The
Theory of Moral Sentiments
by Adam
Smith
1759
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