it may be a much nearer approximation towards perfection, than
what, upon such trying occasions, is commonly either to be found or to
be expected.
In cases of this kind, when we are determining the degree of blame or applause
which seems due to any action, we very frequently make use of two different
standards. The first is the idea of complete propriety and perfection,
which, in those difficult situations, no human conduct ever did, or ever
can come, up to; and in comparison with which the actions of all men must
for ever appear blameable and imperfect. The second is the idea of that
degree of proximity or distance from this complete perfection, which the
actions of the greater part of men commonly arrive at. Whatever goes beyond
this degree, how far soever it may be removed from absolute perfection,
seems to deserve applause; and whatever falls short of it, to deserve blame.
It is in the same manner that we judge of the productions of all the arts
which address themselves to the imagination. When a critic examines the
work of any of the great masters in poetry or painting, he may sometimes
examine it by an idea of perfection, in his own mind, which neither that
nor any other human work will ever come up to; and as long as he compares
it with this standard, he can see nothing in it but faults and imperfections.
But when he comes to consider the rank which it ought to hold among other
works of the same kind, he necessarily compares it with a very different
standard, the common degree of excellence which is usually attained in
this particular art; and when he judges of it by this new measure, it may
often appear to deserve the highest applause, upon account of its approaching
much nearer to perfection than the greater part of those works which can
be brought into competition with it. Section II Of the Degrees of the different
Passions which are consistent with Propriety Introduction
The propriety of every passion excited by objects peculiarly related to
ourselves, the pitch which the spectator can go along with, must lie, it
is evident, in a certain mediocrity. If the passion is too high, or if
it is too low, he cannot enter into it. Grief and resentment for private
misfortunes and injuries may easily, for example, be too high, and in the
greater part of mankind they are so. They may likewise, though this more
rarely happens, be too low. We denominate the excess, weakness and fury:
and we call the defect stupidity, insensibility, and want of spirit. We
can enter into neither of them, but are astonished and confounded to see
them.
This mediocrity, however, in which the point of propriety consists, is
different in different passions. It is high in some, and low in others.
There are some passions which it is indecent to express very strongly,
even upon those occasions, in which it is acknowledged that we cannot avoid
feeling them in the highest degree. And there are others of which the strongest
expressions are upon many occasions extremely graceful, even though the
passions themselves do not, perhaps, arise so necessarily. The first are
those passions with which, for certain reasons, there is little or no sympathy:
the second are those with which, for other reasons, there is the greatest.
And if we consider all the different passions of human nature, we shall
find that they are regarded as decent, or indecent, just in proportion
as mankind are more or less disposed to sympathize with them. Chap. I Of
the Passions which take their origin from the body
1. It is indecent to express any strong degree of those passions which
arise from a certain situation or disposition of the body; because the
company, not being in the same disposition, cannot be expected to sympathize
with them. Violent hunger, for example, though upon many occasions not
only natural, but unavoidable, is always indecent, and to eat voraciously
is universally regarded as a piece of ill manners. There is, however, some
degree of sympathy, even with hunger. It is agreeable to see our companions
eat with a good appetite, and all expressions of loathing are offensive.
The disposition of body which is habitual to a man in health, makes his
stomach easily keep time, if I may be allowed so coarse an expression,
with the one, and not with the other. We can sympathize with the distress
it in the which excessive hunger occasions when we read the description
of journal of a siege, or of a sea voyage. We imagine ourselves in the
situation of the sufferers, and thence readily conceive the grief, the
fear and consternation, which must necessarily distract them. We feel,
ourselves, some degree of those passions, and therefore sympathize with
them: but as we do not grow hungry by reading the description, we cannot
properly, even in this case, be said to sympathize with their hunger.
It is the same case with the passion by which Nature unites the two sexes.
Though naturally the most furious of all the passions, all strong expressions
of it are upon every occasion indecent, even between persons in whom its
most complete indulgence is acknowledged by all laws, both human and divine,
to be perfectly innocent. There seems, however, to be some degree of sympathy
even with this passion. To talk to a woman as we would to a man is improper:
it is expected that their company should inspire us with more gaiety, more
pleasantry, and more attention; and an intire insensibility to the fair
sex, renders a man contemptible in some measure even to the men.
Such is our aversion for all the appetites which take their origin from
the body: all strong expressions of them are loathsome and disagreeable.
According to some ancient philosophers, these are the passions which we
share in common with the brutes, and which having no connexion with the
characteristical qualities of human nature, are upon that account beneath
its dignity. But there are many other passions which we share in common
with the brutes, such as resentment, natural affection, even gratitude,
which do not, upon that account, appear to be so brutal. The true cause
of the peculiar disgust which we conceive for the appetites of the body
when we see them in other men, is that we cannot enter into them. To the
person himself who feels them, as soon as they are gratified, the object
that excited them ceases to be agreeable: even its presence often becomes
offensive to him; he looks round to no purpose for the charm which transported
him the moment before, and he can now as little enter into his own passion
as another person. When we have dined, we order the covers to be removed;
and we should treat in the same manner the objects of the most ardent and
passionate desires, if they were the objects of no other passions but those
which take their origin from the body.
In the command of those appetites of the body consists that virtue which
is properly called temperance. To restrain them within those bounds, which
regard to health and fortune prescribes, is the part of prudence. But to
confine them within those limits, which grace, which propriety, which delicacy,
and modesty require, is the office of temperance.
2. It is for the same reason that to cry out with bodily pain, how intolerable
soever, appears always unmanly and unbecoming. There is, however, a good
deal of sympathy even with bodily pain. If, as has already been observed,
I see a stroke aimed, and just ready to fall upon the leg, or arm, of another
person, I naturally shrink and draw back my own leg, or my own arm: and
when it does fall, I feel it in some measure, and am hurt by it as well
as the sufferer. My hurt, however, is, no doubt, excessively slight, and,
upon that account, if he makes any violent out-cry, as I cannot go along
with him, I never fail to despise him. And this is the case of all the
passions which take their origin from the body: they excite either no sympathy
at all, or such a degree of it, as is altogether disproportioned to the
violence of what is felt by the sufferer.
It is quite otherwise with those passions which take their origin from
the imagination. The frame of my body can be but little affected by the
alterations which are brought about upon that of my companion: but my imagination
is more ductile, and more readily assumes, if I may say so, the shape and
configuration of the imaginations of those with whom I am familiar. A disappointment
in love, or ambition, will, upon this account, call forth more sympathy
than the greatest bodily evil. Those passions arise altogether from the
imagination. The person who has lost his whole fortune, if he is in health,
feels nothing in his body. What he suffers is from the imagination only,
which represents to him the loss of his dignity, neglect from his friends,
contempt from his enemies, dependance, want, and misery, coming fast upon
him; and we sympathize with him more strongly upon this account, because
our imaginations can more readily mould themselves upon his imagination,
than our bodies can mould themselves upon his body.
The loss of a leg may generally be regarded as a more real calamity than
the loss of a mistress. It would be a ridiculous tragedy, however, of which
the catastrophe was to turn upon a loss of that kind. A misfortune of the
other kind, how frivolous soever it may appear to be, has given occasion
to many a fine one.
Nothing is so soon forgot as pain. The moment it is gone the whole agony
of it is over, and the thought of it can no longer give us any sort of
disturbance. We ourselves cannot then enter into the anxiety and anguish
which we had before conceived. An unguarded word from a friend will occasion
a more durable uneasiness. The agony which this creates is by no means
over with the word. What at first disturbs us is not the object of the
senses, but the idea of the imagination. As it is an idea, therefore, which
occasions our uneasiness, till time and other accidents have in some measure
effaced it from our memory, the imagination continues to fret and rankle
within, from the thought of it.
Pain never calls forth any very lively sympathy unless it is accompanied
with danger. We sympathize with the fear, though not with the agony of
the sufferer. Fear, however, is a passion derived altogether from the imagination,
which represents, with an uncertainty and fluctuation that increases our
anxiety, not what we really feel, but what we may hereafter possibly suffer.
The gout or the tooth-ach, though exquisitely painful, excite very little
sympathy; more dangerous diseases, though accompanied with very little
pain, excite the highest.
Some people faint and grow sick at the sight of a chirurgical operation,
and that bodily pain which is occasioned by tearing the flesh, seems, in
them, to excite the most excessive sympathy. We conceive in a much more
lively and distinct manner the pain which proceeds from an external cause,
than we do that which arises from an internal disorder. I can scarce form
an idea of the agonies of my neighbour when he is tortured with the gout,
or the stone; but I have the clearest conception of what he must suffer
from an incision, a wound, or a fracture. The chief cause, however, why
such objects produce such violent effects upon us, is their novelty. One
who has been witness to a dozen dissections, and as many amputations, sees,
ever after, all operations of this kind with great indifference, and often
with perfect insensibility. Though we have read or seen represented more
than five hundred tragedies, we shall seldom feel so entire an abatement
of our sensibility to the objects which they represent to us.
In some of the Greek tragedies there is an attempt to excite compassion,
by the representation of the agonies of bodily pain. Philoctetes cries
out and faints from the extremity of his sufferings. Hippolytus and Hercules
are both introduced as expiring under the severest tortures, which, it
seems, even the fortitude of Hercules was incapable of supporting. In all
these cases, however, it is not the pain which interests us, but some other
circumstances. It is not the sore foot, but the solitude, of Philoctetes
which affects us, and diffuses over that charming tragedy, that romantic
wildness, which is so agreeable to the imagination. The agonies of Hercules
and Hippolytus are interesting only because we foresee that death is to
be the consequence. If those heroes were to recover, we should think the
representation of their sufferings perfectly ridiculous. What a tragedy
would that be of which the distress consisted in a colic. Yet no pain is
more exquisite. These attempts to excite compassion by the representation
of bodily pain, may be regarded as among the greatest breaches of decorum
of which the Greek theatre has set the example.
The little sympathy which we feel with bodily pain is the foundation of
the propriety of constancy and patience in enduring it. The man, who under
the severest tortures allows no weakness to escape him, vents no groan,
gives way to no passion which we do not entirely enter into, commands our
highest admiration. His firmness enables him to keep time with our indifference
and insensibility. We admire and entirely go along with the magnanimous
effort which he makes for this purpose. We approve of his behaviour, and
from our experience of the common weakness of human nature, we are surprised,
and wonder how he should be able to act so as to deserve approbation. Approbation,
mixed and animated by wonder and surprise, constitutes the sentiment which
is properly called admiration, of which, applause is the natural expression,
as has already been observed. Chap. II Of those Passions which take their
origin from a particular turn or habit of the Imagination
Even of the passions derived from the imagination, those which take their
origin from a peculiar turn or habit it has acquired, though they may be
acknowledged to be perfectly natural, are, however, but little sympathized
with. The imaginations of mankind, not having acquired that particular
turn, cannot enter into them; and such passions, though they may be allowed
to be almost unavoidable in some part of life, are always, in some measure,
ridiculous. This is the case with that strong attachment which naturally
grows up between two persons of different sexes, who have long fixed their
thoughts upon one another. Our imagination not having run in the same channel
with that of the lover, we cannot enter into the eagerness of his emotions.
If our friend has been injured, we readily sympathize with his resentment,
and grow angry with the very person with whom he is angry. If he has received
a benefit, we readily enter into his gratitude, and have a very high sense
of the merit of his benefactor. But if he is in love, though we may think
his passion just as reasonable as any of the kind, yet we never think ourselves
bound to conceive a passion of the same kind, and for the same person for
whom he has conceived it. The passion appears to every body, but the man
who feels it, entirely disproportioned to the value of the object; and
love, though it is pardoned in a certain age because we know it is natural,
is always laughed at, because we cannot enter into it. All serious and
strong expressions of it appear ridiculous to a third person; and though
a lover may be good company to his mistress, he is so to nobody else. He
himself is sensible of this; and as long as he continues in his sober senses,
endeavours to treat his own passion with raillery and ridicule. It is the
only style in which we care to hear of it; because it is the only style
in which we ourselves are disposed to talk of it. We grow weary of the
grave, pedantic, and long-sentenced love of Cowley and Petrarca, who never
have done with exaggerating the violence of their attachments; but the
gaiety of Ovid, and the gallantry of Horace, are always agreeable.
But though we feel no proper sympathy with an attachment of this kind,
though we never approach even in imagination towards conceiving a passion
for that particular person, yet as we either have conceived, or may be
disposed to conceive, passions of the same kind, we readily enter into
those high hopes of happiness which are proposed from its gratification,
as well as into that exquisite distress which is feared from its disappointment.
It interests us not as a passion, but as a situation that gives occasion
to other passions which interest us; to hope, to fear, and to distress
of every kind: in the same manner as in a description of a sea voyage,
it is not the hunger which interests us, but the distress which that hunger
occasions. Though we do not properly enter into the attachment of the lover,
we readily go along with those expectations of romantic happiness which
he derives from it. We feel how natural it is for the mind, in a certain
situation, relaxed with indolence, and fatigued with the violence of desire,
to long for serenity and quiet, to hope to find them in the gratification
of that passion which distracts it, and to frame to itself the idea of
that life of pastoral tranquillity and retirement which the elegant, the
tender, and the passionate Tibullus takes so much pleasure in describing;
a life like what the poets describe in the Fortunate Islands, a life of
friendship, liberty, and repose; free from labour, and from care, and from
all the turbulent passions which attend them. Even scenes of this kind
interest us most, when they are painted rather as what is hoped, than as
what is enjoyed. The grossness of that passion, which mixes with, and is,
perhaps, the foundation of love, disappears when its gratification is far
off and at a distance; but renders the whole offensive, when described
as what is immediately possessed. The happy passion, upon this account,
interests us much less than the fearful and the melancholy. We tremble
for whatever can disappoint such natural and agreeable hopes: and thus
enter into all the anxiety, and concern, and distress of the lover.
Hence it is, that, in some modern tragedies and romances, this passion
appears so wonderfully interesting. It is not so much the love of Castalio
and Monimia which attaches us in the Orphan, as the distress which that
love occasions. The author who should introduce two lovers, in a scene
of perfect security, expressing their mutual fondness for one another,
would excite laughter, and not sympathy. If a scene of this kind is ever
admitted into a tragedy, it is always, in some measure, improper, and is
endured, not from any sympathy with the passion that is expressed in it,
but from concern for the dangers and difficulties with which the audience
foresee that its gratification is likely to be attended.
The reserve which the laws of society impose upon the fair sex, with regard
to this weakness, renders it more peculiarly distressful in them, and,
upon that very account, more deeply interesting. We are charmed with the
love of Phaedra, as it is expressed in the French tragedy of that name,
notwithstanding all the extravagance and guilt which attend it. That very
extravagance and guilt may be said, in some measure, to recommend it to
us. Her fear, her shame, her remorse, her horror, her despair, become thereby
more natural and interesting. All the secondary passions, if I may be allowed
to call them so, which arise from the situation of love, become necessarily
more furious and violent; and it is with these secondary passions only
that we can properly be said to sympathize.
Of all the passions, however, which are so extravagantly disproportioned
to the value of their objects, love is the only one that appears, even
to the weakest minds, to have any thing in it that is either graceful or
agreeable. In itself, first of all, though it may be ridiculous, it is
not naturally odious; and though its consequences are often fatal and dreadful,
its intentions are seldom mischievous. And then, though there is little
propriety in the passion itself, there is a good deal in some of those
which always accompany it. There is in love a strong mixture of humanity,
generosity, kindness, friendship, esteem; passions with which, of all others,
for reasons which shall be explained immediately, we have the greatest
propensity to sympathize, even notwithstanding we are sensible that they
are, in some measure, excessive. The sympathy which we feel with them,
renders the passion which they accompany less disagreeable, and supports
it in our imagination, notwithstanding all the vices which commonly go
along with it; though in the one sex it necessarily leads to the last ruin
and infamy; and though in the other, where it is apprehended to be least
fatal, it is almost always attended with an incapacity for labour, a neglect
of duty, a contempt of fame, and even of common reputation. Notwithstanding
all this, the degree of sensibility and generosity with which it is supposed
to be accompanied, renders it to many the object of vanity. and they are
fond of appearing capable of feeling what would do them no honour if they
had really felt it.
It is for a reason of the same kind, that a certain reserve is necessary
when we talk of our own friends, our own studies, our own professions.
All these are objects which we cannot expect should interest our companions
in the same degree in which they interest us. And it is for want of this
reserve, that the one half of mankind make bad company to the other. A
philosopher is company to a philosopher, only. the member of a club, to
his own little knot of companions. Chap. III Of the unsocial Passions
There is another set of passions, which, though derived from the imagination,
yet before we can enter into them, or regard them as graceful or becoming,
must always be brought down to a pitch much lower than that to which undisciplined
nature would raise them. These are, hatred and resentment, with all their
different modifications. With regard to all such passions, our sympathy
is divided between the person who feels them, and the person who is the
object of them. The interests of these two are directly opposite. What
our sympathy with the person who feels them would prompt us to wish for,
our fellow-feeling with the other would lead us to fear. As they are both
men, we are concerned for both, and our fear for what the one may suffer,
damps our resentment for what the other has suffered. Our sympathy, therefore,
with the man who has received the provocation, necessarily falls short
of the passion which naturally animates him, not only upon account of those
general causes which render all sympathetic passions inferior to the original
ones, but upon account of that particular cause which is peculiar to itself,
our opposite sympathy with another person. Before resentment, therefore,
can become graceful and agreeable, it must be more humbled and brought
down below that pitch to which it would naturally rise, than almost any
other passion.
Mankind, at the same time, have a very strong sense of the injuries that
are done to another. The villain, in a tragedy or romance, is as much the
object of our indignation, as the hero is that of our sympathy and affection.
We detest Iago as much as we esteem Othello; and delight as much in the
punishment of the one, as we are grieved at the distress of the other.
But though mankind have so strong a fellow-feeling with the injuries that
are done to their brethren, they do not always resent them the more that
the sufferer appears to resent them. Upon most occasions, the greater his
patience, his mildness, his humanity, provided it does not appear that
he wants spirit, or that fear was the motive of his forbearance, the higher
their resentment against the person who injured him. The amiableness of
the character exasperates their sense of the atrocity of the injury.
Those passions, however, are regarded as necessary parts of the character
of human nature. A person becomes contemptible who tamely sits still, and
submits to insults, without attempting either to repel or to revenge them.
We cannot enter into his indifference and insensibility. we call his behaviour
mean-spiritedness, and are as really provoked by it as by the insolence
of his adversary. Even the mob are enraged to see any man submit patiently
to affronts and ill usage. They desire to see this insolence resented,
and resented by the person who suffers from it. They cry to him with fury,
to defend, or to revenge himself. If his indignation rouses at last, they
heartily applaud, and sympathize with it. It enlivens their own indignation
against his enemy, whom they rejoice to see him attack in his turn, and
are as really gratified by his revenge, provided it is not immoderate,
as if the injury had been done to themselves.
But though the utility of those passions to the individual, by rendering
it dangerous to insult or injure him, be acknowledged; and though their
utility to the public, as the guardians of justice, and of the equality
of its administration, be not less considerable, as shall be shewn hereafter;
yet there is still something disagreeable in the passions themselves, which
makes the appearance of them in other men the natural object of our aversion.
The expression of anger towards any body present, if it exceeds a bare
intimation that we are sensible of his ill usage, is regarded not only
as an insult to that particular person, but as a rudeness to the whole
company. Respect for them ought to have restrained us from giving way to
so boisterous and offensive an emotion. It is the remote effects of these
passions which are agreeable; the immediate effects are mischief to the
person against whom they are directed. But it is the immediate, and not
the remote effects of objects which render them agreeable or disagreeable
to the imagination. A prison is certainly more useful to the public than
a palace; and the person who founds the one is generally directed by a
much juster spirit of patriotism, than he who builds the other. But the
immediate effects of a prison, the confinement of the wretches shut up
in it, are disagreeable; and the imagination either does not take time
to trace out the remote ones, or sees them at too great a distance to be
much affected by them. A prison, therefore, will always be a disagreeable
object; and the fitter it is for the purpose for which it was intended,
it will be the more so. A palace, on the contrary, will always be agreeable;
yet its remote effects may often be inconvenient to the public. It may
serve to promote luxury, and set the example of the dissolution of manners.
Its immediate effects, however, the conveniency, the pleasure, and the
gaiety of the people who live in it, being all agreeable, and suggesting
to the imagination a thousand agreeable ideas, that faculty generally rests
upon them, and seldom goes further in tracing its more distant consequences.
Trophies of the instruments of music or of agriculture, imitated in painting
or in stucco, make a common and an agreeable ornament of our halls and
dining-rooms. A trophy of the same kind, composed of the instruments of
surgery, of dissecting and amputation-knives, of saws for cutting the bones,
of trepanning instruments, etc. would be absurd and shocking. Instruments
of surgery, however, are always more finely polished, and generally more
nicely adapted to the purposes for which they are intended, than instruments
of agriculture. The remote effects of them too, the health of the patient,
is agreeable; yet as the immediate effect of them is pain and suffering,
the sight of them always displeases us. Instruments of war are agreeable,
though their immediate effect may seem to be in the same manner pain and
suffering. But then it is the pain and suffering of our enemies, with whom
we have no sympathy. With regard to us, they are immediately connected
with the agreeable ideas of courage, victory, and honour. They are themselves,
therefore, supposed to make one of the noblest parts of dress, and the
imitation of them one of the finest ornaments of architecture. It is the
same case with the qualities of the mind. The ancient stoics were of opinion,
that as the world was governed by the all-ruling providence of a wise,
powerful, and good God, every single event ought to be regarded, as making
a necessary part of the plan of the universe, and as tending to promote
the general order and happiness of the whole: that the vices and follies
of mankind, therefore, made as necessary a part of this plan as their wisdom
or their virtue; and by that eternal art which educes good from ill, were
made to tend equally to the prosperity and perfection of the great system
of nature. No speculation of this kind, however, how deeply soever it might
be rooted in the mind, could diminish our natural abhorrence for vice,
whose immediate effects are so destructive, and whose remote ones are too
distant to be traced by the imagination.
It is the same case with those passions we have been just now considering.
Their immediate effects are so disagreeable, that even when they are most
justly provoked, there is still something about them which disgusts us.
These, therefore, are the only passions of which the expressions, as I
formerly observed, do not dispose and prepare us to sympathize with them,
before we are informed of the cause which excites them. The plaintive voice
of misery, when heard at a distance, will not allow us to be indifferent
about the person from whom it comes. As soon as it strikes our ear, it
interests us in his fortune, and, if continued, forces us almost involuntarily
to fly to his assistance. The sight of a smiling countenance, in the same
manner, elevates even the pensive into that gay and airy mood, which disposes
him to sympathize with, and share the joy which it expresses; and he feels
his heart, which with thought and care was before that shrunk and depressed,
instantly expanded and elated. But it is quite otherwise with the expressions
of hatred and resentment. The hoarse, boisterous, and discordant voice
of anger, when heard at a distance, inspires us either with fear or aversion.
We do not fly towards it, as to one who cries out with pain and agony.
Women, and men of weak nerves, tremble and are overcome with fear, though
sensible that themselves are not the objects of the anger. They conceive
fear, however, by putting themselves in the situation of the person who
is so. Even those of stouter hearts are disturbed; not indeed enough to
make them afraid, but enough to make them angry; for anger is the passion
which they would feel in the situation of the other person. It is the same
case with hatred. Mere expressions of spite inspire it against nobody,
but the man who uses them. Both these passions are by nature the objects
of our aversion. Their disagreeable and boisterous appearance never excites,
never prepares, and often disturbs our sympathy. Grief does not more powerfully
engage and attract us to the person in whom we observe it, than these,
while we are ignorant of their cause, disgust and detach us from him. It
was, it seems, the intention of Nature, that those rougher and more unamiable
emotions, which drive men from one another, should be less easily and more
rarely communicated.
When music imitates the modulations of grief or joy, it either actually
inspires us with those passions, or at least puts us in the mood which
disposes us to conceive them. But when it imitates the notes of anger,
it inspires us with fear. Joy, grief, love, admiration, devotion, are all
of them passions which are naturally musical. Their natural tones are all
soft, clear, and melodious; and they naturally express themselves in periods
which are distinguished by regular pauses, and which upon that account
are easily adapted to the regular returns of the correspondent airs of
a tune. The voice of anger, on the contrary, and of all the passions which
are akin to it, is harsh and discordant. Its periods too are all irregular,
sometimes very long, and sometimes very short, and distinguished by no
regular pauses. It is with difficulty, therefore, that music can imitate
any of those passions; and the music which does imitate them is not the
most agreeable. A whole entertainment may consist, without any impropriety,
of the imitation of the social and agreeable passions. It would be a strange
entertainment which consisted altogether of the imitations of hatred and
resentment.
If those passions are disagreeable to the spectator, they are not less
so to the person who feels them. Hatred and anger are the greatest poison
to the happiness of a good mind. There is, in the very feeling of those
passions, something harsh, jarring, and convulsive, something that tears
and distracts the breast, and is altogether destructive of that composure
and tranquillity of mind which is so necessary to happiness, and which
is best promoted by the contrary passions of gratitude and love. It is
not the value of what they lose by the perfidy and ingratitude of those
they live with, which the generous and humane are most apt to regret. Whatever
they may have lost, they can generally be very happy without it. What most
disturbs them is the idea of perfidy and ingratitude exercised towards
themselves; and the discordant and disagreeable passions which this excites,
constitute, in their own opinion, the chief part of the injury which they
suffer.
How many things are requisite to render the gratification of resentment
completely agreeable, and to make the spectator thoroughly sympathize with
our revenge? The provocation must first of all be such that we should become
contemptible, and be exposed to perpetual insults, if we did not, in some
measure, resent it. Smaller offences are always better neglected; nor is
there any thing more despicable than that froward and captious humour which
takes fire upon every slight occasion of quarrel. We should resent more
from a sense of the propriety of resentment, from a sense that mankind
expect and require it of us, than because we feel in ourselves the furies
of that disagreeable passion. There is no passion, of which the human mind
is capable, concerning whose justness we ought to be so doubtful, concerning
whose indulgence we ought so carefully to consult our natural sense of
propriety, or so diligently to consider what will be the sentiments of
the cool and impartial spectator. Magnanimity, or a regard to maintain
our own rank and dignity in society, is the only motive which can ennoble
the expressions of this disagreeable passion. This motive must characterize
our whole stile and deportment. These must be plain, open, and direct;
determined without positiveness, and elevated without insolence; not only
free from petulance and low scurrility, but generous, candid, and full
of all proper regards, even for the person who has offended us. It must
appear, in short, from our whole manner, without our labouring affectedly
to express it, that passion has not extinguished our humanity; and that
if we yield to the dictates of revenge, it is with reluctance, from necessity,
and in consequence of great and repeated provocations. When resentment
is guarded and qualified in this manner, it may be admitted to be even
generous and noble. Chap. IV Of the social Passions
As it is a divided sympathy which renders the whole set of passions just
now mentioned, upon most occasions, so ungraceful and disagreeable; so
there is another set opposite to these, which a redoubled sympathy renders
almost always peculiarly agreeable and becoming. Generosity, humanity,
kindness, compassion, mutual friendship and esteem, all the social and
benevolent affections, when expressed in the countenance or behaviour,
even towards those who are not peculiarly connected with ourselves, please
the indifferent spectator upon almost every occasion. His sympathy with
the person who feels those passions, exactly coincides with his concern
for the person who is the object of them. The interest, which, as a man,
he is obliged to take in the happiness of this last, enlivens his fellow-feeling
with the sentiments of the other, whose emotions are employed about the
same object. We have always, therefore, the strongest disposition to sympathize
with the benevolent affections. They appear in every respect agreeable
to us. We enter into the satisfaction both of the person who feels them,
and of the person who is the object of them. For as to be the object of
hatred and indignation gives more pain than all the evil which a brave
man can fear from his enemies; so there is a satisfaction in the consciousness
of being beloved, which, to a person of delicacy and sensibility, is of
more importance to happiness, than all the advantage which he can expect
to derive from it. What character is so detestable as that of one who takes
pleasure to sow dissension among friends, and to turn their most tender
love into mortal hatred? Yet wherein does the atrocity of this so much
abhorred injury consist? Is it in depriving them of the frivolous good
offices, which, had their friendship continued, they might have expected
from one another? It is in depriving them of that friendship itself, in
robbing them of each other's affections, from which both derived so much
satisfaction; it is in disturbing the harmony of their hearts, and putting
an end to that happy commerce which had before subsisted between them.
These affections, that harmony, this commerce, are felt, not only by the
tender and the delicate, but by the rudest vulgar of mankind, to be of
more importance to happiness than all the little services which could be
expected to flow from them.
The sentiment of love is, in itself, agreeable to the person who feels
it. It sooths and composes the breast, seems to favour the vital motions,
and to promote the healthful state of the human constitution; and it is
rendered still more delightful by the consciousness of the gratitude and
satisfaction which it must excite in him who is the object of it. Their
mutual regard renders them happy in one another, and sympathy, with this
mutual regard, makes them agreeable to every other person. With what pleasure
do we look upon a family, through the whole of which reign mutual love
and esteem, where the parents and children are companions for one another,
without any other difference than what is made by respectful affection
on the one side, and kind indulgence on the other. where freedom and fondness,
mutual raillery and mutual kindness, show that no opposition of interest
divides the brothers, nor any rivalship of favour sets the sisters at variance,
and where every thing presents us with the idea of peace, cheerfulness,
harmony, and contentment? On the contrary, how uneasy are we made when
we go into a house in which jarring contention sets one half of those who
dwell in it against the other; where amidst affected smoothness and complaisance,
suspicious looks and sudden starts of passion betray the mutual jealousies
which burn within them, and which are every moment ready to burst out through
all the restraints which the presence of the company imposes?
Those amiable passions, even when they are acknowledged to be excessive,
are never regarded with aversion. There is something agreeable even in
the weakness of friendship and humanity. The too tender mother, the too
indulgent father, the too generous and affectionate friend, may sometimes,
perhaps, on account of the softness of their natures, be looked upon with
a species of pity, in which, however, there is a mixture of love, but can
never be regarded with hatred and aversion, nor even with contempt, unless
by the most brutal and worthless of mankind. It is always with concern,
with sympathy and kindness, that we blame them for the extravagance of
their attachment. There is a helplessness in the character of extreme humanity
which more than any thing interests our pity. There is nothing in itself
which renders it either ungraceful or disagreeable. We only regret that
it is unfit for the world, because the world is unworthy of it, and because
it must expose the person who is endowed with it as a prey to the perfidy
and ingratitude of insinuating falsehood, and to a thousand pains and uneasinesses,
which, of all men, he the least deserves to feel, and which generally too
he is, of all men, the least capable of supporting. It is quite otherwise
with hatred and resentment. Too violent a propensity to those detestable
passions, renders a person the object of universal dread and abhorrence,
who, like a wild beast, ought, we think, to be hunted out of all civil
society. Chap. V Of the selfish Passions
Besides those two opposite sets of passions, the social and unsocial, there
is another which holds a sort of middle place between them; is never either
so graceful as is sometimes the one set, nor is ever so odious as is sometimes
the other. Grief and joy, when conceived upon account of our own private
good or bad fortune, constitute this third set of passions. Even when excessive,
they are never so disagreeable as excessive resentment, because no opposite
sympathy can ever interest us against them: and when most suitable to their
objects, they are never so agreeable as impartial humanity and just benevolence;
because no double sympathy can ever interest us for them. There is, however,
this difference between grief and joy, that we are generally most disposed
to sympathize with small joys and great sorrows. The man who, by some sudden
revolution of fortune, is lifted up all at once into a condition of life,
greatly above what he had formerly lived in, may be assured that the congratulations
of his best friends are not all of them perfectly sincere. An upstart,
though of the greatest merit, is generally disagreeable, and a sentiment
of envy commonly prevents us from heartily sympathizing with his joy. If
he has any judgment, he is sensible of this, and instead of appearing to
be elated with his good fortune, he endeavours, as much as he can, to smother
his joy, and keep down that elevation of mind with which his new circumstances
naturally inspire him. He affects the same plainness of dress, and the
same modesty of behaviour, which became him in his former station. He redoubles
his attention to his old friends, and endeavours more than ever to be humble,
assiduous, and complaisant. And this is the behaviour which in his situation
we most approve of; because we expect, it seems, that he should have more
sympathy with our envy and aversion to his happiness, than we have with
his happiness. It is seldom that with all this he succeeds. We suspect
the sincerity of his humility, and he grows weary of this constraint. In
a little time, therefore, he generally leaves all his old friends behind
him, some of the meanest of them excepted, who may, perhaps, condescend
to become his dependents: nor does he always acquire any new ones; the
pride of his new connections is as much affronted at finding him their
equal, as that of his old ones had been by his becoming their superior:
and it requires the most obstinate and persevering modesty to atone for
this mortification to either. He generally grows weary too soon, and is
provoked, by the sullen and suspicious pride of the one, and by the saucy
contempt of the other, to treat the first with neglect, and the second
with petulance, till at last he grows habitually insolent, and forfeits
the esteem of all. If the chief part of human happiness arises from the
consciousness of being beloved, as I believe it does, those sudden changes
of fortune seldom contribute much to happiness. He is happiest who advances
more gradually to greatness, whom the public destines to every step of
his preferment long before he arrives at it, in whom, upon that account,
when it comes, it can excite no extravagant joy, and with regard to whom
it cannot reasonably create either any jealousy in those he overtakes,
or any envy in those he leaves behind.
Mankind, however, more readily sympathize with those smaller joys which
flow from less important causes. It is decent to be humble amidst great
prosperity; but we can scarce express too much satisfaction in all the
little occurrences of common life, in the company with which we spent the
evening last night, in the entertainment that was set before us, in what
was said and what was done, in all the little incidents of the present
conversation, and in all those frivolous nothings which fill up the void
of human life. Nothing is more graceful than habitual cheerfulness, which
is always founded upon a peculiar relish for all the little pleasures which
common occurrences afford. We readily sympathize with it: it inspires us
with the same joy, and makes every trifle turn up to us in the same agreeable
aspect in which it presents itself to the person endowed with this happy
disposition. Hence it is that youth, the season of gaiety, so easily engages
our affections. That propensity to joy which seems even to animate the
bloom, and to sparkle from the eyes of youth and beauty, though in a person
of the same sex, exalts, even the aged, to a more joyous mood than ordinary.
They forget, for a time, their infirmities, and abandon themselves to those
agreeable ideas and emotions to which they have long been strangers, but
which, when the presence of so much happiness recalls them to their breast,
take their place there, like old acquaintance, from whom they are sorry
to have ever been parted, and whom they embrace more heartily upon account
of this long separation.
It is quite otherwise with grief. Small vexations excite no sympathy, but
deep affliction calls forth the greatest. The man who is made uneasy by
every little disagreeable incident, who is hurt if either the cook or the
butler have failed in the least article of their duty, who feels every
defect in the highest ceremonial of politeness, whether it be shewn to
himself or to any other person, who takes it amiss that his intimate friend
did not bid him good-morrow when they met in the forenoon, and that his
brother hummed a tune all the time he himself was telling a story; who
is put out of humour by the badness of the weather when in the country,
by the badness of the roads when upon a journey, and by the want of company,
and dulness of all public diversions when in town; such a person, I say,
though he should have some reason, will seldom meet with much sympathy.
Joy is a pleasant emotion, and we gladly abandon ourselves to it upon the
slightest occasion. We readily, therefore, sympathize with it in others,
whenever we are not prejudiced by envy. But grief is painful, and the mind,
even when it is our own misfortune, naturally resists and recoils from
it. We would endeavour either not to conceive it at all, or to shake it
off as soon as we have conceived it. Our aversion to grief will not, indeed,
always hinder us from conceiving it in our own case upon very trifling
occasions, but it constantly prevents us from sympathizing with it in others
when excited by the like frivolous causes: for our sympathetic passions
are always less irresistible than our original ones. There is, besides,
a malice in mankind, which not only prevents all sympathy with little uneasinesses,
but renders them in some measure diverting. Hence the delight which we
all take in raillery, and in the small vexation which we observe in our
companion, when he is pushed, and urged, and teased upon all sides. Men
of the most ordinary good-breeding dissemble the pain which any little
incident may give them; and those who are more thoroughly formed to society,
turn, of their own accord, all such incidents into raillery, as they know
their companions will do for them. The habit which a man, who lives in
the world, has acquired of considering how every thing that concerns himself
will appear to others, makes those frivolous calamities turn up in the
same ridiculous light to him, in which he knows they will certainly be
considered by them.
Our sympathy, on the contrary, with deep distress, is very strong and very
sincere. It is unnecessary to give an instance. We weep even at the feigned
representation of a tragedy. If you labour, therefore, under any signal
calamity, if by some extraordinary misfortune you are fallen into poverty,
into diseases, into disgrace and disappointment; even though your own fault
may have been, in part, the occasion, yet you may generally depend upon
the sincerest sympathy of all your friends, and, as far as interest and
honour will permit, upon their kindest assistance too. But if your misfortune
is not of this dreadful kind, if you have only been a little baulked in
your ambition, if you have only been jilted by your mistress, or are only
hen-pecked by your wife, lay your account with the raillery of all your
acquaintance. Section III Of the Effects of Prosperity and Adversity upon
the Judgment of Mankind with regard to the Propriety of Action; and why
it is more easy to obtain their Aprobation in the one state than in the
other Chap. I That though our sympathy with sorrow is generally a more
lively sensation than our sympathy with joy, it commonly falls much more
short of the violence of what is naturally felt by the person principally
concerned
Our sympathy with sorrow, though not more real, has been more taken notice
of than our sympathy with joy. The word sympathy, in its most proper and
primitive signification, denotes our fellow-feeling with the sufferings,
not that with the enjoyments, of others. A late ingenious and subtile philosopher
thought it necessary to prove, by arguments, that we had a real sympathy
with joy, and that congratulation was a principle of human nature. Nobody,
I believe, ever thought it necessary to prove that compassion was such.
First of all, our sympathy with sorrow is, in some sense, more universal
than that with joy. Though sorrow is excessive, we may still have some
fellow-feeling with it. What we feel does not, indeed, in this case, amount
to that complete sympathy, to that perfect harmony and correspondence of
sentiments which constitutes approbation. We do not weep, and exclaim,
and lament, with the sufferer. We are sensible, on the contrary, of his
weak ness and of the extravagance of his passion, and yet often feel a
very sensible concern upon his account. But if we do not entirely enter
into, and go along with, the joy of another, we have no sort of regard
or fellow-feeling for it. The man who skips and dances about with that
intemperate and senseless joy which we cannot accompany him in, is the
object of our contempt and indignation.
Pain besides, whether of mind or body, is a more pungent sensation than
pleasure, and our sympathy with pain, though it falls greatly short of
what is naturally felt by the sufferer, is generally a more lively and
distinct perception than our sympathy with pleasure, though this last often
approaches more nearly, as I shall shew immediately, to the natural vivacity
of the original passion.
Over and above all this, we often struggle to keep down our sympathy with
the sorrow of others. Whenever we are not under the observation of the
sufferer, we endeavour, for our own sake, to suppress it as much as we
can, and we are not always successful. The opposition which we make to
it, and the reluctance with which we yield to it, necessarily oblige us
to take more particular notice of it. But we never have occasion to make
this opposition to our sympathy with joy. If there is any envy in the case,
we never feel the least propensity towards it; and if there is none, we
give way to it without any reluctance. On the contrary, as we are always
ashamed of our own envy, we often pretend, and sometimes really wish to
sympathize with the joy of others, when by that disagreeable sentiment
we are disqualified from doing so. We are glad, we say on account of our
neighbour's good fortune, when in our hearts, perhaps, we are really sorry.
We often feel a sympathy with sorrow when we would wish to be rid of it;
and we often miss that with joy when we would be glad to have it. The obvious
observation, therefore, which it naturally falls in our way to make, is,
that our propensity to sympathize with sorrow must be very strong, and
our inclination to sympathize with joy very weak.
Notwithstanding this prejudice, however, I will venture to affirm, that,
when there is no envy in the case, our propensity to sympathize with joy
is much stronger than our propensity to sympathize with sorrow; and that
our fellow-feeling for the agreeable emotion approaches much more nearly
to the vivacity of what is naturally felt by the persons principally concerned,
than that which we conceive for the painful one.
We have some indulgence for that excessive grief which we cannot entirely
go along with. We know what a prodigious effort is requisite before the
sufferer can bring down his emotions. to complete harmony and concord with
those of the spectator. Though he fails, therefore, we easily pardon him.
But we have no such indulgence for the intemperance of joy; because we
are not conscious that any such vast effort is requisite to bring it down
to what we can entirely enter into. The man who, under the greatest calamities,
can command his sorrow, seems worthy of the highest admiration; but he
who, in the fulness of prosperity, can in the same manner master his joy,
seems hardly to deserve any praise. We are sensible that there is a much
wider interval in the one case than in the other, between what is naturally
felt by the person principally concerned, and what the spectator can entirely
go along with.
What can he added to the happiness of the man who is in health, who is
out of debt, and has a clear conscience? To one in this situation, all
accessions of fortune may properly be said to be superfluous; and if he
is much elevated upon account of them, it must be the effect of the most
frivolous levity. This situation, however, may very well be called the
natural and ordinary state of mankind. Notwithstanding the present misery
and depravity of the world, so justly lamented, this really is the state
of the greater part of men. The greater part of men, therefore, cannot
find any great difficulty in elevating themselves to all the joy which
any accession to this situation can well excite in their companion.
But though little can be added to this state, much may be taken from it.
Though between this condition and the highest pitch of human prosperity,
the interval is but a trifle; between it and the lowest depth of misery
the distance is immense and prodigious. Adversity, on this account, necessarily
depresses the mind of the sufferer much more below its natural state, than
prosperity can elevate him above it. The spectator therefore, must find
it much more difficult to sympathize entirely, and keep perfect time, with
his sorrow, than thoroughly to enter into his joy, and must depart much
further from his own natural and ordinary temper of mind in the one case
than in the other. It is on this account, that though our sympathy with
sorrow is often a more pungent sensation than our sympathy with joy, it
always falls much more short of the violence of what is naturally felt
by the person principally concerned.
It is agreeable to sympathize with, joy; and wherever envy does not oppose
it, our heart abandons itself with satisfaction to the highest transports
of that delightful sentiment. But it is painful to go along with grief,
and we always enter into it with reluctance.(*) When we attend to the representation
of a tragedy, we struggle against that sympathetic sorrow which the entertainment
inspires as long as we can, and we give way to it at last only when we
can no longer avoid it: we even then endeavour to cover our concern from
the company. If we shed any tears, we carefully conceal them, and are afraid,
lest the spectators, not entering into this excessive tenderness, should
regard it as effeminacy and weakness. The wretch whose misfortunes call
upon our compassion feels with what reluctance we are likely to enter into
his sorrow, and therefore proposes his grief to us with fear and hesitation:
he even smothers the half of it, and is ashamed, upon account of this hard-heartedness
of mankind, to give vent to the fulness of his affliction. It is otherwise
with the man who riots in joy and success. Wherever envy does not interest
us against him, he expects our completest sympathy. He does not fear, therefore,
to announce himself with shouts of exultation, in full confidence that
we are heartily disposed to go along with him.
Why should we be more ashamed to weep than to laugh before company? We
may often have as real occasion to do the one as to do the other. but we
always feel that the spectators are more likely to go along with us in
the agreeable, than in the painful emotion. It is always miserable to complain,
even when we are oppressed by the most dreadful calamities. But the triumph
of victory is not always ungraceful. Prudence, indeed, would often advise
us to bear our prosperity with more moderation; because prudence would
teach us to avoid that envy which this very triumph is, more than any thing,
apt to excite.
How hearty are the acclamations of the mob, who never bear any envy to
their superiors, at a triumph or a public entry? And how sedate and moderate
is commonly their grief at an execution? Our sorrow at a funeral generally
amounts to no more than an affected gravity. but our mirth at a christening
or a marriage, is always from the heart, and without any affectation. Upon
these, and all such joyous occasions, our satisfaction, though not so durable,
is often as lively as that of the persons principally concerned. Whenever
we cordially congratulate our friends, which, however, to the disgrace
of human nature, we do but seldom, their joy literally becomes our joy.
we are, for the moment, as happy as they are: our heart swells and overflows
with real pleasure: joy and complacency sparkle from our eyes, and animate
every feature of our countenance, and every gesture of our body.
But, on the contrary, when we condole with our friends in their afflictions,
how little do we feel, in comparison of what they feel? We sit down by
them, we look at them, and while they relate to us the circumstances of
their misfortune, we listen to them with gravity and attention. But while
their narration is every moment interrupted by those natural bursts of
passion which often seem almost to choak them in the midst of it; how far
are the languid emotions of our hearts from keeping time to the transports
of theirs? We may be sensible, at the same time, that their passion is
natural, and no greater than what we ourselves might feel upon the like
occasion. We may even inwardly reproach ourselves with our own want of
sensibility, and perhaps, on that account, work ourselves up into an artificial
sympathy, which, however, when it is raised, is always the slightest and
most transitory imaginable; and generally, as soon as we have left the
room, vanishes, and is gone for ever. Nature, it seems, when she loaded
us with our own sorrows, thought that they were enough, and therefore did
not command us to take any further share in those of others, than what
was necessary to prompt us to relieve them.
It is on account of this dull sensibility to the afflictions of others,
that magnanimity amidst great distress appears always so divinely graceful.
His behaviour is genteel and agreeable who can maintain his cheerfulness
amidst a number of frivolous disasters. But he appears to be more than
mortal who can support in the same manner the most dreadful calamities.
We feel what an immense effort is requisite to silence those violent emotions
which naturally agitate and distract those in his situation. We are amazed
to find that he can command himself so entirely. His firmness, at the same
time, perfectly coincides with our insensibility. He makes no demand upon
us for that more exquisite degree of sensibility which we find, and which
we are mortified to find, that we do not possess. There is the most perfect
correspondence between his sentiments and ours, and on that account the
most perfect propriety in his behaviour. It is a propriety too, which,
from our experience of the usual weakness of human nature, we could not
reasonably have expected he should be able to maintain. We wonder with
surprise and astonishment at that strength of mind which is capable of
so noble and generous an effort. The sentiment of complete sympathy and
approbation, mixed and animated with wonder and surprise, constitutes what
is properly called admiration, as has already been more than once taken
notice of Cato, surrounded on all sides by his enemies, unable to resist
them, disdaining to submit to them, and reduced, by the proud maxims of
that age, to the necessity of destroying himself; yet never shrinking from
his misfortunes, never supplicating with the lamentable voice of wretchedness,
those miserable sympathetic tears which we are always so unwilling to give;
but on the contrary, arming himself with manly fortitude, and the moment
before he executes his fatal resolution, giving, with his usual tranquillity,
all necessary orders for the safety of his friends; appears to Seneca,
that great preacher of insensibility, a spectacle which even the gods themselves
might behold with pleasure and admiration.
Whenever we meet, in common life, with any examples of such heroic magnanimity,
we are always extremely affected. We are more apt to weep and shed tears
for such as, in this manner, seem to feel nothing for them. and in selves,
than for those who give way to all the weakness of sorrow: this particular
case, the sympathetic grief of the spectator appears to go beyond the original
passion in the person principally concerned. The friends of Socrates all
wept when he drank the last potion, while he himself expressed the gayest
and most cheerful tranquillity. Upon all such occasions the spectator makes
no effort, and has no occasion to make any, in order to conquer his sympathetic
sorrow. He is under no fear that it will transport him to any thing that
is extravagant and improper; he is rather pleased with the sensibility
of his own heart, and gives way to it with complacence and self-approbation.
He gladly indulges, therefore, the most melancholy views which can naturally
occur to him, concerning the calamity of his friend, for whom, perhaps,
he never felt so exquisitely before, the tender and tearful passion of
love. But it is quite otherwise with the person principally concerned.
He is obliged, as much as possible, to turn away his eyes from whatever
is either naturally terrible or disagreeable in his situation. Too serious
an attention to those circumstances, he fears, might make so violent an
impression upon him, that he could no longer keep within the bounds of
moderation, or render himself the object of the complete sympathy and approbation
of the spectators. He fixes his thoughts, therefore, upon those only which
are agreeable, the applause and admiration which he is about to deserve
by the heroic magnanimity of his behaviour. To feel that he is capable
of so noble and generous an effort, to feel that in this dreadful situation
he can still act as he would desire to act, animates and transports him
with joy, and enables him to support that triumphant gaiety which seems
to exult in the victory he thus gains over his misfortunes.
On the contrary, he always appears, in some measure, mean and despicable,
who is sunk in sorrow and dejection upon account of any calamity of his
own. We cannot bring ourselves to feel for him what he feels for himself,
and what, perhaps, we should feel for ourselves if in his situation: we,
therefore, despise him; unjustly, perhaps, if any sentiment could be regarded
as unjust, to which we are by nature irresistibly determined. The weakness
of sorrow never appears in any respect agreeable, except when it arises
from what we feel for others more than from what we feel for ourselves.
A son, upon the death of an indulgent and respectable father, may give
way to it without much blame. His sorrow is chiefly founded upon a sort
of sympathy with his departed parent and we readily enter into this humane
emotion. But if he should indulge the same weakness upon account of any
misfortune which affected himself only, he would no longer meet with any
such indulgence. If he should be reduced to beggary and ruin, if he should
be exposed to the most dreadful dangers, if he should even be led out to
a public execution, and there shed one single tear upon the scaffold, he
would disgrace himself for ever in the opinion of all the gallant and generous
part of mankind. Their compassion for him, however, would be very strong,
and very sincere; but as it would still fall short of this excessive weakness,
they would have no pardon for the man who could thus expose himself in
the eyes of the world. His behaviour would affect them with shame rather
than with sorrow; and the dishonour which he had thus brought upon himself
would appear to them the most lamentable circumstance in his misfortune.
How did it disgrace the memory of the intrepid Duke of Biron, who had so
often braved death in the field, that he wept upon the scaffold, when he
beheld the state to which he was fallen, and remembered the favour and
the glory from which his own rashness had so unfortunately thrown him!
Chap. II Of the origin of Ambition, and of the distinction of Ranks
It is because mankind are disposed to sympathize more entirely with our
joy than with our sorrow, that we make parade of our riches, and conceal
our poverty. Nothing is so mortifying as to be obliged to expose our distress
to the view of the public, and to feel, that though our situation is open
to the eyes of all mankind, no mortal conceives for us the half of what
we suffer. Nay, it is chiefly from this regard to the sentiments of mankind,
that we pursue riches and avoid poverty. For to what purpose is all the
toil and bustle of this world? what is the end of avarice and ambition,
of the pursuit of wealth, of power, and preheminence? Is it to supply the
necessities of nature? The wages of the meanest labourer can supply them.
We see that they afford him food and clothing, the comfort of a house,
and of a family. If we examined his oeconomy with rigour, we should find
that he spends a great part of them upon conveniencies, which may be regarded
as superfluities, and that, upon extraordinary occasions, he can give something
even to vanity and distinction. What then is the cause of our aversion
to his situation, and why should those who have been educated in the higher
ranks of life, regard it as worse than death, to be reduced to live, even
without labour, upon the same simple fare with him, to dwell under the
same lowly roof, and to be clothed in the same humble. attire? Do they
imagine that their stomach is better, or their sleep sounder in a palace
than in a cottage? The contrary has been so often observed, and, indeed,
is so very obvious, though it had never been observed, that there is nobody
ignorant of it. From whence, then, arises that emulation which runs through
all the different ranks of men, and what are the advantages which we propose
by that great purpose of human life which we call bettering our condition?
To be observed, to be attended to, to be taken notice of with sympathy,
complacency, and approbation, are all the advantages which we can propose
to derive from it. It is the vanity, not the ease, or the pleasure, which
interests us. But vanity is always founded upon the belief of our being
the object of attention and approbation. The rich man glories in his riches,
because he feels that they naturally draw upon him the attention of the
world, and that mankind are disposed to go along with him in all those
agreeable emotions with which the advantages of his situation so readily
inspire him. At the thought of this, his heart seems to swell and dilate
itself within him, and he is fonder of his wealth, upon this account, than
for all the other advantages it procures him. The poor man, on the contrary,
is ashamed of his poverty. He feels that it either places him out of the
sight of mankind, or, that if they take any notice of him, they have, however,
scarce any fellow-feeling with the misery and distress which he suffers.
He is mortified upon both accounts. for though to be overlooked, and to
be disapproved of, are things entirely different, yet as obscurity covers
us from the daylight of honour and approbation, to feel that we are taken
no notice of, necessarily damps the most agreeable hope, and disappoints
the most ardent desire, of human nature. The poor man goes out and comes
in unheeded, and when in the midst of a crowd is in the same obscurity
as if shut up in his own hovel. Those humble cares and painful attentions
which occupy those in his situation, afford no amusement to the dissipated
and the gay. They turn away their eyes from him, or if the extremity of
his distress forces them to look at him, it is only to spurn so disagreeable
an object from among them. The fortunate and the proud wonder at the insolence
of human wretchedness, that it should dare to present itself before them,
and with the loathsome aspect of its misery presume to disturb the serenity
of their happiness. The man of rank and distinction, on the contrary, is
observed by all the world. Every body is eager to look at him, and to conceive,
at least by sympathy, that joy and exultation with which his circumstances
naturally inspire him. His actions are the objects of the public care.
Scarce a word, scarce a gesture, can fall from him that is altogether neglected.
In a great assembly he is the person upon whom all direct their eyes; it
is upon him that their passions seem all to wait with expectation, in order
to receive that movement and direction which he shall impress upon them;
and if his behaviour is not altogether absurd, he has, every moment, an
opportunity of interesting mankind, and of rendering himself the object
of the observation and fellow-feeling of every body about him. It is this,
which, notwithstanding the restraint it imposes, notwithstanding the loss
of liberty with which it is attended, renders greatness the object of envy,
and compensates, in the opinion of all those mortifications which must
mankind, all that toil, all that anxiety, be undergone in the pursuit of
it; and what is of yet more consequence, all that leisure, all that ease,
all that careless security, which are forfeited for ever by the acquisition.
When we consider the condition of the great, in those delusive colours
in which the imagination is apt to paint it. it seems to be almost the
abstract idea of a perfect and happy state. It is the very state which,
in all our waking dreams and idle reveries, we had sketched out to ourselves
as the final object of all our desires. We feel, therefore, a peculiar
sympathy with the satisfaction of those who are in it. We favour all their
inclinations, and forward all their wishes. What pity, we think, that any
thing should spoil and corrupt so agreeable a situation! We could even
wish them immortal; and it seems hard to us, that death should at last
put an end to such perfect enjoyment. It is cruel, we think, in Nature
to compel them from their exalted stations to that humble, but hospitable
home, which she has provided for all her children. Great King, live for
ever! is the compliment, which, after the manner of eastern adulation,
we should readily make them, if experience did not teach us its absurdity.
Every calamity that befals them, every injury that is done them, excites
in the breast of the spectator ten times more compassion and resentment
than he would have felt, had the same things happened to other men. It
is the misfortunes of Kings only which afford the proper subjects for tragedy.
They resemble, in this respect, the misfortunes of lovers. Those two situations
are the chief which interest us upon the theatre; because, in spite of
all that reason and experience can tell us to the contrary, the prejudices
of the imagination attach to these two states a happiness superior to any
other. To disturb, or to put an end to such perfect enjoyment, seems to
be the most atrocious of all injuries. The traitor who conspires against
the life of his monarch, is thought a greater monster than any other murderer.
All the innocent blood that was shed in the civil wars, provoked less indignation
than the death of Charles I. A stranger to human nature, who saw the indifference
of men about the misery of their inferiors, and the regret and indignation
which they feel for the misfortunes and sufferings of those above them,
would be apt to imagine, that pain must be more agonizing, and the convulsions
of death more terrible to persons of higher rank, than to those of meaner
stations.
Upon this disposition of mankind, to go along with all the passions of
the rich and the powerful, is founded the distinction of ranks, and the
order of society. Our obsequiousness to our superiors more frequently arises
from our admiration for the advantages of their situation, than from any
private expectations of benefit from their good-will. Their benefits can
extend but to a few. but their fortunes interest almost every body. We
are eager to assist them in completing a system of happiness that approaches
so near to perfection; and we desire to serve them for their own sake,
without any other recompense but the vanity or the honour of obliging them.
Neither is our deference to their inclinations founded chiefly, or altogether,
upon a regard to the utility of such submission, and to the order of society,
which is best supported by it. Even when the order of society seems to
require that we should oppose them, we can hardly bring ourselves to do
it. That kings are the servants of the people, to be obeyed, resisted,
deposed, or punished, as the public conveniency may require, is the doctrine
of reason and philosophy; but it is not the doctrine of Nature. Nature
would teach us to submit to them for their own sake, to tremble and bow
down before their exalted station, to regard their smile as a reward sufficient
to compensate any services, and to dread their displeasure, though no other
evil were to follow from it, as the severest of all mortifications. To
treat them in any respect as men, to reason and dispute with them upon
ordinary occasions, requires such resolution, that there are few men whose
magnanimity can support them in it, unless they are likewise assisted by
familiarity and acquaintance. The strongest motives, the most furious passions,
fear, hatred, and resentment, are scarce sufficient to balance this natural
disposition to respect them: and their conduct must, either justly or unjustly,
have excited the highest degree of all those passions, before the bulk
of the people can be brought to oppose them with violence, or to desire
to see them either punished or deposed. Even when the people have been
brought this length, they are apt to relent every moment, and easily relapse
into their habitual state of deference to those whom they have been accustomed
to look upon as their natural superiors. They cannot stand the mortification
of their monarch. Compassion soon takes the place of resentment, they forget
all past provocations, their old principles of loyalty revive, and they
run to re-establish the ruined authority of their old masters, with the
same violence with which they had opposed it. The death of Charles I brought
about the Restoration of the royal family. Compassion for James II when
he was seized by the populace in making his escape on ship-board, had almost
prevented the Revolution, and made it go on more heavily than before.
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 preheminence, 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 a 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 these, in 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 Aemilius, 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 eyes upon their fallen sovereign, and always burst into
tears at the sight; their whole behaviour demonstrating that they thought
not of their own 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 Rochfaucault, '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
i n 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 ever 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 human 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.
As to become the natural object of the joyous congratulations and sympathetic
attentions of mankind is, in this manner, the circumstance which gives
to prosperity all its dazzling splendour; so nothing darkens so much the
gloom of adversity as to feel that our misfortunes are the objects, not
of the fellow-feeling, but of the contempt and aversion of our brethren.
It is upon this account that the most dreadful calamities are not always
those which it is most difficult to support. It is often more mortifying
to appear in public under small disasters, than under great misfortunes.
The first excite no sympathy; but the second, though they may excite none
that approaches to the anguish of the sufferer, call forth, however, a
very lively compassion. The sentiments of the spectators are, in this last
case, less wide of those of the sufferer, and their imperfect fellow-feeling
lends him some assistance in supporting his misery. Before a gay assembly,
a gentleman would be more mortified to appear covered with filth and rags
than with blood and wounds. This last situation would interest their pity;
the other would provoke their laughter. The judge who orders a criminal
to be set in the pillory, dishonours him more than if he had condemned
him to the scaffold. The great prince, who, some years ago, caned a general
officer at the head of his army, disgraced him irrecoverably. The punishment
would have been much less had he shot him through the body. By the laws
of honour, to strike with a cane dishonours, to strike with a sword does
not, for an obvious reason. Those slighter punishments, when inflicted
on a gentleman, to whom dishonour is the greatest of all evils, come to
be regarded among a humane and generous people, as the most dreadful of
any. With regard to persons of that rank, therefore, they are universally
laid aside, and the law, while it takes their life upon many occasions,
respects their honour upon almost all. To scourge a person of quality,
or to set him in the pillory, upon account of any crime whatever, is a
brutality of which no European government, except that of Russia, is capable.
A brave man is not rendered contemptible by being brought to the scaffold;
he is, by being set in the pillory. His behaviour in the one situation
may gain him universal esteem and admiration. No behaviour in the other
can render him agreeable. The sympathy of the spectators supports him in
the one case, and saves him from that shame, that consciousness that his
misery is felt by himself only, which is of all sentiments the most unsupportable.
There is no sympathy in the other; or, if there is any, it is not with
his pain, which is a trifle, but with his consciousness of the want of
sympathy with which this pain is attended. It is with his shame, not with
his sorrow. Those who pity him, blush and hang down their heads for him.
He droops in the same manner, and feels himself irrecoverably degraded
by the punishment, though not by the crime. The man, on the contrary, who
dies with resolution, as he is naturally regarded with the erect aspect
of esteem and approbation, so he wears himself the same undaunted countenance;
and, if the crime does not deprive him of the respect of others, the punishment
never will. He has no suspicion that his situation is the object of contempt
or derision to any body, and he can, with propriety, assume the air, not
only of perfect serenity, but of triumph and exultation.
'Great dangers,' says the Cardinal de Retz, 'have their charms, because
there is some glory to be got, even when we miscarry. But moderate dangers
have nothing but what is horrible, because the loss of reputation always
attends the want of success.' His maxim has the same foundation with what
we have been just now observing with regard to punishments.
Human virtue is superior to pain, to poverty, to danger, and to death;
nor does it even require its utmost efforts do despise them. But to have
its misery exposed to insult and derision, to be led in triumph, to be
set up for the hand of scorn to point at, is a situation in which its constancy
is much more apt to fail. Compared with the contempt of mankind, all other
external evils are easily supported. Chap. III Of the corruption of our
moral sentiments, which is occasioned by this disposition to admire the
rich and the great, and to despise or neglect persons of poor and mean
condition
This disposition to admire, and almost to worship, the rich and the powerful,
and to despise, or, at least, to neglect persons of poor and mean condition,
though necessary both to establish and to maintain the distinction of ranks
and the order of society, is, at the same time, the great and most universal
cause of the corruption of our moral sentiments. That wealth and greatness
are often regarded with the respect and admiration which are due only to
wisdom and virtue; and that the contempt, of which vice and folly are the
only proper objects, is often most unjustly bestowed upon poverty and weakness,
has been the complaint of moralists in all ages.
We desire both to be respectable and to be respected. We dread both to
be contemptible and to be contemned. But, upon coming into the world, we
soon find that wisdom and virtue are by no means the sole objects of respect;
nor vice and folly, of contempt. We frequently see the respectful attentions
of the world more strongly directed towards the rich and the great, than
towards the wise and the virtuous. We see frequently the vices and follies
of the powerful much less despised than the poverty and weakness of the
innocent. To deserve, to acquire, and to enjoy the respect and admiration
of mankind, are the great objects of ambition and emulation. Two different
roads are presented to us, equally leading to the attainment of this so
much desired object; the one, by the study of wisdom and the practice of
virtue; the other, by the acquisition of wealth and greatness. Two different
characters are presented to our emulation; the one, of proud ambition and
ostentatious avidity. the other, of humble modesty and equitable justice.
Two different models, two different pictures, are held out to us, according
to which we may fashion our own character and behaviour; the one more gaudy
and glittering in its colouring; the other more correct and more exquisitely
beautiful in its outline: the one forcing itself upon the notice of every
wandering eye; the other, attracting the attention of scarce any body but
the most studious and careful observer. They are the wise and the virtuous
chiefly, a select, though, I am afraid, but a small party, who are the
real and steady admirers of wisdom and virtue. The great mob of mankind
are the admirers and worshippers, and, what may seem more extraordinary,
most frequently the disinterested admirers and worshippers, of wealth and
greatness.
The respect which we feel for wisdom and virtue is, no doubt, different
from that which we conceive for wealth and greatness; and it requires no
very nice discernment to distinguish the difference. But, notwithstanding
this difference, those sentiments bear a very considerable resemblance
to one another. In some particular features they are, no doubt, different,
but, in the general air of the countenance, they seem to be so very nearly
the same, that inattentive observers are very apt to mistake the one for
the other.
In equal degrees of merit there is scarce any man who does not respect
more the rich and the great, than the poor and the humble. With most men
the presumption and vanity of the former are much more admired, than the
real and solid merit of the latter. It is scarce agreeable to good morals,
or even to good language, perhaps, to say, that mere wealth and greatness,
abstracted from merit and virtue, deserve our respect. We must acknowledge,
however, that they almost constantly obtain it; and that they may, therefore,
be considered as, in some respects, the natural objects of it. Those exalted
stations may, no doubt, be completely degraded by vice and folly. But the
vice and folly must be very great, before they can operate this complete
degradation. The profligacy of a man of fashion is looked upon with much
less contempt and aversion, than that of a man of meaner condition. In
the latter, a single transgression of the rules of temperance and propriety,
is commonly more resented, than the constant and avowed contempt of them
ever is in the former.
In the middling and inferior stations of life, the road to virtue and that
to fortune, to such fortune, at least, as men in such stations can reasonably
expect to acquire, are, happily in most cases, very nearly the same. In
all the middling and inferior professions, real and solid professional
abilities, joined to prudent, just, firm, and temperate conduct, can very
seldom fail of success. Abilities will even sometimes prevail where the
conduct is by no means correct. Either habitual imprudence, however, or
injustice, or weakness, or profligacy, will always clouD, and sometimes
Depress altogether, the most splendid professional abilities. Men in the
inferior and middling stations of life, besides, can never be great enough
to be above the law, which must generally overawe them into some sort of
respect for, at least, the more important rules of justice. The success
of such people, too, almost always depends upon the favour and good opinion
of their neighbours and equals; and without a tolerably regular conduct
these can very seldom be obtained. The good old proverb, therefore, That
honesty is the best policy, holds, in such situations, almost always perfectly
true. In such situations, therefore, we may generally expect a considerable
degree of virtue; and, fortunately for the good morals of society, these
are the situations of by far the greater part of mankind.
In the superior stations of life the case is unhappily not always the same.
In the courts of princes, in the drawing-rooms of the great, where success
and preferment depend, not upon the esteem of intelligent and well-informed
equals, but upon the fanciful and foolish favour of ignorant, presumptuous,
and proud superiors; flattery and falsehood too often prevail over merit
and abilities. In such societies the abilities to please, are more regarded
than the abilities to serve. In quiet and peaceable times, when the storm
is at a distance, the prince, or great man, wishes only to be amused, and
is even apt to fancy that he has scarce any occasion for the service of
any body, or that those who amuse him are sufficiently able to serve him.
The external graces, the frivolous accomplishments of that impertinent
and foolish thing called a man of fashion, are commonly more admired than
the solid and masculine virtues of a warrior, a statesman, a philosopher,
or a legislator. All the great and awful virtues, all the virtues which
can fit, either for the council, the senate, or the field, are, by the
insolent and insignificant flatterers, who commonly figure the most in
such corrupted societies, held in the utmost contempt and derision. When
the duke of Sully was called upon by Lewis the Thirteenth, to give his
advice in some great emergency, he observed the favourites and courtiers
whispering to one another, and smiling at his unfashionable appearance.
'Whenever your majesty's father,' said the old warrior and statesman, 'did
me the honour to consult me, he ordered the buffoons of the court to retire
into the antechamber.'
It is from our disposition to admire, and consequently to imitate, the
rich and the great, that they are enabled to set, or to lead what is called
the fashion. Their dress is the fashionable dress; the language of their
conversation, the fashionable style; their air and deportment, the fashionable
behaviour. Even their vices and follies are fashionable; and the greater
part of men are proud to imitate and resemble them in the very qualities
which dishonour and degrade them. Vain men often give themselves airs of
a fashionable profligacy, which, in their hearts, they do not approve of,
and of which, perhaps, they are really not guilty. They desire to be praised
for what they themselves do not think praise-worthy, and are ashamed of
unfashionable virtues which they sometimes practise in secret, and for
which they have secretly some degree of real veneration. There are hypocrites
of wealth and greatness, as well as of religion and virtue; and a vain
man is as apt to pretend to be what he is not, in the one way, as a cunning
man is in the other. He assumes the equipage and splendid way of living
of his superiors, without considering that whatever may be praise-worthy
in any of these, derives its whole merit and propriety from its suitableness
to that situation and fortune which both require and can easily support
the expence. Many a poor man places his glory in being thought rich, without
considering that the duties (if one may call such follies by so very venerable
a name) which that reputation imposes upon him, must soon reduce him to
beggary, and render his situation still more unlike that of those whom
he admires and imitates, than it had been originally.
To attain to this envied situation, the candidates for fortune too frequently
abandon the paths of virtue; for unhappily, the road which leads to the
one, and that which leads to the other, lie sometimes in very opposite
directions. But the ambitious man flatters himself that, in the splendid
situation to which he advances, he will have so many means of commanding
the respect and admiration of mankind, and will be enabled to act with
such superior propriety and grace, that the lustre of his future conduct
will entirely cover, or efface, the foulness of the steps by which he arrived
at that elevation. In many governments the candidates for the highest stations
are above the law; and, if they can attain the object of their ambition,
they have no fear of being called to account for the means by which they
acquired it. They often endeavour, therefore, not only by fraud and falsehood,
the ordinary and vulgar arts of intrigue and cabal; but sometimes by the
perpetration of the most enormous crimes, by murder and assassination,
by rebellion and civil war, to supplant and destroy those who oppose or
stand in the way of their greatness. They more frequently miscarry than
succeed; and commonly gain nothing but the disgraceful punishment which
is due to their crimes. But, though they should be so lucky as to attain
that wished-for greatness, they are always most miserably disappointed
in the happiness which they expect to enjoy in it. It is not ease or pleasure,
but always honour, of one kind or another, though frequently an honour
very ill understood, that the ambitious man really pursues. But the honour
of his exalted station appears, both in his own eyes and in those of other
people, polluted and defiled by the baseness of the means through which
he rose to it. Though by the profusion of every liberal expence; though
by excessive indulgence in every profligate pleasure, the wretched, but
usual, resource of ruined characters; though by the hurry of public business,
or by the prouder and more dazzling tumult of war, he may endeavour to
efface, both from his own memory and from that of other people, the remembrance
of what he has done; that remembrance never fails to pursue him. He invokes
in vain the dark and dismal powers of forgetfulness and oblivion. He remembers
himself what he has done, and that remembrance tells him that other people
must likewise remember it. Amidst all the gaudy pomp of the most ostentatious
greatness; amidst the venal and vile adulation of the great and of the
learned; amidst the more innocent, though more foolish, acclamations of
the common people; amidst all the pride of conquest and the triumph of
successful war, he is still secretly pursued by the avenging furies of
shame and remorse; and, while glory seems to surround him on all sides,
he himself, in his own imagination, sees black and foul infamy fast pursuing
him, and every moment ready to overtake him from behind. Even the great
Caesar, though he had the magnanimity to dismiss his guards, could not
dismiss his suspicions. The remembrance of Pharsalia still haunted and
pursued him. When, at the request of the senate, he had the generosity
to pardon Marcellus, he told that assembly, that he was not unaware of
the designs which were carrying on against his life; but that, as he had
lived long enough both for nature and for glory, he was contented to die,
and therefore despised all conspiracies. He had, perhaps, lived long enough
for nature. But the man who felt himself the object of such deadly resentment,
from those whose favour he wished to gain, and whom he still wished to
consider as his friends, had certainly lived too long for real glory; or
for all the happiness which he could ever hope to enjoy in the love and
esteem of his equals.