The Theory of Moral Sentiments



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