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
expected.
In cases of this kind, when we are
determining the degree of
blame
or applause which seems due to any action, we very
frequently
make use of two different standards. The first is the
idea of
complete propriety and perfection, which, in those
difficult
situations, no human conduct ever did, or ever can
come,
up to; and in comparison with which the actions of all men
must
for ever appear blameable and imperfect. The second is the
idea of
that degree of proximity or distance from this complete
perfection,
which the actions of the greater part of men commonly
arrive
at. Whatever goes beyond this degree, how far soever it
may be
removed from absolute perfection, seems to deserve
applause;
and whatever falls short of it, to deserve blame.
It is in the same manner that we judge of
the productions of
all the
arts which address themselves to the imagination. When a
critic
examines the work of any of the great masters in poetry or
painting,
he may sometimes examine it by an idea of perfection,
in his
own mind, which neither that nor any other human work will
ever
come up to; and as long as he compares it with this
standard,
he can see nothing in it but faults and imperfections.
But
when he comes to consider the rank which it ought to hold
among
other works of the same kind, he necessarily compares it
with a
very different standard, the common degree of excellence
which
is usually attained in this particular art; and when he
judges
of it by this new measure, it may often appear to deserve
the
highest applause, upon account of its approaching much nearer
to
perfection than the greater part of those works which can be
brought
into competition with it.
Section
II
Of the
Degrees of the different Passions which are consistent
with
Propriety
Introduction
The propriety of every passion excited by
objects peculiarly
related
to ourselves, the pitch which the spectator can go along
with,
must lie, it is evident, in a certain mediocrity. If the
passion
is too high, or if it is too low, he cannot enter into
it.
Grief and resentment for private misfortunes and injuries may
easily,
for example, be too high, and in the greater part of
mankind
they are so. They may likewise, though this more rarely
happens,
be too low. We denominate the excess, weakness and fury:
and we
call the defect stupidity, insensibility, and want of
spirit.
We can enter into neither of them, but are astonished and
confounded
to see them.
This mediocrity, however, in which the
point of propriety
consists,
is different in different passions. It is high in some,
and low
in others. There are some passions which it is indecent
to
express very strongly, even upon those occasions, in which it
is
acknowledged that we cannot avoid feeling them in the highest
degree.
And there are others of which the strongest expressions
are
upon many occasions extremely graceful, even though the
passions
themselves do not, perhaps, arise so necessarily. The
first
are those passions with which, for certain reasons, there
is
little or no sympathy: the second are those with which, for
other
reasons, there is the greatest. And if we consider all the
different
passions of human nature, we shall find that they are
regarded
as decent, or indecent, just in proportion as mankind
are
more or less disposed to sympathize with them.
Chap. I
Of the
Passions which take their origin from the body
1. It is indecent to express any strong
degree of those
passions
which arise from a certain situation or disposition of
the
body; because the company, not being in the same disposition,
cannot
be expected to sympathize with them. Violent hunger, for
example,
though upon many occasions not only natural, but
unavoidable,
is always indecent, and to eat voraciously is
universally
regarded as a piece of ill manners. There is,
however,
some degree of sympathy, even with hunger. It is
agreeable
to see our companions eat with a good appetite, and all
expressions
of loathing are offensive. The disposition of body
which
is habitual to a man in health, makes his stomach easily
keep
time, if I may be allowed so coarse an expression, with the
one,
and not with the other. We can sympathize with the distress
it in
the which excessive hunger occasions when we read the
description
of journal of a siege, or of a sea voyage. We imagine
ourselves
in the situation of the sufferers, and thence readily
conceive
the grief, the fear and consternation, which must
necessarily
distract them. We feel, ourselves, some degree of
those
passions, and therefore sympathize with them: but as we do
not
grow hungry by reading the description, we cannot properly,
even in
this case, be said to sympathize with their hunger.
It is the same case with the passion by
which Nature unites
the two
sexes. Though naturally the most furious of all the
passions,
all strong expressions of it are upon every occasion
indecent,
even between persons in whom its most complete
indulgence
is acknowledged by all laws, both human and divine, to
be
perfectly innocent. There seems, however, to be some degree of
sympathy
even with this passion. To talk to a woman as we would
to a
man is improper: it is expected that their company should
inspire
us with more gaiety, more pleasantry, and more attention;
and an
intire insensibility to the fair sex, renders a man
contemptible
in some measure even to the men.
Such is our aversion for all the appetites
which take their
origin
from the body: all strong expressions of them are
loathsome
and disagreeable. According to some ancient
philosophers,
these are the passions which we share in common
with
the brutes, and which having no connexion with the
characteristical
qualities of human nature, are upon that account
beneath
its dignity. But there are many other passions which we
share
in common with the brutes, such as resentment, natural
affection,
even gratitude, which do not, upon that account,
appear
to be so brutal. The true cause of the peculiar disgust
which
we conceive for the appetites of the body when we see them
in
other men, is that we cannot enter into them. To the person
himself
who feels them, as soon as they are gratified, the object
that
excited them ceases to be agreeable: even its presence often
becomes
offensive to him; he looks round to no purpose for the
charm
which transported him the moment before, and he can now as
little
enter into his own passion as another person. When we have
dined,
we order the covers to be removed; and we should treat in
the
same manner the objects of the most ardent and passionate
desires,
if they were the objects of no other passions but those
which
take their origin from the body.
In the command of those appetites of the
body consists that
virtue
which is properly called temperance. To restrain them
within
those bounds, which regard to health and fortune
prescribes,
is the part of prudence. But to confine them within
those
limits, which grace, which propriety, which delicacy, and
modesty
require, is the office of temperance.
2. It is for the same reason that to cry
out with bodily
pain,
how intolerable soever, appears always unmanly and
unbecoming.
There is, however, a good deal of sympathy even with
bodily
pain. If, as has already been observed, I see a stroke
aimed,
and just ready to fall upon the leg, or arm, of another
person,
I naturally shrink and draw back my own leg, or my own
arm:
and when it does fall, I feel it in some measure, and am
hurt by
it as well as the sufferer. My hurt, however, is, no
doubt,
excessively slight, and, upon that account, if he makes
any
violent out-cry, as I cannot go along with him, I never fail
to
despise him. And this is the case of all the passions which
take
their origin from the body: they excite either no sympathy
at all,
or such a degree of it, as is altogether disproportioned
to the
violence of what is felt by the sufferer.
It is quite otherwise with those passions
which take their
origin
from the imagination. The frame of my body can be but
little
affected by the alterations which are brought about upon
that of
my companion: but my imagination is more ductile, and
more
readily assumes, if I may say so, the shape and
configuration
of the imaginations of those with whom I am
familiar.
A disappointment in love, or ambition, will, upon this
account,
call forth more sympathy than the greatest bodily evil.
Those
passions arise altogether from the imagination. The person
who has
lost his whole fortune, if he is in health, feels nothing
in his
body. What he suffers is from the imagination only, which
represents
to him the loss of his dignity, neglect from his
friends,
contempt from his enemies, dependance, want, and misery,
coming
fast upon him; and we sympathize with him more strongly
upon
this account, because our imaginations can more readily
mould
themselves upon his imagination, than our bodies can mould
themselves
upon his body.
The loss of a leg may generally be
regarded as a more real
calamity
than the loss of a mistress. It would be a ridiculous
tragedy,
however, of which the catastrophe was to turn upon a
loss of
that kind. A misfortune of the other kind, how frivolous
soever
it may appear to be, has given occasion to many a fine
one.
Nothing is so soon forgot as pain. The
moment it is gone the
whole
agony of it is over, and the thought of it can no longer
give us
any sort of disturbance. We ourselves cannot then enter
into
the anxiety and anguish which we had before conceived. An
unguarded
word from a friend will occasion a more durable
uneasiness.
The agony which this creates is by no means over with
the
word. What at first disturbs us is not the object of the
senses,
but the idea of the imagination. As it is an idea,
therefore,
which occasions our uneasiness, till time and other
accidents
have in some measure effaced it from our memory, the
imagination
continues to fret and rankle within, from the thought
of it.
Pain never calls forth any very lively
sympathy unless it is
accompanied
with danger. We sympathize with the fear, though not
with
the agony of the sufferer. Fear, however, is a passion
derived
altogether from the imagination, which represents, with
an
uncertainty and fluctuation that increases our anxiety, not
what we
really feel, but what we may hereafter possibly suffer.
The
gout or the tooth-ach, though exquisitely painful, excite
very
little sympathy; more dangerous diseases, though accompanied
with
very little pain, excite the highest.
Some people faint and grow sick at the sight of a chirurgical
operation,
and that bodily pain which is occasioned by tearing
the
flesh, seems, in them, to excite the most excessive sympathy.
We
conceive in a much more lively and distinct manner the pain
which
proceeds from an external cause, than we do that which
arises
from an internal disorder. I can scarce form an idea of
the
agonies of my neighbour when he is tortured with the gout, or
the
stone; but I have the clearest conception of what he must
suffer
from an incision, a wound, or a fracture. The chief cause,
however,
why such objects produce such violent effects upon us,
is
their novelty. One who has been witness to a dozen
dissections,
and as many amputations, sees, ever after, all
operations
of this kind with great indifference, and often with
perfect
insensibility. Though we have read or seen represented
more
than five hundred tragedies, we shall seldom feel so entire
an
abatement of our sensibility to the objects which they
represent
to us.
In some of the Greek tragedies there is an
attempt to excite
compassion,
by the representation of the agonies of bodily pain.
Philoctetes
cries out and faints from the extremity of his
sufferings.
Hippolytus and Hercules are both introduced as
expiring
under the severest tortures, which, it seems, even the
fortitude
of Hercules was incapable of supporting. In all these
cases,
however, it is not the pain which interests us, but some
other
circumstances. It is not the sore foot, but the solitude,
of
Philoctetes which affects us, and diffuses over that charming
tragedy,
that romantic wildness, which is so agreeable to the
imagination.
The agonies of Hercules and Hippolytus are
interesting
only because we foresee that death is to be the
consequence.
If those heroes were to recover, we should think the
representation
of their sufferings perfectly ridiculous. What a
tragedy
would that be of which the distress consisted in a colic.
Yet no
pain is more exquisite. These attempts to excite
compassion
by the representation of bodily pain, may be regarded
as
among the greatest breaches of decorum of which the Greek
theatre
has set the example.
The little sympathy which we feel with
bodily pain is the
foundation
of the propriety of constancy and patience in enduring
it. The
man, who under the severest tortures allows no weakness
to
escape him, vents no groan, gives way to no passion which we
do not
entirely enter into, commands our highest admiration. His
firmness
enables him to keep time with our indifference and
insensibility.
We admire and entirely go along with the
magnanimous
effort which he makes for this purpose. We approve of
his
behaviour, and from our experience of the common weakness of
human
nature, we are surprised, and wonder how he should be able
to act
so as to deserve approbation. Approbation, mixed and
animated
by wonder and surprise, constitutes the sentiment which
is
properly called admiration, of which, applause is the natural
expression,
as has already been observed.
Chap.
II
Of
those Passions which take their origin from a particular turn
or
habit of the Imagination
Even of the passions derived from the
imagination, those
which
take their origin from a peculiar turn or habit it has
acquired,
though they may be acknowledged to be perfectly
natural,
are, however, but little sympathized with. The
imaginations
of mankind, not having acquired that particular
turn,
cannot enter into them; and such passions, though they may
be
allowed to be almost unavoidable in some part of life, are
always,
in some measure, ridiculous. This is the case with that
strong
attachment which naturally grows up between two persons of
different
sexes, who have long fixed their thoughts upon one
another.
Our imagination not having run in the same channel with
that of
the lover, we cannot enter into the eagerness of his
emotions.
If our friend has been injured, we readily sympathize
with
his resentment, and grow angry with the very person with
whom he
is angry. If he has received a benefit, we readily enter
into
his gratitude, and have a very high sense of the merit of
his
benefactor. But if he is in love, though we may think his
passion
just as reasonable as any of the kind, yet we never think
ourselves
bound to conceive a passion of the same kind, and for
the
same person for whom he has conceived it. The passion appears
to
every body, but the man who feels it, entirely disproportioned
to the
value of the object; and love, though it is pardoned in a
certain
age because we know it is natural, is always laughed at,
because
we cannot enter into it. All serious and strong
expressions
of it appear ridiculous to a third person; and though
a lover
may be good company to his mistress, he is so to nobody
else.
He himself is sensible of this; and as long as he continues
in his
sober senses, endeavours to treat his own passion with
raillery
and ridicule. It is the only style in which we care to
hear of
it; because it is the only style in which we ourselves
are
disposed to talk of it. We grow weary of the grave, pedantic,
and
long-sentenced love of Cowley and Petrarca, who never have
done
with exaggerating the violence of their attachments; but the
gaiety
of Ovid, and the gallantry of Horace, are always
agreeable.
But though we feel no proper sympathy with
an attachment of
this
kind, though we never approach even in imagination towards
conceiving
a passion for that particular person, yet as we either
have
conceived, or may be disposed to conceive, passions of the
same
kind, we readily enter into those high hopes of happiness
which
are proposed from its gratification, as well as into that
exquisite
distress which is feared from its disappointment. It
interests
us not as a passion, but as a situation that gives
occasion
to other passions which interest us; to hope, to fear,
and to
distress of every kind: in the same manner as in a
description
of a sea voyage, it is not the hunger which interests
us, but
the distress which that hunger occasions. Though we do
not
properly enter into the attachment of the lover, we readily
go
along with those expectations of romantic happiness which he
derives
from it. We feel how natural it is for the mind, in a
certain
situation, relaxed with indolence, and fatigued with the
violence
of desire, to long for serenity and quiet, to hope to
find
them in the gratification of that passion which distracts
it, and
to frame to itself the idea of that life of pastoral
tranquillity
and retirement which the elegant, the tender, and
the
passionate Tibullus takes so much pleasure in describing; a
life
like what the poets describe in the Fortunate Islands, a
life of
friendship, liberty, and repose; free from labour, and
from
care, and from all the turbulent passions which attend them.
Even
scenes of this kind interest us most, when they are painted
rather
as what is hoped, than as what is enjoyed. The grossness
of that
passion, which mixes with, and is, perhaps, the
foundation
of love, disappears when its gratification is far off
and at
a distance; but renders the whole offensive, when
described
as what is immediately possessed. The happy passion,
upon
this account, interests us much less than the fearful and
the
melancholy. We tremble for whatever can disappoint such
natural
and agreeable hopes: and thus enter into all the anxiety,
and
concern, and distress of the lover.
Hence it is, that, in some modern
tragedies and romances,
this
passion appears so wonderfully interesting. It is not so
much
the love of Castalio and Monimia which attaches us in the
Orphan,
as the distress which that love occasions. The author who
should
introduce two lovers, in a scene of perfect security,
expressing
their mutual fondness for one another, would excite
laughter,
and not sympathy. If a scene of this kind is ever
admitted
into a tragedy, it is always, in some measure, improper,
and is
endured, not from any sympathy with the passion that is
expressed
in it, but from concern for the dangers and
difficulties
with which the audience foresee that its
gratification
is likely to be attended.
The reserve which the laws of society
impose upon the fair
sex,
with regard to this weakness, renders it more peculiarly
distressful
in them, and, upon that very account, more deeply
interesting.
We are charmed with the love of Phaedra, as it is
expressed
in the French tragedy of that name, notwithstanding all
the
extravagance and guilt which attend it. That very
extravagance
and guilt may be said, in some measure, to recommend
it to
us. Her fear, her shame, her remorse, her horror, her
despair,
become thereby more natural and interesting. All the
secondary
passions, if I may be allowed to call them so, which
arise
from the situation of love, become necessarily more furious
and
violent; and it is with these secondary passions only that we
can
properly be said to sympathize.
Of all the passions, however, which are so
extravagantly
disproportioned
to the value of their objects, love is the only
one
that appears, even to the weakest minds, to have any thing in
it that
is either graceful or agreeable. In itself, first of all,
though
it may be ridiculous, it is not naturally odious; and
though
its consequences are often fatal and dreadful, its
intentions
are seldom mischievous. And then, though there is
little
propriety in the passion itself, there is a good deal in
some of
those which always accompany it. There is in love a
strong
mixture of humanity, generosity, kindness, friendship,
esteem;
passions with which, of all others, for reasons which
shall
be explained immediately, we have the greatest propensity
to
sympathize, even notwithstanding we are sensible that they
are, in
some measure, excessive. The sympathy which we feel with
them,
renders the passion which they accompany less disagreeable,
and
supports it in our imagination, notwithstanding all the vices
which
commonly go along with it; though in the one sex it
necessarily
leads to the last ruin and infamy; and though in the
other,
where it is apprehended to be least fatal, it is almost
always
attended with an incapacity for labour, a neglect of duty,
a
contempt of fame, and even of common reputation.
Notwithstanding
all this, the degree of sensibility and
generosity
with which it is supposed to be accompanied, renders
it to
many the object of vanity. and they are fond of appearing
capable
of feeling what would do them no honour if they had
really
felt it.
It is for a reason of the same kind, that
a certain reserve
is
necessary when we talk of our own friends, our own studies,
our own
professions. All these are objects which we cannot expect
should
interest our companions in the same degree in which they
interest
us. And it is for want of this reserve, that the one
half of
mankind make bad company to the other. A philosopher is
company
to a philosopher, only. the member of a club, to his own
little
knot of companions.
Chap.
III
Of the
unsocial Passions
There is another set of passions, which,
though derived from
the imagination,
yet before we can enter into them, or regard
them as
graceful or becoming, must always be brought down to a
pitch
much lower than that to which undisciplined nature would
raise
them. These are, hatred and resentment, with all their
different
modifications. With regard to all such passions, our
sympathy
is divided between the person who feels them, and the
person
who is the object of them. The interests of these two are
directly
opposite. What our sympathy with the person who feels
them
would prompt us to wish for, our fellow-feeling with the
other
would lead us to fear. As they are both men, we are
concerned
for both, and our fear for what the one may suffer,
damps
our resentment for what the other has suffered. Our
sympathy,
therefore, with the man who has received the
provocation,
necessarily falls short of the passion which
naturally
animates him, not only upon account of those general
causes
which render all sympathetic passions inferior to the
original
ones, but upon account of that particular cause which is
peculiar
to itself, our opposite sympathy with another person.
Before
resentment, therefore, can become graceful and agreeable,
it must
be more humbled and brought down below that pitch to
which
it would naturally rise, than almost any other passion.
Mankind, at the same time, have a very
strong sense of the
injuries
that are done to another. The villain, in a tragedy or
romance,
is as much the object of our indignation, as the hero is
that of
our sympathy and affection. We detest Iago as much as we
esteem
Othello; and delight as much in the punishment of the one,
as we
are grieved at the distress of the other. But though
mankind
have so strong a fellow-feeling with the injuries that
are
done to their brethren, they do not always resent them the
more
that the sufferer appears to resent them. Upon most
occasions,
the greater his patience, his mildness, his humanity,
provided
it does not appear that he wants spirit, or that fear
was the
motive of his forbearance, the higher their resentment
against
the person who injured him. The amiableness of the
character
exasperates their sense of the atrocity of the injury.
Those passions, however, are regarded as
necessary parts of
the
character of human nature. A person becomes contemptible who
tamely
sits still, and submits to insults, without attempting
either
to repel or to revenge them. We cannot enter into his
indifference
and insensibility. we call his behaviour
mean-spiritedness,
and are as really provoked by it as by the
insolence
of his adversary. Even the mob are enraged to see any
man
submit patiently to affronts and ill usage. They desire to
see
this insolence resented, and resented by the person who
suffers
from it. They cry to him with fury, to defend, or to
revenge
himself. If his indignation rouses at last, they heartily
applaud,
and sympathize with it. It enlivens their own
indignation
against his enemy, whom they rejoice to see him
attack
in his turn, and are as really gratified by his revenge,
provided
it is not immoderate, as if the injury had been done to
themselves.
But though the utility of those passions
to the individual,
by
rendering it dangerous to insult or injure him, be
acknowledged;
and though their utility to the public, as the
guardians
of justice, and of the equality of its administration,
be not
less considerable, as shall be shewn hereafter; yet there
is
still something disagreeable in the passions themselves, which
makes
the appearance of them in other men the natural object of
our
aversion. The expression of anger towards any body present,
if it
exceeds a bare intimation that we are sensible of his ill
usage,
is regarded not only as an insult to that particular
person,
but as a rudeness to the whole company. Respect for them
ought
to have restrained us from giving way to so boisterous and
offensive
an emotion. It is the remote effects of these passions
which
are agreeable; the immediate effects are mischief to the
person
against whom they are directed. But it is the immediate,
and not
the remote effects of objects which render them agreeable
or
disagreeable to the imagination. A prison is certainly more
useful
to the public than a palace; and the person who founds the
one is
generally directed by a much juster spirit of patriotism,
than he
who builds the other. But the immediate effects of a
prison,
the confinement of the wretches shut up in it, are
disagreeable;
and the imagination either does not take time to
trace
out the remote ones, or sees them at too great a distance
to be
much affected by them. A prison, therefore, will always be
a
disagreeable object; and the fitter it is for the purpose for
which
it was intended, it will be the more so. A palace, on the
contrary,
will always be agreeable; yet its remote effects may
often
be inconvenient to the public. It may serve to promote
luxury,
and set the example of the dissolution of manners. Its
immediate
effects, however, the conveniency, the pleasure, and
the
gaiety of the people who live in it, being all agreeable, and
suggesting
to the imagination a thousand agreeable ideas, that
faculty
generally rests upon them, and seldom goes further in
tracing
its more distant consequences. Trophies of the
instruments
of music or of agriculture, imitated in painting or
in
stucco, make a common and an agreeable ornament of our halls
and
dining-rooms. A trophy of the same kind, composed of the
instruments
of surgery, of dissecting and amputation-knives, of
saws
for cutting the bones, of trepanning instruments, etc. would
be
absurd and shocking. Instruments of surgery, however, are
always
more finely polished, and generally more nicely adapted to
the
purposes for which they are intended, than instruments of
agriculture.
The remote effects of them too, the health of the
patient,
is agreeable; yet as the immediate effect of them is
pain
and suffering, the sight of them always displeases us.
Instruments
of war are agreeable, though their immediate effect
may
seem to be in the same manner pain and suffering. But then it
is the
pain and suffering of our enemies, with whom we have no
sympathy.
With regard to us, they are immediately connected with
the
agreeable ideas of courage, victory, and honour. They are
themselves,
therefore, supposed to make one of the noblest parts
of
dress, and the imitation of them one of the finest ornaments
of
architecture. It is the same case with the qualities of the
mind.
The ancient stoics were of opinion, that as the world was
governed
by the all-ruling providence of a wise, powerful, and
good
God, every single event ought to be regarded, as making a
necessary
part of the plan of the universe, and as tending to
promote
the general order and happiness of the whole: that the
vices
and follies of mankind, therefore, made as necessary a part
of this
plan as their wisdom or their virtue; and by that eternal
art
which educes good from ill, were made to tend equally to the
prosperity
and perfection of the great system of nature. No
speculation
of this kind, however, how deeply soever it might be
rooted
in the mind, could diminish our natural abhorrence for
vice,
whose immediate effects are so destructive, and whose
remote
ones are too distant to be traced by the imagination.
It is the same case with those passions we
have been just now
considering.
Their immediate effects are so disagreeable, that
even
when they are most justly provoked, there is still something
about
them which disgusts us. These, therefore, are the only
passions
of which the expressions, as I formerly observed, do not
dispose
and prepare us to sympathize with them, before we are
informed
of the cause which excites them. The plaintive voice of
misery,
when heard at a distance, will not allow us to be
indifferent
about the person from whom it comes. As soon as it
strikes
our ear, it interests us in his fortune, and, if
continued,
forces us almost involuntarily to fly to his
assistance.
The sight of a smiling countenance, in the same
manner,
elevates even the pensive into that gay and airy mood,
which
disposes him to sympathize with, and share the joy which it
expresses;
and he feels his heart, which with thought and care
was
before that shrunk and depressed, instantly expanded and
elated.
But it is quite otherwise with the expressions of hatred
and
resentment. The hoarse, boisterous, and discordant voice of
anger,
when heard at a distance, inspires us either with fear or
aversion.
We do not fly towards it, as to one who cries out with
pain
and agony. Women, and men of weak nerves, tremble and are
overcome
with fear, though sensible that themselves are not the
objects
of the anger. They conceive fear, however, by putting
themselves
in the situation of the person who is so. Even those
of
stouter hearts are disturbed; not indeed enough to make them
afraid,
but enough to make them angry; for anger is the passion
which
they would feel in the situation of the other person. It is
the
same case with hatred. Mere expressions of spite inspire it
against
nobody, but the man who uses them. Both these passions
are by
nature the objects of our aversion. Their disagreeable and
boisterous
appearance never excites, never prepares, and often
disturbs
our sympathy. Grief does not more powerfully engage and
attract
us to the person in whom we observe it, than these, while
we are
ignorant of their cause, disgust and detach us from him.
It was,
it seems, the intention of Nature, that those rougher and
more
unamiable emotions, which drive men from one another, should
be less
easily and more rarely communicated.
When music imitates the modulations of
grief or joy, it
either
actually inspires us with those passions, or at least puts
us in
the mood which disposes us to conceive them. But when it
imitates
the notes of anger, it inspires us with fear. Joy,
grief,
love, admiration, devotion, are all of them passions which
are
naturally musical. Their natural tones are all soft, clear,
and
melodious; and they naturally express themselves in periods
which
are distinguished by regular pauses, and which upon that
account
are easily adapted to the regular returns of the
correspondent
airs of a tune. The voice of anger, on the
contrary,
and of all the passions which are akin to it, is harsh
and
discordant. Its periods too are all irregular, sometimes very
long,
and sometimes very short, and distinguished by no regular
pauses.
It is with difficulty, therefore, that music can imitate
any of
those passions; and the music which does imitate them is
not the
most agreeable. A whole entertainment may consist,
without
any impropriety, of the imitation of the social and
agreeable
passions. It would be a strange entertainment which
consisted
altogether of the imitations of hatred and resentment.
If those passions are disagreeable to the
spectator, they are
not
less so to the person who feels them. Hatred and anger are
the
greatest poison to the happiness of a good mind. There is, in
the
very feeling of those passions, something harsh, jarring, and
convulsive,
something that tears and distracts the breast, and is
altogether
destructive of that composure and tranquillity of mind
which
is so necessary to happiness, and which is best promoted by
the
contrary passions of gratitude and love. It is not the value
of what
they lose by the perfidy and ingratitude of those they
live
with, which the generous and humane are most apt to regret.
Whatever
they may have lost, they can generally be very happy
without
it. What most disturbs them is the idea of perfidy and
ingratitude
exercised towards themselves; and the discordant and
disagreeable
passions which this excites, constitute, in their
own
opinion, the chief part of the injury which they suffer.
How many things are requisite to render
the gratification of
resentment
completely agreeable, and to make the spectator
thoroughly
sympathize with our revenge? The provocation must
first
of all be such that we should become contemptible, and be
exposed
to perpetual insults, if we did not, in some measure,
resent
it. Smaller offences are always better neglected; nor is
there
any thing more despicable than that froward and captious
humour
which takes fire upon every slight occasion of quarrel. We
should
resent more from a sense of the propriety of resentment,
from a
sense that mankind expect and require it of us, than
because
we feel in ourselves the furies of that disagreeable
passion.
There is no passion, of which the human mind is capable,
concerning
whose justness we ought to be so doubtful, concerning
whose
indulgence we ought so carefully to consult our natural
sense
of propriety, or so diligently to consider what will be the
sentiments
of the cool and impartial spectator. Magnanimity, or a
regard
to maintain our own rank and dignity in society, is the
only
motive which can ennoble the expressions of this
disagreeable
passion. This motive must characterize our whole
stile
and deportment. These must be plain, open, and direct;
determined
without positiveness, and elevated without insolence;
not
only free from petulance and low scurrility, but generous,
candid,
and full of all proper regards, even for the person who
has
offended us. It must appear, in short, from our whole manner,
without
our labouring affectedly to express it, that passion has
not
extinguished our humanity; and that if we yield to the
dictates
of revenge, it is with reluctance, from necessity, and
in
consequence of great and repeated provocations. When
resentment
is guarded and qualified in this manner, it may be
admitted
to be even generous and noble.
Chap.
IV
Of the
social Passions
As it is a divided sympathy which renders
the whole set of
passions
just now mentioned, upon most occasions, so ungraceful
and
disagreeable; so there is another set opposite to these,
which a
redoubled sympathy renders almost always peculiarly
agreeable
and becoming. Generosity, humanity, kindness,
compassion,
mutual friendship and esteem, all the social and
benevolent
affections, when expressed in the countenance or
behaviour,
even towards those who are not peculiarly connected
with
ourselves, please the indifferent spectator upon almost
every
occasion. His sympathy with the person who feels those
passions,
exactly coincides with his concern for the person who
is the
object of them. The interest, which, as a man, he is
obliged
to take in the happiness of this last, enlivens his
fellow-feeling
with the sentiments of the other, whose emotions
are
employed about the same object. We have always, therefore,
the
strongest disposition to sympathize with the benevolent
affections.
They appear in every respect agreeable to us. We
enter
into the satisfaction both of the person who feels them,
and of
the person who is the object of them. For as to be the
object
of hatred and indignation gives more pain than all the
evil
which a brave man can fear from his enemies; so there is a
satisfaction
in the consciousness of being beloved, which, to a
person
of delicacy and sensibility, is of more importance to
happiness,
than all the advantage which he can expect to derive
from
it. What character is so detestable as that of one who takes
pleasure
to sow dissension among friends, and to turn their most
tender
love into mortal hatred? Yet wherein does the atrocity of
this so
much abhorred injury consist? Is it in depriving them of
the
frivolous good offices, which, had their friendship
continued,
they might have expected from one another? It is in
depriving
them of that friendship itself, in robbing them of each
other's
affections, from which both derived so much satisfaction;
it is
in disturbing the harmony of their hearts, and putting an
end to
that happy commerce which had before subsisted between
them.
These affections, that harmony, this commerce, are felt,
not
only by the tender and the delicate, but by the rudest vulgar
of
mankind, to be of more importance to happiness than all the
little
services which could be expected to flow from them.
The sentiment of love is, in itself,
agreeable to the person
who
feels it. It sooths and composes the breast, seems to favour
the
vital motions, and to promote the healthful state of the
human
constitution; and it is rendered still more delightful by
the
consciousness of the gratitude and satisfaction which it must
excite
in him who is the object of it. Their mutual regard
renders
them happy in one another, and sympathy, with this mutual
regard,
makes them agreeable to every other person. With what
pleasure
do we look upon a family, through the whole of which
reign
mutual love and esteem, where the parents and children are
companions
for one another, without any other difference than
what is
made by respectful affection on the one side, and kind
indulgence
on the other. where freedom and fondness, mutual
raillery
and mutual kindness, show that no opposition of interest
divides
the brothers, nor any rivalship of favour sets the
sisters
at variance, and where every thing presents us with the
idea of
peace, cheerfulness, harmony, and contentment? On the
contrary,
how uneasy are we made when we go into a house in which
jarring
contention sets one half of those who dwell in it against
the
other; where amidst affected smoothness and complaisance,
suspicious
looks and sudden starts of passion betray the mutual
jealousies
which burn within them, and which are every moment
ready
to burst out through all the restraints which the presence
of the
company imposes?
Those amiable passions, even when they are
acknowledged to be
excessive,
are never regarded with aversion. There is something
agreeable
even in the weakness of friendship and humanity. The
too
tender mother, the too indulgent father, the too generous and
affectionate
friend, may sometimes, perhaps, on account of the
softness
of their natures, be looked upon with a species of pity,
in
which, however, there is a mixture of love, but can never be
regarded
with hatred and aversion, nor even with contempt, unless
by the
most brutal and worthless of mankind. It is always with
concern,
with sympathy and kindness, that we blame them for the
extravagance
of their attachment. There is a helplessness in the
character
of extreme humanity which more than any thing interests
our
pity. There is nothing in itself which renders it either
ungraceful
or disagreeable. We only regret that it is unfit for
the
world, because the world is unworthy of it, and because it
must
expose the person who is endowed with it as a prey to the
perfidy
and ingratitude of insinuating falsehood, and to a
thousand
pains and uneasinesses, which, of all men, he the least
deserves
to feel, and which generally too he is, of all men, the
least
capable of supporting. It is quite otherwise with hatred
and
resentment. Too violent a propensity to those detestable
passions,
renders a person the object of universal dread and
abhorrence,
who, like a wild beast, ought, we think, to be hunted
out of
all civil society.
Chap. V
Of the
selfish Passions
Besides those two opposite sets of
passions, the social and
unsocial,
there is another which holds a sort of middle place
between
them; is never either so graceful as is sometimes the one
set,
nor is ever so odious as is sometimes the other. Grief and
joy,
when conceived upon account of our own private good or bad
fortune,
constitute this third set of passions. Even when
excessive,
they are never so disagreeable as excessive
resentment,
because no opposite sympathy can ever interest us
against
them: and when most suitable to their objects, they are
never
so agreeable as impartial humanity and just benevolence;
because
no double sympathy can ever interest us for them. There
is,
however, this difference between grief and joy, that we are
generally
most disposed to sympathize with small joys and great
sorrows.
The man who, by some sudden revolution of fortune, is
lifted
up all at once into a condition of life, greatly above
what he
had formerly lived in, may be assured that the
congratulations
of his best friends are not all of them perfectly
sincere.
An upstart, though of the greatest merit, is generally
disagreeable,
and a sentiment of envy commonly prevents us from
heartily
sympathizing with his joy. If he has any judgment, he is
sensible
of this, and instead of appearing to be elated with his
good
fortune, he endeavours, as much as he can, to smother his
joy,
and keep down that elevation of mind with which his new
circumstances
naturally inspire him. He affects the same
plainness
of dress, and the same modesty of behaviour, which
became
him in his former station. He redoubles his attention to
his old
friends, and endeavours more than ever to be humble,
assiduous,
and complaisant. And this is the behaviour which in
his
situation we most approve of; because we expect, it seems,
that he
should have more sympathy with our envy and aversion to
his
happiness, than we have with his happiness. It is seldom that
with
all this he succeeds. We suspect the sincerity of his
humility,
and he grows weary of this constraint. In a little
time,
therefore, he generally leaves all his old friends behind
him,
some of the meanest of them excepted, who may, perhaps,
condescend
to become his dependents: nor does he always acquire
any new
ones; the pride of his new connections is as much
affronted
at finding him their equal, as that of his old ones had
been by
his becoming their superior: and it requires the most
obstinate
and persevering modesty to atone for this mortification
to
either. He generally grows weary too soon, and is provoked, by
the
sullen and suspicious pride of the one, and by the saucy
contempt
of the other, to treat the first with neglect, and the
second
with petulance, till at last he grows habitually insolent,
and
forfeits the esteem of all. If the chief part of human
happiness
arises from the consciousness of being beloved, as I
believe
it does, those sudden changes of fortune seldom
contribute
much to happiness. He is happiest who advances more
gradually
to greatness, whom the public destines to every step of
his
preferment long before he arrives at it, in whom, upon that
account,
when it comes, it can excite no extravagant joy, and
with
regard to whom it cannot reasonably create either any
jealousy
in those he overtakes, or any envy in those he leaves
behind.
Mankind, however, more readily sympathize
with those smaller
joys
which flow from less important causes. It is decent to be
humble
amidst great prosperity; but we can scarce express too
much
satisfaction in all the little occurrences of common life,
in the
company with which we spent the evening last night, in the
entertainment
that was set before us, in what was said and what
was
done, in all the little incidents of the present
conversation,
and in all those frivolous nothings which fill up
the
void of human life. Nothing is more graceful than habitual
cheerfulness,
which is always founded upon a peculiar relish for
all the
little pleasures which common occurrences afford. We
readily
sympathize with it: it inspires us with the same joy, and
makes
every trifle turn up to us in the same agreeable aspect in
which
it presents itself to the person endowed with this happy
disposition.
Hence it is that youth, the season of gaiety, so
easily
engages our affections. That propensity to joy which seems
even to
animate the bloom, and to sparkle from the eyes of youth
and
beauty, though in a person of the same sex, exalts, even the
aged,
to a more joyous mood than ordinary. They forget, for a
time,
their infirmities, and abandon themselves to those
agreeable
ideas and emotions to which they have long been
strangers,
but which, when the presence of so much happiness
recalls
them to their breast, take their place there, like old
acquaintance,
from whom they are sorry to have ever been parted,
and
whom they embrace more heartily upon account of this long
separation.
It is quite otherwise with grief. Small
vexations excite no
sympathy,
but deep affliction calls forth the greatest. The man
who is
made uneasy by every little disagreeable incident, who is
hurt if
either the cook or the butler have failed in the least
article
of their duty, who feels every defect in the highest
ceremonial
of politeness, whether it be shewn to himself or to
any
other person, who takes it amiss that his intimate friend did
not bid
him good-morrow when they met in the forenoon, and that
his
brother hummed a tune all the time he himself was telling a
story;
who is put out of humour by the badness of the weather
when in
the country, by the badness of the roads when upon a
journey,
and by the want of company, and dulness of all public
diversions
when in town; such a person, I say, though he should
have
some reason, will seldom meet with much sympathy. Joy is a
pleasant
emotion, and we gladly abandon ourselves to it upon the
slightest
occasion. We readily, therefore, sympathize with it in
others,
whenever we are not prejudiced by envy. But grief is
painful,
and the mind, even when it is our own misfortune,
naturally
resists and recoils from it. We would endeavour either
not to
conceive it at all, or to shake it off as soon as we have
conceived
it. Our aversion to grief will not, indeed, always
hinder
us from conceiving it in our own case upon very trifling
occasions,
but it constantly prevents us from sympathizing with
it in
others when excited by the like frivolous causes: for our
sympathetic
passions are always less irresistible than our
original
ones. There is, besides, a malice in mankind, which not
only
prevents all sympathy with little uneasinesses, but renders
them in
some measure diverting. Hence the delight which we all
take in
raillery, and in the small vexation which we observe in
our
companion, when he is pushed, and urged, and teased upon all
sides.
Men of the most ordinary good-breeding dissemble the pain
which
any little incident may give them; and those who are more
thoroughly
formed to society, turn, of their own accord, all such
incidents
into raillery, as they know their companions will do
for
them. The habit which a man, who lives in the world, has
acquired
of considering how every thing that concerns himself
will
appear to others, makes those frivolous calamities turn up
in the
same ridiculous light to him, in which he knows they will
certainly
be considered by them.
Our sympathy, on the contrary, with deep
distress, is very
strong
and very sincere. It is unnecessary to give an instance.
We weep
even at the feigned representation of a tragedy. If you
labour,
therefore, under any signal calamity, if by some
extraordinary
misfortune you are fallen into poverty, into
diseases,
into disgrace and disappointment; even though your own
fault
may have been, in part, the occasion, yet you may generally
depend
upon the sincerest sympathy of all your friends, and, as
far as
interest and honour will permit, upon their kindest
assistance
too. But if your misfortune is not of this dreadful
kind,
if you have only been a little baulked in your ambition, if
you
have only been jilted by your mistress, or are only
hen-pecked
by your wife, lay your account with the raillery of
all your
acquaintance.
Section
III
Of the
Effects of Prosperity and Adversity upon the Judgment of
Mankind
with regard to the Propriety of Action; and why it is
more
easy to obtain their Aprobation in the one state than in the
other
Chap. I
That
though our sympathy with sorrow is generally a more lively
sensation
than our sympathy with joy, it commonly falls much more
short
of the violence of what is naturally felt by the person
principally
concerned
Our sympathy with sorrow, though not more
real, has been more
taken
notice of than our sympathy with joy. The word sympathy, in
its
most proper and primitive signification, denotes our
fellow-feeling
with the sufferings, not that with the enjoyments,
of
others. A late ingenious and subtile philosopher thought it
necessary
to prove, by arguments, that we had a real sympathy
with
joy, and that congratulation was a principle of human
nature.
Nobody, I believe, ever thought it necessary to prove
that
compassion was such.
First of all, our sympathy with sorrow is,
in some sense,
more
universal than that with joy. Though sorrow is excessive, we
may
still have some fellow-feeling with it. What we feel does
not,
indeed, in this case, amount to that complete sympathy, to
that
perfect harmony and correspondence of sentiments which
constitutes
approbation. We do not weep, and exclaim, and lament,
with
the sufferer. We are sensible, on the contrary, of his weak
ness
and of the extravagance of his passion, and yet often feel a
very
sensible concern upon his account. But if we do not entirely
enter
into, and go along with, the joy of another, we have no
sort of
regard or fellow-feeling for it. The man who skips and
dances
about with that intemperate and senseless joy which we
cannot
accompany him in, is the object of our contempt and
indignation.
Pain besides, whether of mind or body, is
a more pungent
sensation
than pleasure, and our sympathy with pain, though it
falls
greatly short of what is naturally felt by the sufferer, is
generally
a more lively and distinct perception than our sympathy
with
pleasure, though this last often approaches more nearly, as
I shall
shew immediately, to the natural vivacity of the original
passion.
Over and above all this, we often struggle
to keep down our
sympathy
with the sorrow of others. Whenever we are not under the
observation
of the sufferer, we endeavour, for our own sake, to
suppress
it as much as we can, and we are not always successful.
The
opposition which we make to it, and the reluctance with which
we
yield to it, necessarily oblige us to take more particular
notice
of it. But we never have occasion to make this opposition
to our
sympathy with joy. If there is any envy in the case, we
never
feel the least propensity towards it; and if there is none,
we give
way to it without any reluctance. On the contrary, as we
are
always ashamed of our own envy, we often pretend, and
sometimes
really wish to sympathize with the joy of others, when
by that
disagreeable sentiment we are disqualified from doing so.
We are
glad, we say on account of our neighbour's good fortune,
when in
our hearts, perhaps, we are really sorry. We often feel a
sympathy
with sorrow when we would wish to be rid of it; and we
often
miss that with joy when we would be glad to have it. The
obvious
observation, therefore, which it naturally falls in our
way to
make, is, that our propensity to sympathize with sorrow
must be
very strong, and our inclination to sympathize with joy
very
weak.
Notwithstanding this prejudice, however, I
will venture to
affirm,
that, when there is no envy in the case, our propensity
to
sympathize with joy is much stronger than our propensity to
sympathize
with sorrow; and that our fellow-feeling for the
agreeable
emotion approaches much more nearly to the vivacity of
what is
naturally felt by the persons principally concerned, than
that
which we conceive for the painful one.
We have some indulgence for that excessive
grief which we
cannot
entirely go along with. We know what a prodigious effort
is
requisite before the sufferer can bring down his emotions. to
complete
harmony and concord with those of the spectator. Though
he
fails, therefore, we easily pardon him. But we have no such
indulgence
for the intemperance of joy; because we are not
conscious
that any such vast effort is requisite to bring it down
to what
we can entirely enter into. The man who, under the
greatest
calamities, can command his sorrow, seems worthy of the
highest
admiration; but he who, in the fulness of prosperity, can
in the
same manner master his joy, seems hardly to deserve any
praise.
We are sensible that there is a much wider interval in
the one
case than in the other, between what is naturally felt by
the
person principally concerned, and what the spectator can
entirely
go along with.
What can he added to the happiness of the
man who is in
health,
who is out of debt, and has a clear conscience? To one in
this
situation, all accessions of fortune may properly be said to
be
superfluous; and if he is much elevated upon account of them,
it must
be the effect of the most frivolous levity. This
situation,
however, may very well be called the natural and
ordinary
state of mankind. Notwithstanding the present misery and
depravity
of the world, so justly lamented, this really is the
state
of the greater part of men. The greater part of men,
therefore,
cannot find any great difficulty in elevating
themselves
to all the joy which any accession to this situation
can
well excite in their companion.
But though little can be added to this
state, much may be
taken
from it. Though between this condition and the highest
pitch
of human prosperity, the interval is but a trifle; between
it and
the lowest depth of misery the distance is immense and
prodigious.
Adversity, on this account, necessarily depresses the
mind of
the sufferer much more below its natural state, than
prosperity
can elevate him above it. The spectator therefore,
must
find it much more difficult to sympathize entirely, and keep
perfect
time, with his sorrow, than thoroughly to enter into his
joy,
and must depart much further from his own natural and
ordinary
temper of mind in the one case than in the other. It is
on this
account, that though our sympathy with sorrow is often a
more
pungent sensation than our sympathy with joy, it always
falls
much more short of the violence of what is naturally felt
by the
person principally concerned.
It is agreeable to sympathize with, joy;
and wherever envy
does
not oppose it, our heart abandons itself with satisfaction
to the
highest transports of that delightful sentiment. But it is
painful
to go along with grief, and we always enter into it with
reluctance.(*)
When we attend to the representation of a tragedy,
we
struggle against that sympathetic sorrow which the
entertainment
inspires as long as we can, and we give way to it
at last
only when we can no longer avoid it: we even then
endeavour
to cover our concern from the company. If we shed any
tears,
we carefully conceal them, and are afraid, lest the
spectators,
not entering into this excessive tenderness, should
regard
it as effeminacy and weakness. The wretch whose
misfortunes
call upon our compassion feels with what reluctance
we are
likely to enter into his sorrow, and therefore proposes
his
grief to us with fear and hesitation: he even smothers the
half of
it, and is ashamed, upon account of this hard-heartedness
of
mankind, to give vent to the fulness of his affliction. It is
otherwise
with the man who riots in joy and success. Wherever
envy
does not interest us against him, he expects our completest
sympathy.
He does not fear, therefore, to announce himself with
shouts
of exultation, in full confidence that we are heartily
disposed
to go along with him.
Why should we be more ashamed to weep than
to laugh before
company?
We may often have as real occasion to do the one as to
do the
other. but we always feel that the spectators are more
likely
to go along with us in the agreeable, than in the painful
emotion.
It is always miserable to complain, even when we are
oppressed
by the most dreadful calamities. But the triumph of
victory
is not always ungraceful. Prudence, indeed, would often
advise
us to bear our prosperity with more moderation; because
prudence
would teach us to avoid that envy which this very
triumph
is, more than any thing, apt to excite.
How hearty are the acclamations of the
mob, who never bear
any
envy to their superiors, at a triumph or a public entry? And
how
sedate and moderate is commonly their grief at an execution?
Our
sorrow at a funeral generally amounts to no more than an
affected
gravity. but our mirth at a christening or a marriage,
is
always from the heart, and without any affectation. Upon
these,
and all such joyous occasions, our satisfaction, though
not so
durable, is often as lively as that of the persons
principally
concerned. Whenever we cordially congratulate our
friends,
which, however, to the disgrace of human nature, we do
but
seldom, their joy literally becomes our joy. we are, for the
moment,
as happy as they are: our heart swells and overflows with
real
pleasure: joy and complacency sparkle from our eyes, and
animate
every feature of our countenance, and every gesture of
our
body.
But, on the contrary, when we condole with
our friends in
their
afflictions, how little do we feel, in comparison of what
they
feel? We sit down by them, we look at them, and while they
relate
to us the circumstances of their misfortune, we listen to
them
with gravity and attention. But while their narration is
every
moment interrupted by those natural bursts of passion which
often
seem almost to choak them in the midst of it; how far are
the
languid emotions of our hearts from keeping time to the
transports
of theirs? We may be sensible, at the same time, that
their
passion is natural, and no greater than what we ourselves
might
feel upon the like occasion. We may even inwardly reproach
ourselves
with our own want of sensibility, and perhaps, on that
account,
work ourselves up into an artificial sympathy, which,
however,
when it is raised, is always the slightest and most
transitory
imaginable; and generally, as soon as we have left the
room,
vanishes, and is gone for ever. Nature, it seems, when she
loaded
us with our own sorrows, thought that they were enough,
and
therefore did not command us to take any further share in
those
of others, than what was necessary to prompt us to relieve
them.
It is on account of this dull sensibility
to the afflictions
of
others, that magnanimity amidst great distress appears always
so
divinely graceful. His behaviour is genteel and agreeable who
can
maintain his cheerfulness amidst a number of frivolous
disasters.
But he appears to be more than mortal who can support
in the
same manner the most dreadful calamities. We feel what an
immense
effort is requisite to silence those violent emotions
which
naturally agitate and distract those in his situation. We
are
amazed to find that he can command himself so entirely. His
firmness,
at the same time, perfectly coincides with our
insensibility.
He makes no demand upon us for that more exquisite
degree
of sensibility which we find, and which we are mortified
to
find, that we do not possess. There is the most perfect
correspondence
between his sentiments and ours, and on that
account
the most perfect propriety in his behaviour. It is a
propriety
too, which, from our experience of the usual weakness
of
human nature, we could not reasonably have expected he should
be able
to maintain. We wonder with surprise and astonishment at
that
strength of mind which is capable of so noble and generous
an
effort. The sentiment of complete sympathy and approbation,
mixed
and animated with wonder and surprise, constitutes what is
properly
called admiration, as has already been more than once
taken
notice of Cato, surrounded on all sides by his enemies,
unable
to resist them, disdaining to submit to them, and reduced,
by the
proud maxims of that age, to the necessity of destroying
himself;
yet never shrinking from his misfortunes, never
supplicating
with the lamentable voice of wretchedness, those
miserable
sympathetic tears which we are always so unwilling to
give;
but on the contrary, arming himself with manly fortitude,
and the
moment before he executes his fatal resolution, giving,
with
his usual tranquillity, all necessary orders for the safety
of his
friends; appears to Seneca, that great preacher of
insensibility,
a spectacle which even the gods themselves might
behold
with pleasure and admiration.
Whenever we meet, in common life, with any
examples of such
heroic
magnanimity, we are always extremely affected. We are more
apt to
weep and shed tears for such as, in this manner, seem to
feel
nothing for them. and in selves, than for those who give way
to all
the weakness of sorrow: this particular case, the
sympathetic
grief of the spectator appears to go beyond the
original
passion in the person principally concerned. The friends
of
Socrates all wept when he drank the last potion, while he
himself
expressed the gayest and most cheerful tranquillity. Upon
all
such occasions the spectator makes no effort, and has no
occasion
to make any, in order to conquer his sympathetic sorrow.
He is
under no fear that it will transport him to any thing that
is
extravagant and improper; he is rather pleased with the
sensibility
of his own heart, and gives way to it with
complacence
and self-approbation. He gladly indulges, therefore,
the
most melancholy views which can naturally occur to him,
concerning
the calamity of his friend, for whom, perhaps, he
never
felt so exquisitely before, the tender and tearful passion
of
love. But it is quite otherwise with the person principally
concerned.
He is obliged, as much as possible, to turn away his
eyes
from whatever is either naturally terrible or disagreeable
in his
situation. Too serious an attention to those
circumstances,
he fears, might make so violent an impression upon
him,
that he could no longer keep within the bounds of
moderation,
or render himself the object of the complete sympathy
and
approbation of the spectators. He fixes his thoughts,
therefore,
upon those only which are agreeable, the applause and
admiration
which he is about to deserve by the heroic magnanimity
of his
behaviour. To feel that he is capable of so noble and
generous
an effort, to feel that in this dreadful situation he
can
still act as he would desire to act, animates and transports
him
with joy, and enables him to support that triumphant gaiety
which
seems to exult in the victory he thus gains over his
misfortunes.
On the contrary, he always appears, in
some measure, mean and
despicable,
who is sunk in sorrow and dejection upon account of
any
calamity of his own. We cannot bring ourselves to feel for
him
what he feels for himself, and what, perhaps, we should feel
for
ourselves if in his situation: we, therefore, despise him;
unjustly,
perhaps, if any sentiment could be regarded as unjust,
to
which we are by nature irresistibly determined. The weakness
of
sorrow never appears in any respect agreeable, except when it
arises
from what we feel for others more than from what we feel
for
ourselves. A son, upon the death of an indulgent and
respectable
father, may give way to it without much blame. His
sorrow
is chiefly founded upon a sort of sympathy with his
departed
parent and we readily enter into this humane emotion.
But if
he should indulge the same weakness upon account of any
misfortune
which affected himself only, he would no longer meet
with
any such indulgence. If he should be reduced to beggary and
ruin,
if he should be exposed to the most dreadful dangers, if he
should
even be led out to a public execution, and there shed one
single
tear upon the scaffold, he would disgrace himself for ever
in the
opinion of all the gallant and generous part of mankind.
Their
compassion for him, however, would be very strong, and very
sincere;
but as it would still fall short of this excessive
weakness,
they would have no pardon for the man who could thus
expose
himself in the eyes of the world. His behaviour would
affect
them with shame rather than with sorrow; and the dishonour
which
he had thus brought upon himself would appear to them the
most
lamentable circumstance in his misfortune. How did it
disgrace
the memory of the intrepid Duke of Biron, who had so
often
braved death in the field, that he wept upon the scaffold,
when he
beheld the state to which he was fallen, and remembered
the
favour and the glory from which his own rashness had so
unfortunately
thrown him!
Chap.
II
Of the
origin of Ambition, and of the distinction of Ranks
It is because mankind are disposed to
sympathize more
entirely
with our joy than with our sorrow, that we make parade
of our
riches, and conceal our poverty. Nothing is so mortifying
as to
be obliged to expose our distress to the view of the
public,
and to feel, that though our situation is open to the
eyes of
all mankind, no mortal conceives for us the half of what
we
suffer. Nay, it is chiefly from this regard to the sentiments
of
mankind, that we pursue riches and avoid poverty. For to what
purpose
is all the toil and bustle of this world? what is the end
of
avarice and ambition, of the pursuit of wealth, of power, and
preheminence?
Is it to supply the necessities of nature? The
wages
of the meanest labourer can supply them. We see that they
afford
him food and clothing, the comfort of a house, and of a
family.
If we examined his oeconomy with rigour, we should find
that he
spends a great part of them upon conveniencies, which may
be
regarded as superfluities, and that, upon extraordinary
occasions,
he can give something even to vanity and distinction.
What
then is the cause of our aversion to his situation, and why
should
those who have been educated in the higher ranks of life,
regard
it as worse than death, to be reduced to live, even
without
labour, upon the same simple fare with him, to dwell
under
the same lowly roof, and to be clothed in the same humble.
attire?
Do they imagine that their stomach is better, or their
sleep
sounder in a palace than in a cottage? The contrary has
been so
often observed, and, indeed, is so very obvious, though
it had
never been observed, that there is nobody ignorant of it.
From
whence, then, arises that emulation which runs through all
the
different ranks of men, and what are the advantages which we
propose
by that great purpose of human life which we call
bettering
our condition? To be observed, to be attended to, to be
taken
notice of with sympathy, complacency, and approbation, are
all the
advantages which we can propose to derive from it. It is
the
vanity, not the ease, or the pleasure, which interests us.
But
vanity is always founded upon the belief of our being the
object
of attention and approbation. The rich man glories in his
riches,
because he feels that they naturally draw upon him the
attention
of the world, and that mankind are disposed to go along
with
him in all those agreeable emotions with which the
advantages
of his situation so readily inspire him. At the
thought
of this, his heart seems to swell and dilate itself
within
him, and he is fonder of his wealth, upon this account,
than
for all the other advantages it procures him. The poor man,
on the
contrary, is ashamed of his poverty. He feels that it
either
places him out of the sight of mankind, or, that if they
take
any notice of him, they have, however, scarce any
fellow-feeling
with the misery and distress which he suffers. He
is
mortified upon both accounts. for though to be overlooked, and
to be
disapproved of, are things entirely different, yet as
obscurity
covers us from the daylight of honour and approbation,
to feel
that we are taken no notice of, necessarily damps the
most
agreeable hope, and disappoints the most ardent desire, of
human
nature. The poor man goes out and comes in unheeded, and
when in
the midst of a crowd is in the same obscurity as if shut
up in
his own hovel. Those humble cares and painful attentions
which
occupy those in his situation, afford no amusement to the
dissipated
and the gay. They turn away their eyes from him, or if
the
extremity of his distress forces them to look at him, it is
only to
spurn so disagreeable an object from among them. The
fortunate
and the proud wonder at the insolence of human
wretchedness,
that it should dare to present itself before them,
and
with the loathsome aspect of its misery presume to disturb
the
serenity of their happiness. The man of rank and distinction,
on the
contrary, is observed by all the world. Every body is
eager
to look at him, and to conceive, at least by sympathy, that
joy and
exultation with which his circumstances naturally inspire
him.
His actions are the objects of the public care. Scarce a
word,
scarce a gesture, can fall from him that is altogether
neglected.
In a great assembly he is the person upon whom all
direct
their eyes; it is upon him that their passions seem all to
wait
with expectation, in order to receive that movement and
direction
which he shall impress upon them; and if his behaviour
is not
altogether absurd, he has, every moment, an opportunity of
interesting
mankind, and of rendering himself the object of the
observation
and fellow-feeling of every body about him. It is
this,
which, notwithstanding the restraint it imposes,
notwithstanding
the loss of liberty with which it is attended,
renders
greatness the object of envy, and compensates, in the
opinion
of all those mortifications which must mankind, all that
toil,
all that anxiety, be undergone in the pursuit of it; and
what is
of yet more consequence, all that leisure, all that ease,
all
that careless security, which are forfeited for ever by the
acquisition.
When we consider the condition of the
great, in those
delusive
colours in which the imagination is apt to paint it. it
seems
to be almost the abstract idea of a perfect and happy
state.
It is the very state which, in all our waking dreams and
idle
reveries, we had sketched out to ourselves as the final
object
of all our desires. We feel, therefore, a peculiar
sympathy
with the satisfaction of those who are in it. We favour
all
their inclinations, and forward all their wishes. What pity,
we
think, that any thing should spoil and corrupt so agreeable a
situation!
We could even wish them immortal; and it seems hard to
us,
that death should at last put an end to such perfect
enjoyment.
It is cruel, we think, in Nature to compel them from
their
exalted stations to that humble, but hospitable home, which
she has
provided for all her children. Great King, live for ever!
is the
compliment, which, after the manner of eastern adulation,
we
should readily make them, if experience did not teach us its
absurdity.
Every calamity that befals them, every injury that is
done
them, excites in the breast of the spectator ten times more
compassion
and resentment than he would have felt, had the same
things
happened to other men. It is the misfortunes of Kings only
which
afford the proper subjects for tragedy. They resemble, in
this
respect, the misfortunes of lovers. Those two situations are
the
chief which interest us upon the theatre; because, in spite
of all
that reason and experience can tell us to the contrary,
the
prejudices of the imagination attach to these two states a
happiness
superior to any other. To disturb, or to put an end to
such
perfect enjoyment, seems to be the most atrocious of all
injuries.
The traitor who conspires against the life of his
monarch,
is thought a greater monster than any other murderer.
All the
innocent blood that was shed in the civil wars, provoked
less
indignation than the death of Charles I. A stranger to human
nature,
who saw the indifference of men about the misery of their
inferiors,
and the regret and indignation which they feel for the
misfortunes
and sufferings of those above them, would be apt to
imagine,
that pain must be more agonizing, and the convulsions of
death
more terrible to persons of higher rank, than to those of
meaner
stations.
Upon this disposition of mankind, to go
along with all the
passions
of the rich and the powerful, is founded the distinction
of
ranks, and the order of society. Our obsequiousness to our
superiors
more frequently arises from our admiration for the
advantages
of their situation, than from any private expectations
of
benefit from their good-will. Their benefits can extend but to
a few.
but their fortunes interest almost every body. We are
eager
to assist them in completing a system of happiness that
approaches
so near to perfection; and we desire to serve them for
their
own sake, without any other recompense but the vanity or
the
honour of obliging them. Neither is our deference to their
inclinations
founded chiefly, or altogether, upon a regard to the
utility
of such submission, and to the order of society, which is
best
supported by it. Even when the order of society seems to
require
that we should oppose them, we can hardly bring ourselves
to do
it. That kings are the servants of the people, to be
obeyed,
resisted, deposed, or punished, as the public conveniency
may
require, is the doctrine of reason and philosophy; but it is
not the
doctrine of Nature. Nature would teach us to submit to
them
for their own sake, to tremble and bow down before their
exalted
station, to regard their smile as a reward sufficient to
compensate
any services, and to dread their displeasure, though
no
other evil were to follow from it, as the severest of all
mortifications.
To treat them in any respect as men, to reason
and
dispute with them upon ordinary occasions, requires such
resolution,
that there are few men whose magnanimity can support
them in
it, unless they are likewise assisted by familiarity and
acquaintance.
The strongest motives, the most furious passions,
fear,
hatred, and resentment, are scarce sufficient to balance
this
natural disposition to respect them: and their conduct must,
either
justly or unjustly, have excited the highest degree of all
those
passions, before the bulk of the people can be brought to
oppose
them with violence, or to desire to see them either
punished
or deposed. Even when the people have been brought this
length,
they are apt to relent every moment, and easily relapse
into
their habitual state of deference to those whom they have
been
accustomed to look upon as their natural superiors. They
cannot
stand the mortification of their monarch. Compassion soon
takes
the place of resentment, they forget all past provocations,
their
old principles of loyalty revive, and they run to
re-establish
the ruined authority of their old masters, with the
same
violence with which they had opposed it. The death of
Charles
I brought about the Restoration of the royal family.
Compassion
for James II when he was seized by the populace in
making
his escape on ship-board, had almost prevented the
Revolution,
and made it go on more heavily than before.
Do the great seem insensible of the easy
price at which they
may
acquire the public admiration; or do they seem to imagine
that to
them, as to other men, it must be the purchase either of
sweat
or of blood? By what important accomplishments is the young
nobleman
instructed to support the dignity of his rank, and to
render
himself worthy of that superiority over his
fellow-citizens,
to which the virtue of his ancestors had raised
them?
Is it by knowledge, by industry, by patience, by
self-denial,
or by virtue of any kind? As all his words, as all
his
motions are attended to, he learns an habitual regard to
every
circumstance of ordinary behaviour, and studies to perform
all
those small duties with the most exact propriety. As he is
conscious
how much he is observed, and how much mankind are
disposed
to favour all his inclinations, he acts, upon the most
indifferent
occasions, with that freedom and elevation which the
thought
of this naturally inspires. His air, his manner, his
deportment,
all mark that elegant and graceful sense of his own
superiority,
which those who are born to inferior stations can
hardly
ever arrive at. These are the arts by which he proposes to
make
mankind more easily submit to his authority, and to govern
their
inclinations according to his own pleasure: and in this he
is
seldom disappointed. These arts, supported by rank and
preheminence,
are, upon ordinary occasions, sufficient to govern
the
world. Lewis XIV during the greater part of his reign, was
regarded,
not only in France, but over all Europe, as the most
perfect
model of a great prince. But what were the talents and
virtues
by which he acquired this great reputation? Was it by the
scrupulous
and inflexible justice of all his undertakings, by the
immense
dangers and difficulties with which they were attended,
or by
the unwearied and unrelenting application with which he
pursued
them? Was it by his extensive knowledge, by his exquisite
judgment,
or by his heroic valour? It was by none of these
qualities.
But he was, first of all, the most powerful prince in
Europe,
and consequently held the highest rank among kings; and
then,
says his historian, 'he surpassed all his courtiers in the
gracefulness
of his shape, and the majestic beauty of his
features.
The sound of his voice, noble and affecting, gained
those
hearts which his presence intimidated. He had a step and a
deportment
which could suit only him and his rank, and which
would
have been ridiculous in any other person. The embarrassment
which
he occasioned to those who spoke to him, flattered that
secret
satisfaction with which he felt his own superiority. The
old
officer, who was confounded and faultered in asking him a
favour,
and not being able to conclude his discourse, said to
him:
Sir, your majesty, I hope, will believe that I do not
tremble
thus before your enemies: had no difficulty to obtain
what he
demanded.' These frivolous accomplishments, supported by
his
rank, and, no doubt too, by a degree of other talents and
virtues,
which seems, however, not to have been much above
mediocrity,
established this prince in the esteem of his own age,
and
have drawn, even from posterity, a good deal of respect for
his
memory. Compared with these, in his own times, and in his own
presence,
no other virtue, it seems, appeared to have any merit.
Knowledge,
industry, valour, and beneficence, trembled, were
abashed,
and lost all dignity before them.
But it is not by accomplishments of this
kind, that the man
of
inferior rank must hope to distinguish himself. Politeness is
so much
the virtue of the great, that it will do little honour to
any
body but themselves. The coxcomb, who imitates their manner,
and
affects to be eminent by the superior propriety of his
ordinary
behaviour, is rewarded with a double share of contempt
for his
folly and presumption. Why should the man, whom nobody
thinks
it worth while to look at, be very anxious about the
manner
in which he holds up his head, or disposes of his arms
while
he walks through a room? He is occupied surely with a very
superfluous
attention, and with an attention too that marks a
sense
of his own importance, which no other mortal can go along
with.
The most perfect modesty and plainness, joined to as much
negligence
as is consistent with the respect due to the company,
ought
to be the chief characteristics of the behaviour of a
private
man. If ever he hopes to distinguish himself, it must be
by more
important virtues. He must acquire dependants to balance
the
dependants of the great, and he has no other fund to pay them
from, but
the labour of his body, and the activity of his mind.
He must
cultivate these therefore: he must acquire superior
knowledge
in his profession, and superior industry in the
exercise
of it. He must be patient in labour, resolute in danger,
and
firm in distress. These talents he must bring into public
view,
by the difficulty, importance, and, at the same time, good
judgment
of his undertakings, and by the severe and unrelenting
application
with which he pursues them. Probity and prudence,
generosity
and frankness, must characterize his behaviour upon
all
ordinary occasions; and he must, at the same time, be forward
to
engage in all those situations, in which it requires the
greatest
talents and virtues to act with propriety, but in which
the greatest
applause is to be acquired by those who can acquit
themselves
with honour. With what impatience does the man of
spirit
and ambition, who is depressed by his situation, look
round
for some great opportunity to distinguish himself? No
circumstances,
which can afford this, appear to him undesirable.
He even
looks forward with satisfaction to the prospect of
foreign
war, or civil dissension; and, with secret transport and
delight,
sees through all the confusion and bloodshed which
attend
them, the probability of those wished-for occasions
presenting
themselves, in which he may draw upon himself the
attention
and admiration of mankind. The man of rank and
distinction,
on the contrary, whose whole glory consists in the
propriety
of his ordinary behaviour, who is contented with the
humble
renown which this can afford him, and has no talents to
acquire
any other, is unwilling to embarrass himself with what
can be
attended either with difficulty or distress. To figure at
a ball
is his great triumph, and to succeed in an intrigue of
gallantry,
his highest exploit. He has an aversion to all public
confusions,
not from the love of mankind, for the great never
look
upon their inferiors as their fellow-creatures; nor yet from
want of
courage, for in that he is seldom defective; but from a
consciousness
that he possesses none of the virtues which are
required
in such situations, and that the public attention will
certainly
be drawn away from him by others. He may be willing to
expose
himself to some little danger, and to make a campaign when
it
happens to be the fashion. But he shudders with horror at the
thought
of any situation which demands the continual and long
exertion
of patience, industry, fortitude, and application of
thought.
These virtues are hardly ever to be met with in men who
are
born to those high stations. In all governments accordingly,
even in
monarchies, the highest offices are generally possessed,
and the
whole detail of the administration conducted, by men who
were
educated in the middle and inferior ranks of life, who have
been
carried forward by their own industry and abilities, though
loaded
with the jealousy, and opposed by the resentment, of all
those
who were born their superiors, and to whom the great, after
having
regarded them first with contempt, and afterwards with
envy,
are at last contented to truckle with the same abject
meanness
with which they desire that the rest of mankind should
behave
to themselves.
It is the loss of this easy empire over the
affections of
mankind
which renders the fall from greatness so insupportable.
When
the family of the king of Macedon was led in triumph by
Paulus
Aemilius, their misfortunes, it is said, made them divide
with
their conqueror the attention of the Roman people. The sight
of the
royal children, whose tender age rendered them insensible
of
their situation, struck the spectators, amidst the public
rejoicings
and prosperity, with the tenderest sorrow and
compassion.
The king appeared next in the procession; and seemed
like
one confounded and astonished, and bereft of all sentiment,
by the
greatness of his calamities. His friends and ministers
followed
after him. As they moved along, they often cast their
eyes
upon their fallen sovereign, and always burst into tears at
the
sight; their whole behaviour demonstrating that they thought
not of
their own misfortunes, but were occupied entirely by the
superior
greatness of his. The generous Romans, on the contrary,
beheld
him with disdain and indignation, and regarded as unworthy
of all
compassion the man who could be so mean-spirited as to
bear to
live under such calamities. Yet what did those calamities
amount
to? According to the greater part of historians, he was to
spend
the remainder of his days, under the protection of a
powerful
and humane people, in a state which in itself should
seem
worthy of envy, a state of plenty, ease, leisure, and
security,
from which it was impossible for him even by his own
folly
to fall. But he was no longer to be surrounded by that
admiring
mob of fools, flatterers, and dependants, who had
formerly
been accustomed to attend upon all his motions. He was
no
longer to be gazed upon by multitudes, nor to have it in his
power
to render himself the object of their respect, their
gratitude,
their love, their admiration. The passions of nations
were no
longer to mould themselves upon his inclinations. This
was
that insupportable calamity which bereaved the king of all
sentiment;
which made his friends forget their own misfortunes;
and
which the Roman magnanimity could scarce conceive how any man
could
be so mean-spirited as to bear to survive.
'Love,' says my Lord Rochfaucault, 'is
commonly succeeded by
ambition;
but ambition is hardly ever succeeded by love.' That
passion,
when once it has got entire possession of the breast,
will
admit neither a rival nor a successor. To those who have
been
accustomed to the possession, or even to the hope of public
admiration,
all other pleasures sicken and decay. Of all the
discarded
statesmen who for their own ease have studied to get
the
better of ambition, and to despise those honours which they
could
no longer arrive at, how few have been able to succeed? The
greater
part have spent their time in the most listless and
insipid
indolence, chagrined at the thoughts of their own
insignificancy,
incapable of being interested i n the occupations
of
private life, without enjoyment, except when they talked of
their
former greatness, and without satisfaction, except when
they
were employed in some vain project to recover it. Are you in
earnest
resolved never to barter your liberty for the lordly
servitude
of a court, but to live free, fearless, and
independent?
There seems to be one way to continue in that
virtuous
resolution; and perhaps but one. Never enter the place
from
whence so few have been able to return; never come within
the
circle of ambition; nor ever bring yourself into comparison
with
those masters of the earth who have already engrossed the
attention
of half mankind before you.
Of such mighty importance does it appear
to be, in the
imaginations
of men, to stand in that situation which sets them
most in
the view of general sympathy and attention. And thus,
place,
that great object which divides the wives of aldermen, is
the end
of half the labours of human life; and is the cause of
all the
tumult and bustle, all the rapine and injustice, which
avarice
and ambition have introduced into this world. People of
sense,
it is said, indeed despise place; that is, they despise
sitting
at the head of the table, and are indifferent who it is
that is
pointed out to the company by that frivolous
circumstance,
which the smallest advantage is capable of
overbalancing.
But rank, distinction pre-eminence, no man
despises,
unless he is either raised very much above, or sunk
very
much below, the ordinary standard of human nature; unless he
is
either so confirmed in wisdom and real philosophy, as to be
satisfied
that, while the propriety of his conduct renders him
the
just object of approbation, it is of little consequence
though
he be neither attended to, nor approved of; or so
habituated
to the idea of his own meanness, so sunk in slothful
and
sottish indifference, as entirely to have forgot the desire,
and
almost the very wish, for superiority.
As to become the natural object of the
joyous congratulations
and
sympathetic attentions of mankind is, in this manner, the
circumstance
which gives to prosperity all its dazzling
splendour;
so nothing darkens so much the gloom of adversity as
to feel
that our misfortunes are the objects, not of the
fellow-feeling,
but of the contempt and aversion of our brethren.
It is
upon this account that the most dreadful calamities are not
always
those which it is most difficult to support. It is often
more
mortifying to appear in public under small disasters, than
under
great misfortunes. The first excite no sympathy; but the
second,
though they may excite none that approaches to the
anguish
of the sufferer, call forth, however, a very lively
compassion.
The sentiments of the spectators are, in this last
case,
less wide of those of the sufferer, and their imperfect
fellow-feeling
lends him some assistance in supporting his
misery.
Before a gay assembly, a gentleman would be more
mortified
to appear covered with filth and rags than with blood
and
wounds. This last situation would interest their pity; the
other
would provoke their laughter. The judge who orders a
criminal
to be set in the pillory, dishonours him more than if he
had
condemned him to the scaffold. The great prince, who, some
years
ago, caned a general officer at the head of his army,
disgraced
him irrecoverably. The punishment would have been much
less
had he shot him through the body. By the laws of honour, to
strike
with a cane dishonours, to strike with a sword does not,
for an
obvious reason. Those slighter punishments, when inflicted
on a
gentleman, to whom dishonour is the greatest of all evils,
come to
be regarded among a humane and generous people, as the
most
dreadful of any. With regard to persons of that rank,
therefore,
they are universally laid aside, and the law, while it
takes
their life upon many occasions, respects their honour upon
almost
all. To scourge a person of quality, or to set him in the
pillory,
upon account of any crime whatever, is a brutality of
which
no European government, except that of Russia, is capable.
A brave man is not rendered contemptible
by being brought to
the
scaffold; he is, by being set in the pillory. His behaviour
in the
one situation may gain him universal esteem and
admiration.
No behaviour in the other can render him agreeable.
The
sympathy of the spectators supports him in the one case, and
saves
him from that shame, that consciousness that his misery is
felt by
himself only, which is of all sentiments the most
unsupportable.
There is no sympathy in the other; or, if there is
any, it
is not with his pain, which is a trifle, but with his
consciousness
of the want of sympathy with which this pain is
attended.
It is with his shame, not with his sorrow. Those who
pity
him, blush and hang down their heads for him. He droops in
the
same manner, and feels himself irrecoverably degraded by the
punishment,
though not by the crime. The man, on the contrary,
who
dies with resolution, as he is naturally regarded with the
erect
aspect of esteem and approbation, so he wears himself the
same
undaunted countenance; and, if the crime does not deprive
him of
the respect of others, the punishment never will. He has
no
suspicion that his situation is the object of contempt or
derision
to any body, and he can, with propriety, assume the air,
not
only of perfect serenity, but of triumph and exultation.
'Great dangers,' says the Cardinal de
Retz, 'have their
charms,
because there is some glory to be got, even when we
miscarry.
But moderate dangers have nothing but what is horrible,
because
the loss of reputation always attends the want of
success.'
His maxim has the same foundation with what we have
been
just now observing with regard to punishments.
Human virtue is superior to pain, to
poverty, to danger, and
to
death; nor does it even require its utmost efforts do despise
them.
But to have its misery exposed to insult and derision, to
be led
in triumph, to be set up for the hand of scorn to point
at, is
a situation in which its constancy is much more apt to
fail.
Compared with the contempt of mankind, all other external
evils
are easily supported.
Chap.
III
Of the
corruption of our moral sentiments, which is occasioned by
this
disposition to admire the rich and the great, and to despise
or
neglect persons of poor and mean condition
This disposition to admire, and almost to
worship, the rich
and the
powerful, and to despise, or, at least, to neglect
persons
of poor and mean condition, though necessary both to
establish
and to maintain the distinction of ranks and the order
of
society, is, at the same time, the great and most universal
cause
of the corruption of our moral sentiments. That wealth and
greatness
are often regarded with the respect and admiration
which
are due only to wisdom and virtue; and that the contempt,
of
which vice and folly are the only proper objects, is often
most
unjustly bestowed upon poverty and weakness, has been the
complaint
of moralists in all ages.
We desire both to be respectable and to be
respected. We
dread
both to be contemptible and to be contemned. But, upon
coming
into the world, we soon find that wisdom and virtue are by
no
means the sole objects of respect; nor vice and folly, of
contempt.
We frequently see the respectful attentions of the
world
more strongly directed towards the rich and the great, than
towards
the wise and the virtuous. We see frequently the vices
and
follies of the powerful much less despised than the poverty
and
weakness of the innocent. To deserve, to acquire, and to
enjoy
the respect and admiration of mankind, are the great
objects
of ambition and emulation. Two different roads are
presented
to us, equally leading to the attainment of this so
much
desired object; the one, by the study of wisdom and the
practice
of virtue; the other, by the acquisition of wealth and
greatness.
Two different characters are presented to our
emulation;
the one, of proud ambition and ostentatious avidity.
the
other, of humble modesty and equitable justice. Two different
models,
two different pictures, are held out to us, according to
which
we may fashion our own character and behaviour; the one
more
gaudy and glittering in its colouring; the other more
correct
and more exquisitely beautiful in its outline: the one
forcing
itself upon the notice of every wandering eye; the other,
attracting
the attention of scarce any body but the most studious
and
careful observer. They are the wise and the virtuous chiefly,
a
select, though, I am afraid, but a small party, who are the
real
and steady admirers of wisdom and virtue. The great mob of
mankind
are the admirers and worshippers, and, what may seem more
extraordinary,
most frequently the disinterested admirers and
worshippers,
of wealth and greatness.
The respect which we feel for wisdom and
virtue is, no doubt,
different
from that which we conceive for wealth and greatness;
and it
requires no very nice discernment to distinguish the
difference.
But, notwithstanding this difference, those
sentiments
bear a very considerable resemblance to one another.
In some
particular features they are, no doubt, different, but,
in the
general air of the countenance, they seem to be so very
nearly
the same, that inattentive observers are very apt to
mistake
the one for the other.
In equal degrees of merit there is scarce
any man who does
not
respect more the rich and the great, than the poor and the
humble.
With most men the presumption and vanity of the former
are
much more admired, than the real and solid merit of the
latter.
It is scarce agreeable to good morals, or even to good
language,
perhaps, to say, that mere wealth and greatness,
abstracted
from merit and virtue, deserve our respect. We must
acknowledge,
however, that they almost constantly obtain it; and
that
they may, therefore, be considered as, in some respects, the
natural
objects of it. Those exalted stations may, no doubt, be
completely
degraded by vice and folly. But the vice and folly
must be
very great, before they can operate this complete
degradation.
The profligacy of a man of fashion is looked upon
with
much less contempt and aversion, than that of a man of
meaner
condition. In the latter, a single transgression of the
rules
of temperance and propriety, is commonly more resented,
than
the constant and avowed contempt of them ever is in the
former.
In the middling and inferior stations of
life, the road to
virtue
and that to fortune, to such fortune, at least, as men in
such
stations can reasonably expect to acquire, are, happily in
most
cases, very nearly the same. In all the middling and
inferior
professions, real and solid professional abilities,
joined
to prudent, just, firm, and temperate conduct, can very
seldom
fail of success. Abilities will even sometimes prevail
where
the conduct is by no means correct. Either habitual
imprudence,
however, or injustice, or weakness, or profligacy,
will
always clouD, and sometimes Depress altogether, the most
splendid
professional abilities. Men in the inferior and middling
stations
of life, besides, can never be great enough to be above
the
law, which must generally overawe them into some sort of
respect
for, at least, the more important rules of justice. The
success
of such people, too, almost always depends upon the
favour
and good opinion of their neighbours and equals; and
without
a tolerably regular conduct these can very seldom be
obtained.
The good old proverb, therefore, That honesty is the
best
policy, holds, in such situations, almost always perfectly
true.
In such situations, therefore, we may generally expect a
considerable
degree of virtue; and, fortunately for the good
morals
of society, these are the situations of by far the greater
part of
mankind.
In the superior stations of life the case
is unhappily not
always
the same. In the courts of princes, in the drawing-rooms
of the
great, where success and preferment depend, not upon the
esteem
of intelligent and well-informed equals, but upon the
fanciful
and foolish favour of ignorant, presumptuous, and proud
superiors;
flattery and falsehood too often prevail over merit
and
abilities. In such societies the abilities to please, are
more
regarded than the abilities to serve. In quiet and peaceable
times,
when the storm is at a distance, the prince, or great man,
wishes
only to be amused, and is even apt to fancy that he has
scarce
any occasion for the service of any body, or that those
who
amuse him are sufficiently able to serve him. The external
graces,
the frivolous accomplishments of that impertinent and
foolish
thing called a man of fashion, are commonly more admired
than
the solid and masculine virtues of a warrior, a statesman, a
philosopher,
or a legislator. All the great and awful virtues,
all the
virtues which can fit, either for the council, the
senate,
or the field, are, by the insolent and insignificant
flatterers,
who commonly figure the most in such corrupted
societies,
held in the utmost contempt and derision. When the
duke of
Sully was called upon by Lewis the Thirteenth, to give
his
advice in some great emergency, he observed the favourites
and
courtiers whispering to one another, and smiling at his
unfashionable
appearance. 'Whenever your majesty's father,' said
the old
warrior and statesman, 'did me the honour to consult me,
he
ordered the buffoons of the court to retire into the
antechamber.'
It is from our disposition to admire, and
consequently to
imitate,
the rich and the great, that they are enabled to set, or
to lead
what is called the fashion. Their dress is the
fashionable
dress; the language of their conversation, the
fashionable
style; their air and deportment, the fashionable
behaviour.
Even their vices and follies are fashionable; and the
greater
part of men are proud to imitate and resemble them in the
very
qualities which dishonour and degrade them. Vain men often
give
themselves airs of a fashionable profligacy, which, in their
hearts,
they do not approve of, and of which, perhaps, they are
really
not guilty. They desire to be praised for what they
themselves
do not think praise-worthy, and are ashamed of
unfashionable
virtues which they sometimes practise in secret,
and for
which they have secretly some degree of real veneration.
There
are hypocrites of wealth and greatness, as well as of
religion
and virtue; and a vain man is as apt to pretend to be
what he
is not, in the one way, as a cunning man is in the other.
He
assumes the equipage and splendid way of living of his
superiors,
without considering that whatever may be praise-worthy
in any
of these, derives its whole merit and propriety from its
suitableness
to that situation and fortune which both require and
can
easily support the expence. Many a poor man places his glory
in
being thought rich, without considering that the duties (if
one may
call such follies by so very venerable a name) which that
reputation
imposes upon him, must soon reduce him to beggary, and
render
his situation still more unlike that of those whom he
admires
and imitates, than it had been originally.
To attain to this envied situation, the
candidates for
fortune
too frequently abandon the paths of virtue; for
unhappily,
the road which leads to the one, and that which leads
to the
other, lie sometimes in very opposite directions. But the
ambitious
man flatters himself that, in the splendid situation to
which
he advances, he will have so many means of commanding the
respect
and admiration of mankind, and will be enabled to act
with
such superior propriety and grace, that the lustre of his
future
conduct will entirely cover, or efface, the foulness of
the
steps by which he arrived at that elevation. In many
governments
the candidates for the highest stations are above the
law;
and, if they can attain the object of their ambition, they
have no
fear of being called to account for the means by which
they
acquired it. They often endeavour, therefore, not only by
fraud
and falsehood, the ordinary and vulgar arts of intrigue and
cabal;
but sometimes by the perpetration of the most enormous
crimes,
by murder and assassination, by rebellion and civil war,
to
supplant and destroy those who oppose or stand in the way of
their
greatness. They more frequently miscarry than succeed; and
commonly
gain nothing but the disgraceful punishment which is due
to
their crimes. But, though they should be so lucky as to attain
that
wished-for greatness, they are always most miserably
disappointed
in the happiness which they expect to enjoy in it.
It is
not ease or pleasure, but always honour, of one kind or
another,
though frequently an honour very ill understood, that
the
ambitious man really pursues. But the honour of his exalted
station
appears, both in his own eyes and in those of other
people,
polluted and defiled by the baseness of the means through
which
he rose to it. Though by the profusion of every liberal
expence;
though by excessive indulgence in every profligate
pleasure,
the wretched, but usual, resource of ruined characters;
though
by the hurry of public business, or by the prouder and
more
dazzling tumult of war, he may endeavour to efface, both
from
his own memory and from that of other people, the
remembrance
of what he has done; that remembrance never fails to
pursue
him. He invokes in vain the dark and dismal powers of
forgetfulness
and oblivion. He remembers himself what he has
done,
and that remembrance tells him that other people must
likewise
remember it. Amidst all the gaudy pomp of the most
ostentatious
greatness; amidst the venal and vile adulation of
the
great and of the learned; amidst the more innocent, though
more
foolish, acclamations of the common people; amidst all the
pride
of conquest and the triumph of successful war, he is still
secretly
pursued by the avenging furies of shame and remorse;
and,
while glory seems to surround him on all sides, he himself,
in his
own imagination, sees black and foul infamy fast pursuing
him,
and every moment ready to overtake him from behind. Even the
great
Caesar, though he had the magnanimity to dismiss his
guards,
could not dismiss his suspicions. The remembrance of
Pharsalia
still haunted and pursued him. When, at the request of
the
senate, he had the generosity to pardon Marcellus, he told
that
assembly, that he was not unaware of the designs which were
carrying
on against his life; but that, as he had lived long
enough
both for nature and for glory, he was contented to die,
and
therefore despised all conspiracies. He had, perhaps, lived
long
enough for nature. But the man who felt himself the object
of such
deadly resentment, from those whose favour he wished to
gain,
and whom he still wished to consider as his friends, had
certainly
lived too long for real glory; or for all the happiness
which
he could ever hope to enjoy in the love and esteem of his
equals.
Part II
Of
Merit and Demerit; or, of the Objects of Reward and Punishment
Consisting
of Three Parts
Section
I
Of the
Sense of Merit and Demerit
Introduction
There is another set of qualities ascribed
to the actions and
conduct
of mankind, distinct from their propriety or impropriety,
their
decency or ungracefulness, and which are the objects of a
distinct
species of approbation and disapprobation. These are
Merit
and Demerit, the qualities of deserving reward, and of
deserving
punishment.
It has already been observed, that the
sentiment or affection
of the
heart, from which any action proceeds, and upon which its
whole
virtue or vice depends, may be considered under two
different
aspects, or in two different relations: first, in
relation
to the cause or object which excites it; and, secondly,
in
relation to the end which it proposes, or to the effect which
it
tends to produce: that upon the suitableness or
unsuitableness,
upon the proportion or disproportion, which the
affection
seems to bear to the cause or object which excites it,
depends
the propriety or impropriety, the decency or
ungracefulness
of the consequent action; and that upon the
beneficial
or hurtful effects which the affection proposes or
tends
to produce, depends the merit or demerit, the good or ill
desert
of the action to which it gives occasion. Wherein consists
our
sense of the propriety or impropriety of actions, has been
explained
in the former part of this discourse. We come now to
consider,
wherein consists that of their good or ill desert.
Chap. 1
That
whatever appears to be the proper object of gratitude,
appears
to deserve reward; and that, in the same manner, whatever
appears
to be the proper object of resentment appears to deserve
punishment
To us, therefore, that action must appear
to deserve reward,
which
appears to be the proper and approved object of that
sentiment,
which most immediately and directly prompts us to
reward,
or to do good to another. And in the same manner, that
action
must appear to deserve punishment, which appears to be the
proper
and approved object of that sentiment which most
immediately
and directly prompts us to punish, or to inflict evil
upon
another.
The sentiment which most immediately and
directly prompts us
to
reward, is gratitude; that which most immediately and directly
prompts
us to punish, is resentment.
To us, therefore, that action must appear
to deserve reward,
which
appears to be the proper and approved object of gratitude;
as, on
the other hand, that action must appear to deserve
punishment,
which appears to be the proper and approved object of
resentment.
To reward, is to recompense, to
remunerate, to return good
for
good received. To punish, too, is to recompense, to
remunerate,
though in a different manner; it is to return evil
for
evil that has been done.
There are some other passions, besides
gratitude and
resentment,
which interest us in the happiness or misery of
others;
but there are none which so directly excite us to be the
instruments
of either. The love and esteem which grow upon
acquaintance
and habitual approbation, necessarily lead us to be
pleased
with the good fortune of the man who is the object of
such
agreeable emotions, and consequently, to be willing to lend
a hand
to promote it. Our love, however, is fully satisfied,
though
his good fortune should be brought about without our
assistance.
All that this passion desires is to see him happy,
without
regarding who was the author of his prosperity. But
gratitude
is not to be satisfied in this manner. If the person to
whom we
owe many obligations, is made happy without our
assistance,
though it pleases our love, it does not content our
gratitude.
Till we have recompensed him, till we ourselves have
been
instrumental in promoting his happiness, we feel ourselves
still
loaded with that debt which his past services have laid
upon
us.
The hatred and dislike, in the same
manner, which grow upon
habitual
disapprobation, would often lead us to take a malicious
pleasure
in the misfortune of the man whose conduct and character
excite
so painful a passion. But though dislike and hatred harden
us
against all sympathy, and sometimes dispose us even to rejoice
at the
distress of another, yet, if there is no resentment in the
case,
if neither we nor our friends have received any great
personal
provocation, these passions would not naturally lead us
to wish
to be instrumental in bringing it about. Though we could
fear no
punishment in consequence of our having had some hand in
it, we
would rather that it should happen by other means. To one
under
the dominion of violent hatred it would be agreeable,
perhaps,
to hear, that the person whom he abhorred and detested
was
killed by some accident. But if he had the least spark of
justice,
which, though this passion is not very favourable to
virtue,
he might still have, it would hurt him excessively to
have
been himself, even without design, the occasion of this
misfortune.
Much more would the very thought of voluntarily
contributing
to it shock him beyond all measure. He would reject
with
horror even the imagination of so execrable a design; and if
he
could imagine himself capable of such an enormity, he would
begin
to regard himself in the same odious light in which he had
considered
the person who was the object of his dislike. But it
is
quite otherwise with resentment: if the person who had done us
some
great injury, who had murdered our father or our brother,
for
example, should soon afterwards die of a fever, or even be
brought
to the scaffold upon account of some other crime, though
it
might sooth our hatred, it would not fully gratify our
resentment.
Resentment would prompt us to desire, not only that
he
should be punished, but that he should be punished by our
means,
and upon account of that particular injury which he had
done to
us. Resentment cannot be fully gratified, unless the
offender
is not only made to grieve in his turn, but to grieve
for that
particular wrong which we have suffered from him. He
must be
made to repent and be sorry for this very action, that
others,
through fear of the like punishment, may be terrified
from
being guilty of the like offence. The natural gratification
of this
passion tends, of its own accord, to produce all the
political
ends of punishment; the correction of the criminal, and
the
example to the public.
Gratitude and resentment, therefore, are
the sentiments which
most
immediately and directly prompt to reward and to punish. To
us,
therefore, he must appear to deserve reward, who appears to
be the
proper and approved object of gratitude; and he to deserve
punishment,
who appears to be that of resentment.
Chap.
II
Of the
proper objects of gratitude and resentment
To be the proper and approved object
either of gratitude or
resentment,
can mean nothing but to be the object of that
gratitude,
and of that resentment, which naturally seems proper,
and is
approved of.
But these, as well as all the other
passions of human nature,
seem
proper and are approved of, when the heart of every
impartial
spectator entirely sympathizes with them, when every
indifferent
by-stander entirely enters into, and goes along with
them.
He, therefore, appears to deserve reward,
who, to some person
or
persons, is the natural object of a gratitude which every
human
heart is disposed to beat time to, and thereby applaud: and
he, on
the other hand, appears to deserve punishment, who in the
same manner
is to some person or persons the natural object of a
resentment
which the breast of every reasonable man is ready to
adopt
and sympathize with. To us, surely, that action must appear
to
deserve reward, which every body who knows of it would wish to
reward,
and therefore delights to see rewarded: and that action
must as
surely appear to deserve punishment, which every body who
hears
of it is angry with, and upon that account rejoices to see
punished.
1. As we sympathize with the joy of our
companions when in
prosperity,
so we join with them in the complacency and
satisfaction
with which they naturally regard whatever is the
cause
of their good fortune. We enter into the love and affection
which
they conceive for it, and begin to love it too. We should
be
sorry for their sakes if it was destroyed, or even if it was
placed
at too great a distance from them, and out of the reach of
their
care and protection, though they should lose nothing by its
absence
except the pleasure of seeing it. If it is man who has
thus
been the fortunate instrument of the happiness of his
brethren,
this is still more peculiarly the case. When we see one
man
assisted, protected, relieved by another, our sympathy with
the joy
of the person who receives the benefit serves only to
animate
our fellow-feeling with his gratitude towards him who
bestows
it. When we look upon the person who is the cause of his
pleasure
with the eyes with which we imagine he must look upon
him,
his benefactor seems to stand before us in the most engaging
and
amiable light. We readily therefore sympathize with the
grateful
affection which he conceives for a person to whom he has
been so
much obliged; and consequently applaud the returns which
he is
disposed to make for the good offices conferred upon him.
As we
entirely enter into the affection from which these returns
proceed,
they necessarily seem every way proper and suitable to
their
object.
2. In the same manner, as we sympathize
with the sorrow of
our
fellow-creature whenever we see his distress, so we likewise
enter
into his abhorrence and aversion for whatever has given
occasion
to it. Our heart, as it adopts and beats time to his
grief,
so is it likewise animated with that spirit by which he
endeavours
to drive away or destroy the cause of it. The indolent
and
passive fellow-feeling, by which we accompany him in his
sufferings,
readily gives way to that more vigorous and active
sentiment
by which we go along with him in the effort he makes,
either
to repel them, or to gratify his aversion to what has
given
occasion to them. This is still more peculiarly the case,
when it
is man who has caused them. When we see one man oppressed
or
injured by another, the sympathy which we feel with the
distress
of the sufferer seems to serve only to animate our
fellow-feeling
with his resentment against the offender. We are
rejoiced
to see him attack his adversary in his turn, and are
eager
and ready to assist him whenever he exerts himself for
defence,
or even for vengeance within a certain degree. If the
injured
should perish in the quarrel, we not only sympathize with
the
real resentment of his friends and relations, but with the
imaginary
resentment which in fancy we lend to the dead, who is
no
longer capable of feeling that or any other human sentiment.
But as
we put ourselves in his situation, as we enter, as it
were,
into his body, and in our imaginations, in some measure,
animate
anew the deformed and mangled carcass of the slain, when
we
bring home in this manner his case to our own bosoms, we feel
upon
this, as upon many other occasions, an emotion which the
person
principally concerned is incapable of feeling, and which
yet we
feel by an illusive sympathy with him. The sympathetic
tears
which we shed for that immense and irretrievable loss,
which
in our fancy he appears to have sustained, seem to be but a
small
part of the duty which we owe him. The injury which he has
suffered
demands, we think, a principal part of our attention. We
feel
that resentment which we imagine he ought to feel, and which
he
would feel, if in his cold and lifeless body there remained
any
consciousness of what passes upon earth. His blood, we think,
calls
aloud for vengeance. The very ashes of the dead seem to be
disturbed
at the thought that his injuries are to pass
unrevenged.
The horrors which are supposed to haunt the bed of
the
murderer, the ghosts which, superstition imagines, rise from
their
graves to demand vengeance upon those who brought them to
an
untimely end, all take their origin from this natural sympathy
with
the imaginary resentment of the slain. And with regard, at
least,
to this most dreadful of all crimes, Nature, antecedent to
all
reflections upon the utility of punishment, has in this
manner
stamped upon the human heart, in the strongest and most
indelible
characters, an immediate and instinctive approbation of
the
sacred and necessary law of retaliation.
Chap.
III
That
where there is no approbation of the conduct of the person
who
confers the benefit, there is little sympathy with the
gratitude
of him who receives it: and that, on the contrary,
where
there is no disapprobation of the motives of the person who
does
the mischief, there is no sort of sympathy with the
resentment
of him who suffers it
It is to be observed, however, that, how
beneficial soever on
the one
hand, or how hurtful soever on the other, the actions or
intentions
of the person who acts may have been to the person who
is, if
I may say so, acted upon, yet if in the one case there
appears
to have been no propriety in the motives of the agent, if
we
cannot enter into the affections which influenced his conduct,
we have
little sympathy with the gratitude of the person who
receives
the benefit: or if, in the other case, there appears to
have
been no impropriety in the motives of the agent, if, on the
contrary,
the affections which influenced his conduct are such as
we must
necessarily enter into, we can have no sort of sympathy
with
the resentment of the person who suffers. Little gratitude
seems
due in the one case, and all sort of resentment seems
unjust
in the other. The one action seems to merit little reward,
the
other to deserve no punishment.
1. First, I say, That wherever we cannot
sympathize with the
affections
of the agent, wherever there seems to be no propriety
in the
motives which influenced his conduct, we are less disposed
to
enter into the gratitude of the person who received the
benefit
of his actions. A very small return seems due to that
foolish
and profuse generosity which confers the greatest
benefits
from the most trivial motives, and gives an estate to a
man
merely because his name and sirname happen to be the same
with
those of the giver. Such services do not seem to demand any
proportionable
recompense. Our contempt for the folly of the
agent
hinders us from thoroughly entering into the gratitude of
the
person to whom the good office has been done. His benefactor
seems
unworthy of it. As when we place ourselves in the situation
of the
person obliged, we feel that we could conceive no great
reverence
for such a benefactor, we easily absolve him from a
great
deal of that submissive veneration and esteem which we
should
think due to a more respectable character; and provided he
always
treats his weak friend with kindness and humanity, we are
willing
to excuse him from many attentions and regards which we
should
demand to a worthier patron. Those Princes, who have
heaped,
with the greatest profusion, wealth, power, and honours,
upon
their favourites, have seldom excited that degree of
attachment
to their persons which has often been experienced by
those
who were more frugal of their favours. The well-natured,
but
injudicious prodigality of James the First of Great Britain
seems
to have attached nobody to his person; and that Prince,
notwithstanding
his social and harmless disposition, appears to
have
lived and died without a friend. The whole gentry and
nobility
of England exposed their lives and fortunes in the cause
of his
more frugal and distinguishing son, notwithstanding the
coldness
and distant severity of his ordinary deportment.
2. Secondly, I say, That wherever the
conduct of the agent
appears
to have been entirely directed by motives and affections
which
we thoroughly enter into and approve of, we can have no
sort of
sympathy with the resentment of the sufferer, how great
soever
the mischief which may have been done to him. When two
people
quarrel, if we take part with, and entirely adopt the
resentment
of one of them, it is impossible that we should enter
into
that of the other. Our sympathy with the person whose
motives
we go along with, and whom therefore we look upon as in
the
right, cannot but harden us against all fellow-feeling with
the
other, whom we necessarily regard as in the wrong. Whatever
this
last, therefore, may have suffered, while it is no more than
what we
ourselves should have wished him to suffer, while it is
no more
than what our own sympathetic indignation would have
prompted
us to inflict upon him, it cannot either displease or
provoke
us. When an inhuman murderer is brought to the scaffold,
though
we have some compassion for his misery, we can have no
sort of
fellow-feeling with his resentment, if he should be so
absurd
as to express any against either his prosecutor or his
judge.
The natural tendency of their just indignation against so
vile a
criminal is indeed the most fatal and ruinous to him. But
it is
impossible that we should be displeased with the tendency
of a
sentiment, which, when we bring the case home to ourselves,
we feel
that we cannot avoid adopting.
Chap.
IV
Recapitulation
of the foregoing chapters
1. We do not, therefore, thoroughly and
heartily sympathize
with
the gratitude of one man towards another, merely because
this
other has been the cause of his good fortune, unless he has
been
the cause of it from motives which we entirely go along
with.
Our heart must adopt the principles of the agent, and go
along
with all the affections which influenced his conduct,
before
it can entirely sympathize with, and beat time to, the
gratitude
of the person who has been benefited by his actions. If
in the
conduct of the benefactor there appears to have been no
propriety,
how beneficial soever its effects, it does not seem to
demand,
or necessarily to require, any proportionable recompense.
But when to the beneficent tendency of the
action is joined
the
propriety of the affection from which it proceeds, when we
entirely
sympathize and go along with the motives of the agent,
the
love which we conceive for him upon his own account, enhances
and
enlivens our fellow-feeling with the gratitude of those who
owe
their prosperity to his good conduct. His actions seem then
to
demand, and, if I may say so, to call aloud for a
proportionable
recompense. We then entirely enter into that
gratitude
which prompts to bestow it. The benefactor seems then
to be
the proper object of reward, when we thus entirely
sympathize
with, and approve of, that sentiment which prompts to
reward
him. When we approve of, and go along with, the affection
from
which the action proceeds, we must necessarily approve of
the
action, and regard the person towards whom it is directed, as
its
proper and suitable object.
2. In the same manner, we cannot at all
sympathize with the
resentment
of one man against another, merely because this other
has
been the cause of his misfortune, unless he has been the
cause
of it from motives which we cannot enter into. Before we
can
adopt the resentment of the sufferer, we must disapprove of
the
motives of the agent, and feel that our heart renounces all
sympathy
with the affections which influenced his conduct. If
there
appears to have been no impropriety in these, how fatal
soever
the tendency of the action which proceeds from them to
those
against whom it is directed, it does not seem to deserve
any
punishment, or to be the proper object of any resentment.
But when to the hurtfulness of the action
is joined the
impropriety
of the affection from whence it proceeds, when our
heart
rejects with abhorrence all fellow-feeling with the motives
of the
agent, we then heartily and entirely sympathize with the
resentment
of the sufferer. Such actions seem then to deserve,
and, if
I may say so, to call aloud for, a proportionable
punishment;
and we entirely enter into, and thereby approve of,
that
resentment which prompts to inflict it. The offender
necessarily
seems then to be the proper object of punishment,
when we
thus entirely sympathize with, and thereby approve of,
that
sentiment which prompts to punish. In this case too, when we
approve,
and go along with, the affection from which the action
proceeds,
we must necessarily approve of the action, and regard
the
person against whom it is directed, as its proper and
suitable
object.
Chap. V
The
analysis of the sense of Merit and Demerit
1. As our sense, therefore, of the
propriety of conduct
arises
from what I shall call a direct sympathy with the
affections
and motives of the person who acts, so our sense of
its
merit arises from what I shall call an indirect sympathy with
the
gratitude of the person who is, if I may say so, acted upon.
As we cannot indeed enter thoroughly into
the gratitude of
the
person who receives the benefit, unless we beforehand approve
of the
motives of the benefactor, so, upon this account, the
sense
of merit seems to be a compounded sentiment, and to be made
up of two
distinct emotions; a direct sympathy with the
sentiments
of the agent, and an indirect sympathy with the
gratitude
of those who receive the benefit of his actions.
We may, upon many different occasions,
plainly distinguish
those
two different emotions combining and uniting together in
our
sense of the good desert of a particular character or action.
When we
read in history concerning actions of proper and
beneficent
greatness of mind, how eagerly do we enter into such
designs?
How much are we animated by that high-spirited
generosity
which directs them? How keen are we for their success?
How
grieved at their disappointment? In imagination we become the
very
person whose actions are represented to us: we transport
ourselves
in fancy to the scenes of those distant and forgotten
adventures,
and imagine ourselves acting the part of a Scipio or
a
Camillus, a Timoleon or an Aristides. So far our sentiments are
founded
upon the direct sympathy with the person who acts. Nor is
the
indirect sympathy with those who receive the benefit of such
actions
less sensibly felt. Whenever we place ourselves in the
situation
of these last, with what warm and affectionate
fellow-feeling
do we enter into their gratitude towards those who
served
them so essentially? We embrace, as it were, their
benefactor
along with them. Our heart readily sympathizes with
the
highest transports of their grateful affection. No honours,
no
rewards, we think, can be too great for them to bestow upon
him.
When they make this proper return for his services, we
heartily
applaud and go along with them; but are shocked beyond
all
measure, if by their conduct they appear to have little sense
of the
obligations conferred upon them. Our whole sense, in
short,
of the merit and good desert of such actions, of the
propriety
and fitness of recompensing them, and making the person
who
performed them rejoice in his turn, arises from the
sympathetic
emotions of gratitude and love, with which, when we
bring
home to our own breast the situation of those principally
concerned,
we feel ourselves naturally transported towards the
man who
could act with such proper and noble beneficence.
2. In the same manner as our sense of the
impropriety of
conduct
arises from a want of sympathy, or from a direct
antipathy
to the affections and motives of the agent, so our
sense
of its demerit arises from what I shall here too call an
indirect
sympathy with the resentment of the sufferer.
As we cannot indeed enter into the
resentment of the
sufferer,
unless our heart beforehand disapproves the motives of
the
agent, and renounces all fellow-feeling with them; so upon
this
account the sense of demerit, as well as that of merit,
seems
to be a compounded sentiment, and to be made up of two
distinct
emotions; a direct antipathy to the sentiments of the
agent,
and an indirect sympathy with the resentment of the
sufferer.
We may here too, upon many different
occasions, plainly
distinguish
those two different emotions combining and uniting
together
in our sense of the ill desert of a particular character
or
action. When we read in history concerning the perfidy and
cruelty
of a Borgia or a Nero, our heart rises up against the
detestable
sentiments which influenced their conduct, and
renounces
with horror and abomination all fellow-feeling with
such
execrable motives. So far our sentiments are founded upon
the
direct antipathy to the affections of the agent: and the
indirect
sympathy with the resentment of the sufferers is still
more
sensibly felt. When we bring home to ourselves the situation
of the
persons whom those scourges of mankind insulted, murdered,
or
betrayed, what indignation do we not feel against such
insolent
and inhuman oppressors of the earth? Our sympathy with
the
unavoidable distress of the innocent sufferers is not more
real
nor more lively, than our fellow-feeling with their just and
natural
resentment: The former sentiment only heightens the
latter,
and the idea of their distress serves only to inflame and
blow up
our animosity against those who occasioned it. When we
think
of the anguish of the sufferers, we take part with them
more
earnestly against their oppressors; we enter with more
eagerness
into all their schemes of vengeance, and feel ourselves
every
moment wreaking, in imagination, upon such violators of the
laws of
society, that punishment which our sympathetic
indignation
tells us is due to their crimes. Our sense of the
horror
and dreadful atrocity of such conduct, the delight which
we take
in hearing that it was properly punished, the indignation
which
we feel when it escapes this due retaliation, our whole
sense
and feeling, in short, of its ill desert, of the propriety
and
fitness of inflicting evil upon the person who is guilty of
it, and
of making him grieve in his turn, arises from the
sympathetic
indignation which naturally boils up in the breast of
the
spectator, whenever he thoroughly brings home to himself the
case of
the sufferer.(1*)
Section
II
Of
Justice and Beneficence
Chap. I
Comparison
of those two virtues
Actions of a beneficent tendency, which
proceed from proper
motives,
seem alone to require reward. because such alone are the
approved
objects of gratitude, or excite the sympathetic
gratitude
of the spectator.
Actions of a hurtful tendency, which
proceed from improper
motives,
seem alone to deserve punishment; because such alone are
the
approved objects of resentment, or excite the sympathetic
resentment
of the spectator.
Beneficence is always free, it cannot be
extorted by force,
the
mere want of it exposes to no punishment; because the mere
want of
beneficence tends to do no real positive evil. It may
disappoint
of the good which might reasonably have been expected,
and
upon that account it may justly excite dislike and
disapprobation:
it cannot, however, provoke any resentment which
mankind
will go along with. The man who does not recompense his
benefactor
when he has it in his power, and when his benefactor
needs
his assistance, is, no doubt, guilty of the blackest
ingratitude.
The heart of every impartial spectator rejects all
fellow-feeling
with the selfishness of his motives, and he is the
proper
object of the highest disapprobation. But still he does no
positive
hurt to any body. He only does not do that good which in
propriety
he ought to have done. He is the object of hatred, a
passion
which is naturally excited by impropriety of sentiment
and
behaviour. not of resentment, a passion which is never
properly
called forth but by actions which tend to do real and
positive
hurt to some particular persons. His want of gratitude,
therefore,
cannot be punished. To oblige him by force to perform
what in
gratitude he ought to perform, and what every impartial
spectator
would approve of him for performing, would, if
possible,
be still more improper than his neglecting to perform
it. His
benefactor would dishonour himself if he attempted by
violence
to constrain him to gratitude, and it would be
impertinent
for any third person, who was not the superior of
either,
to intermeddle. But of all the duties of beneficence,
those
which gratitude recommends to us approach nearest to what
is
called a perfect and complete obligation. What friendship,
what
generosity, what charity, would prompt us to do with
universal
approbation, is still more free, and can still less be
extorted
by force than the duties of gratitude. We talk of the
debt of
gratitude, not of charity, or generosity, nor even of
friendship,
when friendship is mere esteem, and has not been
enhanced
and complicated with gratitude for good offices.
Resentment seems to have been given us by
nature for defence,
and for
defence only. It is the safeguard of justice and the
security
of innocence. It prompts us to beat off the mischief
which
is attempted to be done to us, and to retaliate that which
is
already done; that the offender may be made to repent of his
injustice,
and that others, through fear of the like punishment,
may be
terrified from being guilty of the like offence. It must
be
reserved therefore for these purposes, nor can the spectator
ever go
along with it when it is exerted for any other. But the
mere
want of the beneficent virtues, though it may disappoint us
of the
good which might reasonably be expected, neither does, not
attempts
to do, any mischief from which we can have occasion to
defend
ourselves.
There is, however, another virtue, of
which the observance is
not
left to the freedom of our own wills, which may be extorted
by
force, and of which the violation exposes to resentment, and
consequently
to punishment. This virtue is justice: the violation
of
justice is injury: it does real and positive hurt to some
particular
persons, from motives which are naturally disapproved
of. It
is, therefore, the proper object of resentment, and of
punishment,
which is the natural consequence of resentment. As
mankind
go along with, and approve of the violence employed to
avenge
the hurt which is done by injustice, so they much more go
along
with, and approve of, that which is employed to prevent and
beat
off the injury, and to restrain the offender from hurting
his
neighbours. The person himself who meditates an injustice is
sensible
of this, and feels that force may, with the utmost
propriety,
be made use of, both by the person whom he is about to
injure,
and by others, either to obstruct the execution of his
crime,
or to punish him when he has executed it. And upon this is
founded
that remarkable distinction between justice and all the
other
social virtues, which has of late been particularly
insisted
upon by an author of very great and original genius,
that we
feel ourselves to be under a stricter obligation to act
according
to justice, than agreeably to friendship, charity, or
generosity;
that the practice of these last mentioned virtues
seems
to be left in some measure to our own choice, but that,
somehow
or other, we feel ourselves to be in a peculiar manner
tied,
bound, and obliged to the observation of justice. We feel,
that is
to say, that force may, with the utmost propriety, and
with
the approbation of all mankind, be made use of to constrain
us to
observe the rules of the one, but not to follow the
precepts
of the other.
We must always, however, carefully
distinguish what is only
blamable,
or the proper object of disapprobation, from what force
may be
employed either to punish or to prevent. That seems
blamable
which falls short of that ordinary degree of proper
beneficence
which experience teaches us to expect of every body;
and on
the contrary, that seems praise-worthy which goes beyond
it. The
ordinary degree itself seems neither blamable nor
praise-worthy.
A father, a son, a brother, who behaves to the
correspondent
relation neither better nor worse than the greater
part of
men commonly do, seems properly to deserve neither praise
nor
blame. He who surprises us by extraordinary and unexpected,
though
still proper and suitable kindness, or on the contrary by
extraordinary
and unexpected, as well as unsuitable unkindness,
seems
praise-worthy in the one case, and blamable in the other.
Even the most ordinary degree of kindness
or beneficence,
however,
cannot, among equals, be extorted by force. Among equals
each individual
is naturally, and antecedent to the institution
of
civil government, regarded as having a right both to defend
himself
from injuries, and to exact a certain degree of
punishment
for those which have been done to him. Every generous
spectator
not only approves of his conduct when he does this, but
enters
so far into his sentiments as often to be willing to
assist
him. When one man attacks, or robs, or attempts to murder
another,
all the neighbours take the alarm, and think that they
do right
when they run, either to revenge the person who has been
injured,
or to defend him who is in danger of being so. But when
a
father fails in the ordinary degree of parental affection
towards
a son; when a son seems to want that filial reverence
which
might be expected to his father; when brothers are without
the
usual degree of brotherly affection; when a man shuts his
breast
against compassion, and refuses to relieve the misery of
his
fellow-creatures, when he can with the greatest ease; in all
these
cases, though every body blames the conduct, nobody
imagines
that those who might have reason, perhaps, to expect
more
kindness, have any right to extort it by force. The sufferer
can
only complain, and the spectator can intermeddle no other way
than by
advice and persuasion. Upon all such occasions, for
equals
to use force against one another, would be thought the
highest
degree of insolence and presumption.
A superior may, indeed, sometimes, with
universal
approbation,
oblige those under his jurisdiction to behave, in
this
respect, with a certain degree of propriety to one another.
The
laws of all civilized nations oblige parents to maintain
their
children, and children to maintain their parents, and
impose
upon men many other duties of beneficence. The civil
magistrate
is entrusted with the power not only of preserving the
public
peace by restraining injustice, but of promoting the
prosperity
of the commonwealth, by establishing good discipline,
and by
discouraging every sort of vice and impropriety; he may
prescribe
rules, therefore, which not only prohibit mutual
injuries
among fellow-citizens, but command mutual good offices
to a
certain degree. When the sovereign commands what is merely
indifferent,
and what, antecedent to his orders, might have been
omitted
without any blame, it becomes not only blamable but
punishable
to disobey him. When he commands, therefore, what,
antecedent
to any such order, could not have been omitted without
the
greatest blame, it surely becomes much more punishable to be
wanting
in obedience. Of all the duties of a law-giver, however,
this,
perhaps, is that which it requires the greatest delicacy
and
reserve to execute with propriety and judgment. To neglect it
altogether
exposes the commonwealth to many gross disorders and
shocking
enormities, and to push it too far is destructive of all
liberty,
security, and justice.
Though the mere want of beneficence seems
to merit no
punishment
from equals, the greater exertions of that virtue
appear
to deserve the highest reward. By being productive of the
greatest
good, they are the natural and approved objects of the
liveliest
gratitude. Though the breach of justice, on the
contrary,
exposes to punishment, the observance of the rules of
that
virtue seems scarce to deserve any reward. There is, no
doubt,
a propriety in the practice of justice, and it merits,
upon
that account, all the approbation which is due to propriety.
But as
it does no real positive good, it is entitled to very
little
gratitude. Mere justice is, upon most occasions, but a
negative
virtue, and only hinders us from hurting our neighbour.
The man
who barely abstains from violating either the person, or
the
estate, or the reputation of his neighbours, has surely very
little
positive merit. He fulfils, however, all the rules of what
is
peculiarly called justice, and does every thing which his
equals
can with propriety force him to do, or which they can
punish
him for not doing. We may often fulfil all the rules of
justice
by sitting still and doing nothing.
As every man doth, so shall it be done to
him, and
retaliation
seems to be the great law which is dictated to us by
Nature.
Beneficence and generosity we think due to the generous
and
beneficent. Those whose hearts never open to the feelings of
humanity,
should, we think, be shut out, in the same manner, from
the
affections of all their fellow-creatures, and be allowed to
live in
the midst of society, as in a great desert where there is
nobody
to care for them, or to inquire after them. The violator
of the
laws of justice ought to be made to feel himself that evil
which
he has done to another; and since no regard to the
sufferings
of his brethren is capable of restraining him, he
ought
to be over-awed by the fear of his own. The man who is
barely
innocent, who only observes the laws of justice with
regard
to others, and merely abstains from hurting his
neighbours,
can merit only that his neighbours in their turn
should
respect his innocence, and that the same laws should be
religiously
observed with regard to him.
Chap.
II
Of the
sense of Justice, of Remorse, and of the consciousness of
Merit
There can be no proper motive for hurting
our neighbour,
there
can be no incitement to do evil to another, which mankind
will go
along with, except just indignation for evil which that
other
has done to us. To disturb his happiness merely because it
stands
in the way of our own, to take from him what is of real
use to
him merely because it may be of equal or of more use to
us, or
to indulge, in this manner, at the expence of other
people,
the natural preference which every man has for his own
happiness
above that of other people, is what no impartial
spectator
can go along with. Every man is, no doubt, by nature,
first
and principally recommended to his own care; and as he is
fitter
to take care of himself than of any other person, it is
fit and
right that it should be so. Every man, therefore, is much
more
deeply interested in whatever immediately concerns himself,
than in
what concerns any other man: and to hear, perhaps, of the
death
of another person, with whom we have no particular
connexion,
will give us less concern, will spoil our stomach, or
break
our rest much less than a very insignificant disaster which
has
befallen ourselves. But though the ruin of our neighbour may
affect
us much less than a very small misfortune of our own, we
must
not ruin him to prevent that small misfortune, nor even to
prevent
our own ruin. We must, here, as in all other cases, view
ourselves
not so much according to that light in which we may
naturally
appear to ourselves, as according to that in which we
naturally
appear to others. Though every man may, according to
the
proverb, be the whole world to himself, to the rest of
mankind
he is a most insignificant part of it. Though his own
happiness
may be of more importance to him than that of all the
world
besides, to every other person it is of no more consequence
than
that of any other man. Though it may be true, therefore,
that
every individual, in his own breast, naturally prefers
himself
to all mankind, yet he dares not look mankind in the
face,
and avow that he acts according to this principle. He feels
that in
this preference they can never go along with him, and
that
how natural soever it may be to him, it must always appear
excessive
and extravagant to them. When he views himself in the
light
in which he is conscious that others will view him, he sees
that to
them he is but one of the multitude in no respect better
than
any other in it. If he would act so as that the impartial
spectator
may enter into the principles of his conduct, which is
what of
all things he has the greatest desire to do, he must,
upon
this, as upon all other occasions, humble the arrogance of
his
self-love, and bring it down to something which other men can
go
along with. They will indulge it so far as to allow him to be
more
anxious about, and to pursue with more earnest assiduity,
his own
happiness than that of any other person. Thus far,
whenever
they place themselves in his situation, they will
readily
go along with him. In the race for wealth, and honours,
and
preferments, he may run as hard as he can, and strain every
nerve
and every muscle, in order to outstrip all his competitors.
But if
he should justle, or throw down any of them, the
indulgence
of the spectators is entirely at an end. It is a
violation
of fair play, which they cannot admit of. This man is
to
them, in every respect, as good as he: they do not enter into
that
self-love by which he prefers himself so much to this other,
and
cannot go along with the motive from which he hurt him. They
readily,
therefore, sympathize with the natural resentment of the
injured,
and the offender becomes the object of their hatred and
indignation.
He is sensible that he becomes so, and feels that
those
sentiments are ready to burst out from all sides against
him.
As the greater and more irreparable the
evil that is done,
the resentment
of the sufferer runs naturally the higher; so does
likewise
the sympathetic indignation of the spectator, as well as
the
sense of guilt in the agent. Death is the greatest evil which
one man
can inflict upon another, and excites the highest degree
of
resentment in those who are immediately connected with the
slain.
Murder, therefore, is the most atrocious of all crimes
which
affect individuals only, in the sight both of mankind, and
of the
person who has committed it. To be deprived of that which
we are
possessed of, is a greater evil than to be disappointed of
what we
have only the expectation. Breach of property, therefore,
theft
and robbery, which take from us what we are possessed of,
are
greater crimes than breach of contract, which only
disappoints
us of what we expected. The most sacred laws of
justice,
therefore, those whose violation seems to call loudest
for
vengeance and punishment, are the laws which guard the life
and
person of our neighbour; the next are those which guard his
property
and possessions; and last of all come those which guard
what
are called his personal rights, or what is due to him from
the
promises of others.
The violator of the more sacred laws of
justice can never
reflect
on the sentiments which mankind must entertain with
regard
to him, without feeling all the agonies of shame, and
horror,
and consternation. When his passion is gratified, and he
begins
coolly to reflect on his past conduct, he can enter into
none of
the motives which influenced it. They appear now as
detestable
to him as they did always to other people. By
sympathizing
with the hatred and abhorrence which other men must
entertain
for him, he becomes in some measure the object of his
own
hatred and abhorrence. The situation of the person, who
suffered
by his injustice, now calls upon his pity. He is grieved
at the
thought of it; regrets the unhappy effects of his own
conduct,
and feels at the same time that they have rendered him
the
proper object of the resentment and indignation of mankind,
and of
what is the natural consequence of resentment, vengeance
and
punishment. The thought of this perpetually haunts him, and
fills
him with terror and amazement. He dares no longer look
society
in the face, but imagines himself as it were rejected,
and
thrown out from the affections of all mankind. He cannot hope
for the
consolation of sympathy in this his greatest and most
dreadful
distress. The remembrance of his crimes has shut out all
fellow-feeling
with him from the hearts of his fellow-creatures.
The
sentiments which they entertain with regard to him, are the
very
thing which he is most afraid of. Every thing seems hostile,
and he
would be glad to fly to some inhospitable desert, where he
might
never more behold the face of a human creature, nor read in
the
countenance of mankind the condemnation of his crimes. But
solitude
is still more dreadful than society. His own thoughts
can
present him with nothing but what is black, unfortunate, and
disastrous,
the melancholy forebodings of incomprehensible misery
and
ruin. The horror of solitude drives him back into society,
and he
comes again into the presence of mankind, astonished to
appear
before them, loaded with shame and distracted with fear,
in
order to supplicate some little protection from the
countenance
of those very judges, who he knows have already all
unanimously
condemned him. Such is the nature of that sentiment,
which
is properly called remorse; of all the sentiments which can
enter
the human breast the most dreadful. It is made up of shame
from
the sense of the impropriety of past conduct; of grief for
the
effects of it; of pity for those who suffer by it; and of the
dread
and terror of punishment from the consciousness of the
justly
provoked resentment of all rational creatures.
The opposite behaviour naturally inspires
the opposite
sentiment.
The man who, not from frivolous fancy, but from proper
motives,
has performed a generous action, when he looks forward
to
those whom he has served, feels himself to be the natural
object
of their love and gratitude, and, by sympathy with them,
of the
esteem and approbation of all mankind. And when he looks
backward
to the motive from which he acted, and surveys it in the
light
in which the indifferent spectator will survey it, he still
continues
to enter into it, and applauds himself by sympathy with
the
approbation of this supposed impartial judge. In both these
points
of view his own conduct appears to him every way
agreeable.
His mind, at the thought of it, is filled with
cheerfulness,
serenity, and composure. He is in friendship and
harmony
with all mankind, and looks upon his fellow-creatures
with
confidence and benevolent satisfaction, secure that he has
rendered
himself worthy of their most favourable regards. In the
combination
of all these sentiments consists the consciousness of
merit,
or of deserved reward.
Chap.
III
Of the
utility of this constitution of Nature
It is thus that man, who can subsist only
in society, was
fitted
by nature to that situation for which he was made. All the
members
of human society stand in need of each others assistance,
and are
likewise exposed to mutual injuries. Where the necessary
assistance
is reciprocally afforded from love, from gratitude,
from
friendship, and esteem, the society flourishes and is happy.
All the
different members of it are bound together by the
agreeable
bands of love and affection, and are, as it were, drawn
to one
common centre of mutual good offices.
But though the necessary assistance should
not be afforded
from
such generous and disinterested motives, though among the
different
members of the society there should be no mutual love
and
affection, the society, though less happy and agreeable, will
not
necessarily be dissolved. Society may subsist among different
men, as
among different merchants, from a sense of its utility,
without
any mutual love or affection; and though no man in it
should
owe any obligation, or be bound in gratitude to any other,
it may
still be upheld by a mercenary exchange of good offices
according
to an agreed valuation.
Society, however, cannot subsist among
those who are at all
times
ready to hurt and injure one another. The moment that
injury
begins, the moment that mutual resentment and animosity
take
place, all the bands of it are broke asunder, and the
different
members of which it consisted are, as it were,
dissipated
and scattered abroad by the violence and opposition of
their
discordant affections. If there is any society among
robbers
and murderers, they must at least, according to the trite
observation,
abstain from robbing and murdering one another.
Beneficence,
therefore, is less essential to the existence of
society
than justice. Society may subsist, though not in the most
comfortable
state, without beneficence; hut the prevalence of
injustice
must utterly destroy it.
Though Nature, therefore, exhorts mankind
to acts of
beneficence,
by the pleasing consciousness of deserved reward,
she has
not thought it necessary to guard and enforce the
practice
of it by the terrors of merited punishment in case it
should
be neglected. It is the ornament which embellishes, not
the
foundation which supports the building, and which it was,
therefore,
sufficient to recommend, but by no means necessary to
impose.
Justice, on the contrary, is the main pillar that upholds
the
whole edifice. If it is removed, the great, the immense
fabric
of human society, that fabric which to raise and support
seems
in this world, if I may say so, to have been the peculiar
and
darling care of Nature, must in a moment crumble into atoms.
In
order to enforce the observation of justice, therefore, Nature
has
implanted in the human breast that consciousness of
ill-desert,
those terrors of merited punishment which attend upon
its
violation, as the great safe-guards of the association of
mankind,
to protect the weak, to curb the violent, and to
chastise
the guilty. Men, though naturally sympathetic, feel so
little
for another, with whom they have no particular connexion,
in
comparison of what they feel for themselves; the misery of
one,
who is merely their fellow-creature, is of so little
importance
to them in comparison even of a small conveniency of
their
own; they have it so much in their power to hurt him, and
may
have so many temptations to do so, that if this principle did
not
stand up within them in his defence, and overawe them into a
respect
for his innocence, they would, like wild beasts, be at
all
times ready to fly upon him; and a man would enter an
assembly
of men as he enters a den of lions.
In every part of the universe we observe
means adjusted with
the
nicest artifice to the ends which they are intended to
produce;
and in the mechanism of a plant, or animal body, admire
how
every thing is contrived for advancing the two great purposes
of
nature, the support of the individual, and the propagation of
the
species. But in these, and in all such objects, we still
distinguish
the efficient from the final cause of their several
motions
and organizations. The digestion of the food, the
circulation
of the blood, and the secretion of the several juices
which
are drawn from it, are operations all of them necessary for
the
great purposes of animal life. Yet we never endeavour to
account
for them from those purposes as from their efficient
causes,
nor imagine that the blood circulates, or that the food
digests
of its own accord, and with a view or intention to the
purposes
of circulation or digestion. The wheels of the watch are
all
admirably adjusted to the end for which it was made, the
pointing
of the hour. All their various motions conspire in the
nicest
manner to produce this effect. If they were endowed with a
desire
and intention to produce it, they could not do it better.
Yet we
never ascribe any such desire or intention to them, but to
the
watch-maker, and we know that they are put into motion by a
spring,
which intends the effect it produces as little as they
do. But
though, in accounting for the operations of bodies, we
never
fail to distinguish in this manner the efficient from the
final
cause, in accounting for those of the mind we are very apt
to
confound these two different things with one another. When by
natural
principles we are led to advance those ends, which a
refined
and enlightened reason would recommend to us, we are very
apt to
impute to that reason, as to their efficient cause, the
sentiments
and actions by which we advance those ends, and to
imagine
that to be the wisdom of man, which in reality is the
wisdom
of God. Upon a superficial view, this cause seems
sufficient
to produce the effects which are ascribed to it; and
the
system of human nature seems to be more simple and agreeable
when
all its different operations are in this manner deduced from
a
single principle.
As society cannot subsist unless the laws
of justice are
tolerably
observed, as no social intercourse can take place among
men who
do not generally abstain from injuring one another; the
consideration
of this necessity, it has been thought, was the
ground
upon which we approved of the enforcement of the laws of
justice
by the punishment of those who violated them. Man, it has
been
said, has a natural love for society, and desires that the
union
of mankind should be preserved for its own sake, and though
he
himself was to derive no benefit from it. The orderly and
flourishing
state of society is agreeable to him, and he takes
delight
in contemplating it. Its disorder and confusion, on the
contrary,
is the object of his aversion, and he is chagrined at
whatever
tends to produce it. He is sensible too that his own
interest
is connected with the prosperity of society, and that
the
happiness, perhaps the preservation of his existence, depends
upon
its preservation. Upon every account, therefore, he has an
abhorrence
at whatever can tend to destroy society, and is
willing
to make use of every means, which can hinder so hated and
so
dreadful an event. Injustice necessarily tends to destroy it.
Every
appearance of injustice, therefore, alarms him, and he
runs,
if I may say so, to stop the progress of what, if allowed
to go
on, would quickly put an end to every thing that is dear to
him. If
he cannot restrain it by gentle and fair means, he must
beat it
down by force and violence, and at any rate must put a
stop to
its further progress. Hence it is, they say, that he
often
approves of the enforcement of the laws of justice even by
the
capital punishment of those who violate them. The disturber
of the
public peace is hereby removed out of the world, and
others
are terrified by his fate from imitating his example.
Such is the account commonly given of our
approbation of the
punishment
of injustice. And so far this account is undoubtedly
true,
that we frequently have occasion to confirm our natural
sense
of the propriety and fitness of punishment, by reflecting
how
necessary it is for preserving the order of society. When the
guilty
is about to suffer that just retaliation, which the
natural
indignation of mankind tells them is due to his crimes;
when
the insolence of his injustice is broken and humbled by the
terror
of his approaching punishment; when he ceases to be an
object
of fear, with the generous and humane he begins to be an
object
of pity. The thought of what he is about to suffer
extinguishes
their resentment for the sufferings of others to
which
he has given occasion. They are disposed to pardon and
forgive
him, and to save him from that punishment, which in all
their
cool hours they had considered as the retribution due to
such
crimes. Here, therefore, they have occasion to call to their
assistance
the consideration of the general interest of society.
They
counterbalance the impulse of this weak and partial humanity
by the
dictates of a humanity that is more generous and
comprehensive.
They reflect that mercy to the guilty is cruelty
to the
innocent, and oppose to the emotions of compassion which
they
feel for a particular person, a more enlarged compassion
which
they feel for mankind.
Sometimes too we have occasion to defend
the propriety of
observing
the general rules of justice by the consideration of
their
necessity to the support of society. We frequently hear the
young
and the licentious ridiculing the most sacred rules of
morality,
and professing, sometimes from the corruption, but more
frequently
from the vanity of their hearts, the most abominable
maxims
of conduct. Our indignation rouses, and we are eager to
refute
and expose such detestable principles. But though it is
their
intrinsic hatefulness and detestableness, which originally
inflames
us against them, we are unwilling to assign this as the
sole
reason why we condemn them, or to pretend that it is merely
because
we ourselves hate and detest them. The reason, we think,
would
not appear to be conclusive. Yet why should it not; if we
hate
and detest them because they are the natural and proper
objects
of hatred and detestation? But when we are asked why we
should
not act in such or such a manner, the very question seems
to
suppose that, to those who ask it, this manner of acting does
not
appear to be for its own sake the natural and proper object
of
those sentiments. We must show them, therefore, that it ought
to be
so for the sake of something else. Upon this account we
generally
cast about for other arguments, and the consideration
which
first occurs to us, is the disorder and confusion of
society
which would result from the universal prevalence of such
practices.
We seldom fail, therefore, to insist upon this topic.
But though it commonly requires no great
discernment to see
the
destructive tendency of all licentious practices to the
welfare
of society, it is seldom this consideration which first
animates
us against them. All men, even the most stupid and
unthinking,
abhor fraud, perfidy, and injustice, and delight to
see
them punished. But few men have reflected upon the necessity
of
justice to the existence of society, how obvious soever that
necessity
may appear to be.
That it is not a regard to the
preservation of society, which
originally
interests us in the punishment of crimes committed
against
individuals, may be demonstrated by many obvious
considerations.
The concern which we take in the fortune and
happiness
of individuals does not, in common cases, arise from
that
which we take in the fortune and happiness of society. We
are no
more concerned for the destruction or loss of a single
man,
because this man is a member or part of society, and because
we
should be concerned for the destruction of society, than we
are
concerned for the loss of a single guinea, because this
guinea
is a part of a thousand guineas, and because we should be
concerned
for the loss of the whole sum. In neither case does our
regard
for the individuals arise from our regard for the
multitude:
but in both cases our regard for the multitude is
compounded
and made up of the particular regards which we feel
for the
different individuals of which it is composed. As when a
small
sum is unjustly taken from us, we do not so much prosecute
the
injury from a regard to the preservation of our whole
fortune,
as from a regard to that particular sum which we have
lost;
so when a single man is injured, or destroyed, we demand
the
punishment of the wrong that has been done to him, not so
much
from a concern for the general interest of society, as from
a
concern for that very individual who has been injured. It is to
be
observed, however, that this concern does not necessarily
include
in it any degree of those exquisite sentiments which are
commonly
called love, esteem, and affection, and by which we
distinguish
our particular friends and acquaintance. The concern
which
is requisite for this, is no more than the general
fellow-feeling
which we have with every man merely because he is
our
fellow-creature. We enter into the resentment even of an
odious
person, when he is injured by those to whom he has given
no
provocation. Our disapprobation of his ordinary character and
conduct
does not in this case altogether prevent our
fellow-feeling
with his natural indignation; though with those
who are
not either extremely candid, or who have not been
accustomed
to correct and regulate their natural sentiments by
general
rules, it is very apt to damp it.
Upon some occasions, indeed, we both
punish and approve of
punishment,
merely from a view to the general interest of
society,
which, we imagine, cannot otherwise be secured. Of this
kind are
all the punishments inflicted for breaches of what is
called
either civil police, or military discipline. Such crimes
do not
immediately or directly hurt any particular person; but
their
remote consequences, it is supposed, do produce, or might
produce,
either a considerable inconveniency, or a great disorder
in the
society. A centinel, for example, who falls asleep upon
his
watch, suffers death by the laws of war, because such
carelessness
might endanger the whole army. This severity may,
upon many
occasions, appear necessary, and, for that reason, just
and
proper. When the preservation of an individual is
inconsistent
with the safety of a multitude, nothing can be more
just
than that the many should be preferred to the one. Yet this
punishment,
how necessary soever, always appears to be
excessively
severe. The natural atrocity of the crime seems to be
so
little, and the punishment so great, that it is with great
difficulty
that our heart can reconcile itself to it. Though such
carelessness
appears very blamable, yet the thought of this crime
does
not naturally excite any such resentment, as would prompt us
to take
such dreadful revenge. A man of humanity must recollect
himself,
must make an effort, and exert his whole firmness and
resolution,
before he can bring himself either to inflict it, or
to go
along with it when it is inflicted by others. It is not,
however,
in this manner, that he looks upon the just punishment
of an
ungrateful murderer or parricide. His heart, in this case,
applauds
with ardour, and even with transport, the just
retaliation
which seems due to such detestable crimes, and which,
if, by
any accident, they should happen to escape, he would be
highly
enraged and disappointed. The very different sentiments
with
which the spectator views those different punishments, is a
proof
that his approbation of the one is far from being founded
upon
the same principles with that of the other. He looks upon
the
centinel as an unfortunate victim, who, indeed, must, and
ought
to be, devoted to the safety of numbers, but whom still, in
his
heart, he would be glad to save; and he is only sorry, that
the
interest of the many should oppose it. But if the murderer
should
escape from punishment, it would excite his highest
indignation,
and he would call upon God to avenge, in another
world,
that crime which the injustice of mankind had neglected to
chastise
upon earth.
For it well deserves to be taken notice
of, that we are so
far
from imagining that injustice ought to be punished in this
life,
merely on account of the order of society, which cannot
otherwise
be maintained, that Nature teaches us to hope, and
religion,
we suppose, authorises us to expect, that it will be
punished,
even in a life to come. Our sense of its ill desert
pursues
it, if I may say so, even beyond the grave, though the
example
of its punishment there cannot serve to deter the rest of
mankind,
who see it not, who know it not, from being guilty of
the
like practices here. The justice of God, however, we think,
still
requires, that he should hereafter avenge the injuries of
the
widow and the fatherless, who are here so often insulted with
impunity.
In every religion, and in every superstition that the
world
has ever beheld, accordingly, there has been a Tartarus as
well as
an Elysium; a place provided for the punishment of the
wicked,
as well as one for the reward of the just.
Section
III
Of the
Influence of Fortune upon the Sentiments of Mankind, with
regard
to the Merit or Demerit of Actions
Whatever praise or blame can be due to any
action, must
belong
either, first, to the intention or affection of the heart,
from
which it proceeds; or, secondly, to the external action or
movement
of the body, which this affection gives occasion to; or,
lastly,
to the good or bad consequences, which actually, and in
fact,
proceed from it. These three different things constitute
the
whole nature and circumstances of the action, and must be the
foundation
of whatever quality can belong to it.
That the two last of these three
circumstances cannot be the
foundation
of any praise or blame, is abundantly evident; nor has
the
contrary ever been asserted by any body. The external action
or
movement of the body is often the same in the most innocent
and in
the most blameable actions. He who shoots a bird, and he
who
shoots a man, both of them perform the same external
movement:
each of them draws the trigger of a gun. The
consequences
which actually, and in fact, happen to proceed from
any
action, are, if possible, still more indifferent either to
praise
or blame, than even the external movement of the body. As
they
depend, not upon the agent, but upon fortune, they cannot be
the
proper foundation for any sentiment, of which his character
and
conduct are the objects.
The only consequences for which he can be
answerable, or by
which
he can deserve either approbation or disapprobation of any
kind,
are those which were someway or other intended, or those
which,
at least, show some agreeable or disagreeable quality in
the
intention of the heart, from which he acted. To the intention
or
affection of the heart, therefore, to the propriety or
impropriety,
to the beneficence or hurtfulness of the design, all
praise
or blame, all approbation or disapprobation, of any kind,
which
can justly be bestowed upon any action, must ultimately
belong.
When this maxim is thus proposed, in
abstract and general
terms,
there is nobody who does not agree to it. Its self-evident
justice
is acknowledged by all the world, and there is not a
dissenting
voice among all mankind. Every body allows, that how
different
soever the accidental, the unintended and unforeseen
consequences
of different actions, yet, if the intentions or
affections
from which they arose were, on the one hand, equally
proper
and equally beneficent, or, on the other, equally improper
and
equally malevolent, the merit or demerit of the actions is
still
the same, and the agent is equally the suitable object
either
of gratitude or of resentment.
But how well soever we may seem to be
persuaded of the truth
of this
equitable maxim, when we consider it after this manner,
in
abstract, yet when we come to particular cases, the actual
consequences
which happen to proceed from any action, have a very
great
effect upon our sentiments concerning its merit or demerit,
and
almost always either enhance or diminish our sense of both.
Scarce,
in any one instance, perhaps, will our sentiments be
found,
after examination, to be entirely regulated by this rule,
which
we all acknowledge ought entirely to regulate them.
This irregularity of sentiment, which
every body feels, which
scarce
any body is sufficiently aware of, and which nobody is
willing
to acknowledge, I proceed now to explain; and I shall
consider,
first, the cause which gives occasion to it, or the
mechanism
by which nature produces it; secondly, the extent of
its
influence; and, last of all, the end which it answers, or the
purpose
which the Author of nature seems to have intended by it.
Chap. I
Of the
Causes of this Influence of Fortune
The causes of pain and pleasure, whatever
they are, or
however
they operate, seem to be the objects, which, in all
animals,
immediately excite those two passions of gratitude and
resentment.
They are excited by inanimated, as well as by
animated
objects. We are angry, for a moment, even at the stone
that
hurts us. A child beats it, a dog barks at it, a choleric
man is
apt to curse it. The least reflection, indeed, corrects
this
sentiment, and we soon become sensible, that what has no
feeling
is a very improper object of revenge. When the mischief,
however,
is very great, the object which caused it becomes
disagreeable
to us ever after, and we take pleasure to burn or
destroy
it. We should treat, in this manner, the instrument which
had
accidentally been the cause of the death of a friend, and we
should
often think ourselves guilty of a sort of inhumanity, if
we
neglected to vent this absurd sort of vengeance upon it.
We conceive, in the same manner, a sort of
gratitude for
those
inanimated objects, which have been the causes of great, or
frequent
pleasure to us. The sailor, who, as soon as he got
ashore,
should mend his fire with the plank upon which he had
just
escaped from a shipwreck, would seem to be guilty of an
unnatural
action. We should expect that he would rather preserve
it with
care and affection, as a monument that was, in some
measure,
dear to him. A man grows fond of a snuff-box, of a
pen-knife,
of a staff which he has long made use of, and
conceives
something like a real love and affection for them. If
he
breaks or loses them, he is vexed out of all proportion to the
value
of the damage. The house which we have long lived in, the
tree,
whose verdure and shade we have long enjoyed, are both
looked
upon with a sort of respect that seems due to such
benefactors.
The decay of the one, or the ruin of the other,
affects
us with a kind of melancholy, though we should sustain no
loss by
it. The Dryads and the Lares of the ancients, a sort of
genii
of trees and houses, were probably first suggested by this
sort of
affection, which the authors of those superstitions felt
for
such objects, and which seemed unreasonable, if there was
nothing
animated about them.
But, before any thing can be the proper
object of gratitude
or
resentment, it must not only be the cause of pleasure or pain,
it must
likewise be capable of feeling them. Without this other
quality,
those passions cannot vent themselves with any sort of
satisfaction
upon it. As they are excited by the causes of
pleasure
and pain, so their gratification consists in retaliating
those
sensations upon what gave occasion to them; which it is to
no
purpose to attempt upon what has no sensibility. Animals,
therefore,
are less improper objects of gratitude and resentment
than
inanimated objects. The dog that bites, the ox that gores,
are
both of them punished. If they have been the causes of the
death of
any person, neither the public, nor the relations of the
slain,
can be satisfied, unless they are put to death in their
turn:
nor is this merely for the security of the living, but, in
some
measure, to revenge the injury of the dead. Those animals,
on the
contrary, that have been remarkably serviceable to their
masters,
become the objects of a very lively gratitude. We are
shocked
at the brutality of that officer, mentioned in the
Turkish
Spy, who stabbed the horse that had carried him across an
arm of
the sea, lest that ani mal should afterwards distinguish
some
other person by a similar adventure.
But, though animals are not only the
causes of pleasure and
pain,
but are also capable of feeling those sensations, they are
still
far from being complete and perfect objects, either of
gratitude
or resentment; and those passions still feel, that
there
is something wanting to their entire gratification. What
gratitude
chiefly desires, is not only to make the benefactor
feel
pleasure in his turn, but to make him conscious that he
meets
with this reward on account of his past conduct, to make
him
pleased with that conduct, and to satisfy him that the person
upon
whom he bestowed his good offices was not unworthy of them.
What
most of all charms us in our benefactor, is the concord
between
his sentiments and our own, with regard to what interests
us so
nearly as the worth of our own character, and the esteem
that is
due to us. We are delighted to find a person who values
us as
we value ourselves, and distinguishes us from the rest of
mankind,
with an attention not unlike that with which we
distinguish
ourselves. To maintain in him these agreeable and
flattering
sentiments, is one of the chief ends proposed by the
returns
we are disposed to make to him. A generous mind often
disdains
the interested thought of extorting new favours from its
benefactor,
by what may be called the importunities of its
gratitude.
But to preserve and to increase his esteem, is an
interest
which the greatest mind does not think unworthy of its
attention.
And this is the foundation of what I formerly
observed,
that when we cannot enter into the motives of our
benefactor,
when his conduct and character appear unworthy of our
approbation,
let his services have been ever so great, our
gratitude
is always sensibly diminished. We are less flattered by
the
distinction. and to preserve the esteem of so weak, or so
worthless
a patron, seems to be an object which does not deserve
to be
pursued for its own sake.
The object, on the contrary, which
resentment is chiefly
intent
upon, is not so much to make our enemy feel pain in his
turn,
as to make him conscious that he feels it upon account of
his
past conduct, to make him repent of that conduct, and to make
him
sensible, that the person whom he injured did not deserve to
be
treated in that manner. What chiefly enrages us against the
man who
injures or insults us, is the little account which he
seems
to make of us, the unreasonable preference which he gives
to
himself above us, and that absurd self-love, by which he seems
to
imagine, that other people may be sacrificed at any time, to
his
conveniency or his humour. The glaring impropriety of this
conduct,
the gross insolence and injustice which it seems to
involve
in it, often shock and exasperate us more than all the
mischief
which we have suffered. To bring him back to a more just
sense
of what is due to other people, to make him sensible of
what he
owes us, and of the wrong that he has done to us, is
frequently
the principal end proposed in our revenge, which is
always
imperfect when it cannot accomplish this. When our enemy
appears
to have done us no injury, when we are sensible that he
acted
quite properly, that, in his situation, we should have done
the
same thing, and that we deserved from him all the mischief we
met
with; in that case, if we have the least spark either of
candour
or justice, we can entertain no sort of resentment.
Before any thing, therefore, can be the
complete and proper
object,
either of gratitude or resentment, it must possess three
different
qualifications. First, it must be the cause of pleasure
in the
one case, and of pain in the other. Secondly, it must be
capable
of feeling those sensations. And, thirdly, it must not
only
have produced those sensations, but it must in have produced
them
from design, and from a design that is approved of the one
case,
and disapproved of in the other. It is by the first
qualification,
that any object is capable of exciting those
passions:
it is by the second, that it is in any respect capable
of
gratifying them: the third qualification is not only necessary
for
their complete satisfaction, but as it gives a pleasure or
pain
that is both exquisite and peculiar, it is likewise an
additional
exciting cause of those passions.
As what gives pleasure or pain, either in
one way or another,
is the
sole exciting cause of gratitude and resentment; though
the
intentions of any person should be ever so proper and
beneficent
on the one hand, or ever so improper and malevolent on
the
other; yet, if he has failed in producing either the good or
the
evil which he intended, as one of the exciting causes is
wanting
in both cases, less gratitude seems due to him in the
one,
and less resentment in the other. And, on the contrary,
though
in the intentions of any person, there was either no
laudable
degree of benevolence on the one hand, or no blameable
degree
of malice on the other; yet, if his actions should produce
either
great good or great evil, as one of the exciting causes
takes
place upon both these occasions, some gratitude is apt to
arise
towards him in the one, and some resentment in the other. A
shadow
of merit seems to fall upon him in the first, a shadow of
demerit
in the second. And, as the consequences of actions are
altogether
under the empire of Fortune, hence arises her
influence
upon the sentiments of mankind with regard to merit and
demerit.
Chap.
II
Of the
extent of this Influence of Fortune
The effect of this influence of fortune
is, first, to
diminish
our sense of the merit or demerit of those actions which
arose
from the most laudable or blamable intentions, when they
fail of
producing their proposed effects: and, secondly, to
increase
our sense of the merit or demerit of actions, beyond
what is
due to the motives or affections from which they proceed,
when
they accidentally give occasion either to extraordinary
pleasure
or pain.
1. First, I say, though the intentions of
any person should
be ever
so proper and beneficent, on the one hand, or ever so
improper
and malevolent, on the other, yet, if they fail in
producing
their effects, his merit seems imperfect in the one
case,
and his demerit incomplete in the other. Nor is this
irregularity
of sentiment felt only by those who are immediately
affected
by the consequences of any action. It is felt, in some
measure,
even by the impartial spectator. The man who solicits an
office
for another, without obtaining it, is regarded as his
friend,
and seems to deserve his love and affection. But the man
who not
only solicits, but procures it, is more peculiarly
considered
as his patron and benefactor, and is entitled to his
respect
and gratitude. The person obliged, we are apt to think,
may,
with some justice, imagine himself on a level with the
first:
but we cannot enter into his sentiments, if he does not
feel
himself inferior to the second. It is common indeed to say,
that we
are equally obliged to the man who has endeavoured to
serve
us, as to him who actually did so. It is the speech which
we
constantly make upon every unsuccessful attempt of this kind;
but
which, like all other fine speeches, must be understood with
a grain
of allowance. The sentiments which a man of generosity
entertains
for the friend who fails, may often indeed be nearly
the
same with those which he conceives for him who succeeds: and
the
more generous he is, the more nearly will those sentiments
approach
to an exact level. With the truly generous, to be
beloved,
to be esteemed by those whom they themselves think
worthy
of esteem, gives more pleasure, and thereby excites more
gratitude,
than all the advantages which they can ever expect
from
those sentiments. When they lose those advantages therefore,
they
seem to lose but a trifle, which is scarce worth regarding.
They
still however lose something. Their pleasure therefore, and
consequently
their gratitude, is not perfectly complete: and
accordingly
if, between the friend who fails and the friend who
succeeds,
all other circumstances are equal, there will, even in
the
noblest and the best mind, be some little difference of
affection
in favour of him who succeeds. Nay, so unjust are
mankind
in this respect, that though the intended benefit should
be
procured, yet if it is not procured by the means of a
particular
benefactor, they are apt to think that less gratitude
is due
to the man, who with the best intentions in the world
could
do no more than help it a little forward. As their
gratitude
is in this case divided among the different persons who
contributed
to their pleasure, a smaller share of it seems due to
any
one. Such a person, we hear men commonly say, intended no
doubt
to serve us; and we really believe exerted himself to the
utmost
of his abilities for that purpose. We are not, however,
obliged
to him for this benefit; since, had it not been for the
concurrence
of others, all that he could have done would never
have
brought it about. This consideration, they imagine, should,
even in
the eyes of the impartial spectator, diminish the debt
which
they owe to him. The person himself who has unsuccessfully
endeavoured
to confer a benefit, has by no means the same
dependency
upon the gratitude of the man whom he meant to oblige,
nor the
same sense of his own merit towards him, which he would
have
had in the case of success.
Even the merit of talents and abilities
which some accident
has
hindered from producing their effects, seems in some measure
imperfect,
even to those who are fully convinced of their
capacity
to produce them. The general who has been hindered by
the
envy of ministers from gaining some great advantage over the
enemies
of his country, regrets the loss of the opportunity for
ever
after. Nor is it only upon account of the public that he
regrets
it. He laments that he was hindered from performing an
action
which would have added a new lustre to his character in
his own
eyes, as well as in those of every other person. It
satisfies
neither himself nor others to reflect that the plan or
design
was all that depended on him, that no greater capacity was
required
to execute it than what was necessary to concert it:
that he
was allowed to be every way capable of executing it, and
that had
he been permitted to go on, success was infallible. He
still
did not execute it; and though he might deserve all the
approbation
which is due to a magnanimous and great design, he
still
wanted the actual merit of having performed a great action.
To take
the management of any affair of public concern from the
man who
has almost brought it to a conclusion, is regarded as the
most
invidious injustice. As he had done so much, he should, we
think,
have been allowed to acquire the complete merit of putting
an end
to it. It was objected to Pompey, that he came in upon the
victories
of Lucullus, and gathered those laurels which were due
to the
fortune and valour of another. The glory of Lucullus, it
seems,
was less complete even in the opinion of his own friends,
when he
was not permitted to finish that conquest which his
conduct
and courage had put in the power of almost any man to
finish.
It mortifies an architect when his plans are either not
executed
at all, or when they are so far altered as to spoil the
effect
of the building. The plan, however, is all that depends
upon
the architect. The whole of his genius is, to good judges,
as
completely discovered in that as in the actual execution. But
a plan
does not, even to the most intelligent, give the same
pleasure
as a noble and magnificent building. They may discover
as much
both of taste and genius in the one as in the other. But
their
effects are still vastly different, and the amusement
derived
from the first, never approaches to the wonder and
admiration
which are sometimes excited by the second. We may
believe
of many men, that their talents are superior to those of
Caesar
and Alexander; and that in the same situations they would
perform
still greater actions. In the mean time, however, we do
not
behold them with that astonishment and admiration with which
those
two heroes have been regarded in all ages and nations. The
calm
judgments of the mind may approve of them more, but they
want
the splendour of great actions to dazzle and transport it.
The
superiority of virtues and talents has not, even upon those
who
acknowledge that superiority, the same effect with the
superiority
of atchievements.
As the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to
do good seems
thus,
in the eyes of ungrateful mankind, to be diminished by the
miscarriage,
so does likewise the demerit of an unsuccessful
attempt
to do evil. The design to commit a crime, how clearly
soever
it may be proved, is scarce ever punished with the same
severity
as the actual commission of it. The case of treason is
perhaps
the only exception. That crime immediately affecting the
being
of the government itself, the government is naturally more
jealous
of it than of any other. In the punishment of treason,
the
sovereign resents the injuries which are immediately done to
himself:
in the punishment of other crimes, he resents those
which
are done to other men. It is his own resentment which he
indulges
in the one case: it is that of his subjects which by
sympathy
he enters into in the other. In the first case,
therefore,
as he judges in his own cause, he is very apt to be
more
violent and sanguinary in his punishments than the impartial
spectator
can approve of. His resentment too rises here upon
smaller
occasions, and does not always, as in other cases, wait
for the
perpetration of the crime, or even for the attempt to
commit
it. A treasonable concert, though nothing has been done,
or even
attempted in consequence of it, nay, a treasonable
conversation,
is in many countries punished in the same manner as
the
actual commission of treason. With regard to all other
crimes,
the mere design, upon which no attempt has followed, is
seldom
punished at all, and is never punished severely. A
criminal
design, and a criminal action, it may be said indeed, do
not
necessarily suppose the same degree of depravity, and ought
not
therefore to be subjected to the same punishment. We are
capable,
it may be said, of resolving, and even of taking
measures
to execute, many things which, when it comes to the
point,
we feel ourselves altogether incapable of executing. But
this
reason can have no place when the design has been carried
the
length of the last attempt. The man, however, who fires a
pistol
at his enemy but misses him, is punished with death by the
laws of
scarce any country. By the old law of Scotland, though he
should
wound him, yet, unless death ensues within a certain time,
the
assassin is not liable to the last punishment. The resentment
of
mankind, however, runs so high against this crime, their
terror
for the man who shows himself capable of committing it, is
so
great, that the mere attempt to commit it ought in all
countries
to be capital. The attempt to commit smaller crimes is
almost
always punished very lightly, and sometimes is not
punished
at all. The thief, whose hand has been caught in his
neighbour's
pocket before he had taken any thing out of it, is
punished
with ignominy only. If he had got time to take away an
handkerchief,
he would have been put to death. The house-breaker,
who has
been found setting a ladder to his neighbour's window,
but had
not got into it, is not exposed to the capital
punishment.
The attempt to ravish is not punished as a rape. The
attempt
to seduce a married woman is not punished at all, though
seduction
is punished severely. Our resentment against the person
who
only attempted to do a mischief, is seldom so strong as to
bear us
out in inflicting the same punishment upon him, which we
should
have thought due if he had actually done it. In the one
case,
the joy of our deliverance alleviates our sense of the
atrocity
of his conduct; in the other, the grief of our
misfortune
increases it. His real demerit, however, is
undoubtedly
the same in both cases, since his intentions were
equally
criminal; and there is in this respect, therefore, an
irregularity
in the sentiments of all men, and a consequent
relaxation
of discipline in the laws of, I believe, all nations,
of the
most civilized, as well as of the most barbarous. The
humanity
of a civilized people disposes them either to dispense
with,
or to mitigate punishments wherever their natural
indignation
is not goaded on by the consequences of the crime.
Barbarians,
on the other hand, when no actual consequence has
happened
from any action, are not apt to be very delicate or
inquisitive
about the motives.
The person himself who either from
passion, or from the
influence
of bad company, has resolved, and perhaps taken
measures
to perpetrate some crime, but who has fortunately been
prevented
by an accident which put it out of his power, is sure,
if he
has any remains of conscience, to regard this event all his
life
after as a great and signal deliverance. He can never think
of it
without returning thanks to Heaven for having been thus
graciously
pleased to save him from the guilt in which he was
just
ready to plunge himself, and to hinder him from rendering
all the
rest of his life a scene of horror, remorse, and
repentance.
But though his hands are innocent, he is conscious
that
his heart is equally guilty as if he had actually executed
what he
was so fully resolved upon. It gives great ease to his
conscience,
however, to consider that the crime was not executed,
though
he knows that the failure arose from no virtue in him. He
still
considers himself as less deserving of punishment and
resentment;
and this good fortune either diminishes, or takes
away
altogether, all sense of guilt. To remember how much he was
resolved
upon it, has no other effect than to make him regard his
escape
as the greater and more miraculous: for he still fancies
that he
has escaped, and he looks back upon the danger to which
his
peace of mind was exposed, with that terror, with which one
who is
in safety may sometimes remember the hazard he was in of
falling
over a precipice, and shudder with horror at the thought.
2. The second effect of this influence of
fortune, is to
increase
our sense of the merit or demerit of actions beyond what
is due
to the motives or affection from which they proceed, when
they
happen to give occasion to extraordinary pleasure or pain.
The
agreeable or disagreeable effects of the action often throw a
shadow
of merit or demerit upon the agent, though in his
intention
there was nothing that deserved either praise or blame,
or at
least that deserved them in the degree in which we are apt
to
bestow them. Thus, even the messenger of bad news is
disagreeable
to us, and, on the contrary, we feel a sort of
gratitude
for the man who brings us good tidings. For a moment we
look
upon them both as the authors, the one of our good, the
other
of our bad fortune, and regard them in some measure as if
they
had really brought about the events which they only give an
account
of. The first author of our joy is naturally the object
of a
transitory gratitude: we embrace him with warmth and
affection,
and should be glad, during the instant of our
prosperity,
to reward him as for some signal service. By the
custom
of all courts, the officer, who brings the news of a
victory,
is entitled to considerable preferments, and the general
always
chuses one of his principal favourites to go upon so
agreeable
an errand. The first author of our sorrow is, on the
contrary,
just as naturally the object of a transitory
resentment.
We can scarce avoid looking upon him with chagrin and
uneasiness;
and the rude and brutal are apt to vent upon him that
spleen
which his intelligence gives occasion to. Tigranes, king
of
Armenia, struck off the head of the man who brought him the
first
account of the approach of a formidable enemy. To punish in
this
manner the author of bad tidings, seems barbarous and
inhuman:
yet, to reward the messenger of good news, is not
disagreeable
to us; we think it suitable to the bounty of kings.
But why
do we make this difference, since, if there is no fault
in the
one, neither is there any merit in the other? It is
because
any sort of reason seems sufficient to authorize the
exertion
of the social and benevolent affections. but it requires
the
most solid and substantial to make us enter into that of the
unsocial
and malevolent.
But though in general we are averse to
enter into the
unsocial
and malevolent affections, though we lay it down for a
rule
that we ought never to approve of their gratification,
unless
so far as the malicious and unjust intention of the
person,
against whom they are directed, renders him their proper
object;
yet, upon some occasions, we relax of this severity. When
the
negligence of one man has occasioned some unintended damage
to
another, we generally enter so far into the resentment of the
sufferer,
as to approve of his inflicting a punishment upon the
offender
much beyond what the offence would have appeared to
deserve,
had no such unlucky consequence followed from it.
There is a degree of negligence, which
would appear to
deserve
some chastisement though it should occasion no damage to
any
body. Thus, if a person should throw a large stone over a
wall
into a public street without giving warning to those who
might
be passing by, and without regarding where it was likely to
fall,
he would undoubtedly deserve some chastisement. A very
accurate
police would punish so absurd an action, even though it
had
done no mischief. The person who has been guilty of it, shows
an
insolent contempt of the happiness and safety of others. There
is real
injustice in his conduct. He wantonly exposes his
neighbour
to what no man in his senses would chuse to expose
himself,
and evidently wants that sense of what is due to his
fellow-creatures
which is the basis of justice and of society.
Gross
negligence therefore is, in the law, said to be almost
equal
to malicious design.(q*) When any unlucky consequences
happen
from such carelessness, the person who has been guilty of
it is
often punished as if he had really intended those
consequences;
and his conduct, which was only thoughtless and
insolent,
and what deserved some chastisement, is considered as
atrocious,
and as liable to the severest punishment. Thus if, by
the
imprudent action above-mentioned, he should accidentally kill
a man,
he is, by the laws of many countries, particularly by the
old law
of Scotland, liable to the last punishment. And though
this is
no doubt excessively severe, it is not altogether
inconsistent
with our natural sentiments. Our just indignation
against
the folly and inhumanity of his conduct is exasperated by
our
sympathy with the unfortunate sufferer. Nothing, however,
would
appear more shocking to our natural sense of equity, than
to
bring a man to the scaffold merely for having thrown a stone
carelessly
into the street without hurting any body. The folly
and
inhumanity of his conduct, however, would in this case be the
same;
but still our sentiments would be very different. The
consideration
of this difference may satisfy us how much the
indignation,
even of the spectator, is apt to be animated by the
actual
consequences of the action. In cases of this kind there
will,
if I am not mistaken, be found a great degree of severity
in the
laws of almost all nations; as I have already observed
that in
those of an opposite kind there was a very general
relaxation
of discipline.
There is another degree of negligence
which does not involve
in it
any sort of injustice. The person who is guilty of it
treats
his neighbours as he treats himself, means no harm to any
body,
and is far from entertaining any insolent contempt for the
safety
and happiness of others. He is not, however, so careful
and
circumspect in his conduct as he ought to be, and deserves
upon
this account some degree of blame and censure, but no sort
of
punishment. Yet if by a negligence(3*) of this kind he should
occasion
some damage to another person, he is by the laws of, I
believe,
all countries, obliged to compensate it. And though this
is no
doubt a real punishment, and what no mortal would have
thought
of inflicting upon him, had it not been for the unlucky
accident
which his conduct gave occasion to; yet this decision of
the law
is approved of by the natural sentiments of all mankind.
Nothing,
we think, can be more just than that one man should not
suffer
by the carelessness of another; and that the damage
occasioned
by blamable negligence, should be made up by the
person
who was guilty of it.
There is another species of
negligence,(4*) which consists
merely
in a want of the most anxious timidity and circumspection,
with
regard to all the possible consequences of our actions. The
want of
this painful attention, when no bad consequences follow
from
it, is so far from being regarded as blamable, that the
contrary
quality is rather considered as such. That timid
circumspection
which is afraid of every thing, is never regarded
as a
virtue, but as a quality which more than any other
incapacitates
for action and business. Yet when, from a want of
this
excessive care, a person happens to occasion some damage to
another,
he is often by the law obliged to compensate it. Thus,
by the
Aquilian law, the man, who not being able to manage a
horse
that had accidentally taken fright, should happen to ride
down
his neighbour' s slave, is obliged to compensate the damage.
When an
accident of this kind happens, we are apt to think that
he
ought not to have rode such a horse, and to regard his
attempting
it as an unpardonable levity; though without this
accident
we should not only have made no such reflection, but
should
have regarded his refusing it as the effect of timid
weakness,
and of an anxiety about merely possible events, which
it is
to no purpose to be aware of. The person himself, who by an
accident
even of this kind has involuntarily hurt another, seems
to have
some sense of his own ill desert, with regard to him. He
naturally
runs up to the sufferer to express his concern for what
has
happened, and to make every acknowledgment in his power. If
he has
any sensibility, he necessarily desires to compensate the
damage,
and to do every thing he can to appease that animal
resentment,
which he is sensible will be apt to arise in the
breast
of the sufferer. To make no apology, to offer no
atonement,
is regarded as the highest brutality. Yet why should
he make
an apology more than any other person? Why should he,
since
he was equally innocent with any other bystander, be thus
singled
out from among all mankind, to make up for the bad
fortune
of another? This task would surely never be imposed upon
him,
did not even the impartial spectator feel some indulgence
for
what may be regarded as the unjust resentment of that other.
Chap.
III
Of the
final cause of this Irregularity of Sentiments
Such is the effect of the good or bad
consequences of actions
upon
the sentiments both of the person who performs them, and of
others;
and thus, Fortune, which governs the world, has some
influence
where we should be least willing to allow her any, and
directs
in some measure the sentiments of mankind, with regard to
the
character and conduct both of themselves and others. That the
world
judges by the event, and not by the design, has been in all
ages
the complaint, and is the great discouragement of virtue.
Every
body agrees to the general maxim, that as the event does
not
depend on the agent, it ought to have no influence upon our
sentiments,
with regard to the merit or propriety of his conduct.
But
when we come to particulars, we find that our sentiments are
scarce
in any one instance exactly conformable to what this
equitable
maxim would direct. The happy or unprosperous event of
any action,
is not only apt to give us a good or bad opinion of
the
prudence with which it was conducted, but almost always too
animates
our gratitude or resentment, our sense of the merit or
demerit
of the design.
Nature, however, when she implanted the seeds
of this
irregularity
in the human breast, seems, as upon all other
occasions,
to have intended the happiness and perfection of the
species.
If the hurtfulness of the design, if the malevolence of
the
affection, were alone the causes which excited our
resentment,
we should feel all the furies of that passion against
any
person in whose breast we suspected or believed such designs
or
affections were harboured, though they had never broke out
into
any action. Sentiments, thoughts, intentions, would become
the
objects of punishment; and if the indignation of mankind run
as high
against them as against actions; if the baseness of the
thought
which had given birth to no action, seemed in the eyes of
the
world as much to call aloud for vengeance as the baseness of
the
action, every court of judicature would become a real
inquisition.
There would be no safety for the most innocent and
circumspect
conduct. Bad wishes, bad views, bad designs, might
still
be suspected; and while these excited the same indignation
with
bad conduct, while bad intentions were as much resented as
bad
actions, they would equally expose the person to punishment
and
resentment. Actions, therefore, which either produce actual
evil,
or attempt to produce it, and thereby put us in the
immediate
fear of it, are by the Author of nature rendered the
only
proper and approved objects of human punishment and
resentment.
Sentiments, designs, affections, though it is from
these
that according to cool reason human actions derive their
whole
merit or demerit, are placed by the great Judge of hearts
beyond
the limits of every human jurisdiction, and are reserved
for the
cognizance of his own unerring tribunal. That necessary
rule of
justice, therefore, that men in this life are liable to
punishment
for their actions only, not for their designs and
intentions,
is founded upon this salutary and useful irregularity
in
human sentiments concerning merit or demerit, which at first
sight
appears so absurd and unaccountable. But every part of
nature,
when attentively surveyed, equally demonstrates the
providential
care of its Author, and we may admire the wisdom and
goodness
of God even in the weakness and folly of man.
Nor is that irregularity of sentiments
altogether without its
utility,
by which the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to serve,
and
much more that of mere good inclinations and kind wishes,
appears
to be imperfect. Man was made for action, and to promote
by the
exertion of his faculties such changes in the external
circumstances
both of himself and others, as may seem most
favourable
to the happiness of all. He must not be satisfied with
indolent
benevolence, nor fancy himself the friend of mankind,
because
in his heart he wishes well to the prosperity of the
world.
That he may call forth the whole vigour of his soul, and
strain
every nerve, in order to produce those ends which it is
the
purpose of his being to advance, Nature has taught him, that
neither
himself nor mankind can be fully satisfied with his
conduct,
nor bestow upon it the full measure of applause, unless
he has
actually produced them. He is made to know, that the
praise
of good intentions, without the merit of good offices,
will be
but of little avail to excite either the loudest
acclamations
of the world, or even the highest degree of
self-applause.
The man who has performed no single action of
importance,
but whose whole conversation and deportment express
the
justest, the noblest, and most generous sentiments, can be
entitled
to demand no very high reward, even though his inutility
should
be owing to nothing but the want of an opportunity to
serve.
We can still refuse it him without blame. We can still ask
him,
What have you done? What actual service can you produce, to
entitle
you to so great a recompense? We esteem you, and love
you;
but we owe you nothing. To reward indeed that latent virtue
which
has been useless only for want of an opportunity to serve,
to
bestow upon it those honours and preferments, which, though in
some
measure it may be said to deserve them, it could not with
propriety
have insisted upon, is the effect of the most divine
benevolence.
To punish, on the contrary, for the affections of
the
heart only, where no crime has been committed, is the most
insolent
and barbarous tyranny. The benevolent affections seem to
deserve
most praise, when they do not wait till it becomes almost
a crime
for them not to exert themselves. The malevolent, on the
contrary,
can scarce be too tardy, too slow, or deliberate.
It is even of considerable importance,
that the evil which is
done
without design should be regarded as a misfortune to the
doer as
well as to the sufferer. Man is thereby taught to
reverence
the happiness of his brethren, to tremble lest he
should,
even unknowingly, do any thing that can hurt them, and to
dread
that animal resentment which, he feels, is ready to burst
out
against him, if he should, without design, be the unhappy
instrument
of their calamity. As, in the ancient heathen
religion,
that holy ground which had been consecrated to some
god,
was not to be trod upon but upon solemn and necessary
occasions,
and the man who had even ignorantly violated it,
became
piacular from that moment, and, until proper atonement
should
be made, incurred the vengeance of that powerful and
invisible
being to whom it had been set apart; so, by the wisdom
of
Nature, the happiness of every innocent man is, in the same
manner,
rendered holy, consecrated, and hedged round against the
approach
of every other man; not to be wantonly trod upon, not
even to
be, in any respect, ignorantly and involuntarily
violated,
without requiring some expiation, some atonement in
proportion
to the greatness of such undesigned violation. A man
of
humanity, who accidentally, and without the smallest degree of
blamable
negligence, has been the cause of the death of another
man,
feels himself piacular, though not guilty. During his whole
life he
considers this accident as one of the greatest
misfortunes
that could have befallen him. If the family of the
slain
is poor, and he himself in tolerable circumstances, he
immediately
takes them under his protection, and, without any
other
merit, thinks them entitled to every degree of favour and
kindness.
If they are in better circumstances, he endeavours by
every
submission, by every expression of sorrow, by rendering
them
every good office which he can devise or they accept of, to
atone
for what has happened, and to propitiate, as much as
possible,
their, perhaps natural, though no doubt most unjust
resentment,
for the great, though involuntary, offence which he
has
given them.
The distress which an innocent person
feels, who, by some
accident,
has been led to do something which, if it had been done
with
knowledge and design, would have justly exposed him to the
deepest
reproach, has given occasion to some of the finest and
most
interesting scenes both of the ancient and of the modern
drama.
It is this fallacious sense of guilt, if I may call it so,
which
constitutes the whole distress of Oedipus and Jocasta upon
the
Greek, of Monimia and Isabella upon the English, theatre.
They
are all of them in the highest degree piacular, though not
one of
them is in the smallest degree guilty.
Notwithstanding, however, all these
seeming irregularities of
sentiment,
if man should unfortunately either give occasion to
those
evils which he did not intend, or fail in producing that
good
which he intended, Nature has not left his innocence
altogether
without consolation, nor his virtue altogether without
reward.
He then calls to his assistance that just and equitable
maxim,
That those events which did not depend upon our conduct,
ought
not to diminish the esteem that is due to us. He summons up
his whole
magnanimity and firmness of soul, and strives to regard
himself,
not in the light in which he at present appears, but in
that in
which he ought to appear, in which he would have appeared
had his
generous designs been crowned with success, and in which
he
would still appear, notwithstanding their miscarriage, if the
sentiments
of mankind were either altogether candid and
equitable,
or even perfectly consistent with themselves. The more
candid
and humane part of mankind entirely go along with the
effort
which he thus makes to support himself in his own opinion.
They
exert their whole generosity and greatness of mind, to
correct
in themselves this irregularity of human nature, and
endeavour
to regard his unfortunate magnanimity in the same light
in
which, had it been successful, they would, without any such
generous
exertion, have naturally been disposed to consider it.
NOTES:
1. To
ascribe in this manner our natural sense of the ill desert
of
human actions to a sympathy with the resentment of the
sufferer,
may seem, to the greater part of people, to be a
degradation
of that sentiment. Resentment is commonly regarded as
so
odious a passion, that they will be apt to think it impossible
that so
laudable a principle, as the sense of the ill desert of
vice,
should in any respect be founded upon it. They will be more
willing,
perhaps, to admit that our sense of the merit of good
actions
is founded upon a sympathy with the gratitude of the
persons
who receive the benefit of them; because gratitude, as
well as
all the other benevolent passions, is regarded as an
amiable
principle, which can take nothing from the worth of
whatever
is founded upon it. Gratitude and resentment, however,
are in
every respect, it is evident, counterparts to one another;
and if
our sense of merit arises from a sympathy with the one,
our
sense of demerit can scarce miss to proceed from a
fellow-feeling
with the other.
Let it be considered too that resentment,
though, in the
degrees
in which we too often see it, the most odious, perhaps,
of all
the passions, is not disapproved of when properly humbled
and
entirely brought down to the level of the sympathetic
indignation
of the spectator. When we, who are the bystanders,
feel
that our own animosity entirely corresponds with that of the
sufferer,
when the resentment of this last does not in any
respect
go beyond our own, when no word, no gesture, escapes him
that
denotes an emotion more violent than what we can keep time
to, and
when he never aims at inflicting any punishment beyond
what we
should rejoice to see inflicted, or what we ourselves
would
upon this account even desire to be the instruments of
inflicting,
it is impossible that we should not entirely approve
of his
sentiments. Our own emotion in this case must, in our
eyes,
undoubtedly justify his. And as experience teaches us how
much
the greater part of mankind are incapable of this
moderation,
and how great an effort must be made in order to
bring
down the rude and undisciplined impulse of resentment to
this
suitable temper, we cannot avoid conceiving a considerable
degree
of esteem and admiration for one who appears capable of
exerting
so much self-command over one of the most ungovernable
passions
of his nature. When indeed the animosity of the sufferer
exceeds,
as it almost always does, what we can go along with, as
we
cannot enter into it, we necessarily disapprove of it. We even
disapprove
of it more than we should of an equal excess of almost
any
other passion derived from the imagination. And this too
violent
resentment, instead of carrying us along with it, becomes
itself
the object of our resentment and indignation. We enter
into
the opposite resentment of the person who is the object of
this
unjust emotion, and who is in danger of suffering from it.
Revenge,
therefore, the excess of resentment, appears to be the
most
detestable of all the passions, and is the object of the
horror
and indignation of every body. And as in the way in which
this
passion commonly discovers itself among mankind, it is
excessive
a hundred times for once that it is moderate, we are
very
apt to consider it as altogether odious and detestable,
because
in its most ordinary appearances it is so. Nature,
however,
even in the present depraved state of mankind, does not
seem to
have dealt so unkindly with us, as to have endowed us
with
any principle which is wholly and in every respect evil, or
which,
in no degree and in no direction, can be the proper object
of
praise and approbation. Upon some occasions we are sensible
that
this passion, which is generally too strong, may likewise be
too
weak. We sometimes complain that a particular person shows
too
little spirit, and has too little sense of the injuries that
have
been done to him; and we are as ready to despise him for the
defect,
as to hate him for the excess of this passion.
The inspired writers would not surely have
talked so
frequently
or so strongly of the wrath and anger of God, if they
had
regarded every degree of those passions as vicious and evil,
even in
so weak and imperfect a creature as man.
Let it be considered too, that the present
inquiry is not
concerning
a matter of right, if I may say so, but concerning a
matter
of fact. We are not at present examining upon what
principles
a perfect being would approve of the punishment of bad
actions;
but upon what principles so weak and imperfect a
creature
as man actually and in fact approves of it. The
principles
which I have just now mentioned, it is evident, have a
very
great effect upon his sentiments; and it seems wisely
ordered
that it should be so. The very existence of society
requires
that unmerited and unprovoked malice should be
restrained
by proper punishments; and consequently, that to
inflict
those punishments should be regarded as a proper and
laudable
action. Though man, therefore, be naturally endowed with
a
desire of the welfare and preservation of society, yet the
Author
of nature has not entrusted it to his reason to find out
that a
certain application of punishments is the proper means of
attaining
this end; but has endowed him with an immediate and
instinctive
approbation of that very application which is most
proper
to attain it. The oeconomy of nature is in this respect
exactly
of a piece with what it is upon many other occasions.
With
regard to all those ends which, upon account of their
peculiar
importance, may be regarded, if such an expression is
allowable,
as the favourite ends of nature, she has constantly in
this
manner not only endowed mankind with an appetite for the end
which
she proposes, but likewise with an appetite for the means
by
which alone this end can be brought about, for their own
sakes,
and independent of their tendency to produce it. Thus
self-preservation,
and the propagation of the species, are the
great
ends which Nature seems to have proposed in the formation
of all
animals. Mankind are endowed with a desire of those ends,
and an
aversion to the contrary; with a love of life, and a dread
of
dissolution; with a desire of the continuance and perpetuity
of the
species, and with an aversion to the thoughts of its
intire
extinction. But though we are in this manner endowed with
a very
strong desire of those ends, it has not been intrusted to
the
slow and uncertain determinations of our reason, to find out
the
proper means of bringing them about. Nature has directed us
to the
greater part of these by original and immediate instincts.
Hunger,
thirst, the passion which unites the two sexes, the love
of
pleasure, and the dread of pain, prompt us to apply those
means
for their own sakes, and without any consideration of their
tendency
to those beneficent ends which the great Director of
nature
intended to produce by them.
Before I conclude this note, I must take
notice of a difference
between
the approbation of propriety and that of merit or
beneficence.
Before we approve of the sentiments of any person as
proper
and suitable to their objects, we must not only be
affected
in the same manner as he is, but we must perceive this
harmony
and correspondence of sentiments between him and
ourselves.
Thus, though upon hearing of a misfortune that had
befallen
my friend, I should conceive precisely that degree of
concern
which he gives way to; yet till I am informed of the
manner
in which he behaves, till I perceive the harmony between
his
emotions and mine, I cannot be said to approve of the
sentiments
which influence his behaviour. The approbation of
propriety
therefore requires, not only that we should entirely
sympathize
with the person who acts, but that we should perceive
this
perfect concord between his sentiments and our own. On the
contrary,
when I hear of a benefit that has been bestowed upon
another
person, let him who has received it be affected in what
manner
he pleases, if, by bringing his case home to myself, I
feel
gratitude arise in my own breast, I necessarily approve of
the
conduct of his benefactor, and regard it as meritorious, and
the
proper object of reward. Whether the person who has received
the
benefit conceives gratitude or not, cannot, it is evident, in
any
degree alter our sentiments with regard to the merit of him
who has
bestowed it. No actual correspondence of sentiments,
therefore,
is here required. It is sufficient that if he was
grateful,
they would correspond; and our sense of merit is often
founded
upon one of those illusive sympathies, by which, when we
bring
home to ourselves the case of another, we are often
affected
in a manner in which the person principally concerned is
incapable
of being affected. There is a similar difference
between
our disapprobation of demerit, and that of impropriety.
2. Lata
culpa prope dolum est.
3.
Culpa levis.
4.
Culpa levissima.
Part
III
Of the
Foundation of our Judgments concerning our own Sentiments
and
Conduct, and of the Sense of Duty
Consisting
of One Section
Chap. I
Of the
Principle of Self-approbation and of Self-disapprobation
In the two foregoing parts of this
discourse, I have chiefly
considered
the origin and foundation of our judgments concerning
the
sentiments and conduct of others. I come now to consider more
particularly
the origin of those concerning our own.
The principle by which we naturally either
approve or
disapprove
of our own conduct, seems to be altogether the same
with
that by which we exercise the like judgments concerning the
conduct
of other people. We either approve or disapprove of the
conduct
of another man according as we feel that, when we bring
his
case home to ourselves, we either can or cannot entirely
sympathize
with the sentiments and motives which directed it.
And, in
the same manner, we either approve or disapprove of our
own
conduct, according as we feel that, when we place ourselves
in the
situation of another man, and view it, as it were, with
his
eyes and from his station, we either can or cannot entirely
enter
into and sympathize with the sentiments and motives which
influenced
it. We can never survey our own sentiments and
motives,
we can never form any judgment concerning them; unless
we
remove ourselves, as it were, from our own natural station,
and
endeavour to view them as at a certain distance from us. But
we can
do this in no other way than by endeavouring to view them
with
the eyes of other people, or as other people are likely to
view
them. Whatever judgment we can form concerning them,
accordingly,
must always bear some secret reference, either to
what
are, or to what, upon a certain condition, would be, or to
what,
we imagine, ought to be the judgment of others. We
endeavour
to examine our own conduct as we imagine any other fair
and
impartial spectator would examine it. If, upon placing
ourselves
in his situation, we thoroughly enter into all the
passions
and motives which influenced it, we approve of it, by
sympathy
with the approbation of this supposed equitable judge.
If
otherwise, we enter into his disapprobation, and condemn it.
Were it possible that a human creature could
grow up to
manhood
in some solitary place, without any communication with
his own
species, he could no more think of his own character, of
the
propriety or demerit of his own sentiments and conduct, of
the
beauty or deformity of his own mind, than of the beauty or
deformity
of his own face. All these are objects which he cannot
easily
see, which naturally he does not look at, and with regard
to
which he is provided with no mirror which can present them to
his
view. Bring him into society, and he is immediately provided
with
the mirror which he wanted before. It is placed in the
countenance
and behaviour of those he lives with, which always
mark
when they enter into, and when they disapprove of his
sentiments;
and it is here that he first views the propriety and
impropriety
of his own passions, the beauty and deformity of his
own
mind. To a man who from his birth was a stranger to society,
the
objects of his passions, the external bodies which either
pleased
or hurt him, would occupy his whole attention. The
passions
themselves, the desires or aversions, the joys or
sorrows,
which those objects excited, though of all things the
most
immediately present to him, could scarce ever be the objects
of his
thoughts. The idea of them could never interest him so
much as
to call upon his attentive consideration. The
consideration
of his joy could in him excite no new joy, nor that
of his
sorrow any new sorrow, though the consideration of the
causes
of those passions might often excite both. Bring him into
society,
and all his own passions will immediately become the
causes
of new passions. He will observe that mankind approve of
some of
them, and are disgusted by others. He will be elevated in
the one
case, and cast down in the other; his desires and
aversions,
his joys and sorrows, will now often become the causes
of new
desires and new aversions, new joys and new sorrows: they
will
now, therefore, interest him deeply, and often call upon his
most
attentive consideration.
Our first ideas of personal beauty and
deformity, are drawn
from
the shape and appearance of others, not from our own. We
soon
become sensible, however, that others exercise the same
criticism
upon us. We are pleased when they approve of our
figure,
and are disobliged when they seem to be disgusted. We
become
anxious to know how far our appearance deserves either
their
blame or approbation. We examine our persons limb by limb,
and by
placing ourselves before a looking-glass, or by some such
expedient,
endeavour, as much as possible, to view ourselves at
the
distance and with the eyes of other people. If, after this
examination,
we are satisfied with our own appearance, we can
more
easily support the most disadvantageous judgments of others.
If, on
the contrary, we are sensible that we are the natural
objects
of distaste, every appearance of their disapprobation
mortifies
us beyond all measure. A man who is tolerably handsome,
will
allow you to laugh at any little irregularity in his person;
but all
such jokes are commonly unsupportable to one who is
really
deformed. It is evident, however, that we are anxious
about
our own beauty and deformity, only upon account of its
effect
upon others. If we had no connexion with society, we
should
be altogether indifferent about either.
In the same manner our first moral
criticisms are exercised
upon
the characters and conduct of other people; and we are all
very
forward to observe how each of these affects us. But we soon
learn,
that other people are equally frank with regard to our
own. We
become anxious to know how far we deserve their censure
or
applause, and whether to them we must necessarily appear those
agreeable
or disagreeable creatures which they represent us. We
begin,
upon this account, to examine our own passions and
conduct,
and to consider how these must appear to them, by
considering
how they would appear to us if in their situation. We
suppose
ourselves the spectators of our own behaviour, and
endeavour
to imagine what effect it would, in this light, produce
upon
us. This is the only looking-glass by which we can, in some
measure,
with the eyes of other people, scrutinize the propriety
of our
own conduct. If in this view it pleases us, we are
tolerably
satisfied. We can be more indifferent about the
applause,
and, in some measure, despise the censure of the world.
secure
that, however misunderstood or misrepresented, we are the
natural
and proper objects of approbation. On the contrary, if we
are
doubtful about it, we are often, upon that very account, more
anxious
to gain their approbation, and, provided we have not
already,
as they say, shaken hands with infamy, we are altogether
distracted
at the thoughts of their censure, which then strikes
us with
double severity.
When I endeavour to examine my own conduct, when I endeavour
to pass
sentence upon it, and either to approve or condemn it, it
is
evident that, in all such cases, I divide myself, as it were,
into
two persons; and that I, the examiner and judge, represent a
different
character from that other I, the person whose conduct
is
examined into and judged of. The first is the spectator, whose
sentiments
with regard to my own conduct I endeavour to enter
into,
by placing myself in his situation, and by considering how
it
would appear to me, when seen from that particular point of
view.
The second is the agent, the person whom I properly call
myself,
and of whose conduct, under the character of a spectator,
I was
endeavouring to form some opinion. The first is the judge;
the
second the person judged of. But that the judge should, in
every
respect, be the same with the person judged of, is as
impossible,
as that the cause should, in every respect, be the
same
with the effect.
To be amiable and to be meritorious; that
is, to deserve love
and to
deserve reward, are the great characters of virtue; and to
be
odious and punishable, of vice. But all these characters have
an
immediate reference to the sentiments of others. Virtue is not
said to
be amiable, or to be meritorious, because it is the
object
of its own love, or of its own gratitude; but because it
excites
those sentiments in other men. The consciousness that it
is the
object of such favourable regards, is the source of that
inward
tranquillity and self-satisfaction with which it is
naturally
attended, as the suspicion of the contrary gives
occasion
to the torments of vice. What so great happiness as to
be
beloved, and to know that we deserve to be beloved? What so
great
misery as to be hated, and to know that we deserve to be
hated?
Chap.
II
Of the
love of Praise, and of that of Praise-worthiness; and of
the
dread of Blame, and of that of Blame-worthiness
Man naturally desires, not only to be
loved, but to be
lovely;
or to be that thing which is the natural and proper
object
of love. He naturally dreads, not only to be hated, but to
be
hateful; or to be that thing which is the natural and proper
object
of hatred. He desires, not only praise, but
praiseworthiness;
or to be that thing which, though it should be
praised
by nobody, is, however, the natural and proper object of
praise.
He dreads, not only blame, but blame-worthiness; or to be
that
thing which, though it should be blamed by nobody, is,
however,
the natural and proper object of blame.
The love of praise-worthiness is by no
means derived
altogether
from the love of praise. Those two principles, though
they
resemble one another, though they are connected, and often
blended
with one another, are yet, in many respects, distinct and
independent
of one another.
The love and admiration which we naturally
conceive for those
whose
character and conduct we approve of, necessarily dispose us
to
desire to become ourselves the objects of the like agreeable
sentiments,
and to be as amiable and as admirable as those whom
we love
and admire the most. Emulation, the anxious desire that
we
ourselves should excel, is originally founded in our
admiration
of the excellence of others. Neither can we be
satisfied
with being merely admired for what other people are
admired.
We must at least believe ourselves to be admirable for
what
they are admirable. But, in order to attain this
satisfaction,
we must become the impartial spectators of our own
character
and conduct. We must endeavour to view them with the
eyes of
other people, or as other people are likely to view them.
When
seen in this light, if they appear to us as we wish, we are
happy
and contented. But it greatly confirms this happiness and
contentment
when we find that other people, viewing them with
those
very eyes with which we, in imagination only, were
endeavouring
to view them, see them precisely in the same light
in
which we ourselves had seen them. Their approbation
necessarily
confirms our own self-approbation. Their praise
necessarily
strengthens our own sense of our own
praiseworthiness.
In this case, so far is the love of
praise-worthiness
from being derived altogether from that of
praise;
that the love of praise seems, at least in a great
measure,
to be derived from that of praise-worthiness.
The most sincere praise can give little
pleasure when it
cannot
be considered as some sort of proof of praise-worthiness.
It is
by no means sufficient that, from ignorance or mistake,
esteem
and admiration should, in some way or other, be bestowed
upon
us. If we are conscious that we do not deserve to be so
favourably
thought of, and that if the truth were known, we
should
be regarded with very different sentiments, our
satisfaction
is far from being complete. The man who applauds us
either
for actions which we did not perform, or for motives which
had no
sort of influence upon our conduct, applauds not us, but
another
person. We can derive no sort of satisfaction from his
praises.
To us they should be more mortifying than any censure,
and
should perpetually call to our minds, the most humbling of
all
reflections, the reflection of what we ought to be, but what
we are
not. A woman who paints, could derive, one should imagine,
but
little vanity from the compliments that are paid to her
complexion.
These, we should expect, ought rather to put her in
mind of
the sentiments which her real complexion would excite,
and
mortify her the more by the contrast. To be pleased with such
groundless
applause is a proof of the most superficial levity and
weakness.
It is what is properly called vanity, and is the
foundation
of the most ridiculous and contemptible vices, the
vices
of affectation and common lying; follies which, if
experience
did not teach us how common they are, one should
imagine
the least spark of common sense would save us from. The
foolish
liar, who endeavours to excite the admiration of the
company
by the relation of adventures which never had any
existence;
the important coxcomb, who gives himself airs of rank
and
distinction which he well knows he has no just pretensions
to; are
both of them, no doubt, pleased with the applause which
they
fancy they meet with. But their vanity arises from so gross
an
illusion of the imagination, that it is difficult to conceive
how any
rational creature should be imposed upon by it. When they
place
themselves in the situation of those whom they fancy they
have
deceived, they are struck with the highest admiration for
their
own persons. They look upon themselves, not in that light
in
which, they know, they ought to appear to their companions,
but in
that in which they believe their companions actually look
upon
them. Their superficial weakness and trivial folly hinder
them
from ever turning their eyes inwards, or from seeing
themselves
in that despicable point of view in which their own
consciences
must tell them that they would appear to every body,
if the
real truth should ever come to be known.
As ignorant and groundless praise can give
no solid joy, no
satisfaction
that will bear any serious examination, so, on the
contrary,
it often gives real comfort to reflect, that though no
praise
should actually be bestowed upon us, our conduct, however,
has
been such as to deserve it, and has been in every respect
suitable
to those measures and rules by which praise and
approbation
are naturally and commonly bestowed. We are pleased,
not
only with praise, but with having done what is praise-worthy.
We are
pleased to think that we have rendered ourselves the
natural
objects of approbation, though no approbation should ever
actually
be bestowed upon us: and we are mortified to reflect
that we
have justly merited the blame of those we live with,
though
that sentiment should never actually be exerted against
us. The
man who is conscious to himself that he has exactly
observed
those measures of conduct which experience informs him
are
generally agreeable, reflects with satisfaction on the
propriety
of his own behaviour. When he views it in the light in
which
the impartial spectator would view it, he thoroughly enters
into
all the motives which influenced it. He looks back upon
every
part of it with pleasure and approbation, and though
mankind
should never be acquainted with what he has done, he
regards
himself, not so much according to the light in which they
actually
regard him, as according to that in which they would
regard
him if they were better informed. He anticipates the
applause
and admiration which in this case would be bestowed upon
him,
and he applauds and admires himself by sympathy with
sentiments,
which do not indeed actually take place, but which
the
ignorance of the public alone hinders from taking place,
which
he knows are the natural and ordinary effects of such
conduct,
which his imagination strongly connects with it, and
which
he has acquired a habit of conceiving as something that
naturally
and in propriety ought to follow from it. Men have
voluntarily
thrown away life to acquire after death a renown
which
they could no longer enjoy. Their imagination, in the mean
time,
anticipated that fame which was in future times to be
bestowed
upon them. Those applauses which they were never to hear
rung in
their ears; the thoughts of that admiration, whose
effects
they were never to feel, played about their hearts,
banished
from their breasts the strongest of all natural fears,
and
transported them to perform actions which seem almost beyond
the
reach of human nature. But in point of reality there is
surely
no great difference between that approbation which is not
to be
bestowed till we can no longer enjoy it, and that which,
indeed,
is never to be bestowed, but which would be bestowed, if
the
world was ever made to understand properly the real
circumstances
of our behaviour. If the one often produces such
violent
effects, we cannot wonder that the other should always be
highly
regarded.
Nature, when she formed man for society,
endowed him with an
original
desire to please, and an original aversion to offend his
brethren.
She taught him to feel pleasure in their favourable,
and
pain in their unfavourable regard. She rendered their
approbation
most flattering and most agreeable to him for its own
sake;
and their disapprobation most mortifying and most
offensive.
But this desire of the approbation, and
this aversion to the
disapprobation
of his brethren, would not alone have rendered him
fit for
that society for which he was made. Nature, accordingly,
has
endowed him, not only with a desire of being approved of, but
with a
desire of being what ought to be approved of; or of being
what he
himself approves of in other men. The first desire could
only
have made him wish to appear to be fit for society. The
second was
necessary in order to render him anxious to be really
fit.
The first could only have prompted him to the affectation of
virtue,
and to the concealment of vice. The second was necessary
in
order to inspire him with the real love of virtue, and with
the
real abhorrence of vice. In every well-formed mind this
second
desire seems to be the strongest of the two. It is only
the
weakest and most superficial of mankind who can be much
delighted
with that praise which they themselves know to be
altogether
unmerited. A weak man may sometimes be pleased with
it, but
a wise man rejects it upon all occasions. But, though a
wise
man feels little pleasure from praise where he knows there
is no
praise-worthiness, he often feels the highest in doing what
he knows
to be praise-worthy, though he knows equally well that
no
praise is ever to be bestowed upon it. To obtain the
approbation
of mankind, where no approbation is due, can never be
an
object of any importance to him. To obtain that approbation
where it
is really due, may sometimes be an object of no great
importance
to him. But to be that thing which deserves
approbation,
must always be an object of the highest.
To desire, or even to accept of praise,
where no praise is
due,
can be the effect only of the most contemptible vanity. To
desire
it where it is really due, is to desire no more than that
a most
essential act of justice should be done to us. The love of
just
fame, of true glory, even for its own sake, and independent
of any
advantage which he can derive from it, is not unworthy
even of
a wise man. He sometimes, however, neglects, and even
despises
it; and he is never more apt to do so than when he has
the
most perfect assurance of the perfect propriety of every part
of his
own conduct. His self-approbation, in this case, stands in
need of
no confirmation from the approbation of other men. It is
alone
sufficient, and he is contented with it. This
self-approbation,
if not the only, is at least the principal
object,
about which he can or ought to be anxious. The love of
it, is
the love of virtue.
As the love and admiration which we
naturally conceive for
some
characters, dispose us to wish to become ourselves the
proper
objects of such agreeable sentiments; so the hatred and
contempt
which we as naturally conceive for others, dispose us,
perhaps
still more strongly, to dread the very thought of
resembling
them in any respect. Neither is it, in this case, too,
so much
the thought of being hated and despised that we are
afraid
of, as that of being hateful and despicable. We dread the
thought
of doing any thing which can render us the just and
proper
objects of the hatred and contempt of our
fellow-creatures;
even though we had the most perfect security
that
those sentiments were never actually to be exerted against
us. The
man who has broke through all those measures of conduct,
which
can alone render him agreeable to mankind, though he should
have
the most perfect assurance that what he had done was for
ever to
be concealed from every human eye, it is all to no
purpose.
When he looks back upon it, and views it in the light in
which
the impartial spectator would view it, he finds that he can
enter
into none of the motives which influenced it. He is abashed
and confounded
at the thoughts of it, and necessarily feels a
very
high degree of that shame which he would be exposed to, if
his
actions should ever come to be generally known. His
imagination,
in this case too, anticipates the contempt and
derision
from which nothing saves him but the ignorance of those
he
lives with. He still feels that he is the natural object of
these
sentiments, and still trembles at the thought of what he
would
suffer, if they were ever actually exerted against him. But
if what
he had been guilty of was not merely one of those
improprieties
which are the objects of simple disapprobation, but
one of
those enormous crimes which excite detestation and
resentment,
he could never think of it, as long as he had any
sensibility
left, without feeling all the agony of horror and
remorse;
and though he could be assured that no man was ever to
know
it, and could even bring himself to believe that there was
no God
to revenge it, he would still feel enough of both these
sentiments
to embitter the whole of his life: he would still
regard
himself as the natural object of the hatred and
indignation
of all his fellow-creatures; and, if his heart was
not
grown callous by the habit of crimes, he could not think
without
terror and astonishment even of the manner in which
mankind
would look upon him, of what would be the expression of
their
countenance and of their eyes, if the dreadful truth should
ever
come to be known. These natural pangs of an affrighted
conscience
are the daemons, the avenging furies, which, in this
life,
haunt the guilty, which allow them neither quiet nor
repose,
which often drive them to despair and distraction, from
which
no assurance of secrecy can protect them, from which no
principles
of irreligion can entirely deliver them, and from
which
nothing can free them but the vilest and most abject of all
states,
a complete insensibility to honour and infamy, to vice
and
virtue. Men of the most detestable characters, who, in the
execution
of the most dreadful crimes, had taken their measures
so
coolly as to avoid even the suspicion of guilt, have sometimes
been
driven, by the horror of their situation, to discover, of
their
own accord, what no human sagacity could ever have
investigated.
By acknowledging their guilt, by submitting
themselves
to the resentment of their offended fellow-citizens,
and, by
thus satiating that vengeance of which they were sensible
that
they had become the proper objects, they hoped, by their
death
to reconcile themselves, at least in their own imagination,
to the
natural sentiments of mankind; to be able to consider
themselves
as less worthy of hatred and resentment; to atone, in
some
measure, for their crimes, and by thus becoming the objects,
rather
of compassion than of horror, if possible to die in peace
and
with the forgiveness of all their fellow-creatures. Compared
to what
they felt before the discovery, even the thought of this,
it
seems, was happiness.
In such cases, the horror of
blame-worthiness seems, even in
persons
who cannot be suspected of any extraordinary delicacy or
sensibility
of character, completely to conquer the dread of
blame.
In order to allay that horror, in order to pacify, in some
degree,
the remorse of their own consciences, they voluntarily
submitted
themselves both to the reproach and to the punishment
which
they knew were due to their crimes, but which, at the same
time,
they might easily have avoided.
They are the most frivolous and
superficial of mankind only
who can
be much delighted with that praise which they themselves
know to
be altogether unmerited. Unmerited reproach, however, is
frequently
capable of mortifying very severely even men of more
than
ordinary constancy. Men of the most ordinary constancy,
indeed,
easily learn to despise those foolish tales which are so
frequently
circulated in society, and which, from their own
absurdity
and falsehood, never fail to die away in the course of
a few
weeks, or of a few days. But an innocent man, though of
more
than ordinary constancy, is often, not only shocked, but
most
severely mortified by the serious, though false, imputation
of a
crime; especially when that imputation happens unfortunately
to be
supported by some circumstances which give it an air of
probability.
He is humbled to find that any body should think so
meanly
of his character as to suppose him capable of being guilty
of it.
Though perfectly conscious of his own innocence, the very
imputation
seems often, even in his own imagination, to throw a
shadow
of disgrace and dishonour upon his character. His just
indignation,
too, at so very gross an injury, which, however, it
may
frequently be improper, and sometimes even impossible to
revenge,
is itself a very painful sensation. There is no greater
tormentor
of the human breast than violent resentment which
cannot
be gratified. An innocent man, brought to the scaffold by
the
false imputation of an infamous or odious crime, suffers the
most
cruel misfortune which it is possible for innocence to
suffer.
The agony of his mind may, in this case, frequently be
greater
than that of those who suffer for the like crimes, of
which
they have been actually guilty. Profligate criminals, such
as
common thieves and highwaymen, have frequently little sense of
the
baseness of their own conduct, and consequently no remorse.
Without
troubling themselves about the justice or injustice of
the
punishment, they have always been accustomed to look upon the
gibbet
as a lot very likely to fall to them. When it does fall to
them,
therefore, they consider themselves only as not quite so
lucky
as some of their companions, and submit to their fortune,
without
any other uneasiness than what may arise from the fear of
death;
a fear which, even by such worthless wretches, we
frequently
see, can be so easily, and so very completely
conquered.
The innocent man, on the contrary, over and above the
uneasiness
which this fear may occasion, is tormented by his own
indignation
at the injustice which has been done to him. He is
struck
with horror at the thoughts of the infamy which the
punishment
may shed upon his memory, and foresees, with the most
exquisite
anguish, that he is hereafter to be remembered by his
dearest
friends and relations, not with regret and affection, but
with
shame, and even with horror for his supposed disgraceful
conduct:
and the shades of death appear to close round him with a
darker
and more melancholy gloom than naturally belongs to them.
Such
fatal accidents, for the tranquillity of mankind, it is to
be
hoped, happen very rarely in any country; but they happen
sometimes
in all countries, even in those where justice is in
general
very well administered. The unfortunate Calas, a man of
much
more than ordinary constancy (broke upon the wheel and burnt
at
Tholouse for the supposed murder of his own son, of which he
was
perfectly innocent), seemed, with his last breath, to
deprecate,
not so much the cruelty of the punishment, as the
disgrace
which the imputation might bring upon his memory. After
he had
been broke, and was just going to be thrown into the fire,
the
monk, who attended the execution, exhorted him to confess the
crime
for which he had been condemned. My Father, said Calas, can
you
yourself bring yourself to believe that I am guilty?
To persons in such unfortunate
circumstances, that humble
philosophy
which confines its views to this life, can afford,
perhaps,
but little consolation. Every thing that could render
either
life or death respectable is taken from them. They are
condemned
to death and to everlasting infamy. Religion can alone
afford
them any effectual comfort. She alone can tell them, that
it is
of little importance what man may think of their conduct,
while
the all-seeing Judge of the world approves of it. She alone
can
present to them the view of another world; a world of more
candour,
humanity, and justice, than the present; where their
innocence
is in due time to be declared, and their virtue to be
finally
rewarded: and the same great principle which can alone
strike
terror into triumphant vice, affords the only effectual
consolation
to disgraced and insulted innocence.
In smaller offences, as well as in greater
crimes, it
frequently
happens that a person of sensibility is much more hurt
by the
unjust imputation, than the real criminal is by the actual
guilt.
A woman of gallantry laughs even at the well-founded
surmises
which are circulated concerning her conduct. The worst
founded
surmise of the same kind is a mortal stab to an innocent
virgin.
The person who is deliberately guilty of a disgraceful
action,
we may lay it down, I believe, as a general rule, can
seldom
have much sense of the disgrace; and the person who is
habitually
guilty of it, can scarce ever have any.
When every man, even of middling
understanding, so readily
despises
unmerited applause, how it comes to pass that unmerited
reproach
should often be capable of mortifying so severely men of
the
soundest and best judgment, may, perhaps, deserve some
consideration.
Pain, I have already had occasion to
observe, is, in almost
all
cases, a more pungent sensation than the opposite and
correspondent
pleasure. The one, almost always, depresses us much
more
below the ordinary, or what may be called the natural state
of our
happiness, than the other ever raises us above it. A man
of
sensibility is apt to be more humiliated by just censure than
he is
ever elevated by just applause. Unmerited applause a wise
man
rejects with contempt upon all occasions; but he often feels
very
severely the injustice of unmerited censure. By suffering
himself
to be applauded for what he has not performed, by
assuming
a merit which does not belong to him, he feels that he
is
guilty of a mean falsehood, and deserves, not the admiration,
but the
contempt of those very persons who, by mistake, had been
led to
admire him. It may, perhaps, give him some well-founded
pleasure
to find that he has been, by many people, thought
capable
of performing what he did not perform. But, though he may
be
obliged to his friends for their good opinion, he would think
himself
guilty of the greatest baseness if he did not immediately
undeceive
them. It gives him little pleasure to look upon himself
in the
light in which other people actually look upon him, when
he is
conscious that, if they knew the truth, they would look
upon
him in a very different light. A weak man, however, is often
much
delighted with viewing himself in this false and delusive
light.
He assumes the merit of every laudable action that is
ascribed
to him, and pretends to that of many which nobody ever
thought
of ascribing to him. He pretends to have done what he
never
did, to have written what another wrote, to have invented
what
another discovered; and is led into all the miserable vices
of
plagiarism and common lying. But though no man of middling
good
sense can derive much pleasure from the imputation of a
laudable
action which he never performed, yet a wise man may
suffer
great pain from the serious imputation of a crime which he
never
committed. Nature, in this case, has rendered the pain, not
only
more pungent than the opposite and correspondent pleasure,
but she
has rendered it so in a much greater than the ordinary
degree.
A denial rids a man at once of the foolish and ridiculous
pleasure;
but it will not always rid him of the pain. When he
refuses
the merit which is ascribed to him, nobody doubts his
veracity.
It may be doubted when he denies the crime which he is
accused
of. He is at once enraged at the falsehood of the
imputation,
and mortified to find that any credit should be given
to it.
He feels that his character is not sufficient to protect
him. He
feels that his brethren, far from looking upon him in
that
light in which he anxiously desires to be viewed by them,
think
him capable of being guilty of what he is accused of. He
knows
perfectly that he has not been guilty. He knows perfectly
what he
has done; but, perhaps, scarce any man can know perfectly
what he
himself is capable of doing. What the peculiar
constitution
of his own mind may or may not admit of, is,
perhaps,
more or less a matter of doubt to every man. The trust
and
good opinion of his friends and neighbours, tends more than
any
thing to relieve him from this most disagreeable doubt; their
distrust
and unfavourable opinion to increase it. He may think
himself
very confident that their unfavourable judgment is wrong:
but
this confidence can seldom be so great as to hinder that
judgment
from making some impression upon him; and the greater
his
sensibility, the greater his delicacy, the greater his worth
in
short, this impression is likely to be the greater.
The agreement or disagreement both of the
sentiments and
judgments
of other people with our own, is, in all cases, it must
be
observed, of more or less importance to us, exactly in
proportion
as we ourselves are more or less uncertain about the
propriety
of our own sentiments, about the accuracy of our own
judgments.
A man of sensibility may sometimes feel
great uneasiness lest
he
should have yielded too much even to what may be called an
honourable
passion; to his just indignation, perhaps, at the
injury
which may have been done either to himself or to his
friend.
He is anxiously afraid lest, meaning only to act with
spirit,
and to do justice, he may, from the too great vehemence
of his
emotion, have done a real injury to some other person;
who,
though not innocent, may not have been altogether so guilty
as he
at first apprehended. The opinion of other people becomes,
in this
case, of the utmost importance to him. Their approbation
is the
most healing balsam; their disapprobation, the bitterest
and
most tormenting poison that can be poured into his uneasy
mind.
When he is perfectly satisfied with every part of his own
conduct,
the judgment of other people is often of less importance
to him.
There are some very noble and beautiful
arts, in which the
degree
of excellence can be determined only by a certain nicety
of
taste, of which the decisions, however, appear always, in some
measure,
uncertain. There are others, in which the success
admits,
either of clear demonstration, or very satisfactory
proof.
Among the candidates for excellence in those different
arts,
the anxiety about the public opinion is always much greater
in the
former than in the latter.
The beauty of poetry is a matter of such
nicety, that a young
beginner
can scarce ever be certain that he has attained it.
Nothing
delights him so much, therefore, as the favourable
judgments
of his friends and of the public; and nothing mortifies
him so
severely as the contrary. The one establishes, the other
shakes,
the good opinion which he is anxious to entertain
concerning
his own performances. Experience and success may in
time
give him a little more confidence in his own judgment. He is
at all
times, however, liable to be most severely mortified by
the
unfavourable judgments of the public. Racine was so disgusted
by the
indifferent success of his Phaedra, the finest tragedy,
perhaps,
that is extant in any language, that, though in the
vigour
of his life, and at the height of his abilities, he
resolved
to write no more for the stage. That great poet used
frequently
to tell his son, that the most paltry and impertinent
criticism
had always given him more pain, than the highest and
justest
eulogy had ever given him pleasure. The extreme
sensibility
of Voltaire to the slightest censure of the same kind
is well
known to every body. The Dunciad of Mr Pope is an
everlasting
monument of how much the most correct, as well as the
most
elegant and harmonious of all the English poets, had been
hurt by
the criticisms of the lowest and most contemptible
authors.
Gray (who joins to the sublimity of Milton the elegance
and
harmony of Pope, and to whom nothing is wanting to render
him,
perhaps, the first poet in the English language, but to have
written
a little more) is said to have been so much hurt, by a
foolish
and impertinent parody of two of his finest odes, that he
never
afterwards attempted any considerable work. Those men of
letters
who value themselves upon what is called fine writing in
prose,
approach somewhat to the sensibility of poets.
Mathematicians, on the contrary, who may
have the most
perfect
assurance, both of the truth and of the importance of
their
discoveries, are frequently very indifferent about the
reception
which they may meet with from the public. The two
greatest
mathematicians that I ever have had the honour to be
known
to, and, I believe, the two greatest that have lived in my
time,
Dr Robert Simpson of Glasgow, and Dr Matthew Stewart of
Edinburgh,
never seemed to feel even the slightest uneasiness
from
the neglect with which the ignorance of the public received
some of
their most valuable works. The great work of Sir Isaac
Newton,
his Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, I have
been
told, was for several years neglected by the public. The
tranquillity
of that great man, it is probable, never suffered,
upon that
account, the interruption of a single quarter of an
hour.
Natural philosophers, in their independency upon the public
opinion,
approach nearly to mathematicians, and, in their
judgments
concerning the merit of their own discoveries and
observations,
enjoy some degree of the same security and
tranquillity.
The morals of those different classes of
men of letters are,
perhaps,
sometimes somewhat affected by this very great
difference
in their situation with regard to the public.
Mathematicians and natural philosophers,
from their
independency
upon the public opinion, have little temptation to
form
themselves into factions and cabals, either for the support
of
their own reputation, or for the depression of that of their
rivals.
They are almost always men of the most amiable simplicity
of
manners, who live in good harmony with one another, are the
friends
of one another's reputation, enter into no intrigue in
order
to secure the public applause, but are pleased when their
works
are approved of, without being either much vexed or very
angry
when they are neglected.
It is not always the same case with poets,
or with those who
value
themselves upon what is called fine writing. They are very
apt to
divide themselves into a sort of literary factions; each
cabal
being often avowedly, and almost always secretly, the
mortal
enemy of the reputation of every other, and employing all
the
mean arts of intrigue and solicitation to preoccupy the
public
opinion in favour of the works of its own members, and
against
those of its enemies and rivals. In France, Despreaux and
Racine
did not think it below them to set themselves at the head
of a
literary cabal, in order to depress the reputation, first of
Quinault
and Perreault, and afterwards of Fontenelle and La
Motte,
and even to treat the good La Fontaine with a species of
most
disrespectful kindness. In England, the amiable Mr Addison
did not
think it unworthy of his gentle and modest character to
set
himself at the head of a little cabal of the same kind, in
order
to keep down the rising reputation of Mr Pope. Mr
Fontenelle,
in writing the lives and characters of the members of
the
academy of sciences, a society of mathematicians and natural
philosophers,
has frequent opportunities of celebrating the
amiable
simplicity of their manners; a quality which, he
observes,
was so universal among them as to be characteristical,
rather
of that whole class of men of letters, than of any
individual
Mr D'Alembert, in writing the lives and characters of
the
members of the French academy, a society of poets and fine
writers,
or of those who are supposed to be such, seems not to
have
had such frequent opportunities of making any remark of this
kind,
and nowhere pretends to represent this amiable quality as
characteristical
of that class of men of letters whom he
celebrates.
Our uncertainty concerning our own merit,
and our anxiety to
think
favourably of it, should together naturally enough make us
desirous
to know the opinion of other people concerning it; to be
more
than ordinarily elevated when that opinion is favourable,
and to
be more than ordinarily mortified when it is otherwise:
but
they should not make us desirous either of obtaining the
favourable,
or of avoiding the unfavourable opinion, by intrigue
and
cabal. When a man has bribed all the judges, the most
unanimous
decision of the court, though it may gain him his
law-suit,
cannot give him any assurance that he was in the right:
and had
he carried on his lawsuit merely to satisfy himself that
he was
in the right, he never would have bribed the judges. But
though
he wished to find himself in the right, he wished likewise
to gain
his law-suit; and therefore he bribed the judges. If
praise
were of no consequence to us, but as a proof of our own
praiseworthiness,
we never should endeavour to obtain it by
unfair
means. But, though to wise men it is, at least in doubtful
cases,
of principal consequence upon this account; it is likewise
of some
consequence upon its own account: and therefore (we
cannot,
indeed, upon such occasions, call them wise men, but) men
very
much above the common level have sometimes attempted both to
obtain
praise, and to avoid blame, by very unfair means.
Praise and blame express what actually
are; praise-worthiness
and
blameworthiness, what naturally ought to be the sentiments of
other
people with regard to our character and conduct. The love
of
praise is the desire of obtaining the favourable sentiments of
our
brethren. The love of praiseworthiness is the desire of
rendering
ourselves the proper objects of those sentiments. So
far
those two principles resemble and are akin to one another.
The
like affinity and resemblance take place between the dread of
blame
and that of blame-worthiness.
The man who desires to do, or who actually
does, a
praise-worthy
action, may likewise desire the praise which is due
to it,
and sometimes, perhaps, more than is due to it. The two
principles
are in this case blended together. How far his conduct
may
have been influenced by the one, and how far by the other,
may
frequently be unknown even to himself. It must almost always
be so
to other people. They who are disposed to lessen the merit
of his
conduct, impute it chiefly or altogether to the mere love
of
praise, or to what they call mere vanity. They who are
disposed
to think more favourably of it, impute it chiefly or
altogether
to the love of praise-worthiness; to the love of what
is
really honourable and noble in human conduct; to the desire,
not
merely of obtaining, but of deserving the approbation and
applause
of his brethren. The imagination of the spectator throws
upon it
either the one colour or the other, according either to
his
habits of thinking, or to the favour or dislike which he may
bear to
the person whose conduct he is considering.
Some splenetic philosophers, in judging of
human nature, have
done as
peevish individuals are apt to do in judging of the
conduct
of one another, and have imputed to the love of praise,
or to
what they call vanity , every action which ought to be
ascribed
to that of praise-worthiness. I shall hereafter have
occasion
to give an account of some of their systems, and shall
not at
present stop to examine them.
Very few men can be satisfied with their
own private
consciousness
that they have attained those qualities, or
performed
those actions, which they admire and think
praise-worthy
in other people; unless it is, at the same time,
generally
acknowledged that they possess the one, or have
performed
the other; or, in other words, unless they have
actually
obtained that praise which they think due both to the
one and
to the other. In this respect, however, men differ
considerably
from one another. Some seem indifferent about the
praise,
when, in their own minds, they are perfectly satisfied
that
they have attained the praise-worthiness. Others appear much
less
anxious about the praise-worthiness than about the praise.
No man can be completely, or even
tolerably satisfied, with
having
avoided every thing blame-worthy in his conduct; unless he
has
likewise avoided the blame or the reproach. A wise man may
frequently
neglect praise, even when he has best deserved it;
but, in
all matters of serious consequence, he will most
carefully
endeavour so to regulate his conduct as to avoid, not
only
blame-worthiness, but, as much as possible, every probable
imputation
of blame. He will never, indeed, avoid blame by doing
any
thing which he judges blame-worthy; by omitting any part of
his
duty, or by neglecting any opportunity of doing any thing
which
he judges to be really and greatly praise-worthy. But, with
these
modifications, he will most anxiously and carefully avoid
it. To
show much anxiety about praise, even for praise-worthy
actions,
is seldom a mark of great wisdom, but generally of some
degree
of weakness. But, in being anxious to avoid the shadow of
blame
or reproach, there may be no weakness, but frequently the
most
praise-worthy prudence.
'Many people,' says Cicero, 'despise
glory, who are yet most
severely
mortified by unjust reproach; and that most
inconsistently.'
This inconsistency, however, seems to be founded
in the
unalterable principles of human nature.
The all-wise Author of Nature has, in this
manner, taught man
to
respect the sentiments and judgments of his brethren; to be
more or
less pleased when they approve of his conduct, and to be
more or
less hurt when they disapprove of it. He has made man, if
I may
say so, the immediate judge of mankind; and has, in this
respect,
as in many others, created him after his own image, and
appointed
him his vicegerent upon earth, to superintend the
behaviour
of his brethren. They are taught by nature, to
acknowledge
that power and jurisdiction which has thus been
conferred
upon him, to be more or less humbled and mortified when
they
have incurred his censure, and to be more or less elated
when
they have obtained his applause.
But though man has, in this manner, been
rendered the
immediate
judge of mankind, he has been rendered so only in the
first
instance; and an appeal lies from his sentence to a much
higher
tribunal, to the tribunal of their own consciences, to
that of
the supposed impartial and well-informed spectator, to
that of
the man within the breast, the great judge and arbiter of
their
conduct. The jurisdictions of those two tribunals are
founded
upon principles which, though in some respects resembling
and
akin, are, however, in reality different and distinct. The
jurisdiction
of the man without, is founded altogether in the
desire
of actual praise, and in the aversion to actual blame. The
jurisdiction
of the man within, is founded altogether in the
desire
of praise-worthiness, and in the aversion to
blame-worthiness;
in the desire of possessing those qualities,
and
performing those actions, which we love and admire in other
people;
and in the dread of possessing those qualities, and
performing
those actions, which we hate and despise in other
people.
If the man without should applaud us, either for actions
which
we have not performed, or for motives which had no
influence
upon us; the man within can immediately humble that
pride
and elevation of mind which such groundless acclamations
might
otherwise occasion, by telling us, that as we know that we
do not
deserve them, we render ourselves despicable by accepting
them.
If, on the contrary, the man without should reproach us,
either
for actions which we never performed, or for motives which
had no
influence upon those which we may have performed; the man
within
may immediately correct this false judgment, and assure
us,
that we are by no means the proper objects of that censure
which
has so unjustly been bestowed upon us. But in this and in
some
other cases, the man within seems sometimes, as it were,
astonished
and confounded by the vehemence and clamour of the man
without.
The violence and loudness, with which blame is sometimes
poured
out upon us, seems to stupify and benumb our natural sense
of
praise-worthiness and blame-worthiness; and the judgments of
the man
within, though not, perhaps, absolutely altered or
perverted,
are, however, so much shaken in the steadiness and
firmness
of their decision, that their natural effect, in
securing
the tranquillity of the mind, is frequently in a great
measure
destroyed. We scarce dare to absolve ourselves, when all
our
brethren appear loudly to condemn us. The supposed impartial
spectator
of our conduct seems to give his opinion in our favour
with
fear and hesitation; when that of all the real spectators,
when
that of all those with whose eyes and from whose station he
endeavours
to consider it, is unanimously and violently against
us. In
such cases, this demigod within the breast appears, like
the
demigods of the poets, though partly of immortal, yet partly
too of
mortal extraction. When his judgments are steadily and
firmly
directed by the sense of praiseworthiness and
blame-worthiness,
he seems to act suitably to his divine
extraction:
But when he suffers himself to be astonished and
confounded
by the judgments of ignorant and weak man, he
discovers
his connexion with mortality, and appears to act
suitably,
rather to the human, than to the divine, part of his
origin.
In such cases, the only effectual
consolation of humbled and
afflicted
man lies in an appeal to a still higher tribunal, to
that of
the all-seeing Judge of the world, whose eye can never be
deceived,
and whose judgments can never be perverted. A firm
confidence
in the unerring rectitude of this great tribunal,
before
which his innocence is in due time to be declared, and his
virtue
to be finally rewarded, can alone support him under the
weakness
and despondency of his own mind, under the perturbation
and astonishment
of the man within the breast, whom nature has
set up
as, in this life, the great guardian, not only of his
innocence,
but of his tranquillity. Our happiness in this life is
thus,
upon many occasions, dependent upon the humble hope and
expectation
of a life to come: a hope and expectation deeply
rooted
in human nature; which can alone support its lofty ideas
of its
own dignity; can alone illumine the dreary prospect of its
continually
approaching mortality, and maintain its cheerfulness
under
all the heaviest calamities to which, from the disorders of
this
life, it may sometimes be exposed. That there is a world to
come,
where exact justice will be done to every man, where every
man
will be ranked with those who, in the moral and intellectual
qualities,
are really his equals; where the owner of those humble
talents
and virtues which, from being depressed by fortune, had,
in this
life, no opportunity of displaying themselves; which were
unknown,
not only to the public, but which he himself could
scarce
be sure that he possessed, and for which even the man
within
the breast could scarce venture to afford him any distinct
and
clear testimony; where that modest, silent, and unknown
merit,
will be placed upon a level, and sometimes above those
who, in
this world, had enjoyed the highest reputation, and who,
from
the advantage of their situation, had been enabled to
perform
the most splendid and dazzling actions; is a doctrine, in
every
respect so venerable, so comfortable to the weakness, so
flattering
to the grandeur of human nature, that the virtuous man
who has
the misfortune to doubt of it, cannot possibly avoid
wishing
most earnestly and anxiously to believe it. It could
never
have been exposed to the derision of the scoffer, had not
the
distributions of rewards and punishments, which some of its
most
zealous assertors have taught us was to be made in that
world
to come, been too frequently in direct opposition to all
our
moral sentiments.
That the assiduous courtier is often more
favoured than the
faithful
and active servant; that attendance and adulation are
often
shorter and surer roads to preferment than merit or
service;
and that a campaign at Versailles or St James's is often
worth
two either in Germany or Flanders, is a complaint which we
have
all heard from many a venerable, but discontented, old
officer.
But what is considered as the greatest reproach even to
the
weakness of earthly sovereigns, has been ascribed, as an act
of
justice, to divine perfection; and the duties of devotion, the
public
and private worship of the Deity, have been represented,
even by
men of virtue and abilities, as the sole virtues which
can
either entitle to reward or exempt from punishment in the
life to
come. They were the virtues, perhaps, most suitable to
their
station, and in which they themselves chiefly excelled; and
we are
all naturally disposed to over-rate the excellencies of
our own
characters. In the discourse which the eloquent and
philosophical
Massillon pronounced, on giving his benediction to
the
standards of the regiment of Catinat, there is the following
address
to the officers: 'What is most deplorable in your
situation,
Gentlemen, is, that in a life hard and painful, in
which
the services and the duties sometimes go beyond the rigour
and
severity. of the most austere cloisters; you suffer always in
vain
for the life to come, and frequently even for this life.
Alas!
the solitary monk in his cell, obliged to mortify the flesh
and to
subject it to the spirit, is supported by the hope of an
assured
recompence, and by the secret unction of that grace which
softens
the yoke of the Lord. But you, on the bed of death, can
you
dare to represent to Him your fatigues and the daily
hardships
of your employment? can you dare to solicit Him for any
recompence?
and in all the exertions that you have made, in all
the
violences that you have done to yourselves, what is there
that He
ought to place to His own account? The best days of your
life,
however, have been sacrificed to your profession, and ten
years
service has more worn out your body, than would, perhaps,
have
done a whole life of repentance and mortification. Alas! my
brother,
one single day of those sufferings, consecrated to the
Lord,
would, perhaps, have obtained you an eternal happiness. One
single
action, painful to nature, and offered up to Him, would,
perhaps,
have secured to you the inheritance of the Saints. And
you
have done all this, and in vain, for this world.'
To compare, in this manner, the futile
mortifications of a
monastery,
to the ennobling hardships and hazards of war; to
suppose
that one day, or one hour, employed in the former should,
in the
eye of the great Judge of the world, have more merit than
a whole
life spent honourably in the latter, is surely contrary
to all
our moral sentiments; to all the principles by which
nature
has taught us to regulate our contempt or admiration. It
is this
spirit, however, which, while it has reserved the
celestial
regions for monks and friars, or for those whose
conduct
and conversation resembled those of monks and friars, has
condemned
to the infernal all the heroes, all the statesmen and
lawgivers,
all the poets and philosophers of former ages; all
those
who have invented, improved, or excelled in the arts which
contribute
to the subsistence, to the conveniency, or to the
ornament
of human life; all the great protectors, instructors,
and
benefactors of mankind; all those to whom our natural sense
of
praise-worthiness forces us to ascribe the highest merit and
most
exalted virtue. Can we wonder that so strange an application
of this
most respectable doctrine should sometimes have exposed
it to
contempt and derision; with those at least who had
themselves,
perhaps, no great taste or turn for the devout and
contemplative
virtues?(1*)
Chap.
III
Of the
Influences and Authority of Conscience
But though the approbation of his own
conscience can scarce,
upon
some extraordinary occasions, content the weakness of man;
though
the testimony of the supposed impartial spectator, of the
great
inmate of the breast, cannot always alone support him; yet
the
influence and authority of this principle is, upon all
occasions,
very great; and it is only by consulting this judge
within,
that we can ever see what relates to ourselves in its
proper
shape and dimensions; or that we can ever make any proper
comparison
between our own interests and those of other people.
As to the eye of the body, objects appear
great or small, not
so much
according to their real dimensions, as according to the
nearness
or distance of their situation; so do they likewise to
what
may be called the natural eye of the mind: and we remedy the
defects
of both these organs pretty much in the same manner. In
my
present situation an immense landscape of lawns, and woods,
and
distant mountains, seems to do no more than cover the little
window
which I write by and to be out of all proportion less than
the
chamber in which I am sitting. I can form a just comparison
between
those great objects and the little objects around me, in
no
other way, than by transporting myself, at least in fancy, to
a
different station, from whence I can survey both at nearly
equal
distances, and thereby form some judgment of their real
proportions.
Habit and experience have taught me to do this so
easily
and so readily, that I am scarce sensible that I do it;
and a
man must be, in some measure, acquainted with the
philosophy
of vision, before he can be thoroughly convinced, how
little
those distant objects would appear to the eye, if the
imagination,
from a knowledge of their real magnitudes, did not
swell
and dilate them.
In the same manner, to the selfish and
original passions of
human
nature, the loss or gain of a very small interest of our
own,
appears to be of vastly more importance, excites a much more
passionate
joy or sorrow, a much more ardent desire or aversion,
than
the greatest concern of another with whom we have no
particular
connexion. His interests, as long as they are surveyed
from
this station, can never be put into the balance with our
own,
can never restrain us from doing. whatever may tend to
promote
our own, how ruinous soever to him. Before we can make
any
proper comparison of those opposite interests, we must change
our
position. We must view them, neither from our own place nor
yet
from his, neither with our own eyes nor yet with his, but
from
the place and with the eyes of a third person, who has no
particular
connexion with either, and who judges with
impartiality
between us. Here, too, habit and experience have
taught
us to do this so easily and so readily, that we are scarce
sensible
that we do it; and it requires, in this case too, some
degree
of reflection, and even of philosophy, to convince us, how
little
interest we should take in the greatest concerns of our
neighbour,
how little we should be affected by whatever relates
to him,
if the sense of propriety and justice did not correct the
otherwise
natural inequality of our sentiments.
Let us suppose that the great empire of
China, with all its
myriads
of inhabitants, was suddenly swallowed up by an
earthquake,
and let us consider how a man of humanity in Europe,
who had
no sort of connexion with that part of the world, would
be
affected upon receiving intelligence of this dreadful
calamity.
He would, I imagine, first of all, express very
strongly
his sorrow for the misfortune of that unhappy people, he
would
make many melancholy reflections upon the precariousness of
human
life, and the vanity of all the labours of man, which could
thus be
annihilated in a moment. He would too, perhaps, if he was
a man
of speculation, enter into many reasonings concerning the
effects
which this disaster might produce upon the commerce of
Europe,
and the trade and business of the world in general. And
when
all this fine philosophy was over, when all these humane
sentiments
had been once fairly expressed, he would pursue his
business
or his pleasure, take his repose or his diversion, with
the
same ease and tranquillity, as if no such accident had
happened.
The most frivolous disaster which could befal himself
would
occasion a more real disturbance. If he was to lose his
little
finger to-morrow, he would not sleep to-night; but,
provided
he never saw them, he will snore with the most profound
security
over the ruin of a hundred millions of his brethren, and
the
destruction of that immense multitude seems plainly an object
less
interesting to him, than this paltry misfortune of his own.
To
prevent, therefore, this paltry misfortune to himself, would a
man of
humanity be willing to sacrifice the lives of a hundred
millions
of his brethren, provided he had never seen them? Human
nature
startles with horror at the thought, and the world, in its
greatest
depravity and corruption, never produced such a villain
as
could be capable of entertaining it. But what makes this
difference?
When our passive feelings are almost always so sordid
and so
selfish, how comes it that our active principles should
often
be so generous and so noble? When we are always so much
more
deeply affected by whatever concerns ourselves, than by
whatever
concerns other men; what is it which prompts the
generous,
upon all occasions, and the mean upon many, to
sacrifice
their own interests to the greater interests of others?
It is
not the soft power of humanity, it is not that feeble spark
of
benevolence which Nature has lighted up in the human heart,
that is
thus capable of counteracting the strongest impulses of
self-love.
It is a stronger power, a more forcible motive, which
exerts
itself upon such occasions. It is reason, principle,
conscience,
the inhabitant of the breast, the man within, the
great
judge and arbiter of our conduct. It is he who, whenever we
are
about to act so as to affect the happiness of others, calls
to us,
with a voice capable of astonishing the most presumptuous
of our
passions, that we are but one of the multitude, in no
respect
better than any other in it; and that when we prefer
ourselves
so shamefully and so blindly to others, we become the
proper
objects of resentment, abhorrence, and execration. It is
from
him only that we learn the real littleness of ourselves, and
of
whatever relates to ourselves, and the natural
misrepresentations
of self-love can be corrected only by the eye
of this
impartial spectator. It is he who shows us the propriety
of
generosity and the deformity of injustice; the propriety of
resigning
the greatest interests of our own, for the yet greater
interests
of others, and the deformity of doing the smallest
injury
to another, in order to obtain the greatest benefit to
ourselves.
It is not the love of our neighbour, it is not the
love of
mankind, which upon many occasions prompts us to the
practice
of those divine virtues. It is a stronger love, a more
powerful
affection, which generally takes place upon such
occasions;
the love of what is honourable and noble, of the
grandeur,
and dignity, and superiority of our own characters.
When the happiness or misery of others
depends in any respect
upon
our conduct, we dare not, as self-love might suggest to us,
prefer
the interest of one to that of many. The man within
immediately
calls to us, that we value ourselves too much and
other
people too little, and that, by doing so, we render
ourselves
the proper object of the contempt and indignation of
our
brethren. Neither is this sentiment confined to men of
extraordinary
magnanimity and virtue. It is deeply impressed upon
every
tolerably good soldier, who feels that he would become the
scorn
of his companions, if he could be supposed capable of
shrinking
from danger, or of hesitating, either to expose or to
throw
away his life, when the good of the service required it.
One individual must never prefer himself
so much even to any
other
individual, as to hurt or injure that other, in order to
benefit
himself, though the benefit to the one should be much
greater
than the hurt or injury to the other. The poor man must
neither
defraud nor steal from the rich, though the acquisition
might
be much more beneficial to the one than the loss could be
hurtful
to the other. The man within immediately calls to him, in
this
case too, that he is no better than his neighbour, and that
by this
unjust preference he renders himself the proper object of
the
contempt and indignation of mankind; as well as of the
punishment
which that contempt and indignation must naturally
dispose
them to inflict, for having thus violated one of those
sacred
rules, upon the tolerable observation of which depend the
whole
security and peace of human society. There is no commonly
honest
man who does not more dread the inward disgrace of such an
action,
the indelible stain which it would for ever stamp upon
his own
mind, than the greatest external calamity which, without
any
fault of his own, could possibly befal him; and who does not
inwardly
feel the truth of that great stoical maxim, that for one
man to
deprive another unjustly of any thing, or unjustly to
promote
his own advantage by the loss or disadvantage of another,
is more
contrary to nature, than death, than poverty, than pain,
than
all the misfortunes which can affect him, either in his
body,
or in his external circumstances.
When the happiness or misery of others,
indeed, in no respect
depends
upon our conduct, when our interests are altogether
separated
and detached from theirs, so that there is neither
connexion
nor competition between them, we do not always think it
so
necessary to restrain, either our natural and, perhaps,
improper
anxiety about our own affairs, or our natural and,
perhaps,
equally improper indifference about those of other men.
The
most vulgar education teaches us to act, upon all important
occasions,
with some sort of impartiality between ourselves and
others,
and even the ordinary commerce of the world is capable of
adjusting
our active principles to some degree of propriety. But
it is
the most artificial and refined education only, it has been
said,
which can correct the inequalities of our passive feelings;
and we
must for this purpose, it has been pretended, have
recourse
to the severest, as well as to the profoundest
philosophy.
Two different sets of philosophers have
attempted to teach us
this
hardest of all the lessons of morality. One set have
laboured
to increase our sensibility to the interests of others;
another,
to diminish that to our own. The first would have us
feel
for others as we naturally feel for ourselves. The second
would
have us feel for ourselves as we naturally feel for others.
Both,
perhaps, have carried their doctrines a good deal beyond
the
just standard of nature and propriety.
The first are those whining and melancholy
moralists, who are
perpetually
reproaching us with our happiness, while so many of
our
brethren are in misery, (2*) who regard as impious the
natural
joy of prosperity, which does not think of the many
wretches
that are at every instant labouring under all sorts of
calamities,
in the languor of poverty, in the agony of disease,
in the
horrors of death, under the insults and oppression of
their
enemies. Commiseration for those miseries which we never
saw,
which we never heard of, but which we may be assured are at
all
times infesting such numbers of our fellow-creatures, ought,
they
think, to damp the pleasures of the fortunate, and to render
a
certain melancholy dejection habitual to all men. But first of
all,
this extreme sympathy with misfortunes which we know nothing
about,
seems altogether absurd and unreasonable. Take the whole
earth
at an average, for one man who suffers pain or misery, you
will
find twenty in prosperity and joy, or at least in tolerable
circumstances.
No reason, surely, can be assigned why we should
rather
weep with the one than rejoice with the twenty. This
artificial
commiseration, besides, is not only absurd, but seems
altogether
unattainable; and those who affect this character have
commonly
nothing but a certain affected and sentimental sadness,
which,
without reaching the heart, serves only to render the
countenance
and conversation impertinently dismal and
disagreeable.
And last of all, this disposition of mind, though
it
could be attained, would be perfectly useless, and could serve
no
other purpose than to render miserable the person who
possessed
it. Whatever interest we take in the fortune of those
with
whom we have no acquaintance or connexion, and who are
placed
altogether out of the sphere of our activity, can produce
only
anxiety to ourselves, without any manner of advantage to
them.
To what purpose should we trouble ourselves about the world
in the
moon? All men, even those at the greatest distance, are no
doubt
entitled to our good wishes, and our good wishes we
naturally
give them. But if, notwithstanding, they should be
unfortunate,
to give ourselves any anxiety upon that account,
seems
to be no part of our duty. That we should be but little
interested,
therefore, in the fortune of those whom we can
neither
serve nor hurt, and who are in every respect so very
remote
from us, seems wisely ordered by Nature; and if it were
possible
to alter in this respect the original constitution of
our
frame, we could yet gain nothing by the change.
It is never objected to us that we have
too little
fellow-feeling
with the joy of success. Wherever envy does not
prevent
it, the favour which we bear to prosperity is rather apt
to be
too great; and the same moralists who blame us for want of
sufficient
sympathy with the miserable, reproach us for the
levity
with which we are too apt to admire and almost to worship
the
fortunate, the powerful, and the rich.
Among the moralists who endeavour to
correct the natural
inequality
of our passive feelings by diminishing our sensibility
to what
peculiarly concerns ourselves, we may count all the
ancient
sects of philosophers, but particularly the ancient
Stoics.
Man, according to the Stoics, ought to regard himself,
not as
something separated and detached, but as a citizen of the
world,
a member of the vast commonwealth of nature. To the
interest
of this great community, he ought at all times to be
willing
that his own little interest should be sacrificed.
Whatever
concerns himself, ought to affect him no more than
whatever
concerns any other equally important part of this
immense
system. We should view ourselves, not in the light in
which
our own selfish passions are apt to place us, but in the
light
in which any other citizen of the world would view us. What
befalls
ourselves we should regard as what befalls our neighbour,
or,
what comes to the same thing, as our neighbour regards what
befalls
us. 'When our neighbour,' says Epictetus, 'loses his
wife,
or his son, there is nobody who is not sensible that this
is a
human calamity, a natural event altogether according to the
ordinary
course of things; but, when the same thing happens to
ourselves,
then we cry out, as if we had suffered the most
dreadful
misfortune. We ought, however, to remember how we were
affected
when this accident happened to another, and such as we
were in
his case, such ought we to be in our own.'
Those private misfortunes, for which our
feelings are apt to
go
beyond the bounds of propriety, are of two different kinds.
They
are either such as affect us only indirectly, by affecting,
in the
first place, some other persons who are particularly dear
to us;
such as our parents, our children, our brothers and
sisters,
our intimate friends; or they are such as affect
ourselves
immediately and directly, either in our body, in our
fortune,
or in our reputation; such as pain, sickness,
approaching
death, poverty, disgrace, etc.
In misfortunes of the first kind, our
emotions may, no doubt,
go very
much beyond what exact propriety will admit of; but they
may
likewise fall short of it, and they frequently do so. The man
who
should feel no more for the death or distress of his own
father,
or son, than for those of any other man's father or son,
would
appear neither a good son nor a good father. Such unnatural
indifference,
far from exciting our applause, would incur our
highest
disapprobation. Of those domestic affections, however,
some
are most apt to offend by their excess, and others by their
defect.
Nature, for the wisest purposes, has rendered, in most
men,
perhaps in all men, parental tenderness a much stronger
affection
than filial piety. The continuance and propagation of
the
species depend altogether upon the former, and not upon the
latter.
In ordinary cases, the existence and preservation of the
child
depend altogether upon the care of the parents. Those of
the
parents seldom depend upon that of the child. Nature,
therefore,
has rendered the former affection so strong, that it
generally
requires not to be excited, but to be moderated; and
moralists
seldom endeavour to teach us how to indulge, but
generally
how to restrain our fondness, our excessive attachment,
the
unjust preference which we are disposed to give to our own
children
above those of other people. They exhort us, on the
contrary,
to an affectionate attention to our parents, and to
make a
proper return to them, in their old age, for the kindness
which
they had shown to us in our infancy and youth. In the
Decalogue
we are commanded to honour our fathers and mothers. No
mention
is made of the love of our children. Nature had
sufficiently
prepared us for the performance of this latter duty.
Men are
seldom accused of affecting to be fonder of their
children
than they really are. THey have sometimes been suspected
of
displaying their piety to their parents with too much
ostentation.
The ostentatious sorrow of widows has, for a like
reason,
been suspected of insincerity. We should respect, could
we
believe it sincere, even the excess of such kind affections;
and
though we might not perfectly approve, we should not severely
condemn
it. That it appears praise-worthy, at least in the eyes
of
those who affect it, the very affectation is a proof.
Even the excess of those kind affections
which are most apt
to
offend by their excess, though it may appear blameable, never
appears
odious. We blame the excessive fondness and anxiety of a
parent,
as something which may, in the end, prove hurtful to the
child,
and which, in the mean time, is excessively inconvenient
to the
parent; but we easily pardon it, and never regard it with
hatred
and detestation. But the defect of this usually excessive
affection
appears always peculiarly odious. The man who appears
to feel
nothing for his own children, but who treats them upon
all
occasions with unmerited severity and harshness, seems of all
brutes
the most detestable. The sense of propriety, so far from
requiring
us to eradicate altogether that extraordinary
sensibility,
which we naturally feel for the misfortunes of our
nearest
connections, is always much more offended by the defect,
than it
ever is by the excess of that sensibility. The stoical
apathy
is, in such cases, never agreeable, and all the
metaphysical
sophisms by which it is supported can seldom serve
any
other purpose than to blow up the hard insensibility of a
coxcomb
to ten times its native impertinence. The poets and
romance
writers, who best paint the refinements and delicacies of
love
and friendship, and of all other private and domestic
affections,
Racine and Voltaire; Richardson, Maurivaux, and
Riccoboni;
are, in such cases, much better instructors than Zeno,
Chrysippus,
or Epictetus.
That moderated sensibility to the
misfortunes of others,
which
does not disqualify us for the performance of any duty; the
melancholy
and affectionate remembrance of our departed friends;
the
pang, as Gray says, to secret sorrow dear; are by no means
undelicious
sensations. Though they outwardly wear the features
of pain
and grief, they are all inwardly stamped with the
ennobling
characters of virtue and self-approbation.
It is otherwise in the misfortunes which
affect ourselves
immediately
and directly, either in our body, in our fortune, or
in our
reputation. The sense of propriety is much more apt to be
offended
by the excess, than by the defect of our sensibility,
and
there are but very few cases in which we can approach too
near to
the stoical apathy and indifference.
That we have very little fellow-feeling
with any of the
passions
which take their origin from the body, has already been
observed.
That pain which is occasioned by an evident cause; such
as, the
cutting or tearing of the flesh; is, perhaps, the
affection
of the body with which the spectator feels the most
lively
sympathy. The approaching death of his neighbour, too,
seldom
fails to affect him a good deal. In both cases, however,
he
feels so very little in comparison of what the person
principally
concerned feels, that the latter can scarce ever
offend
the former by appearing to suffer with too much ease.
The mere want of fortune, mere poverty,
excites little
compassion.
Its complaints are too apt to be the objects rather
of
contempt than of fellow-feeling. We despise a beggar; and,
though
his importunities may extort an alms from us, he is scarce
ever
the object of any serious commiseration. The fall from
riches
to poverty, as it commonly occasions the most real
distress
to the sufferer, so it seldom fails to excite the most
sincere
commiseration in the spectator. Though, in the present
state
of society, this misfortune can seldom happen without some
misconduct,
and some very considerable misconduct too, in the
sufferer;
yet he is almost always so much pitied that he is
scarce
ever allowed to fall into the lowest state of poverty; but
by the
means of his friends, frequently by the indulgence of
those
very creditors who have much reason to complain of his
imprudence,
is almost always supported in some degree of decent,
though
humble, mediocrity. To persons under such misfortunes, we
could,
perhaps, easily pardon some degree of weakness; but, at
the
same time, they who carry the firmest countenance, who
accommodate
themselves with the greatest ease to their new
situation,
who seem to feel no humiliation from the change, but
to rest
their rank in the society, not upon their fortune, but
upon
their character and conduct, are always the most approved
of, and
never fail to command our highest and most affectionate
admiration.
As, of all the external misfortunes which
can affect an
innocent
man immediately and directly, the undeserved loss of
reputation
is certainly the greatest; so a considerable degree of
sensibility
to whatever can bring on so great a calamity, does
not
always appear ungraceful or disagreeable. We often esteem a
young
man the more, when he resents, though with some degree of
violence,
any unjust reproach that may have been thrown upon his
character
or his honour. The affliction of an innocent young
lady,
on account of the groundless surmises which may have been
circulated
concerning her conduct, appears often perfectly
amiable.
Persons of an advanced age, whom long experience of the
folly
and injustice of the world, has taught to pay little
regard,
either to its censure or to its applause, neglect and
despise
obloquy, and do not even deign to honour its futile
authors
with any serious resentment. This indifference, which is
founded
altogether on a firm confidence in their own well-tried
and
well-established characters, would be disagreeable in young
people,
who neither can nor ought to have any such confidence. It
might
in them be supposed to forebode, in their advancing years,
a most
improper insensibility to real honour and infamy.
In all other private misfortunes which
affect ourselves
immediately
and directly, we can very seldom offend by appearing
to be
too little affected. We frequently remember our sensibility
to the
misfortunes of others with pleasure and satisfaction. We
can
seldom remember that to our own, without some degree of shame
and
humiliation.
If we examine the different shades and
gradations of weakness
and
self-command, as we meet with them in common life, we shall
very
easily satisfy ourselves that this control of our passive
feelings
must be acquired, not from the abstruse syllogisms of a
quibbling
dialectic, but from that great discipline which Nature
has
established for the acquisition of this and of every other
virtue;
a regard to the sentiments of the real or supposed
spectator
of our conduct.
A very young child has no self-command;
but, whatever are its
emotions,
whether fear, or grief, or anger, it endeavours always,
by the
violence of its outcries, to alarm, as much as it can, the
attention
of its nurse, or of its parents. While it remains under
the
custody of such partial protectors, its anger is the first
and,
perhaps, the only passion which it is taught to moderate. By
noise
and threatening they are, for their own ease, often obliged
to
frighten it into good temper; and the passion which incites it
to
attack, is restrained by that which teaches it to attend to
its own
safety. When it is old enough to go to school, or to mix
with
its equals, it soon finds that they have no such indulgent
partiality.
It naturally wishes to gain their favour, and to
avoid
their hatred or contempt. Regard even to its own safety
teaches
it to do so; and it soon finds that it can do so in no
other
way than by moderating, not only its anger, but all its
other
passions, to the degree which its play-fellows and
companions
are likely to be pleased with. It thus enters into the
great
school of self-command, it studies to be more and more
master
of itself, and begins to exercise over its own feelings a
discipline
which the practice of the longest life is very seldom
sufficient
to bring to complete perfection.
In all private misfortunes, in pain, in
sickness, in sorrow,
the
weakest man, when his friend, and still more when a stranger
visits
him, is immediately impressed with the view in which they
are
likely to look upon his situation. Their view calls off his
attention
from his own view; and his breast is, in some measure,
becalmed
the moment they come into his presence. This effect is
produced
instantaneously and, as it were, mechanically; but, with
a weak
man, it is not of long continuance. His own view of his
situation
immediately recurs upon him. He abandons himself, as
before,
to sighs and tears and lamentations; and endeavours, like
a child
that has not yet gone to school, to produce some sort of
harmony
between his own grief and the compassion of the
spectator,
not by moderating the former, but by importunately
calling
upon the latter.
With a man of a little more firmness, the
effect is somewhat
more
permanent. He endeavours, as much as he can, to fix his
attention
upon the view which the company are likely to take of
his
situation. He feels, at the same time, the esteem and
approbation
which they naturally conceive for him when he thus
preserves
his tranquillity; and, though under the pressure of
some
recent and great calamity, appears to feel for himself no
more
than what they really feel for him. He approves and applauds
himself
by sympathy with their approbation, and the pleasure
which
he derives from this sentiment supports and enables him
more
easily to continue this generous effort. In most cases he
avoids
mentioning his own misfortune; and his company, if they
are
tolerably well bred, are careful to say nothing which can put
him in
mind of it. He endeavours to entertain them, in his usual
way,
upon indifferent subjects, or, if he feels himself strong
enough
to venture to mention his misfortune, he endeavours to
talk of
it as, he thinks, they are capable of talking of it, and
even to
feel it no further than they are capable of feeling it.
If he
has not, however, been well inured to the hard discipline
of
self-command, he soon grows weary of this restraint. A long
visit
fatigues him; and, towards the end of it, he is constantly
in
danger of doing, what he never fails to do the moment it is
over,
of abandoning himself to all the weakness of excessive
sorrow.
Modern good manners, which are extremely indulgent to
human
weakness, forbid, for some time, the visits of strangers to
persons
under great family distress, and permit those only of the
nearest
relations and most intimate friends. The presence of the
latter,
it is thought, will impose less restraint than that of
the
former; and the sufferers can more easily accommodate
themselves
to the feelings of those, from whom they have reason
to
expect a more indulgent sympathy. Secret enemies, who fancy
that
they are not known to be such, are frequently fond of making
those
charitable visits as early as the most intimate friends.
The
weakest man in the world, in this case, endeavours to support
his
manly countenance, and, from indignation and contempt of
their
malice, to behave with as much gaiety and ease as he can.
The man of real constancy and firmness,
the wise and just man
who has
been thoroughly bred in the great school of self-command,
in the
bustle and business of the world, exposed, perhaps, to the
violence
and injustice of faction, and to the hardships and
hazards
of war, maintains this control of his passive feelings
upon
all occasions; and whether in solitude or in society, wears
nearly
the same countenance, and is affected very nearly in the
same
manner. In success and in disappointment, in prosperity and
in
adversity, before friends and before enemies, he has often
been
under the necessity of supporting this manhood. He has never
dared
to forget for one moment the judgment which the impartial
spectator
would pass upon his sentiments and conduct. He has
never
dared to suffer the man within the breast to be absent one
moment
from his attention. With the eyes of this great inmate he
has
always been accustomed to regard whatever relates to himself.
This
habit has become perfectly familiar to him. He has been in
the
constant practice, and, indeed, under the constant necessity,
of
modelling, or of endeavouring to model, not only his outward
conduct
and behaviour, but, as much as he can, even his inward
sentiments
and feelings, according to those of this awful and
respectable
judge. He does not merely affect the sentiments of
the
impartial spectator. He really adopts them. He almost
identifies
himself with, he almost becomes himself that impartial
spectator,
and scarce even feels but as that great arbiter of his
conduct
directs him to feel.
The degree of the self-approbation with
which every man, upon
such
occasions, surveys his own conduct, is higher or lower,
exactly
in proportion to the degree of self-command which is
necessary
in order to obtain that self-approbation. Where little
self-command
is necessary, little self-approbation is due. The
man who
has only scratched his finger, cannot much applaud
himself,
though he should immediately appear to have forgot this
paltry
misfortune. The man who has lost his leg by a cannon shot,
and
who, the moment after, speaks and acts with his usual
coolness
and tranquillity, as he exerts a much higher degree of
self-command,
so he naturally feels a much higher degree of
self-approbation.
With most men, upon such an accident, their own
natural
view of their own misfortune would force itself upon them
with
such a vivacity and strength of colouring, as would entirely
efface
all thought of every other view. They would feel nothing,
they
could attend to nothing, but their own pain and their own
fear;
and not only the judgment of the ideal man within the
breast,
but that of the real spectators who might happen to be
present,
would be entirely overlooked and disregarded.
The reward which Nature bestows upon good
behaviour under
misfortune,
is thus exactly proportioned to the degree of that
good
behaviour. The only compensation she could possibly make for
the
bitterness of pain and distress is thus too, in equal degrees
of good
behaviour, exactly proportioned to the degree of that
pain
and distress. In proportion to the degree of the
self-command
which is necessary in order to conquer our natural
sensibility,
the pleasure and pride of the conquest are so much
the
greater; and this pleasure and pride are so great that no man
can be
altogether unhappy who completely enjoys them. Misery and
wretchedness
can never enter the breast in which dwells complete
self-satisfaction;
and though it may be too much, perhaps, to
say,
with the Stoics, that, under such an accident as that above
mentioned,
the happiness of a wise man is in every respect equal
to what
it could have been under any other circumstances; yet it
must be
acknowledged, at least, that this complete enjoyment of
his own
self-applause, though it may not altogether extinguish,
must
certainly very much alleviate his sense of his own
sufferings.
In such paroxysms of distress, if I may be
allowed to call
them
so, the wisest and firmest man, in order to preserve his
equanimity,
is obliged, I imagine, to make a considerable, and
even a
painful exertion. His own natural feeling of his own
distress,
his own natural view of his own situation, presses hard
upon
him, and he cannot, without a very great effort, fix his
attention
upon that of the impartial spectator. Both views
present
themselves to him at the same time. His sense of honour,
his
regard to his own dignity, directs him to fix his whole
attention
upon the one view. His natural, his untaught and
undisciplined
feelings, are continually calling it off to the
other.
He does not, in this case, perfectly identify himself with
the
ideal man within the breast, he does not become himself the
impartial
spectator of his own conduct. The different views of
both
characters exist in his mind separate and distinct from one
another,
and each directing him to a behaviour different from
that to
which the other directs him. When he follows that view
which
honour and dignity point out to him, Nature does not,
indeed,
leave him without a recompense. He enjoys his own
complete
self-approbation, and the applause of every candid and
impartial
spectator. By her unalterable laws, however, he still
suffers;
and the recompense which she bestows, though very
considerable,
is not sufficient completely to compensate the
sufferings
which those laws inflict. Neither is it fit that it
should.
If it did completely compensate them, he could, from
self-interest,
have no motive for avoiding an accident which must
necessarily
diminish his utility both to himself and to society;
and
Nature, from her parental care of both, meant that he should
anxiously
avoid all such accidents. He suffers, therefore, and
though,
in the agony of the paroxysm, he maintains, not only the
manhood
of his countenance, but the sedateness and sobriety of
his
judgment, it requires his utmost and most fatiguing
exertions,
to do so.
By the constitution of human nature,
however, agony can never
be
permanent; and, if he survives the paroxysm, he soon comes,
without
any effort, to enjoy his ordinary tranquillity. A man
with a
wooden leg suffers, no doubt, and foresees that he must
continue
to suffer during the reminder of his life, a very
considerable
inconveniency. He soon comes to view it, however,
exactly
as every impartial spectator views it; as an
inconveniency
under which he can enjoy all the ordinary pleasures
both of
solitude and of society. He soon identifies himself with
the
ideal man within the breast, he soon becomes himself the
impartial
spectator of his own situation. He no longer weeps, he
no
longer laments, he no longer grieves over it, as a weak man
may
sometimes do in the beginning. The view of the impartial
spectator
becomes so perfectly habitual to him, that, without any
effort,
without any exertion, he never thinks of surveying his
misfortune
in any other view.
The never-failing certainty with which all
men, sooner or
later,
accommodate themselves to whatever becomes their permanent
situation,
may, perhaps, induce us to think that the Stoics were,
at
least, thus far very nearly in the right; that, between one
permanent
situation and another, there was, with regard to real
happiness,
no essential difference: or that, if there were any
difference,
it was no more than just sufficient to render some of
them
the objects of simple choice or preference; but not of any
earnest
or anxious desire: and others, of simple rejection, as
being
fit to be set aside or avoided; but not of any earnest or
anxious
aversion. Happiness consists in tranquillity and
enjoyment.
Without tranquillity there can be no enjoyment; and
where
there is perfect tranquillity there is scarce any thing
which
is not capable of amusing. But in every permanent
situation,
where there is no expectation of change, the mind of
every
man, in a longer or shorter time, returns to its natural
and
usual state of tranquillity. In prosperity, after a certain
time,
it falls back to that state; in adversity, after a certain
time,
it rises up to it. In the confinement and solitude of the
Bastile,
after a certain time, the fashionable and frivolous
Count
de Lauzun recovered tranquillity enough to be capable of
amusing
himself with feeding a spider. A mind better furnished
would,
perhaps, have both sooner recovered its tranquillity, and
sooner
found, in its own thoughts, a much better amusement.
The great source of both the misery and
disorders of human
life,
seems to arise from over-rating the difference between one
permanent
situation and another. Avarice over-rates the
difference
between poverty and riches: ambition, that between a
private
and a public station: vain-glory, that between obscurity
and
extensive reputation. The person under the influence of any
of
those extravagant passions, is not only miserable in his
actual
situation, but is often disposed to disturb the peace of
society,
in order to arrive at that which he so foolishly
admires.
The slightest observation, however, might satisfy him,
that,
in all the ordinary situations of human life, a
well-disposed
mind may be equally calm, equally cheerful, and
equally
contented. Some of those situations may, no doubt,
deserve
to be preferred to others: but none of them can deserve
to be
pursued with that passionate ardour which drives us to
violate
the rules either of prudence or of justice; or to corrupt
the
future tranquillity of our minds, either by shame from the
remembrance
of our own folly, or by remorse from the horror of
our own
injustice. Wherever prudence does not direct, wherever
justice
does not permit, the attempt to change our situation, the
man who
does attempt it, plays at the most Unequal of all games
of
hazard, and stakes every thing against scarce any thing. What
the
favourite of the king of Epirus said to his master, may be
applied
to men in all the ordinary situations of human life. When
the
King had recounted to him, in their proper order, all the
conquests
which he proposed to make, and had come to the last of
them;
And what does your Majesty propose to do then? said the
Favourite.
-- I propose then, said the King, to enjoy myself with
my
friends, and endeavour to be good company over a bottle. --
And
what hinders your Majesty from doing so now? replied the
Favourite.
In the most glittering and exalted situation that our
idle
fancy can hold out to us, the pleasures from which we
propose
to derive our real happiness, are almost always the same
with
those which, in our actual, though humble station, we have
at all
times at hand, and in our power. except the frivolous
pleasures
of vanity and superiority, we may find, in the most
humble
station, where there is only personal liberty, every other
which
the most exalted can afford; and the pleasures of vanity
and
superiority are seldom consistent with perfect tranquillity,
the
principle and foundation of all real and satisfactory
enjoyment.
Neither is it always certain that, in the splendid
situation
which we aim at, those real and satisfactory pleasures
can be
enjoyed with the same security as in the humble one which
we are
so very eager to abandon. examine the records of history,
recollect
what has happened within the circle of your own
experience,
consider with attention what has been the conduct of
almost
all the greatly unfortunate, either in private or public
life,
whom you may have either read of, or heard of, or remember;
and you
will find that the misfortunes of by far the greater part
of them
have arisen from their not knowing when they were well,
when it
was proper for them to sit still and to be contented. The
inscription
upon the tomb-stone of the man who had endeavoured to
mend a
tolerable constitution by taking physic; 'I was well, I
wished
to be better; here I am; may generally be applied with
great
justness to the distress of disappointed avarice and
ambition.
It may be thought a singular, but I
believe it to be a just
observation,
that, in the misfortunes which admit of some remedy,
the
greater part of men do not either so readily or so
universally
recover their natural and usual tranquillity, as in
those
which plainly admit of none. In misfortunes of the latter
kind,
it is chiefly in what may be called the paroxysm, or in the
first
attack, that we can discover any sensible difference
between
the sentiments and behaviour of the wise and those of the
weak
man. In the end, Time, the great and universal comforter,
gradually
composes the weak man to the same degree of
tranquillity
which a regard to his own dignity and manhood
teaches
the wise man to assume in the beginning. The case of the
man
with the wooden leg is an obvious example of this. In the
irreparable
misfortunes occasioned by the death of children, or
of
friends and relations, even a wise man may for some time
indulge
himself in some degree of moderated sorrow. An
affectionate,
but weak woman, is often, upon such occasions,
almost
perfectly distracted. Time, however, in a longer or
shorter
period, never fails to compose the weakest woman to the
same
degree of tranquillity as the strongest man. In all the
irreparable
calamities which affect himself immediately and
directly,
a wise man endeavours, from the beginning, to
anticipate
and to enjoy before-hand, that tranquillity which he
foresees
the course of a few months, or a few years, will
certainly
restore to him in the end.
In the misfortunes for which the nature of
things admits, or
seems
to admit, of a remedy, but in which the means of applying
that
remedy are not within the reach of the sufferer, his vain
and
fruitless attempts to restore himself to his former
situation,
his continual anxiety for their success, his repeated
disappointments
upon their miscarriage, are what chiefly hinder
him
from resuming his natural tranquillity, and frequently render
miserable,
during the whole of his life, a man to whom a greater
misfortune,
but which plainly admitted of no remedy, would not
have
given a fortnight's disturbance. In the fall from royal
favour
to disgrace, from power to insignificancy, from riches to
poverty,
from liberty to confinement, from strong health to some
lingering,
chronical, and perhaps incurable disease, the man who
struggles
the least, who most easily and readily acquiesces in
the
fortune which has fallen to him, very soon recovers his usual
and
natural tranquility, and surveys the most disagreeable
circumstances
of his actual situation in the same light, or,
perhaps,
in a much less unfavourable light, than that in which
the
most indifferent spectator is disposed to survey them.
Faction,
intrigue, and cabal, disturb the quiet of the
unfortunate
statesman. extravagant projects, visions of gold
mines,
interrupt the repose of the ruined bankrupt. The prisoner,
who is
continually plotting to escape from his confinement,
cannot
enjoy that careless security which even a prison can
afford
him. The medicines of the physician are often the greatest
torment
of the incurable patient. The monk who, in order to
comfort
Joanna of Castile, upon the death of her husband Philip,
told
her of a King, who, fourteen years after his decease, had
been
restored to life again, by the prayers of his afflicted
queen,
was not likely, by his legendary tale, to restore
sedateness
to the distempered mind of that unhappy Princess. She
endeavoured
to repeat the same experiment in hopes of the same
success;
resisted for a long time the burial of her husband, soon
after
raised his body from the grave, attended it almost
constantly
herself, and watched, with all the impatient anxiety
of
frantic expectation, the happy moment when her wishes were to
be
gratified by the revival of her beloved Philip.(3*)
Our sensibility to the feelings of others,
so far from being
inconsistent
with the manhood of self-command, is the very
principle
upon which that manhood is founded. The very same
principle
or instinct which, in the misfortune of our neighbour,
prompts
us to compassionate his sorrow; in our own misfortune,
prompts
us to restrain the abject and miserable lamentations of
our own
sorrow. The same principle or instinct which, in his
prosperity
and success, prompts us to congratulate his joy; in
our own
prosperity and success, prompts us to restrain the levity
and
intemperance of our own joy. In both cases, the propriety of
our own
sentiments and feelings seems to be exactly in proportion
to the
vivacity and force with which we enter into and conceive
his
sentiments and feelings.
The man of the most perfect virtue, the
man whom we naturally
love
and revere the most, is he who joins, to the most perfect
command
of his own original and selfish feelings, the most
exquisite
sensibility both to the original and sympathetic
feelings
of others. The man who, to all the soft, the amiable,
and the
gentle virtues, joins all the great, the awful, and the
respectable,
must surely be the natural and proper object of our
highest
love and admiration.
The person best fitted by nature for
acquiring the former of
those
two sets of virtues, is likewise best fitted for acquiring
the
latter. The man who feels the most for the joys and sorrows
of
others, is best fitted for acquiring the most complete control
of his
own joys and sorrows. The man of the most exquisite
humanity,
is naturally the most capable of acquiring the highest
degree
of self-command. He may not, however, always have acquired
it; and
it very frequently happens that he has not. He may have
lived
too much in ease and tranquillity. He may have never been
exposed
to the violence of faction, or to the hardships and
hazards
of war. He may have never experienced the insolence of
his
superiors, the jealous and malignant envy of his equals, or
the
pilfering injustice of his inferiors. When, in an advanced
age,
some accidental change of fortune exposes him to all these,
they
all make too great an impression upon him. He has the
disposition
which fits him for acquiring the most perfect
self-command;
but he has never had the opportunity of acquiring
it.
exercise and practice have been wanting; and without these no
habit
can ever be tolerably established. Hardships, dangers,
injuries,
misfortunes, are the only masters under whom we can
learn
the exercise of this virtue. But these are all masters to
whom
nobody willingly puts himself to school.
The situations in which the gentle virtue
of humanity can be
most
happily cultivated, are by no means the same with those
which
are best fitted for forming the austere virtue of
self-command.
The man who is himself at ease can best attend to
the
distress of others. The man who is himself exposed to
hardships
is most immediately called upon to attend to, and to
control
his own feelings. In the mild sunshine of undisturbed
tranquillity,
in the calm retirement of undissipated and
philosophical
leisure, the soft virtue of humanity flourishes the
most,
and is capable of the highest improvement. But, in such
situations,
the greatest and noblest exertions of self-command
have
little exercise. Under the boisterous and stormy sky of war
and
faction, of public tumult and confusion, the sturdy severity
of
self-command prospers the most, and can be the most
successfully
cultivated. But, in such situations, the strongest
suggestions
of humanity must frequently be stifled or neglected;
and
every such neglect necessarily tends to weaken the principle
of
humanity. As it may frequently be the duty of a soldier not to
take,
so it may sometimes be his duty not to give quarter; and
the
humanity of the man who has been several times under the
necessity
of submitting to this disagreeable duty, can scarce
fail to
suffer a considerable diminution. For his own ease, he is
too apt
to learn to make light of the misfortunes which he is so
often
under the necessity of occasioning; and the situations
which
call forth the noblest exertions of self-command, by
imposing
the necessity of violating sometimes the property, and
sometimes
the life of our neighbour, always tend to diminish, and
too
often to extinguish altogether, that sacred regard to both,
which
is the foundation of justice and humanity. It is upon this
account,
that we so frequently find in the world men of great
humanity
who have little self-command, but who are indolent and
irresolute,
and easily disheartened, either by difficulty or
danger,
from the most honourable pursuits; and, on the contrary
men of
the most perfect self-command, whom no difficulty can
discourage,
no danger appal, and who are at all times ready for
the
most daring and desperate enterprises, but who, at the same
time,
seem to be hardened against all sense either of justice or
humanity.
In solitude, we are apt to feel too
strongly whatever relates
to
ourselves: we are apt to over-rate the good offices we may
have
done, and the injuries we may have suffered: we are apt to
be too
much elated by our own good, and too much dejected by our
own bad
fortune. The conversation of a friend brings us to a
better,
that of a stranger to a still better temper. The man
within
the breast, the abstract and ideal spectator of our
sentiments
and conduct, requires often to be awakened and put in
mind of
his duty, by the presence of the real spectator: and it
is
always from that spectator, from whom we can expect the least
sympathy
and indulgence, that we are likely to learn the most
complete
lesson of self-command.
Are you in adversity? Do not mourn in the
darkness of
solitude,
do not regulate your sorrow according to the indulgent
sympathy
of your intimate friends; return, as soon as possible,
to the
day-light of the world and of society. Live with
strangers,
with those who know nothing, or care nothing about
your
misfortune; do not even shun the company of enemies; but
give
yourself the pleasure of mortifying their malignant joy, by
making
them feel how little you are affected by your calamity,
and how
much you are above it.
Are you in prosperity? Do not confine the
enjoyment of your
good
fortune to your own house, to the company of your own
friends,
perhaps of your flatterers, of those who build upon your
fortune
the hopes of mending their own; frequent those who are
independent
of you, who can value you only for your character and
conduct,
and not for your fortune. Neither seek nor shun, neither
intrude
yourself into nor run away from the society of those who
were
once your superiors, and who may be hurt at finding you
their equal,
or, perhaps, even their superior. The impertinence
of
their pride may, perhaps, render their company too
disagreeable:
but if it should not, be assured that it is the
best
company you can possibly keep; and if, by the simplicity of
your
unassuming demeanour, you can gain their favour and
kindness,
you may rest satisfied that you are modest enough, and
that
your head has been in no respect turned by your good
fortune.
The propriety of our moral sentiments is
never so apt to be
corrupted,
as when the indulgent and partial spectator is at
hand,
while the indifferent and impartial one is at a great
distance.
Of the conduct of one independent nation
towards another,
neutral
nations are the only indifferent and impartial
spectators.
But they are placed at so great a distance that they
are
almost quite out of sight. When two nations are at variance,
the
citizen of each pays little regard to the sentiments which
foreign
nations may entertain concerning his conduct. His whole
ambition
is to obtain the approbation of his own fellow-citizens;
and as
they are all animated by the same hostile passions which
animate
himself, he can never please them so much as by enraging
and
offending their enemies. The partial spectator is at hand:
the impartial
one at a great distance. In war and negotiation,
therefore,
the laws of justice are very seldom observed. Truth
and
fair dealing are almost totally disregarded. Treaties are
violated;
and the violation, if some advantage is gained by it,
sheds
scarce any dishonour upon the violator. The ambassador who
dupes
the minister of a foreign nation, is admired and applauded.
The
just man who disdains either to take or to give any
advantage,
but who would think it less dishonourable to give than
to take
one; the man who, in all private transactions, would be
the
most beloved and the most esteemed; in those public
transactions
is regarded as a fool and an idiot, who does not
understand
his business; and he incurs always the contempt, and
sometimes
even the detestation of his fellow-citizens. In war,
not
only what are called the laws of nations, are frequently
violated,
without bringing (among his own fellow-citizens, whose
judgments
he only regards) any considerable dishonour upon the
violator;
but those laws themselves are, the greater part of
them,
laid down with very little regard to the plainest and most
obvious
rules of justice. That the innocent, though they may have
some
connexion or dependency upon the guilty (which, perhaps,
they themselves
cannot help), should not, upon that account,
suffer
or be punished for the guilty, is one of the plainest and
most
obvious rules of justice. In the most unjust war, however,
it is
commonly the sovereign or the rulers only who are guilty.
The subjects
are almost always perfectly innocent. Whenever it
suits
the conveniency of a public enemy, however, the goods of
the
peaceable citizens are seized both at land and at sea; their
lands
are laid waste, their houses are burnt, and they
themselves,
if they presume to make any resistance, are murdered
or led
into captivity; and all this in the most perfect
conformity
to what are called the laws of nations.
The animosity of hostile factions, whether
civil or
ecclesiastical,
is often still more furious than that of hostile
nations;
and their conduct towards one another is often still
more
atrocious. What may be called the laws of faction have often
been
laid down by grave authors with still less regard to the
rules
of justice than what are called the laws of nations. The
most
ferocious patriot never stated it as a serious question,
Whether
faith ought to be kept with public enemies? -- Whether
faith
ought to be kept with rebels? Whether faith ought to be
kept
with heretics? are questions which have been often furiously
agitated
by celebrated doctors both civil and ecclesiastical. It
is
needless to observe, I presume, that both rebels and heretics
are
those unlucky persons, who, when things have come to a
certain
degree of violence, have the misfortune to be of the
weaker
party. In a nation distracted by faction, there are, no
doubt,
always a few, though commonly but a very few, who preserve
their
judgment untainted by the general contagion. They seldom
amount
to more than, here and there, a solitary individual,
without
any influence, excluded, by his own candour, from the
confidence
of either party, and who, though he may be one of the
wisest,
is necessarily, upon that very account, one of the most
insignificant
men in the society. All such people are held in
contempt
and derision, frequently in detestation, by the furious
zealots
of both parties. A true party-man hates and despises
candour;
and, in reality, there is no vice which could so
effectually
disqualify him for the trade of a party-man as that
single
virtue. The real, revered, and impartial spectator,
therefore,
is, upon no occasion, at a greater distance than
amidst
the violence and rage of contending parties. To them, it
may be
said, that such a spectator scarce exists any where in the
universe.
Even to the great Judge of the universe, they impute
all
their own prejudices, and often view that Divine Being as
animated
by all their own vindictive and implacable passions. Of
all the
corrupters of moral sentiments, therefore, faction and
fanaticism
have always been by far the greatest.
Concerning the subject of self-command, I
shall only observe
further,
that our admiration for the man who, under the heaviest
and
most unexpected misfortunes, continues to behave with
fortitude
and firmness, always supposes that his sensibility to
those
misfortunes is very great, and such as it requires a very
great
effort to conquer or command. The man who was altogether
insensible
to bodily pain, could deserve no applause from
enduring
the torture with the most perfect patience and
equanimity.
The man who had been created without the natural fear
of
death, could claim no merit from preserving his coolness and
presence
of mind in the midst of the most dreadful dangers. It is
one of
the extravagancies of Seneca, that the Stoical wise man
was, in
this respect, superior even to a God; that the security
of the
God was altogether the benefit of nature, which had
exempted
him from suffering; but that the security of the wise
man was
his own benefit, and derived altogether from himself and
from
his own exertions.
The sensibility of some men, however, to
some of the objects
which
immediately affect themselves, is sometimes so strong as to
render
all self-command impossible. No sense of honour can
control
the fears of the man who is weak enough to faint, or to
fall
into convulsions, upon the approach of danger. Whether such
weakness
of nerves, as it has been called, may not, by gradual
exercise
and proper discipline, admit of some cure, may, perhaps,
be
doubtful. It seems certain that it ought never to be trusted
or
employed.
Chap.
IV
Of the
Nature of Self-deceit, and of the Origin and Use of
general
Rules
In order to pervert the rectitude of our
own judgments
concerning
the propriety of our own conduct, it is not always
necessary
that the real and impartial spectator should be at a
great
distance. When he is at hand, when he is present, the
violence
and injustice of our own selfish passions are sometimes
sufficient
to induce the man within the breast to make a report
very
different from what the real circumstances of the case are
capable
of authorising.
There are two different occasions upon
which we examine our
own
conduct, and endeavour to view it in the light in which the
impartial
spectator would view it: first, when we are about to
act;
and secondly, after we have acted. Our views are apt to be
very
partial in both cases; but they are apt to be most partial
when it
is of most importance that they should be otherwise.
When we are about to act, the eagerness of
passion will
seldom
allow us to consider what we are doing, with the candour
of an
indifferent person. The violent emotions which at that time
agitate
us, discolour our views of things; even when we are
endeavouring
to place ourselves in the situation of another, and
to
regard the objects that interest us in the light in which they
will
naturally appear to him, the fury of our own passions
constantly
calls us back to our own place, where every thing
appears
magnified and misrepresented by self-love. Of the manner
in
which those objects would appear to another, of the view which
he
would take of them, we can obtain, if I may say so, but
instantaneous
glimpses, which vanish in a moment, and which, even
while
they last, are not altogether just. We cannot even for that
moment
divest ourselves entirely of the heat and keenness with
which
our peculiar situation inspires us, nor consider what we
are
about to do with the complete impartiality of an equitable
judge.
The passions, upon this account, as father Malebranche
says,
all justify themselves, and seem reasonable and
proportioned
to their objects, as long as we continue to feel
them.
When the action is over, indeed, and the
passions which
prompted
it have subsided, we can enter more coolly into the
sentiments
of the indifferent spectator. What before interested
us is
now become almost as indifferent to us as it always was to
him,
and we can now examine our own conduct with his candour and
impartiality.
The man of to-day is no longer agitated by the same
passions
which distracted the man of yesterday: and when the
paroxysm
of emotion, in the same manner as when the paroxysm of
distress,
is fairly over, we can identify ourselves, as it were,
with
the ideal man within the breast, and, in our own character,
view,
as in the one case, our own situation, so in the other, our
own
conduct, with the severe eVes of the most impartial
spectator.
But our judgments now are often of little importance
in
comparison of what they were before; and can frequently
produce
nothing but vain regret and unavailing repentance;
without
always securing us from the like errors in time to come.
It is
seldom, however, that they are quite candid even in this
case.
The opinion which we entertain of our own character depends
entirely
on our judgments concerning our past conduct. It is so
disagreeable
to think ill of ourselves, that we often purposely
turn
away our view from those circumstances which might render
that
judgment unfavourable. He is a bold surgeon, they say, whose
hand
does not tremble when he performs an operation upon his own
person;
and he is often equally bold who does not hesitate to
pull
off the mysterious veil of self-delusion, which covers from
his
view the deformities of his own conduct. Rather than see our
own
behaviour under so disagreeable an aspect, we too often,
foolishly
and weakly, endeavour to exasperate anew those unjust
passions
which had formerly misled us; we endeavour by artifice
to
awaken our old hatreds, and irritate afresh our almost
forgotten
resentments: we even exert ourselves for this miserable
purpose,
and thus persevere in injustice, merely because we once
were
unjust, and because we are ashamed and afraid to see that we
were
so.
So partial are the views of mankind with
regard to the
propriety
of their own conduct, both at the time of action and
after
it; and so difficult is it for them to view it in the light
in
which any indifferent spectator would consider it. But if it
was by
a peculiar faculty, such as the moral sense is supposed to
be,
that they judged of their own conduct, if they were endued
with a
particular power of perception, which distinguished the
beauty
or deformity of passions and affections; as their own
passions
would be more immeDiately exposed to the view of this
faculty,
it would judge with more accuracy concerning them, than
concerning
those of other men, of which it had only a more
distant
prospect.
This self-deceit, this fatal weakness of
mankind, is the
source
of half the disorders of human life. If we saw ourselves
in the
light in which others see us, or in which they would see
us if
they knew all, a reformation would generally be
unavoidable.
We could not otherwise endure the sight.
Nature, however, has not left this
weakness, which is of so
much
importance, altogether without a remedy; nor has she
abandoned
us entirely to the delusions of self-love. Our
continual
observations upon the conduct of others, insensibly
lead us
to form to ourselves certain general rules concerning
what is
fit and proper either to be done or to be avoided. Some
of
their actions shock all our natural sentiments. We hear every
body
about us express the like detestation against them. This
still
further confirms, and even exasperates our natural sense of
their
deformity. It satisfies us that we view them in the proper
light,
when we see other people view them in the same light. We
resolve
never to be guilty of the like, nor ever, upon any
account,
to render ourselves in this manner the objects of
universal
disapprobation. We thus naturally lay down to ourselves
a
general rule, that all such actions are to be avoided, as
tending
to render us odious, contemptible, or punishable, the
objects
of all those sentiments for which we have the greatest
dread
and aversion. Other actions, on the contrary, call forth
our
approbation, and we hear every body around us express the
same
favourable opinion concerning them. Every body is eager to
honour
and reward them. They excite all those sentiments for
which
we have by nature the strongest desire; the love, the
gratitude,
the admiration of mankind. We become ambitious of
performing
the like; and thus naturally lay down to ourselves a
rule of
another kind, that every opportunity of acting in this
manner
is carefully to be sought after.
It is thus that the general rules of
morality are formed.
They
are ultimately founded upon experience of what, in
particular
instances, our moral faculties, our natural sense of
merit
and propriety, approve, or disapprove of. We do not
originally
approve or condemn particular actions; because, upon
examination,
they appear to be agreeable or inconsistent with a
certain
general rule. The general rule, on the contrary, is
formed,
by finding from experience, that all actions of a certain
kind,
or circumstanced in a certain manner, are approved or
disapproved
of. To the man who first saw an inhuman murder,
committed
from avarice, envy, or unjust resentment, and upon one
too
that loved and trusted the murderer, who beheld the last
agonies
of the dying person, who heard him, with his expiring
breath,
complain more of the perfidy and ingratitude of his false
friend,
than of the violence which had been done to him, there
could
be no occasion, in order to conceive how horrible such an
action
was, that he should reflect, that one of the most sacred
rules
of conduct was what prohibited the taking away the life of
an
innocent person, that this was a plain violation of that rule,
and
consequently a very blamable action. His detestation of this
crime,
it is evident, would arise instantaneously and antecedent
to his
having formed to himself any such general rule. The
general
rule, on the contrary, which he might afterwards form,
would
be founded upon the detestation which he felt necessarily
arise
in his own breast, at the thought of this, and every other
particular
action of the same kind.
When we read in history or romance, the
account of actions
either
of generosity or of baseness, the admiration which we
conceive
for the one, and the contempt which we feel for the
other,
neither of them arise from reflecting that there are
certain
general rules which declare all actions of the one kind
admirable,
and all actions of the other contemptible. Those
general
rules, on the contrary, are all formed from the
experience
we have had of the effects which actions of all
different
kinds naturally produce upon us.
An amiable action, a respectable action,
an horrid action,
are all
of them actions which naturally excite for the person who
performs
them, the love, the respect, or the horror of the
spectator.
The general rules which determine what actions are,
and
what are not, the objects of each of those sentiments, can be
formed
no other way than by observing what actions actually and
in fact
excite them.
When these general rules, indeed, have
been formed, when they
are
universally acknowledged and established, by the concurring
sentiments
of mankind, we frequently appeal to them as to the
standards
of judgment, in debating concerning the degree of
praise
or blame that is due to certain actions of a complicated
and
dubious nature. They are upon these occasions commonly cited
as the
ultimate foundations of what is just and unjust in human
conduct;
and this circumstance seems to have misled several very
eminent
authors, to draw up their systems in such a manner, as if
they
had supposed that the original judgments of mankind with
regard
to right and wrong, were formed like the decisions of a
court
of judicatory, by considering first the general rule, and
then,
secondly, whether the particular action under consideration
fell
properly within its comprehension.
Those general rules of conduct, when they
have been fixed in
our
mind by habitual reflection, are of great use in correcting
the
misrepresentations of self-love concerning what is fit and
proper
to be done in our particular situation. The man of furious
resentment,
if he was to listen to the dictates of that passion,
would
perhaps regard the death of his enemy, as but a small
compensation
for the wrong, he imagines, he has received; which,
however,
may be no more than a very slight provocation. But his
observations
upon the conduct of others, have taught him how
horrible
all such sanguinary revenges appear. Unless his
education
has been very singular, he has laid it down to himself
as an
inviolable rule, to abstain from them upon all occasions.
This
rule preserves its authority with him, and renders him
incapable
of being guilty of such a violence. Yet the fury of his
own
temper may be such, that had this been the first time in
which
he considered such an action, he would undoubtedly have
determined
it to be quite just and proper, and what every
impartial
spectator would approve of. But that reverence for the
rule
which past experience has impressed upon him, checks the
impetuosity
of his passion, and helps him to correct the too
partial
views which self-love might otherwise suggest, of what
was
proper to be done in his situation. If he should allow
himself
to be so far transported by passion as to violate this
rule,
yet, even in this case, he cannot throw off altogether the
awe and
respect with which he has been accustomed to regard it.
At the
very time of acting, at the moment in which passion mounts
the
highest, he hesitates and trembles at the thought of what he
is
about to do: he is secretly conscious to himself that he is
breaking
through those measures of conduct which, in all his cool
hours,
he had resolved never to infringe, which he had never seen
infringed
by others without the highest disapprobation, and of
which
the infringement, his own mind forebodes, must soon render
him the
object of the same disagreeable sentiments. Before he can
take
the last fatal resolution, he is tormented with all the
agonies
of doubt and uncertainty; he is terrified at the thought
of
violating so sacred a rule, and at the same time is urged and
goaded
on by the fury of his desires to violate it. He changes
his
purpose every moment; sometimes he resolves to adhere to his
principle,
and not indulge a passion which may corrupt the
remaining
part of his life with the horrors of shame and
repentance;
and a momentary calm takes possession of his breast,
from
the prospect of that security and tranquillity which he will
enjoy
when he thus determines not to expose himself to the hazard
of a
contrary conduct. But immediately the passion rouses anew,
and
with fresh fury drives him on to commit what he had the
instant
before resolved to abstain from. Wearied and distracted
with
those continual irresolutions, he at length, from a sort of
despair,
makes the last fatal and irrecoverable step; but with
that
terror and amazement with which one flying from an enemy,
throws
himself over a precipice, where he is sure of meeting with
more
certain destruction than from any thing that pursues him
from
behind. Such are his sentiments even at the time of acting;
though
he is then, no doubt, less sensible of the impropriety of
his own
conduct than afterwards, when his passion being gratified
and
palled, he begins to view what he has done in the light in
which
others are apt to view it; and actually feels, what he had
only
foreseen very imperfectly before, the stings of remorse and
repentance
begin to agitate and torment him.
Chap. V
Of the
influence and authority of the general Rules of Morality,
and
that they are justly regarded as the Laws of the Deity
The regard to those general rules of
conduct, is what is
properly
called a sense of duty, a principle of the greatest
consequence
in human life, and the only principle by which the
bulk of
mankind are capable of directing their actions. Many men
behave
very decently, and through the whole of their lives avoid
any
considerable degree of blame, who yet, perhaps, never felt
the
sentiment upon the propriety of which we found our
approbation
of their conduct, but acted merely from a regard to
what
they saw were the established rules of behaviour. The man
who has
received great benefits from another person, may, by the
natural
coldness of his temper, feel but a very small degree of
the
sentiment of gratitude. If he has been virtuously educated,
however,
he will often have been made to observe how odious those
actions
appear which denote a want of this sentiment, and how
amiable
the contrary. Though his heart therefore is not warmed
with
any grateful affection, he will strive to act as if it was,
and
will endeavour to pay all those regards and attentions to his
patron
which the liveliest gratitude could suggest. He will visit
him
regularly. he will behave to him respectfully; he will never
talk of
him but with expressions of the highest esteem, and of
the
many obligations which he owes to him. And what is more, he
will
carefully embrace every opportunity of making a proper
return
for past services. He may do all this too without any
hypocrisy
or blamable dissimulation, without any selfish
intention
of obtaining new favours, and without any design of
imposing
either upon his benefactor or the public. The motive of
his
actions may be no other than a reverence for the established
rule of
duty, a serious and earnest desire of acting, in every
respect,
according to the law of gratitude. A wife, in the same
manner,
may sometimes not feel that tender regard for her husband
which
is suitable to the relation that subsists between them. If
she has
been virtuously educated, however, she will endeavour to
act as
if she felt it, to be careful, officious, faithful, and
sincere,
and to be deficient in none of those attentions which
the
sentiment of conjugal affection could have prompted her to
perform.
Such a friend, and such a wife, are neither of them,
undoubtedly,
the very best of their kinds; and though both of
them
may have the most serious and earnest desire to fulfil every
part of
their duty, yet they will fail in many nice and delicate
regards,
they will miss many opportunities of obliging, which
they
could never have overlooked if they had possessed the
sentiment
that is proper to their situation. Though not the very
first
of their kinds, however, they are perhaps the second; and
if the
regard to the general rules of conduct has been very
strongly
impressed upon them, neither of them will fail in any
very
essential part of their duty. None but those of the happiest
mould
are capable of suiting, with exact justness, their
sentiments
and behaviour to the smallest difference of situation,
and of
acting upon all occasions with the most delicate and
accurate
propriety. The coarse clay of which the bulk of mankind
are
formed, cannot be wrought up to such perfection. There is
scarce
any man, however, who by discipline, education, and
example,
may not be so impressed with a regard to general rules,
as to
act upon almost every occasion with tolerable decency, and
through
the whole of his life to avoid any considerable degree of
blame.
Without this sacred regard to general
rules, there is no man
whose
conduct can be much depended upon. It is this which
constitutes
the most essential difference between a man of
principle
and honour and a worthless fellow. The one adheres, on
all occasions,
steadily and resolutely to his maxims, and
preserves
through the whole of his life one even tenour of
conduct.
The other, acts variously and accidentally, as humour,
inclination,
or interest chance to be uppermost. Nay, such are
the
inequalities of humour to which all men are subject, that
without
this principle, the man who, in all his cool hours, had
the
most delicate sensibility to the propriety of conduct, might
often
be led to act absurdly upon the most frivolous occasions,
and
when it was scarce possible to assign any serious motive for
his
behaving in this manner. Your friend makes you a visit when
you
happen to be in a humour which makes it disagreeable to
receive
him: in your present mood his civility is very apt to
appear
an impertinent intrusion; and if you were to give way to
the
views of things which at this time occur, though civil in
your
temper, you would behave to him with coldness and contempt.
What
renders you incapable of such a rudeness, is nothing but a
regard to
the general rules of civility and hospitality, which
prohibit
it. That habitual reverence which your former experience
has
taught you for these, enables you to act, upon all such
occasions,
with nearly equal propriety, and hinders those
inequalities
of temper, to which all men are subject, from
influencing
your conduct in any very sensible degree. But if
without
regard to these general rules, even the duties of
politeness,
which are so easily observed, and which one can
scarce
have any serious motive to violate, would yet be so
frequently
violated, what would become of the duties of justice,
of
truth, of chastity, of fidelity, which it is often so
difficult
to observe, and which there may be so many strong
motives
to violate? But upon the tolerable observance of these
duties,
depends the very existence of human society, which would
crumble
into nothing if mankind were not generally impressed with
a
reverence for those important rules of conduct.
This reverence is still further enhanced by
an opinion which
is
first impressed by nature, and afterwards confirmed by
reasoning
and philosophy, that those important rules of morality
are the
commands and laws of the Deity, who will finally reward
the
obedient, and punish the transgressors of their duty.
This opinion or apprehension, I say, seems
first to be
impressed
by nature. Men are naturally led to ascribe to those
mysterious
beings, whatever they are, which happen, in any
country,
to be the objects of religious fear, all their own
sentiments
and passions. They have no other, they can conceive no
other
to ascribe to them. Those unknown intelligences which they
imagine
but see not, must necessarily be formed with some sort of
resemblance
to those intelligences of which they have experience.
During
the ignorance and darkness of pagan superstition, mankind
seem to
have formed the ideas of their divinities with so little
delicacy,
that they ascribed to them, indiscriminately, all the
passions
of human nature, those not excepted which do the least
honour
to our species, such as lust, hunger, avarice, envy,
revenge.
They could not fail, therefore, to ascribe to those
beings,
for the excellence of whose nature they still conceived
the
highest admiration, those sentiments and qualities which are
the
great ornaments of humanity, and which seem to raise it to a
resemblance
of divine perfection, the love of virtue and
beneficence,
and the abhorrence of vice and injustice. The man
who was
injured, called upon Jupiter to be witness of the wrong
that
was done to him, and could not doubt, but that divine being
would
behold it with the same indignation which would animate the
meanest
of mankind, who looked on when injustice was committed.
The man
who did the injury, felt himself to be the proper object
of the
detestation and resentment of mankind; and his natural
fears
led him to impute the same sentiments to those awful
beings,
whose presence he could not avoid, and whose power he
could
not resist. These natural hopes and fears, and suspicions,
were
propagated by sympathy, and confirmed by education; and the
gods
were universally represented and believed to be the
rewarders
of humanity and mercy, and the avengers of perfidy and
injustice.
And thus religion, even in its rudest form, gave a
sanction
to the rules of morality, long before the age of
artificial
reasoning and philosophy. That the terrors of religion
should
thus enforce the natural sense of duty, was of too much
importance
to the happiness of mankind, for nature to leave it
dependent
upon the slowness and uncertainty of philosophical
researches.
These researches, however, when they came
to take place,
confirmed
those original anticipations of nature. Upon whatever
we
suppose that our moral faculties are founded, whether upon a
certain
modification of reason, upon an original instinct, called
a moral
sense, or upon some other principle of our nature, it
cannot
be doubted, that they were given us for the direction of
our
conduct in this life. They carry along with them the most
evident
badges of this authority, which denote that they were set
up
within us to be the supreme arbiters of all our actions, to
superintend
all our senses, passions, and appetites, and to judge
how far
each of them was either to be indulged or restrained. Our
moral
faculties are by no means, as some have pretended, upon a
level
in this respect with the other faculties and appetites of
our
nature, endowed with no more right to restrain these last,
than
these last are to restrain them. No other faculty or
principle
of action judges of any other. Love does not judge of
resentment,
nor resentment of love. Those two passions may be
opposite
to one another, but cannot, with any propriety, be said
to
approve or disapprove of one another. But it is the peculiar
office
of those faculties now under our consideration to judge,
to
bestow censure or applause upon all the other principles of
our
nature. They may be considered as a sort of senses of which
those
principles are the objects. Every sense is supreme over its
own
objects. There is no appeal from the eye with regard to the
beauty
of colours, nor from the ear with regard to the harmony of
sounds,
nor from the taste with regard to the agreeableness of
flavours.
Each of those senses judges in the last resort of its
own
objects. Whatever gratifies the taste is sweet, whatever
pleases
the eye is beautiful, whatever soothes the ear is
harmonious.
The very essence of each of those qualities consists
in its
being fitted to please the sense to which it is addressed.
It
belongs to our moral faculties, in the same manner to
determine
when the ear ought to be soothed, when the eye ought to
be
indulged, when the taste ought to be gratified, when and how
far
every other principle of our nature ought either to be
indulged
or restrained. What is agreeable to our moral faculties,
is fit,
and right, and proper to be done; the contrary wrong,
unfit,
and improper. The sentiments which they approve of, are
graceful
and becoming: the contrary, ungraceful and unbecoming.
The
very words, right, wrong, fit, improper, graceful,
unbecoming,
mean only what pleases or displeases those faculties.
Since these, therefore, were plainly
intended to be the
governing
principles of human nature, the rules which they
prescribe
are to be regarded as the commands and laws of the
Deity,
promulgated by those vice-gerents which he has thus set up
within
us. All general rules are commonly denominated laws: thus
the
general rules which bodies observe in the communication of
motion,
are called the laws of motion. But those general rules
which
our moral faculties observe in approving or condemning
whatever
sentiment or action is subjected to their examination,
may
much more justly be denominated such. They have a much
greater
resemblance to what are properly called laws, those
general
rules which the sovereign lays down to direct the conduct
of his
subjects. Like them they are rules to direct the free
actions
of men: they are prescribed most surely by a lawful
superior,
and are attended too with the sanction of rewards and
punishments.
Those vice-gerents of God within us, never fail to
punish
the violation of them, by the torments of inward shame,
and
self-condemnation; and on the contrary, always reward
obedience
with tranquillity of mind, with contentment, and
self-satisfaction.
There are innumerable other considerations
which serve to
confirm
the same conclusion. The happiness of mankind, as well as
of all
other rational creatures, seems to have been the original
purpose
intended by the Author of nature, when he brought them
into
existence. No other end seems worthy of that supreme wisdom
and
divine benignity which we necessarily ascribe to him; and
this
opinion, which we are led to by the abstract consideration
of his
infinite perfections, is still more confirmed by the
examination
of the works of nature, which seem all intended to
promote
happiness, and to guard against misery. But by acting
according
to the dictates of our moral faculties, we necessarily
pursue
the most effectual means for promoting the happiness of
mankind,
and may therefore be said, in some sense, to co-operate
with
the Deity, and to advance as far as in our power the plan of
Providence.
By acting other ways, on the contrary, we seem to
obstruct,
in some measure, the scheme which the Author of nature
has
established for the happiness and perfection of the world,
and to
declare ourselves, if I may say so, in some measure the
enemies
of God. Hence we are naturally encouraged to hope for his
extraordinary
favour and reward in the one case, and to dread his
vengeance
and punishment in the other.
There are besides many other reasons, and
many other natural
principles,
which all tend to confirm and inculcate the same
salutary
doctrine. If we consider the general rules by which
external
prosperity and adversity are commonly distributed in
this
life, we shall find, that notwithstanding the disorder in
which
all things appear to be in this world, yet even here every
virtue
naturally meets with its proper reward, with the
recompense
which is most fit to encourage and promote it; and
this
too so surely, that it requires a very extraordinary
concurrence
of circumstances entirely to disappoint it. What is
the
reward most proper for encouraging industry, prudence, and
circumspection?
Success in every sort of business. And is it
possible
that in the whole of life these virtues should fail of
attaining
it? Wealth and external honours are their proper
recompense,
and the recompense which they can seldom fail of
acquiring.
What reward is most proper for promoting the practice
of
truth, justice, and humanity? The confidence, the esteem, and
love of
those we live with. Humanity does not desire to be great,
but to
be beloved. It is not in being rich that truth and justice
would
rejoice, but in being trusted and believed, recompenses
which
those virtues must almost always acquire. By some very
extraordinary
and unlucky circumstance, a good man may come to be
suspected
of a crime of which he was altogether incapable, and
upon
that account be most unjustly exposed for the remaining part
of his
life to the horror and aversion of mankind. By an accident
of this
kind he may be said to lose his all, notwithstanding his
integrity
and justice; in the same manner as a cautious man,
notwithstanding
his utmost circumspection, may be ruined by an
earthquake
or an inundation. Accidents of the first kind,
however,
are perhaps still more rare, and still more contrary to
the
common course of things than those of the second; and it
still
remains true, that the practice of truth, justice, and
humanity
is a certain and almost infallible method of acquiring
what
those virtues chiefly aim at, the confidence and love of
those
we live with. A person may be very easily misrepresented
with
regard to a particular action; but it is scarce possible
that he
should be so with regard to the general tenor of his
conduct.
An innocent man may be believed to have done wrong:
this,
however, will rarely happen. On the contrary, the
established
opinion of the innocence of his manners, will often
lead us
to absolve him where he has really been in the fault,
notwithstanding
very strong presumptions. A knave, in the same
manner,
may escape censure, or even meet with applause, for a
particular
knavery, in which his conduct is not understood. But
no man
was ever habitually such, without being almost universally
known
to be so, and without being even frequently suspected of
guilt,
when he was in reality perfectly innocent. And so far as
vice
and virtue can be either punished or rewarded by the
sentiments
and opinions of mankind, they both, according to the
common
course of things, meet even here with something more than
exact
and impartial justice.
But though the general rules by which
prosperity and
adversity
are commonly distributed, when considered in this cool
and
philosophical light, appear to be perfectly suited to the
situation
of mankind in this life, yet they are by no means
suited
to some of our natural sentiments. Our natural love and
admiration
for some virtues is such, that we should wish to
bestow
on them all sorts of honours and rewards, even those which
we must
acknowledge to be the proper recompenses of other
qualities,
with which those virtues are not always accompanied.
Our
detestation, on the contrary, for some vices is such, that we
should
desire to heap upon them every sort of disgrace and
disaster,
those not excepted which are the natural consequences
of very
different qualities. Magnanimity, generosity, and
justice,
command so high a degree of admiration, that we desire
to see
them crowned with wealth, and power, and honours of every
kind,
the natural consequences of prudence, industry, and
application;
qualities with which those virtues are not
inseparably
connected. Fraud, falsehood, brutality, and violence,
on the
other hand, excite in every human breast such scorn and
abhorrence,
that our indignation rouses to see them possess those
advantages
which they may in some sense be said to have merited,
by the
diligence and industry with which they are sometimes
attended.
The industrious knave cultivates the soil; the indolent
good
man leaves it uncultivated. Who ought to reap the harvest?
who
starve, and who live in plenty? The natural course of things
decides
it in favour of the knave: the natural sentiments of
mankind
in favour of the man of virtue. Man judges, that the good
qualities
of the one are greatly over-recompensed by those
advantages
which they tend to procure him, and that the omissions
of the
other are by far too severely punished by the distress
which
they naturally bring upon him; and human laws, the
consequences
of human sentiments, forfeit the life and the estate
of the
industrious and cautious traitor, and reward, by
extraordinary
recompenses, the fidelity and public spirit of the
improvident
and careless good citizen. Thus man is by Nature
directed
to correct, in some measure, that distribution of things
which
she herself would otherwise have made. The rules which for
this
purpose she prompts him to follow, are different from those
which
she herself observes. She bestows upon every virtue, and
upon
every vice, that precise reward or punishment which is best
fitted
to encourage the one, or to restrain the other. She is
directed
by this sole consideration, and pays little regard to
the
different degrees of merit and demerit, which they may seem
to
possess in the sentiments and passions of man. Man, on the
contrary,
pays regard to this only, and would endeavour to render
the
state of every virtue precisely proportioned to that degree
of love
and esteem, and of every vice to that degree of contempt
and
abhorrence, which he himself conceives for it. The rules
which
she follows are fit for her, those which he follows for
him:
but both are calculated to promote the same great end, the
order
of the world, and the perfection and happiness of human
nature.
But though man is thus employed to alter
that distribution of
things
which natural events would make, if left to themselves;
though,
like the gods of the poets, he is perpetually
interposing,
by extraordinary means, in favour of virtue, and in
opposition
to vice, and, like them, endeavours to turn away the
arrow
that is aimed at the head of the righteous, but to
accelerate
the sword of destruction that is lifted up against the
wicked;
yet he is by no means able to render the fortune of
either
quite suitable to his own sentiments and wishes. The
natural
course of things cannot be entirely controlled by the
impotent
endeavours of man: the current is too rapid and too
strong
for him to stop it; and though the rules which direct it
appear
to have been established for the wisest and best purposes,
they
sometimes produce effects which shock all his natural
sentiments.
That a great combination of men should prevail over a
small
one; that those who engage in an enterprise with
forethought
and all necessary preparation, should prevail over
such as
oppose them without any; and that every end should be
acquired
by those means only which Nature has established for
acquiring
it, seems to be a rule not only necessary and
unavoidable
in itself, but even useful and proper for rousing the
industry
and attention of mankind. Yet, when, in consequence of
this
rule, violence and artifice prevail over sincerity and
justice,
what indignation does it not excite in the breast of
every
human spectator? What sorrow and compassion for the
sufferings
of the innocent, and what furious resentment against
the
success of the oppressor? We are equally grieved and enraged
at the
wrong that is done, but often find it altogether out of
our
power to redress it. When we thus despair of finding any
force
upon earth which can check the triumph of injustice, we
naturally
appeal to heaven, and hope, that the great Author of
our
nature will himself execute hereafter, what all the
principles
which he has given us for the direction of our
conduct,
prompt us to attempt even here; that he will complete
the
plan which he himself has thus taught us to begin; and will,
in a
life to come, render to every one according to the works
which
he has performed in this world. And thus we are led to the
belief
of a future state, not only by the weaknesses, by the
hopes
and fears of human nature, but by the noblest and best
principles
which belong to it, by the love of virtue, and by the
abhorrence
of vice and injustice.
'Does it suit the greatness of God,' says
the eloquent and
philosophical
bishop of Clermont, with that passionate and
exaggerating
force of imagination, which seems sometimes to
exceed
the bounds of decorum; 'does it suit the greatness of God,
to
leave the world which he has created in so universal a
disorder?
To see the wicked prevail almost always over the just;
the
innocent dethroned by the usurper; the father become the
victim
of the ambition of an unnatural son; the husband expiring
under
the stroke of a barbarous and faithless wife? From the
height
of his greatness ought God to behold those melancholy
events
as a fantastical amusement, without taking any share in
them?
Because he is great, should he be weak, or unjust, or
barbarous?
Because men are little, ought they to be allowed
either
to be dissolute without punishment, or virtuous without
reward?
O God! if this is the character of your Supreme Being; if
it is
you whom we adore under such dreadful ideas; I can no
longer
acknowledge you for my father, for my protector, for the
comforter
of my sorrow, the support of my weakness, the rewarder
of my
fidelity. You would then be no more than an indolent and
fantastical
tyrant, who sacrifices mankind to his insolent
vanity,
and who has brought them out of nothing, only to make
them
serve for the sport of his leisure and of his caprice.'
When the general rules which determine the
merit and demerit
of
actions, come thus to be regarded as the laws of an
All-powerful
Being, who watches over our conduct, and who, in a
life to
come, will reward the observance, and punish the breach
of
them; they necessarily acquire a new sacredness from this
consideration.
That our regard to the will of the Deity ought to
be the
supreme rule of our conduct, can be doubted of by nobody
who believes
his existence. The very thought of disobedience
appears
to involve in it the most shocking impropriety. How vain,
how
absurd would it be for man, either to oppose or to neglect
the
commands that were laid upon him by Infinite Wisdom, and
Infinite
Power. How unnatural, how impiously ungrateful not to
reverence
the precepts that were prescribed to him by the
infinite
goodness of his Creator, even though no punishment was
to
follow their violation. The sense of propriety too is here
well
supported by the strongest motives of self-interest. The
idea
that, however we may escape the observation of man, or be
placed
above the reach of human punishment, yet we are always
acting
under the eye, and exposed to the punishment of God, the
great
avenger of injustice, is a motive capable of restraining
the
most headstrong passions, with those at least who, by
constant
reflection, have rendered it familiar to them.
It is in this manner that religion
enforces the natural sense
of
duty: and hence it is, that mankind are generally disposed to
place
great confidence in the probity of those who seem deeply
impressed
with religious sentiments. Such persons, they imagine,
act
under an additional tie, besides those which regulate the
conduct
of other men. The regard to the propriety of action, as
well as
to reputation, the regard to the applause of his own
breast,
as well as to that of others, are motives which they
suppose
have the same influence over the religious man, as over
the man
of the world. But the former lies under another
restraint,
and never acts deliberately but as in the presence of
that
Great Superior who is finally to recompense him according to
his
deeds. A greater trust is reposed, upon this account, in the
regularity
and exactness of his conduct. And wherever the natural
principles
of religion are not corrupted by the factious and
party
zeal of some worthless cabal; wherever the first duty which
it
requires, is to fulfil all the obligations of morality;
wherever
men are not taught to regard frivolous observances, as
more
immediate duties of religion, than acts of justice and
beneficence;
and to imagine, that by sacrifices, and ceremonies,
and
vain supplications, they can bargain with the Deity for
fraud,
and perfidy, and violence, the world undoubtedly judges
right
in this respect, and justly places a double confidence in
the
rectitude of the religious man's behaviour.
Chap.
VI
In what
cases the Sense of Duty ought to be the sole of our
conduct;
and in what cases it ought to concur with other motives
Religion affords such strong motives to
the practice of
virtue,
and guards us by such powerful restraints from the
temptations
of vice, that many have been led to suppose, that
religious
principles were the sole laudable motives of action. We
ought
neither, they said, to reward from gratitude, nor punish
from
resentment; we ought neither to protect the helplessness of
our
children, nor afford support to the infirmities of our
parents,
from natural affection. All affections for particular
objects,
ought to be extinguished in our breast, and one great
affection
take the place of all others, the love of the Deity,
the
desire of rendering ourselves agreeable to him, and of
directing
our conduct, in every respect, according to his will.
We
ought not to be grateful from gratitude, we ought not to be
charitable
from humanity, we ought not to be public-spirited from
the
love of our country, nor generous and just from the love of
mankind.
The sole principle and motive of our conduct in the
performance
of all those different duties, ought to be a sense
that
God has commanded us to perform them. I shall not at present
take
time to examine this opinion particularly; I shall only
observe,
that we should not have expected to have found it
entertained
by any sect, who professed themselves of a religion
in
which, as it is the first precept to love the Lord our God
with
all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our strength,
so it
is the second to love our neighbour as we love ourselves;
and we
love ourselves surely for our own sakes, and not merely
because
we are commanded to do so. That the sense of duty should
be the
sole principle of our conduct, is no where the precept of
Christianity;
but that it should be the ruling and the governing
one, as
philosophy, and as, indeed, common sense directs. It may
be a
question, however, in what cases our actions ought to arise
chiefly
or entirely from a sense of duty, or from a regard to
general
rules; and in what cases some other sentiment or
affection
ought to concur, and have a principal influence.
The decision of this question, which
cannot, perhaps, be
given
with any very great accuracy, will depend upon two
different
circumstances; first, upon the natural agreeableness or
deformity
of the sentiment or affection which would prompt us to
any
action independent of all regard to general rules; and,
secondly,
upon the precision and exactness, or the looseness and
inaccuracy,
of the general rules themselves.
I. First, I say, it will depend upon the
natural
agreeableness
or deformity of the affection itself, how far our
actions
ought to arise from it, or entirely proceed from a regard
to the
general rule.
All those graceful and admired actions, to
which the
benevolent
affections would prompt us, ought to proceed as much
from
the passions themselves, as from any regard to the general
rules
of conduct. A benefactor thinks himself but ill requited,
if the
person upon whom he has bestowed his good offices, repays
them
merely from a cold sense of duty, and without any affection
to his
person. A husband is dissatisfied with the most obedient
wife,
when he imagines her conduct is animated by no other
principle
besides her regard to what the relation she stands in
requires.
Though a son should fail in none of the offices of
filial
duty, yet if he wants that affectionate reverence which it
so well
becomes him to feel, the parent may justly complain of
his
indifference. Nor could a son be quite satisfied with a
parent
who, though he performed all the duties of his situation,
had
nothing of that fatherly fondness which might have been
expected
from him. With regard to all such benevolent and social
affections,
it is agreeable to see the sense of duty employed
rather
to restrain than to enliven them, rather to hinder us from
doing
too much, than to prompt us to do what we ought. It gives
us
pleasure to see a father obliged to check his own fondness, a
friend
obliged to set bounds to his natural generosity, a person
who has
received a benefit, obliged to restrain the too sanguine
gratitude
of his own temper.
The contrary maxim takes place with regard
to the malevolent
and
unsocial passions. We ought to reward from the gratitude and
generosity
of our own hearts, without any reluctance, and without
being
obliged to reflect how great the propriety of rewarding:
but we
ought always to punish with reluctance, and more from a
sense
of the propriety of punishing, than from any savage
disposition
to revenge. Nothing is more graceful than the
behaviour
of the man who appears to resent the greatest injuries,
more
from a sense that they deserve, and are the proper objects
of
resentment, than from feeling himself the furies of that
disagreeable
passion; who, like a judge, considers only the
general
rule, which determines what vengeance is due for each
particular
offence; who, in executing that rule, feels less for
what
himself has suffered, than for what the offender is about to
suffer;
who, though in wrath, remembers mercy, and is disposed to
interpret
the rule in the most gentle and favourable manner, and
to
allow all the alleviations which the most candid humanity
could,
consistently with good sense, admit of.
As the selfish passions, according to what
has formerly been
observed,
hold, in other respects, a sort of middle place,
between
the social and unsocial affections, so do they likewise
in
this. The pursuit of the objects of private interest, in all
common,
little, and ordinary cases, ought to flow rather from a
regard
to the general rules which prescribe such conduct, than
from
any passion for the objects themselves; but upon more
important
and extraordinary occasions, we should be awkward,
insipid,
and ungraceful, if the objects themselves did not appear
to
animate us with a considerable degree of passion. To be
anxious,
or to be laying a plot either to gain or to save a
single
shilling, would degrade the most vulgar tradesman in the
opinion
of all his neighbours. Let his circumstances be ever so
mean,
no attention to any such small matters, for the sake of the
things
themselves, must appear in his conduct. His situation may
require
the most severe oeconomy and the most exact assiduity:
but
each particular exertion of that oeconomy and assiduity must
proceed,
not so much from a regard for that particular saving or
gain,
as for the general rule which to him prescribes, with the
utmost
rigour, such a tenor of conduct. His parsimony to-day must
not arise
from a desire of the particular three-pence which be
will
save by it, nor his attendance in his shop from a passion
for the
particular ten-pence which he will acquire by it: both
the one
and the other ought to proceed solely from a regard to
the general
rule, which prescribes, with the most unrelenting
severity,
this plan of conduct to all persons in his way of life.
In this
consists the difference between the character of a miser
and
that of a person of exact oeconomy and assiduity. The one is
anxious
about small matters for their own sake; the other attends
to them
only in consequence of the scheme of life which he has
laid
down to himself.
It is quite otherwise with regard to the
more extraordinary
and
important objects of self-interest. A person appears
mean-spirited,
who does not pursue these with some degree of
earnestness
for their own sake. We should despise a prince who
was not
anxious about conquering or defending a province. We
should
have little respect for a private gentleman who did not
exert
himself to gain an estate, or even a considerable office,
when he
could acquire them without either meanness or injustice.
A
member of parliament who shews no keenness about his own
election,
is abandoned by his friends, as altogether unworthy of
their
attachment. Even a tradesman is thought a poor-spirited
fellow
among his neighbours, who does not bestir himself to get
what
they call an extraordinary job, or some uncommon advantage.
This
spirit and keenness constitutes the difference between the
man of
enterprise and the man of dull regularity. Those great
objects
of self-interest, of which the loss or acquisition quite
changes
the rank of the person, are the objects of the passion
properly
called ambition; a passion, which when it keeps within
the
bounds of prudence and justice, is always admired in the
world,
and has even sometimes a certain irregular greatness,
which
dazzles the imagination, when it passes the limits of both
these
virtues, and is not only unjust but extravagant. Hence the
general
admiration for heroes and conquerors, and even for
statesmen,
whose projects have been very daring and extensive,
though
altogether devoid of justice; such as those of the
Cardinals
of Richlieu and of Retz. The objects of avarice and
ambition
differ only in their greatness. A miser is as furious
about a
halfpenny, as a man of ambition about the conquest of a
kingdom.
II. Secondly, I say, it will depend partly
upon the precision
and
exactness, or the looseness and inaccuracy of the general
rules
themselves, how far our conduct ought to proceed entirely
from a
regard to them.
The general rules of almost all the
virtues, the general
rules
which determine what are the offices of prudence, of
charity,
of generosity, of gratitude, of friendship, are in many
respects
loose and inaccurate, admit of many exceptions, and
require
so many modifications, that it is scarce possible to
regulate
our conduct entirely by a regard to them. The common
proverbial
maxims of prudence, being founded in universal
experience,
are perhaps the best general rules which can be given
about
it. To affect, however, a very strict and literal adherence
to them
would evidently be the most absurd and ridiculous
pedantry.
Of all the virtues I have just now mentioned, gratitude
is
that, perhaps, of which the rules are the most precise, and
admit
of the fewest exceptions. That as soon as we can we should
make a
return of equal, and if possible of superior value to the
services
we have received, would seem to be a pretty plain rule,
and one
which admitted of scarce any exceptions. Upon the most
superficial
examination, however, this rule will appear to be in
the
highest degree loose and inaccurate, and to admit of ten
thousand
exceptions. If your benefactor attended you in your
sickness,
ought you to attend him in his? or can you fulfil the
obligation
of gratitude, by making a return of a different kind?
If you
ought to attend him, how long ought you to attend him? The
same
time which he attended you, or longer, and how much longer?
If your
friend lent you money in your distress, ought you to lend
him
money in his? How much ought you to lend him? When ought you
to lend
him? Now, or to-morrow, or next month? And for how long a
time?
It is evident, that no general rule can be laid down, by
which a
precise answer can, in all cases, be given to any of
these
questions. The difference between his character and yours,
between
his circumstances and yours, may be such, that you may be
perfectly
grateful, and justly refuse to lend him a halfpenny:
and, on
the contrary, you may be willing to lend, or even to give
him ten
times the sum which he lent you, and yet justly be
accused
of the blackest ingratitude, and of not having fulfilled
the
hundredth part of the obligation you lie under. As the duties
of
gratitude, however, are perhaps the most sacred of all those
which
the beneficent virtues prescribe to us, so the general
rules
which determine them are, as I said before, the most
accurate.
Those which ascertain the actions required by
friendship,
humanity, hospitality, generosity, are still more
vague
and indeterminate.
There is, however, one virtue of which the
general rules
determine
with the greatest exactness every external action which
it
requires. This virtue is justice. The rules of justice are
accurate
in the highest degree, and admit of no exceptions or
modifications,
but such as may be ascertained as accurately as
the
rules themselves, and which generally, indeed, flow from the
very
same principles with them. If I owe a man ten pounds,
justice
requires that I should precisely pay him ten pounds,
either
at the time agreed upon, or when he demands it. What I
ought
to perform, how much I ought to perform, when and where I
ought
to perform it, the whole nature and circumstances of the
action
prescribed, are all of them precisely fixt and determined.
Though
it may be awkward and pedantic, therefore, to affect too
strict
an adherence to the common rules of prudence or
generosity,
there is no pedantry in sticking fast by the rules of
justice.
On the contrary, the most sacred regard is due to them;
and the
actions which this virtue requires are never so properly
performed,
as when the chief motive for performing them is a
reverential
and religious regard to those general rules which
require
them. In the practice of the other virtues, our conduct
should
rather be directed by a certain idea of propriety, by a
certain
taste for a particular tenor of conduct, than by any
regard
to a precise maxim or rule; and we should consider the end
and
foundation of the rule, more than the rule itself. But it is
otherwise
with regard to justice: the man who in that refines the
least,
and adheres with the most obstinate stedfastness to the
general
rules themselves, is the most commendable, and the most
to be
depended upon. Though the end of the rules of justice be,
to
hinder us from hurting our neighbour, it may frequently be a
crime
to violate them, though we could pretend, with some pretext
of
reason, that this particular violation could do no hurt. A man
often
becomes a villain the moment he begins, even in his own
heart,
to chicane in this manner. The moment he thinks of
departing
from the most staunch and positive adherence to what
those
inviolable precepts prescribe to him, he is no longer to be
trusted,
and no man can say what degree of guilt he may not
arrive
at. The thief imagines he does no evil, when he steals
from
the rich, what he supposes they may easily want, and what
possibly
they may never even know has been stolen from them. The
adulterer
imagines he does no evil, when he corrupts the wife of
his
friend, provided he covers his intrigue from the suspicion of
the
husband, and does not disturb the peace of the family. When
once we
begin to give way to such refinements, there is no
enormity
so gross of which we may not be capable.
The rules of justice may be compared to
the rules of grammar;
the
rules of the other virtues, to the rules which critics lay
down
for the attainment of what is sublime and elegant in
composition.
The one, are precise, accurate, and indispensable.
The
other, are loose, vague, and indeterminate, and present us
rather
with a general idea of the perfection we ought to aim at,
than
afford us any certain and infallible directions for
acquiring
it. A man may learn to write grammatically by rule,
with
the most absolute infallibility; and so, perhaps, he may be
taught
to act justly. But there are no rules whose observance
will
infallibly lead us to the attainment of elegance or
sublimity
in writing; though there are some which may help us, in
some
measure, to correct and ascertain the vague ideas which we
might
otherwise have entertained of those perfections. And there
are no
rules by the knowledge of which we can infallibly be
taught
to act upon all occasions with prudence, with just
magnanimity,
or proper beneficence: though there are some which
may
enable us to correct and ascertain, in several respects, the
imperfect
ideas which we might otherwise have entertained of
those
virtues.
It may sometimes happen, that with the
most serious and
earnest
desire of acting so as to deserve approbation, we may
mistake
the proper rules of conduct, and thus be misled by that
very
principle which ought to direct us. It is in vain to expect,
that in
this case mankind should entirely approve of our
behaviour.
They cannot enter into that absurd idea of duty which
influenced
us, nor go along with any of the actions which follow
from
it. There is still, however, something respectable in the
character
and behaviour of one who is thus betrayed into vice, by
a wrong
sense of duty, or by what is called an erroneous
conscience.
How fatally soever he may be misled by it, he is
still,
with the generous and humane, more the object of
commiseration
than of hatred or resentment. They lament the
weakness
of human nature, which exposes us to such unhappy
delusions,
even while we are most sincerely labouring after
perfection,
and endeavouring to act according to the best
principle
which can possibly direct us. False notions of religion
are
almost the only causes which can occasion any very gross
perversion
of our natural sentiments in this way; and that
principle
which gives the greatest authority to the rules of
duty,
is alone capable of distorting our ideas of them in any
considerable
degree. In all other cases common sense is
sufficient
to direct us, if not to the most exquisite propriety
of
conduct, yet to something which is not very far from it; and
provided
we are in earnest desirous to do well, our behaviour
will
always, upon the whole, be praise-worthy. That to obey the
will of
the Deity, is the first rule of duty, all men are agreed.
But
concerning the particular commandments which that will may
impose
upon us, they differ widely from one another. In this,
therefore,
the greatest mutual forbearance and toleration is due;
and
though the defence of society requires that crimes should be
punished,
from whatever motives they proceed, yet a good man will
always
punish them with reluctance, when they evidently proceed
from
false notions of religious duty. He will never feel against
those
who commit them that indignation which he feels against
other
criminals, but will rather regret, and sometimes even
admire
their unfortunate firmness and magnanimity, at the very
time
that he punishes their crime. In the tragedy of Mahomet, one
of the
finest of Mr Voltaire's, it is well represented, what
ought
to be our sentiments for crimes which proceed from such
motives.
In that tragedy, two young people of different sexes, of
the
most innocent and virtuous dispositions, and without any
other
weakness except what endears them the more to us, a mutual
fondness
for one another, are instigated by the strongest motives
of a
false religion, to commit a horrid murder, that shocks all
the
principles of human nature. A venerable old man, who had
expressed
the most tender affection for them both, for whom,
notwithstanding
he was the avowed enemy of their religion, they
had
both conceived the highest reverence and esteem, and who was
in
reality their father, though they did not know him to be such,
is
pointed out to them as a sacrifice which God had expressly
required
at their hands, and they are commanded to kill him.
While
they are about executing this crime, they are tortured with
all the
agonies which can arise from the struggle between the
idea of
the indispensableness of religious duty on the one side,
and
compassion, gratitude, reverence for the age, and love for
the
humanity and virtue of the person whom they are going to
destroy,
on the other. The representation of this exhibits one of
the
most interesting, and perhaps the most instructive spectacle
that
was ever introduced upon any theatre. The sense of duty,
however,
at last prevails over all the amiable weaknesses of
human
nature. They execute the crime imposed upon them; but
immediately
discover their error, and the fraud which had
deceived
them, and are distracted with horror, remorse, and
resentment.
Such as are our sentiments for the unhappy Seid and
Palmira,
such ought we to feel for every person who is in this
manner
misled by religion, when we are sure that it is really
religion
which misleads him, and not the pretence of it, which is
made a
cover to some of the worst of human passions.
As a person may act wrong by following a
wrong sense of duty,
so
nature may sometimes prevail, and lead him to act right in
opposition
to it. We cannot in this case be displeased to see
that
motive prevail, which we think ought to prevail, though the
person
himself is so weak as to think otherwise. As his conduct,
however,
is the effect of weakness, not principle, we are far
from
bestowing upon it any thing that approaches to complete
approbation.
A bigoted Roman Catholic, who, during the massacre
of St
Bartholomew, had been so overcome by compassion, as to save
some
unhappy Protestants, whom he thought it his duty to destroy,
would
not seem to be entitled to that high applause which we
should
have bestowed upon him, had he exerted the same generosity
with
complete self-approbation. We might be pleased with the
humanity
of his temper, but we should still regard him with a
sort of
pity which is altogether inconsistent with the admiration
that is
due to perfect virtue. It is the same case with all the
other
passions. We do not dislike to see them exert themselves
properly,
even when a false notion of duty would direct the
person
to restrain them. A very devout Quaker, who upon being
struck
upon one cheek, instead of turning up the other, should so
far
forget his literal interpretation of our Saviour's precept,
as to
bestow some good discipline upon the brute that insulted
him,
would not be disagreeable to us. We should laugh and be
diverted
with his spirit, and rather like him the better for it.
But we
should by no means regard him with that respect and esteem
which
would seem due to one who, upon a like occasion, had acted
properly
from a just sense of what was proper to be done. No
action
can properly be called virtuous, which is not accompanied
with
the sentiment of self-approbation.
NOTES:
1. See
Voltaire.
Vous y grillez sage et docte
Platon,
Divin Homere, eloquent Ciceron, etc.
2. See
Thomson's Seasons, Winter:
'Ah! little think the gay
licentious proud, etc.
See
also Pascal.
3. See
Robertson's Charles V. vol. ii, pp. 14 and 15. first edition.
Part IV
Of the
Effect of Utility upon the Sentiment of Approbation
Consisting
of One Section
Chap. I
Of the
beauty which the appearance of Utility bestows upon all
the
productions of art, and of the extensive influence of this
species
of Beauty
That utility is one of the principal
sources of beauty has
been
observed by every body, who has considered with any
attention
what constitutes the nature of beauty. The conveniency
of a
house gives pleasure to the spectator as well as its
regularity,
and he is as much hurt when he observes the contrary
defect,
as when he sees the correspondent windows of different
forms,
or the door not placed exactly in the middle of the
building.
That the fitness of any system or machine to produce
the end
for which it was intended, bestows a certain propriety
and
beauty upon the whole, and renders the very thought and
contemplation
of it agreeable, is so very obvious that nobody has
overlooked
it.
The cause too, why utility pleases, has of
late been assigned
by an
ingenious and agreeable philosopher, who joins the greatest
depth
of thought to the greatest elegance of expression, and
possesses
the singular and happy talent of treating the
abstrusest
subjects not only with the most perfect perspicuity,
but
with the most lively eloquence. The utility of any object,
according
to him, pleases the master by perpetually suggesting to
him the
pleasure or conveniency which it is fitted to promote.
Every
time he looks at it, he is put in mind of this pleasure;
and the
object in this manner becomes a source of perpetual
satisfaction
and enjoyment. The spectator enters by sympathy into
the
sentiments of the master, and necessarily views the object
under
the same agreeable aspect. When we visit the palaces of the
great,
we cannot help conceiving the satisfaction we should enjoy
if we
ourselves were the masters, and were possessed of so much
artful
and ingeniously contrived accommodation. A similar account
is
given why the appearance of inconveniency should render any
object
disagreeable both to the owner and to the spectator.
But that this fitness, this happy
contrivance of any
production
of art, should often be more valued, than the very end
for
which it was intended; and that the exact adjustment of the
means
for attaining any conveniency or pleasure, should
frequently
be more regarded, than that very conveniency or
pleasure,
in the attainment of which their whole merit would seem
to
consist, has not, so far as I know, been yet taken notice of
by any
body. That this however is very frequently the case, may
be
observed in a thousand instances, both in the most frivolous
and in
the most important concerns of human life.
When a person comes into his chamber, and
finds the chairs
all
standing in the middle of the room, he is angry with his
servant,
and rather than see them continue in that disorder,
perhaps
takes the trouble himself to set them all in their places
with
their backs to the wall. The whole propriety of this new
situation
arises from its superior conveniency in leaving the
floor
free and disengaged. To attain this conveniency he
voluntarily
puts himself to more trouble than all he could have
suffered
from the want of it; since nothing was more easy, than
to have
set himself down upon one of them, which is probably what
he does
when his labour is over. What he w.anted therefore, it
seems,
was not so much this conveniency, as that arrangement of
things
which promotes it. Yet it is this conveniency which
ultimately
recommends that arrangement, and bestows upon it the
whole
of its propriety and beauty.
A watch, in the same manner, that falls
behind above two
minutes
in a day, is despised by one curious in watches. He sells
it
perhaps for a couple of guineas, and purchases another at
fifty,
which will not lose above a minute in a fortnight. The
sole
use of watches however, is to tell us what o'clock it is,
and to
hinder us from breaking any engagement, or suffering any
other
inconveniency by our ignorance in that particular point.
But the
person so nice with regard to this machine, will not
always
be found either more scrupulously punctual than other men,
or more
anxiously concerned upon any other account, to know
precisely
what time of day it is. What interests him is not so
much
the attainment of this piece of knowledge, as the perfection
of the
machine which serves to attain it.
How many people ruin themselves by laying
out money on
trinkets
of frivolous utility? What pleases these lovers of toys
is not
so much the utility, as the aptness of the machines which
are
fitted to promote it. All their pockets are stuffed with
little
conveniencies. They contrive new pockets, unknown in the
clothes
of other people, in order to carry a greater number. They
walk
about loaded with a multitude of baubles, in weight and
sometimes
in value not inferior to an ordinary Jew's-box, some of
which
may sometimes be of some little use, but all of which might
at all
times be very well spared, and of which the whole utility
is
certainly not worth the fatigue of bearing the burden.
Nor is it only with regard to such
frivolous objects that our
conduct
is influenced by this principle; it is often the secret
motive
of the most serious and important pursuits of both private
and
public life.
The poor man's son, whom heaven in its
anger has visited with
ambition,
when he begins to look around him, admires the
condition
of the rich. He finds the cottage of his father too
small
for his accommodation, and fancies he should be lodged more
at his
ease in a palace. He is displeased with being obliged to
walk
a-foot, or to endure the fatigue of riding on horseback. He
sees
his superiors carried about in machines, and imagines that
in one
of these he could travel with less inconveniency. He feels
himself
naturally indolent, and willing to serve himself with his
own
hands as little as possible; and judges, that a numerous
retinue
of servants would save him from a great deal of trouble.
He
thinks if he had attained all these, he would sit still
contentedly,
and be quiet, enjoying himself in the thought of the
happiness
and tranquillity of his situation. He is enchanted with
the
distant idea of this felicity. It appears in his fancy like
the
life of some superior rank of beings, and, in order to arrive
at it,
he devotes himself for ever to the pursuit of wealth and
greatness.
To obtain the conveniencies which these afford, he
submits
in the first year, nay in the first month of his
application,
to more fatigue of body and more uneasiness of mind
than he
could have suffered through the whole of his life from
the
want of them. He studies to distinguish himself in some
laborious
profession. With the most unrelenting industry he
labours
night and day to acquire talents superior to all his
competitors.
He endeavours next to bring those talents into
public
view, and with equal assiduity solicits every opportunity
of
employment. For this purpose he makes his court to all
mankind;
he serves those whom he hates, and is obsequious to
those
whom he despises. Through the whole of his life he pursues
the
idea of a certain artificial and elegant repose which he may
never
arrive at, for which he sacrifices a real tranquillity that
is at
all times in his power, and which, if in the extremity of
old age
he should at last attain to it, he will find to be in no
respect
preferable to that humble security and contentment which
he had
abandoned for it. It is then, in the last dregs of life,
his
body wasted with toil and diseases, his mind galled and
ruffled
by the memory of a thousand injuries and disappointments
which
he imagines he has met with from the injustice of his
enemies,
or from the perfidy and ingratitude of his friends, that
he
begins at last to find that wealth and greatness are mere
trinkets
of frivolous utility, no more adapted for procuring ease
of body
or tranquillity of mind than the tweezer-cases of the
lover
of toys; and like them too, more troublesome to the person
who
carries them about with him than all the advantages they can
afford
him are commodious. There is no other real difference
between
them, except that the conveniencies of the one are
somewhat
more observable than those of the other. The palaces,
the
gardens, the equipage, the retinue of the great, are objects
of
which the obvious conveniency strikes every body. They do not
require
that their masters should point out to us wherein
consists
their utility. Of our own accord we readily enter into
it, and
by sympathy enjoy and thereby applaud the satisfaction
which
they are fitted to afford him. But the curiosity of a
tooth-pick,
of an ear-picker, of a machine for cutting the nails,
or of
any other trinket of the same kind, is not so obvious.
Their
conveniency may perhaps be equally great, but it is not so
striking,
and we do not so readily enter into the satisfaction of
the man
who possesses them. They are therefore less reasonable
subjects
of vanity than the magnificence of wealth and greatness;
and in
this consists the sole advantage of these last. They more
effectually
gratify that love of distinction so natural to man.
To one
who was to live alone in a desolate island it might be a
matter
of doubt, perhaps, whether a palace, or a collection of
such
small conveniencies as are commonly contained in a
tweezer-case,
would contribute most to his happiness and
enjoyment.
If he is to live in society, indeed, there can be no
comparison,
because in this, as in all other cases, we constantly
pay
more regard to the sentiments of the spectator, than to those
of the
person principally concerned, and consider rather how his
situation
will appear to other people, than how it will appear to
himself.
If we examine, however, why the spectator distinguishes
with
such admiration the condition of the rich and the great, we
shall
find that it is not so much upon account of the superior
ease or
pleasure which they are supposed to enjoy, as of the
numberless
artificial and elegant contrivances for promoting this
ease or
pleasure. He does not even imagine that they are really
happier
than other people: but he imagines that they possess more
means
of happiness. And it is the ingenious and artful adjustment
of
those means to the end for which they were intended, that is
the
principal source of his admiration. But in the languor of
disease
and the weariness of old age, the pleasures of the vain
and
empty distinctions of greatness disappear. To one, in this
situation,
they are no longer capable of recommending those
toilsome
pursuits in which they had formerly engaged him. In his
heart
he curses ambition, and vainly regrets the ease and the
indolence
of youth, pleasures which are fled for ever, and which
he has
foolishly sacrificed for what, when he has got it, can
afford
him no real satisfaction. In this miserable aspect does
greatness
appear to every man when reduced either by spleen or
disease
to observe with attention his own situation, and to
consider
what it is that is really wanting to his happiness.
Power
and riches appear then to be, what they are, enormous and
operose
machines contrived to produce a few trifling
conveniencies
to the body, consisting of springs the most nice
and
delicate, which must be kept in order with the most anxious
attention,
and which in spite of all our care are ready every
moment
to burst into pieces, and to crush in their ruins their
unfortunate
possessor. They are immense fabrics, which it
requires
the labour of a life to raise, which threaten every
moment
to overwhelm the person that dwells in them, and which
while
they stand, though they may save him from some smaller
inconveniencies,
can protect him from none of the severer
inclemencies
of the season. They keep off the summer shower, not
the
winter storm, but leave him always as much, and sometimes
more
exposed than before, to anxiety, to fear, and to sorrow; to
diseases,
to danger, and to death.
But though this splenetic philosophy,
which in time of
sickness
or low spirits is familiar to every man, thus entirely
depreciates
those great objects of human desire, when in better
health
and in better humour, we never fail to regard them under a
more
agreeable aspect. Our imagination, which in pain and sorrow
seems
to be confined and cooped up within our own persons, in
times
of ease and prosperity expands itself to every thing around
us. We
are then charmed with the beauty of that accommodation
which
reigns in the palaces and oeconomy of the great; and admire
how
every thing is adapted to promote their ease, to prevent
their
wants, to gratify their wishes, and to amuse and entertain
their
most frivolous desires. If we consider the real
satisfaction
which all these things are capable of affording, by
itself
and separated from the beauty of that arrangement which is
fitted
to promote it, it will always appear in the highest degree
contemptible
and trifling. But we rarely view it in this abstract
and
philosophical light. We naturally confound it in our
imagination
with the order, the regular and harmonious movement
of the
system, the machine or oeconomy by means of which it is
produced.
The pleasures of wealth and greatness, when considered
in this
complex view, strike the imagination as something grand
and
beautiful and noble, of which the attainment is well worth
all the
toil and anxiety which we are so apt to bestow upon it.
And it is well that nature imposes upon us
in this manner. It
is this
deception which rouses and keeps in continual motion the
industry
of mankind. It is this which first prompted them to
cultivate
the ground, to build houses, to found cities and
commonwealths,
and to invent and improve all the sciences and
arts,
which ennoble and embellish human life; which have entirely
changed
the whole face of the globe, have turned the rude forests
of
nature into agreeable and fertile plains, and made the
trackless
and barren ocean a new fund of subsistence, and the
great
high road of communication to the different nations of the
earth.
The earth by these labours of mankind has been obliged to
redouble
her natural fertility, and to maintain a greater
multitude
of inhabitants. It is to no purpose, that the proud and
unfeeling
landlord views his extensive fields, and without a
thought
for the wants of his brethren, in imagination consumes
himself
the whole harvest that grows upon them. The homely and
vulgar
proverb, that the eye is larger than the belly, never was
more
fully verified than with regard to him. The capacity of his
stomach
bears no proportion to the immensity of his desires, and
will
receive no more than that of the meanest peasant. The rest
he is
obliged to distribute among those, who prepare, in the
nicest
manner, that little which he himself makes use of, among
those
who fit up the palace in which this little is to be
consumed,
among those who provide and keep in order all the
different
baubles and trinkets, which are employed in the
oeconomy
of greatness; all of whom thus derive from his luxury
and
caprice, that share of the necessaries of life, which they
would
in vain have expected from his humanity or his justice. The
produce
of the soil maintains at all times nearly that number of
inhabitants
which it is capable of maintaining. The rich only
select
from the heap what is most precious and agreeable. They
consume
little more than the poor, and in spite of their natural
selfishness
and rapacity, though they mean only their own
conveniency,
though the sole end which they propose from the
labours
of all the thousands whom they employ, be the
gratification
of their own vain and insatiable desires, they
divide
with the poor the produce of all their improvements. They
are led
by an invisible hand to make nearly the same distribution
of the
necessaries of life, which would have been made, had the
earth
been divided into equal portions among all its inhabitants,
and
thus without intending it, without knowing it, advance the
interest
of the society, and afford means to the multiplication
of the
species. When Providence divided the earth among a few
lordly
masters, it neither forgot nor abandoned those who seemed
to have
been left out in the partition. These last too enjoy
their
share of all that it produces. In what constitutes the real
happiness
of human life, they are in no respect inferior to those
who
would seem so much above them. In ease of body and peace of
mind,
all the different ranks of life are nearly upon a level,
and the
beggar, who suns himself by the side of the highway,
possesses
that security which kings are fighting for.
The
same principle, the same love of system, the same regard
to the
beauty of order, of art and contrivance, frequently serves
to
recommend those institutions which tend to promote the public
welfare.
When a patriot exerts himself for the improvement of any
part of
the public police, his conduct does not always arise from
pure
sympathy with the happiness of those who are to reap the
benefit
of it. It is not commonly from a fellow-feeling with
carriers
and waggoners that a public-spirited man encourages the
mending
of high roads. When the legislature establishes premiums
and
other encouragements to advance the linen or woollen
manufactures,
its conduct seldom proceeds from pure sympathy with
the
wearer of cheap or fine cloth, and much less from that with
the
manufacturer or merchant. The perfection of police, the
extension
of trade and manufactures, are noble and magnificent
objects.
The contemplation of them pleases us, and we are
interested
in whatever can tend to advance them. They make part
of the
great system of government, and the wheels of the
political
machine seem to move with more harmony and ease by
means
of them. We take pleasure in beholding the perfection of so
beautiful
and grand a system, and we are uneasy till we remove
any
obstruction that can in the least disturb or encumber the
regularity
of its motions. All constitutions of government,
however,
are valued only in proportion as they tend to promote
the
happiness of those who live under them. This is their sole
use and
end. From a certain spirit of system, however, from a
certain
love of art and contrivance, we sometimes seem to value
the
means more than the end, and to be eager to promote the
happiness
of our fellow-creatures, rather from a view to perfect
and improve
a certain beautiful and orderly system, than from any
immediate
sense or feeling of what they either suffer or enjoy.
There
have been men of the greatest public spirit, who have shown
themselves
in other respects not very sensible to the feelings of
humanity.
And on the contrary, there have been men of the
greatest
humanity, who seem to have been entirely devoid of
public
spirit. Every man may find in the circle of his
acquaintance
instances both of the one kind and the other. Who
had
ever less humanity, or more public spirit, than the
celebrated
legislator of Muscovy? The social and well-natured
James
the First of Great Britain seems, on the contrary, to have
had
scarce any passion, either for the glory or the interest of
his
country. Would you awaken the industry of the man who seems
almost
dead to ambition, it will often be to no purpose to
describe
to him the happiness of the rich and the great; to tell
him
that they are generally sheltered from the sun and the rain,
that
they are seldom hungry, that they are seldom cold, and that
they
are rarely exposed to weariness, or to want of any kind. The
most
eloquent exhortation of this kind will have little effect
upon
him. If you would hope to succeed, you must describe to him
the
conveniency and arrangement of the different apartments in
their
palaces; you must explain to him the propriety of their
equipages,
and point out to him the number, the order, and the
different
offices of all their attendants. If any thing is
capable
of making impression upon him, this will. Yet all these
things
tend only to keep off the sun and the rain, to save them
from
hunger and cold, from want and weariness. In the same
manner,
if you would implant public virtue in the breast of him
who
seems heedless of the interest of his country, it will often
be to
no purpose to tell him, what superior advantages the
subjects
of a well-governed state enjoy; that they are better
lodged,
that they are better clothed, that they are better fed.
These
considerations will commonly make no great impression. You
will be
more likely to persuade, if you describe the great system
of
public police which procures these advantages, if you explain
the
connexions and dependencies of its several parts, their
mutual
subordination to one another, and their general
subserviency
to the happiness of the society; if you show how
this
system might be introduced into his own country, what it is
that
hinders it from taking place there at present, how those
obstructions
might be removed, and all the several wheels of the
machine
of government be made to move with more harmony and
smoothness,
without grating upon one another, or mutually
retarding
one another's motions. It is scarce possible that a man
should
listen to a discourse of this kind, and not feel himself
animated
to some degree of public spirit. He will, at least for
the
moment, feel some desire to remove those obstructions, and to
put
into motion so beautiful and so orderly a machine. Nothing
tends
so much to promote public spirit as the study of politics,
of the
several systems of civil government, their advantages and
disadvantages,
of the constitution of our own country, its
situation,
and interest with regard to foreign nations, its
commerce,
its defence, the disadvantages it labours under, the
dangers
to which it may be exposed, how to remove the one, and
how to
guard against the other. Upon this account political
disquisitions,
if just, and reasonable, and practicable, are of
all the
works of speculation the most useful. Even the weakest
and the
worst of them are not altogether without their utility.
They
serve at least to animate the public passions of men, and
rouse
them to seek out the means of promoting the happiness of
the
society.
Chap. II
Of the
beauty which the appearance of Utility bestows upon the
characters
and actions of men; and how far the perception of this
beauty
may be regarded as one of the original principles of
approbation
The characters of men, as well as the contrivances
of art, or
the
institutions of civil government, may be fitted either to
promote
or to disturb the happiness both of the individual and of
the
society. The prudent, the equitable, the active, resolute,
and
sober character promises prosperity and satisfaction, both to
the
person himself and to every one connected with him. The rash,
the
insolent, the slothful, effeminate, and voluptuous, on the
contrary,
forebodes ruin to the individual, and misfortune to all
who
have any thing to do with him. The first turn of mind has at
least
all the beauty which can belong to the most perfect machine
that
was ever invented for promoting the most agreeable purpose:
and the
second, all the deformity of the most awkward and clumsy
contrivance.
What institution of government could tend so much to
promote
the happiness of mankind as the general prevalence of
wisdom
and virtue? All government is but an imperfect remedy for
the
deficiency of these. Whatever beauty, therefore, can belong
to
civil government upon account of its utility, must in a far
superior
degree belong to these. On the contrary, what civil
policy
can be so ruinous and destructive as the vices of men? The
fatal
effects of bad government arise from nothing, but that it
does
not sufficiently guard against the mischiefs which human
wickedness
gives occasion to.
This beauty and deformity which characters
appear to derive
from
their usefulness or inconveniency, are apt to strike, in a
peculiar
manner, those who consider, in an abstract and
philosophical
light, the actions and conduct of mankind. When a
philosopher
goes to examine why humanity is approved of, or
cruelty
condemned, he does not always form to himself, in a very
clear
and distinct manner, the conception of any one particular
action
either of cruelty or of humanity, but is commonly
contented
with the vague and indeterminate idea which the general
names
of those qualities suggest to him. But it is in particular
instances
only that the propriety or impropriety, the merit or
demerit
of actions is very obvious and discernible. It is only
when
particular examples are given that we perceive distinctly
either
the concord or disagreement between our own affections and
those
of the agent, or feel a social gratitude arise towards him
in the
one case, or a sympathetic resentment in the other. When
we
consider virtue and vice in an abstract and general manner,
the
qualities by which they excite these several sentiments seem
in a
great measure to disappear, and the sentiments themselves
become
less obvious and discernible. On the contrary, the happy
effects
of the one and the fatal consequences of the other seem
then to
rise up to the view, and as it were to stand out and
distinguish
themselves from all the other qualities of either.
The same ingenious and agreeable author
who first explained
why
utility pleases, has been so struck with this view of things,
as to
resolve our whole approbation of virtue into a perception
of this
species of beauty which results from the appearance of
utility.
No qualities of the mind, he observes, are approved of
as
virtuous, but such as are useful or agreeable either to the
person
himself or to others; and no qualities are disapproved of
as
vicious but such as have a contrary tendency. And Nature,
indeed,
seems to have so happily adjusted our sentiments of
approbation
and disapprobation, to the conveniency both of the
individual
and of the society, that after the strictest
examination
it will be found, I believe, that this is universally
the
case. But still I affirm, that it is not the view of this
utility
or hurtfulness which is either the first or principal
source
of our approbation and disapprobation. These sentiments
are no
doubt enhanced and enlivened by the perception of the
beauty
or deformity which results from this utility or
hurtfulness.
But still, I say, they are originally and
essentially
different from this perception.
For first of all, it seems impossible that
the approbation of
virtue
should be a sentiment of the same kind with that by which
we
approve of a convenient and well-contrived building; or that
we
should have no other reason for praising a man than that for
which
we commend a chest of drawers.
And secondly, it will be found, upon
examination, that the
usefulness
of any disposition of mind is seldom the first ground
of our
approbation; and that the sentiment of approbation always
involves
in it a sense of propriety quite distinct from the
perception
of utility. We may observe this with regard to all the
qualities
which are approved of as virtuous, both those which,
according
to this system, are originally valued as useful to
ourselves,
as well as those which are esteemed on account of
their
usefulness to others.
The qualities most useful to ourselves
are, first of all,
superior
reason and understanding, by which we are capable of
discerning
the remote consequences of all our actions, and of
foreseeing
the advantage or detriment which is likely to result
from
them: and secondly, self-command, by which we are enabled to
abstain
from present pleasure or to endure present pain, in order
to
obtain a greater pleasure or to avoid a greater pain in some
future
time. In the union of those two qualities consists the
virtue of
prudence, of all the virtues that which is most useful
to the
individual.
With regard to the first of those
qualities, it has been
observed
on a former occasion, that superior reason and
understanding
are originally approved of as just and right and
accurate,
and not merely as useful or advantageous. It is in the
abstruser
sciences, particularly in the higher parts of
mathematics,
that the greatest and most admired exertions of
human
reason have been displayed. But the utility of those
sciences,
either to the individual or to the public, is not very
obvious,
and to prove it, requires a discussion which is not
always
very easily comprehended. It was not, therefore, their
utility
which first recommended them to the public admiration.
This quality
was but little insisted upon, till it became
necessary
to make some reply to the reproaches of those, who,
having
themselves no taste for such sublime discoveries,
endeavoured
to depreciate them as useless.
That self-command, in the same manner, by
which we restrain
our
present appetites, in order to gratify them more fully upon
another
occasion, is approved of, as much under the aspect of
propriety,
as under that of utility. When we act in this manner,
the
sentiments which influence our conduct seem exactly to
coincide
with those of the spectator. The spectator does not feel
the
solicitations of our present appetites. To him the pleasure
which
we are to enjoy a week hence, or a year hence, is just as
interesting
as that which we are to enjoy this moment. When for
the
sake of the present, therefore, we sacrifice the future, our
conduct
appears to him absurd and extravagant in the highest
degree,
and he cannot enter into the principles which influence
it. On
the contrary, when we abstain from present pleasure, in
order
to secure greater pleasure to come, when we act as if the
remote
object interested us as much as that which immediately
presses
upon the senses, as our affections exactly correspond
with
his own, he cannot fail to approve of our behaviour: and as
he
knows from experience, how few are capable of this
self-command,
he looks upon our conduct with a considerable
degree
of wonder and admiration. Hence arises that eminent esteem
with
which all men naturally regard a steady perseverance in the
practice
of frugality, industry, and application, though directed
to no
other purpose than the acquisition of fortune. The resolute
firmness
of the person who acts in this manner, and in order to
obtain
a great though remote advantage, not only gives up all
present
pleasures, but endures the greatest labour both of mind
and
body, necessarily commands our approbation. That view of his
interest
and happiness which appears to regulate his conduct,
exactly
tallies with the idea which we naturally form of it.
There
is the most perfect correspondence between his sentiments
and our
own, and at the same time, from our experience of the
common
weakness of human nature, it is a correspondence which we
could
not reasonably have expected. We not only approve,
therefore,
but in some measure admire his conduct, and think it
worthy
of a considerable degree of applause. It is the
consciousness
of this merited approbation and esteem which is
alone
capable of supporting the agent in this tenour of conduct.
The
pleasure which we are to enjoy ten years hence interests us
so
little in comparison with that which we may enjoy to-day, the
passion
which the first excites, is naturally so weak in
comparison
with that violent emotion which the second is apt to
give
occasion to, that the one could never be any balance to the
other,
unless it was supported by the sense of propriety, by the
consciousness
that we merited the esteem and approbation of every
body,
by acting in the one way, and that we became the proper
objects
of their contempt and derision by behaving in the other.
Humanity, justice, generosity, and public
spirit, are the
qualities
most useful to others. Wherein consists the propriety
of
humanity and justice has been explained upon a former
occasion,
where it was shewn how much our esteem and approbation
of
those qualities depended upon the concord between the
affections
of the agent and those of the spectators.
The propriety of generosity and public
spirit is founded upon
the
same principle with that of justice. Generosity is different
from
humanity. Those two qualities, which at first sight seem so
nearly
allied, do not always belong to the same person. Humanity
is the
virtue of a woman, generosity of a man. The fair-sex, who
have
commonly much more tenderness than ours, have seldom so much
generosity.
That women rarely make considerable donations, is an
observation
of the civil law.(1*) Humanity consists merely in the
exquisite
fellow-feeling which the spectator entertains with the
sentiments
of the persons principally concerned, so as to grieve
for
their sufferings, to resent their injuries, and to rejoice at
their
good fortune. The most humane actions require no
self-denial,
no self-command, no great exertion of the sense of
propriety.
They consist only in doing what this exquisite
sympathy
would of its own accord prompt us to do. But it is
otherwise
with generosity. We never are generous except when in
some
respect we prefer some other person to ourselves, and
sacrifice
some great and important interest of our own to an
equal
interest of a friend or of a superior. The man who gives up
his
pretensions to an office that was the great object of his
ambition,
because he imagines that the services of another are
better
entitled to it; the man who exposes his life to defend
that of
his friend, which he judges to be of more importance;
neither
of them act from humanity, or because they feel more
exquisitely
what concerns that other person than what concerns
themselves.
They both consider those opposite interests, not in
the
light in which they naturally appear to themselves, but in
that in
which they appear to others. To every bystander, the
success
or preservation of this other person may justly be more
interesting
than their own; but it cannot be so to themselves.
When to
the interest of this other person, therefore, they
sacrifice
their own, they accommodate themselves to the
sentiments
of the spectator, and by an effort of magnanimity act
according
to those views of things which, they feel, must
naturally
occur to any third person. The soldier who throws away
his
life in order to defend that of his officer, would perhaps be
but
little affected by the death of that officer, if it should
happen
without any fault of his own; and a very small disaster
which
had befallen himself might excite a much more lively
sorrow.
But when he endeavours to act so as to deserve applause,
and to
make the impartial spectator enter into the principles of
his
conduct, he feels, that to every body but himself, his own
life is
a trifle compared with that of his officer, and that when
he
sacrifices the one to the other, he acts quite properly and
agreeably
to what would be the natural apprehensions of every
impartial
bystander.
It is the same case with the greater
exertions of public
spirit.
When a young officer exposes his life to acquire some
inconsiderable
addition to the dominions of his sovereign, it is
not
because the acquisition of the new territory is, to himself,
an
object more desireable than the preservation of his own life.
To him
his own life is of infinitely more value than the conquest
of a
whole kingdom for the state which he serves. But when he
compares
those two objects with one another, he does not view
them in
the light in which they naturally appear to himself, but
in that
in which they appear to the nation he fights for. To them
the
success of the war is of the highest importance; the life of
a
private person of scarce any consequence. When he puts himself
in
their situation, he immediately feels that he cannot be too
prodigal
of his blood, if, by shedding it, he can promote so
valuable
a purpose. In thus thwarting, from a sense of duty and
propriety,
the strongest of all natural propensities, consists
the
heroism of his conduct. There is many an honest Englishman,
who, in
his private station, would be more seriously disturbed by
the
loss of a guinea, than by the national loss of Minorca, who
yet,
had it been in his power to defend that fortress, would have
sacrificed
his life a thousand times rather than, through his
fault,
have let it fall into the hands of the enemy. When the
first
Brutus led forth his own sons to a capital punishment,
because
they had conspired against the rising liberty of Rome, he
sacrificed
what, if he had consulted his own breast only, would
appear
to be the stronger to the weaker affection. Brutus ought
naturally
to have felt much more for the death of his own sons,
than
for all that probably Rome could have suffered from the want
of so
great an example. But he viewed them, not with the eyes of
a
father, but with those of a Roman citizen. He entered so
thoroughly
into the sentiments of this last character, that he
paid no
regard to that tie, by which he himself was connected
with
them; and to a Roman citizen, the sons even of Brutus seemed
contemptible,
when put into the balance with the smallest
interest
of Rome. In these and in all other cases of this kind,
our
admiration is not so much founded upon the utility, as upon
the
unexpected, and on that account the great, the noble, and
exalted
propriety of such actions. This utility, when we come to
view
it, bestows upon them, undoubtedly, a new beauty, and upon
that
account still further recommends them to our approbation.
This
beauty, however, is chiefly perceived by men of reflection
and
speculation, and is by no means the quality which first
recommends
such actions to the natural sentiments of the bulk of
mankind.
It
is to be observed, that so far as the sentiment of
approbation
arises from the perception of this beauty of utility,
it has
no reference of any kind to the sentiments of others. If
it was
possible, therefore, that a person should grow up to
manhood
without any communication with society, his own actions
might,
notwithstanding, be agreeable or disagreeable to him on
account
of their tendency to his happiness or disadvantage. He
might
perceive a beauty of this kind in prudence, temperance, and
good
conduct, and a deformity in the opposite behaviour: he might
view
his own temper and character with that sort of satisfaction
with
which we consider a well-contrived machine, in the one case;
or with
that sort of distaste and dissatisfaction with which we
regard
a very awkward and clumsy contrivance, in the other. As
these
perceptions, however, are merely a matter of taste, and
have
all the feebleness and delicacy of that species of
perceptions,
upon the justness of which what is properly called
taste
is founded, they probably would not be much attended to by
one in
this solitary and miserable condition. Even though they
should
occur to him, they would by no means have the same effect
upon
him, antecedent to his connexion with society, which they
would
have in consequence of that connexion. He would not be cast
down
with inward shame at the thought of this deformity; nor
would
he be elevated with secret triumph of mind from the
consciousness
of the contrary beauty. He would not exult from the
notion
of deserving reward in the one case, nor tremble from the
suspicion
of meriting punishment in the other. All such
sentiments
suppose the idea of some other being, who is the
natural
judge of the person that feels them; and it is only by
sympathy
with the decisions of this arbiter of his conduct, that
he can
conceive, either the triumph of self-applause, or the
shame
of self-condemnation.
NOTES:
1. Raro
mulieres donare solent.
Part V
Of the
Influence of Custom and Fashion upon the Sentiments of
Moral
Approbation and Disapprobation
Consisting
of One Section
Chap. I
Of the
Influence of Custom and Fashion upon our Notions of Beauty
and
Deformity
There are other principles besides those
already enumerated,
which
have a considerable influence upon the moral sentiments of
mankind,
and are the chief causes of the many irregular and
discordant
opinions which prevail in different ages and nations
concerning
what is blameable or praise-worthy. These principles
are
custom and fashion, principles which extend their dominion
over
our judgments concerning beauty of every kind.
When two objects have frequently been seen
together, the
imagination
acquires a habit of passing easily from the one to
the
other. If the first appear, we lay our account that the
second
is to follow. Of their own accord they put us in mind of
one
another, and the attention glides easily along them. Though,
independent
of custom, there should be no real beauty in their
union,
yet when custom has thus connected them together, we feel
an
impropriety in their separation. The one we think is awkward
when it
appears without its usual companion. We miss something
which
we expected to find, and the habitual arrangement of our
ideas
is disturbed by the disappointment. A suit of clothes, for
example,
seems to want something if they are without the most
insignificant
ornament which usually accompanies them, and we
find a
meanness or awkwardness in the absence even of a haunch
button.
When there is any natural propriety in the union, custom
increases
our sense of it, and makes a different arrangement
appear
still more disagreeable than it would otherwise seem to
be.
Those who have been accustomed to see things in a good taste,
are
more disgusted by whatever is clumsy or awkward. Where the
conjunction
is improper, custom either diminishes, or takes away
altogether,
our sense of the impropriety. Those who have been
accustomed
to slovenly disorder lose all sense of neatness or
elegance.
The modes of furniture or dress which seem ridiculous
to
strangers, give no offence to the people who are used to them.
Fashion is different from custom, or
rather is a particular
species
of it. That is not the fashion which every body wears,
but
which those wear who are of a high rank, or character. The
graceful,
the easy, and commanding manners of the great, joined
to the
usual richness and magnificence of their dress, give a
grace
to the very form which they happen to bestow upon it. As
long as
they continue to use this form, it is connected in our
imaginations
with the idea of something that is genteel and
magnificent,
and though in itself it should be indifferent, it
seems,
on account of this relation, to have something about it
that is
genteel and magnificent too. As soon as they drop it, it
loses
all the grace, which it had appeared to possess before, and
being
now used only by the inferior ranks of people, seems to
have
something of their meanness and awkwardness.
Dress and furniture are allowed by all the
world to be
entirely
under the dominion of custom and fashion. The influence
of
those principles, however, is by no means confined to so
narrow
a sphere, but extends itself to whatever is in any respect
the
object of taste, to music, to poetry, to architecture. The
modes
of dress and furniture are continually changing, and that
fashion
appearing ridiculous to-day which was admired five years
ago, we
are experimentally convinced that it owed its vogue
chiefly
or entirely to custom and fashion. Clothes and furniture
are not
made of very durable materials. A well-fancied coat is
done in
a twelve-month, and cannot continue longer to propagate,
as the
fashion, that form according to which it was made. The
modes
of furniture change less rapidly than those of dress;
because
furniture is commonly more durable. In five or six years,
however,
it generally undergoes an entire revolution, and every
man in
his own time sees the fashion in this respect change many
different
ways. The productions of the other arts are much more
lasting,
and, when happily imagined, may continue to propagate
the
fashion of their make for a much longer time. A
well-contrived
building may endure many centuries: a beautiful
air may
be delivered down by a sort of tradition, through many
successive
generations: a well-written poem may last as long as
the
world; and all of them continue for ages together, to give
the
vogue to that particular style, to that particular taste or
manner,
according to which each of them was composed. Few men
have an
opportunity of seeing in their own times the fashion in
any of
these arts change very considerably. Few men have so much
experience
and acquaintance with the different modes which have
obtained
in remote ages and nations, as to be thoroughly
reconciled
to them, or to judge with impartiality between them,
and
what takes place in their own age and country. Few men
therefore
are willing to allow, that custom or fashion have much
influence
upon their judgments concerning what is beautiful, or
otherwise,
in the productions of any of those arts; but imagine,
that
all the rules, which they think ought to be observed in each
of
them, are founded upon reason and nature, not upon habit or
prejudice.
A very little attention, however, may convince them of
the
contrary, and satisfy them, that the influence of custom and
fashion
over dress and furniture, is not more absolute than over
architecture,
poetry, and music.
Can any reason, for example, be assigned
why the Doric
capital
should be appropriated to a pillar, whose height is equal
to
eight diameters; the Ionic volute to one of nine; and the
Corinthian
foliage to one of ten? The propriety of each of those
appropriations
can be founded upon nothing but habit and custom.
The eye
having been used to see a particular proportion connected
with a
particular ornament, would be offended if they were not
joined
together. Each of the five orders has its peculiar
ornaments,
which cannot be changed for any other, without giving
offence
to all those who know any thing of the rules of
architecture.
According to some architects, indeed, such is the
exquisite
judgment with which the ancients have assigned to each
order
its proper ornaments, that no others can be found which are
equally
suitable. It seems, however, a little difficult to be
conceived
that these forms, though, no doubt, extremely
agreeable,
should be the only forms which can suit those
proportions,
or that there should not be five hundred others
which,
antecedent to established custom, would have fitted them
equally
well. When custom, however, has established particular
rules
of building, provided they are not absolutely unreasonable,
it is
absurd to think of altering them for others which are only
equally
good, or even for others which, in point of elegance and
beauty,
have naturally some little advantage over them. A man
would
be ridiculous who should appear in public with a suit of
clothes
quite different from those which are commonly worn,
though
the new dress should in itself be ever so graceful or
convenient.
And there seems to be an absurdity of the same kind
in
ornamenting a house after a quite different manner from that
which
custom and fashion have prescribed; though the new
ornaments
should in themselves be somewhat superior to the common
ones.
According to the ancient rhetoricians, a
certain measure of
verse
was by nature appropriated to each particular species of
writing,
as being naturally expressive of that character,
sentiment,
or passion, which ought to predominate in it. One
verse,
they said, was fit for grave and another for gay works,
which
could not, they thought, be interchanged without the
greatest
impropriety. The experience of modern times, however,
seems
to contradict this principle, though in itself it would
appear
to be extremely probable. What is the burlesque verse in
English,
is the heroic verse in French. The tragedies of Racine
and the
Henriad of Voltaire, are nearly in the same verse with,
Let me have your advice in a weighty
affair.
The
burlesque verse in French, on the contrary, is pretty much
the
same with the heroic verse of ten syllables in English.
Custom
has made the one nation associate the ideas of gravity,
sublimity,
and seriousness, to that measure which the other has
connected
with whatever is gay, flippant, and ludicrous. Nothing
would
appear more absurd in English, than a tragedy written in
the
Alexandrine verses of the French; or in French, than a work
of the
same kind in verses of ten syllables.
An eminent artist will bring about a
considerable change in
the
established modes of each of those arts, and introduce a new
fashion
of writing, music, or architecture. As the dress of an
agreeable
man of high rank recommends itself, and how peculiar
and
fantastical soever, comes soon to be admired and imitated; so
the
excellencies of an eminent master recommend his
peculiarities,
and his manner becomes the fashionable style in
the art
which he practises. The taste of the Italians in music
and
architecture has, within these fifty years, undergone a
considerable
change, from imitating the peculiarities of some
eminent
masters in each of those arts. Seneca is accused by
Quintilian
of having corrupted the taste of the Romans, and of
having
introduced a frivolous prettiness in the room of majestic
reason
and masculine eloquence. Sallust and Tacitus have by
others
been charged with the same accusation, though in a
different
manner. They gave reputation, it is pretended, to a
style,
which though in the highest degree concise, elegant,
expressive,
and even poetical, wanted, however, ease, simplicity,
and
nature, and was evidently the production of the most laboured
and
studied affectation. How many great qualities must that
writer
possess, who can thus render his very faults agreeable?
After
the praise of refining the taste of a nation, the highest
eulogy,
perhaps, which can be bestowed upon any author, is to
say,
that he corrupted it. In our own language, Mr Pope and Dr
Swift
have each of them introduced a manner different from what
was
practised before, into all works that are written in rhyme,
the one
in long verses, the other in short. The quaintness of
Butler
has given place to the plainness of Swift. The rambling
freedom
of Dryden, and the correct but often tedious and prosaic
languor
of Addison, are no longer the objects of imitation, but
all
long verses are now written after the manner of the nervous
precision
of Mr Pope.
Neither is it only over the productions of
the arts, that
custom
and fashion exert their dominion. They influence our
judgments,
in the same manner, with regard to the beauty of
natural
objects. What various and opposite forms are deemed
beautiful
in different species of things ? The proportions which
are
admired in one animal, are altogether different from those
which
are esteemed in another. Every class of things has its own
peculiar
conformation, which is approved of, and has a beauty of
its
own, distinct from that of every other species. It is upon
this
account that a learned Jesuit, father Buffier, has
determined
that the beauty of every object consists in that form
and
colour, which is most usual among things of that particular
sort to
which it belongs. Thus, in the human form, the beauty of
each
feature lies in a certain middle, equally removed from a
variety
of other forms that are ugly. A beautiful nose, for
example,
is one that is neither very long, nor very short,
neither
very straight, nor very crooked, but a sort of middle
among
all these extremes, and less different from any one of
them,
than all of them are from one another. It is the form which
Nature
seems to have aimed at in them all, which, however, she
deviates
from in a great variety of ways, and very seldom hits
exactly;
but to which all those deviations still bear a very
strong
resemblance. When a number of drawings are made after one
pattern,
though they may all miss it in some respects, yet they
will
all resemble it more than they resemble one another; the
general
character of the pattern will run through them all; the
most
singular and odd will be those which are most wide of it;
and
though very few will copy it exactly, yet the most accurate
delineations
will bear a greater resemblance to the most
careless,
than the careless ones will bear to one another. In the
same
manner, in each species of creatures, what is most beautiful
bears
the strongest characters of the general fabric of the
species,
and has the strongest resemblance to the greater part of
the
individuals with which it is classed. Monsters, on the
contrary,
or what is perfectly deformed, are always most singular
and
odd, and have the least resemblance to the generality of that
species
to which they belong. And thus the beauty of each
species,
though in one sense the rarest of all things, because
few
individuals hit this middle form exactly, yet in another, is
the
most common, because all the deviations from it resemble it
more
than they resemble one another. The most customary form,
therefore,
is in each species of things, according to him, the
most
beautiful. And hence it is that a certain practice and
experience
in contemplating each species of objects is requisite,
before
we can judge of its beauty, or know wherein the middle and
most
usual form consists. The nicest judgment concerning the
beauty
of the human species, will not help us to judge of that of
flowers,
or horses, or any other species of things. It is for the
same
reason that in different climates, and where different
customs
and ways of living take place, as the generality of any
species
receives a different conformation from those
circumstances,
so different ideas of its beauty prevail. The
beauty
of a Moorish is not exactly the same with that of an
English
horse. What different ideas are formed in different
nations
concerning the beauty of the human shape and countenance
? A
fair complexion is a shocking deformity upon the coast of
Guinea.
Thick lips and a flat nose are a beauty. In some nations
long
ears that hang down upon the shoulders are the objects of
universal
admiration. In China if a lady's foot is so large as to
be fit
to walk upon, she is regarded as a monster of ugliness.
Some of
the savage nations in North-America tie four boards round
the
heads of their children, and thus squeeze them, while the
bones
are tender and gristly, into a form that is almost
perfectly
square. Europeans are astonished at the absurd
barbarity
of this practice, to which some missionaries have
imputed
the singular stupidity of those nations among whom it
prevails.
But when they condemn those savages, they do not
reflect
that the ladies in Europe had, till within these very few
years,
been endeavouring, for near a century past, to squeeze the
beautiful
roundness of their natural shape into a square form of
the
same kind. And that, notwithstanding the many distortions and
diseases
which this practice was known to occasion, custom had
rendered
it agreeable among some of the most civilized nations
which,
perhaps, the world ever beheld.
Such is the system of this learned and
ingenious Father,
concerning
the nature of beauty; of which the whole charm,
according
to him, would thus seem to arise from its falling in
with
the habits which custom had impressed upon the imagination,
with
regard to things of each particular kind. I cannot, however,
be
induced to believe that our sense even of external beauty is
founded
altogether on custom. The utility of any form, its
fitness
for the useful purposes for which it was intended,
evidently
recommends it, and renders it agreeable to us,
independent
of custom. Certain colours are more agreeable than
others,
and give more delight to the eye the first time it ever
beholds
them. A smooth surface is more agreeable than a rough
one.
Variety is more pleasing than a tedious undiversified
uniformity.
Connected variety, in which each new appearance seems
to be
introduced by what went before it, and in which all the
adjoining
parts seem to have some natural relation to one
another,
is more agreeable than a disjointed and disorderly
assemblage
of unconnected objects. But though I cannot admit that
custom
is the sole principle of beauty, yet I can so far allow
the
truth of this ingenious system as to grant, that there is
scarce
any one external form so beautiful as to please, if quite
contrary
to custom and unlike whatever we have been used to in
that
particular species of things: or so deformed as not to be
agreeable,
if custom uniformly supports it, and habituates us to
see it
in every single individual of the kind.
Chap.
II
Of the
Influence of Custom and Fashion upon Moral Sentiments
Since our sentiments concerning beauty of
every kind, are so
much
influenced by custom and fashion, it cannot be expected,
that
those, concerning the beauty of conduct, should be entirely
exempted
from the dominion of those principles. Their influence
here,
however, seems to be much less than it is every where else.
There
is, perhaps, no form of external objects, how absurd and
fantastical
soever, to which custom will not reconcile us, or
which
fashion will not render even agreeable. But the characters
and
conduct of a Nero, or a Claudius, are what no custom will
ever
reconcile us to, what no fashion will ever render agreeable;
but the
one will always be the object of dread and hatred; the
other
of scorn and derision. The principles of the imagination,
upon
which our sense of beauty depends, are of a very nice and
delicate
nature, and may easily be altered by habit and
education:
but the sentiments of moral approbation and
disapprobation,
are founded on the strongest and most vigorous
passions
of human nature; and though they may be somewhat warpt,
cannot
be entirely perverted.
But though the influence of custom and
fashion upon moral
sentiments,
is not altogether so great, it is however perfectly
similar
to what it is every where else. When custom and fashion
coincide
with the natural principles of right and wrong, they
heighten
the delicacy of our sentiments, and increase our
abhorrence
for every thing which approaches to evil. Those who
have
been educated in what is really good company, not in what is
commonly
called such, who have been accustomed to see nothing in
the
persons whom they esteemed and lived with, but justice,
modesty,
humanity, and good order., are more shocked with
whatever
seems to be inconsistent with the rules which those
virtues
prescribe. Those, on the contrary, who have had the
misfortune
to be brought up amidst violence, licentiousness,
falsehood,
and injustice; lose, though not all sense of the
impropriety
of such conduct, yet all sense of its dreadful
enormity,
or of the vengeance and punishment due to it. They have
been
familiarized with it from their infancy, custom has rendered
it
habitual to them, and they are very apt to regard it as, what
is
called, the way of the world, something which either may, or
must be
practised, to hinder us from being the dupes of our own
integrity.
Fashion too will sometimes give reputation
to a certain
degree
of disorder, and, on the contrary, discountenance
qualities
which deserve esteem. In the reign of Charles II. a
degree
of licentiousness was deemed the characteristic of a
liberal
education. It was connected, according to the notions of
those
times, with generosity, sincerity, magnanimity, loyalty,
and
proved that the person who acted in this manner, was a
gentleman,
and not a puritan. Severity of manners, and regularity
of
conduct, on the other hand, were altogether unfashionable, and
were
connected, in the imagination of that age, with cant,
cunning,
hypocrisy, and low manners. To superficial minds, the
vices
of the great seem at all times agreeable. They connect
them,
not only with the splendour of fortune, but with many
superior
virtues, which they ascribe to their superiors; with the
spirit
of freedom and independency, with frankness, generosity,
humanity,
and politeness. The virtues of the inferior ranks of
people,
on the contrary, their parsimonious frugality, their
painful
industry, and rigid adherence to rules, seem to them mean
and
disagreeable. They connect them, both with the meanness of
the
station to which those qualities commonly belong, and with
many
great vices, which, they suppose, usually accompany them;
such as
an abject, cowardly, ill-natured, lying, pilfering
disposition.
The objects with which men in the
different professions and
states
of life are conversant, being very different, and
habituating
them to very different passions, naturally form in
them
very different characters and manners. We expect in each
rank
and profession, a degree of those manners, which, experience
has
taught us, belong to it. But as in each species of things, we
are
particularly pleased with the middle conformation, which, in
every
part and feature, agrees most exactly with the general
standard
which nature seems to have established for things of
that
kind; so in each rank, or, if I may say so, in each species
of men,
we are particularly pleased, if they have neither too
much,
nor too little of the character which usually accompanies
their
particular condition and situation. A man, we say, should
look like
his trade and profession; yet the pedantry of every
profession
is disagreeable. The different periods of life have,
for the
same reason, different manners assigned to them. We
expect
in old age, that gravity and sedateness which its
infirmities,
its long experience, and its worn-out sensibility
seem to
render both natural and respectable; and we lay our
account
to find in youth that sensibility, that gaiety and
sprightly
vivacity which experience teaches us to expect from the
lively
impressions that all interesting objects are apt to make
upon
the tender and unpractised senses of that early period of
life.
Each of those two ages, however, may easily have too much
of the
peculiarities which belong to it. The flirting levity of
youth,
and the immovable insensibility of old age, are equally
disagreeable.
The young, according to the common saying, are most
agreeable
when in their behaviour there is something of the
manners
of the old, and the old, when they retain something of
the
gaiety of the young. Either of them, however, may easily have
too
much of the manners of the other. The extreme coldness, and
dull
formality, which are pardoned in old age, make youth
ridiculous.
The levity, the carelessness, and the vanity, which
are
indulged in youth, render old age contemptible.
The peculiar character and manners which
we are led by custom
to
appropriate to each rank and profession, have sometimes
perhaps
a propriety independent of custom; and are what we should
approve
of for their own sakes, if we took into consideration all
the
different circumstances which naturally affect those in each
different
state of life. The propriety of a person's behaviour,
depends
not upon its suitableness to any one circumstance of his
situation,
but to all the circumstances, which, when we bring his
case
home to ourselves, we feel, should naturally call upon his
attention.
If he appears to be so much occupied by any one of
them,
as entirely to neglect the rest, we disapprove of his
conduct,
as something which we cannot entirely go along with,
because
not properly adjusted to all the circumstances of his
situation:
yet, perhaps, the emotion he expresses for the object
which
principally interests him, does not exceed what we should
entirely
sympathize with, and approve of, in one whose attention
was not
required by any other thing. A parent in private life
might,
upon the loss of an only son, express without blame a
degree
of grief and tenderness, which would be unpardonable in a
general
at the head of an army, when glory, and the public
safety,
demanded so great a part of his attention. As different
objects
ought, upon common occasions, to occupy the attention of
men of
different professions, so different passions ought
naturally
to become habitual to them; and when we bring home to
ourselves
their situation in this particular respect, we must be
sensible,
that every occurrence should naturally affect them more
or
less, according as the emotion which it excites, coincides or
disagrees
with the fixt habit and temper of their minds. We
cannot
expect the same sensibility to the gay pleasures and
amusements
of life in a clergyman, which we lay our account with
in an
officer. The man whose peculiar occupation it is to keep
the
world in mind of that awful futurity which awaits them, who
is to
announce what may be the fatal consequences of every
deviation
from the rules of duty, and who is himself to set the
example
of the most exact conformity, seems to be the messenger
of
tidings, which cannot, in propriety, be delivered either with
levity
or indifference. His mind is supposed to be continually
occupied
with what is too grand and solemn, to leave any room for
the
impressions of those frivolous objects, which fill up the
attention
of the dissipated and the gay . We readily feel
therefore,
that, independent of custom, there is a propriety in
the
manners which custom has allotted to this profession; and
that
nothing can be more suitable to the character of a clergyman
than
that grave, that austere and abstracted severity, which we
are
habituated to expect in his behaviour. These reflections are
so very
obvious, that there is scarce any man so inconsiderate,
as not,
at some time, to have made them, and to have accounted to
himself
in this manner for his approbation of the usual character
of this
order.
The foundation of the customary character
of some other
professions
is not so obvious, and our approbation of it is
founded
entirely in habit, without being either confirmed, or
enlivened
by any reflections of this kind. We are led by custom,
for
example, to annex the character of gaiety, levity, and
sprightly
freedom, as well as of some degree of dissipation, to
the
military profession. Yet, if we were to consider what mood or
tone of
temper would be most suitable to this situation, we
should
be apt to determine, perhaps, that the most serious and
thoughtful
turn of mind would best become those whose lives are
continually
exposed to uncommon danger, and who should therefore
be more
constantly occupied with the thoughts of death and its
consequences
than other men. It is this very circumstance,
however,
which is not improbably the occasion why the contrary
turn of
mind prevails so much among men of this profession. It
requires
so great an effort to conquer the fear of death, when we
survey
it with steadiness and attention, that those who are
constantly
exposed to it, find it easier to turn away their
thoughts
from it altogether, to wrap themselves up in careless
security
and indifference, and to plunge themselves, for this
purpose,
into every sort of amusement and dissipation. A camp is
not the
element of a thoughtful or a melancholy man: persons of
that
cast, indeed, are often abundantly determined, and are
capable,
by a great effort, of going on with inflexible
resolution
to the most unavoidable death. But to be exposed to
continual,
though less imminent danger, to be obliged to exert,
for a
long time, a degree of this effort, exhausts and depresses
the mind,
and renders it incapable of all happiness and
enjoyment.
The gay and careless, who have occasion to make no
effort
at all, who fairly resolve never to look before them, but
to lose
in continual pleasures and amusements all anxiety about
their
situation, more easily support such circumstances.
Whenever,
by any peculiar circumstances, an officer has no reason
to lay
his account with being exposed to any uncommon danger, he
is very
apt to lose the gaiety and dissipated thoughtlessness of
his
character. The captain of a city guard is commonly as sober,
careful,
and penurious an animal as the rest of his
fellow-citizens.
A long peace is, for the same reason, very apt
to
diminish the difference between the civil and the military
character.
The ordinary situation, however, of men of this
profession,
renders gaiety, and a degree of dissipation, so much
their
usual character; and custom has, in our imagination, so
strongly
connected this character with this state of life, that
we are
very apt to despise any man, whose peculiar humour or
situation,
renders him incapable of acquiring it. We laugh at the
grave
and careful faces of a city guard, which so little resemble
those
of their profession. They themselves seem often to be
ashamed
of the regularity of their own manners, and, not to be
out of
the fashion of their trade, are fond of affecting that
levity,
which is by no means natural to them. Whatever is the
deportment
which we have been accustomed to see in a respectable
order
of men, it comes to be so associated in our imagination
with
that order, that whenever we see the one, we lay our account
that we
are to meet with the other, and when disappointed, miss
something
which we expected to find. We are embarrassed, and put
to a
stand, and know not how to address ourselves to a character,
which
plainly affects to be of a different species from those
with
which we should have been disposed to class it.
The different situations of different ages
and countries are
apt, in
the same manner, to give different characters to the
generality
of those who live in them, and their sentiments
concerning
the particular degree of each quality, that is either
blamable
or praise-worthy, vary, according to that degree which
is
usual in their own country, and in their own times. That
degree
of politeness, which would be highly esteemed, perhaps
would
be thought effeminate adulation, in Russia, would be
regarded
as rudeness and barbarism at the court of France. That
degree
of order and frugality, which, in a Polish nobleman, would
be
considered as excessive parsimony, would be regarded as
extravagance
in a citizen of Amsterdam. Every age and country
look
upon that degree of each quality, which is commonly to be
met
with in those who are esteemed among themselves, as the
golden
mean of that particular talent or virtue. And as this
varies,
according as their different circumstances render
different
qualities more or less habitual to them, their
sentiments
concerning the exact propriety of character and
behaviour
vary accordingly.
Among civilized nations, the virtues which
are founded upon
humanity,
are more cultivated than those which are founded upon
self-denial
and the command of the passions. Among rude and
barbarous
nations, it is quite otherwise, the virtues of
self-denial
are more cultivated than those of humanity. The
general
security and happiness which prevail in ages of civility
and
politeness, afford little exercise to the contempt of danger,
to
patience in enduring labour, hunger, and pain. Poverty may
easily
be avoided, and the contempt of it therefore almost ceases
to be a
virtue. The abstinence from pleasure becomes less
necessary,
and the mind is more at liberty to unbend itself, and
to
indulge.its natural inclinations in all those particular
respects.
Among savages and barbarians it is quite
otherwise. Every
savage
undergoes a sort of Spartan discipline, and by the
necessity
of his situation is inured to every sort of hardship.
He is
in continual danger: he is often exposed to the greatest
extremities
of hunger, and frequently dies of pure want. His
circumstances
not only habituate him to every sort of distress,
but
teach him to give way to none of the passions which that
distress
is apt to excite. He can expect from his countrymen no
sympathy
or indulgence for such weakness. Before we can feel much
for
others, we must in some measure be at ease ourselves. If our
own
misery pinches us very severely, we have no leisure to attend
to that
of our neighbour: and all savages are too much occupied
with
their own wants and necessities, to give much attention to
those
of another person. A savage, therefore, whatever be the
nature
of his distress, expects no sympathy from those about him,
and
disdains, upon that account, to expose himself, by allowing
the
least weakness to escape him. His passions, how furious and
violent
soever, are never permitted to disturb the serenity of
his
countenance or the composure of his conduct and behaviour.
The
savages in North America, we are told, assume upon all
occasions
the greatest indifference, and would think themselves
degraded
if they should ever appear in any respect to be
overcome,
either by love, or grief, or resentment. Their
magnanimity
and self-command, in this respect, are almost beyond
the
conception of Europeans. In a country in which all men are
upon a
level, with regard to rank and fortune, it might be
expected
that the mutual inclinations of the two parties should
be the
only thing considered in marriages, and should be indulged
without
any sort of control. This, however, is the country in
which
all marriages, without exception, are made up by the
parents,
and in which a young man would think himself disgraced
for
ever, if he shewed the least preference of one woman above
another,
or did not express the most complete indifference, both
about
the time when, and the person to whom, he was to be
married.
The weakness of love, which is so much indulged in ages
of
humanity and politeness, is regarded among savages as the most
unpardonable
effeminacy. Even after the marriage, the two parties
seem to
be ashamed of a connexion which is founded upon so sordid
a
necessity. They do not live together. They see one another by
stealth
only. They both continue to dwell in the houses of their
respective
fathers, and the open cohabitation of the two sexes,
which
is permitted without blame in all other countries, is here
considered
as the most indecent and unmanly sensuality. Nor is it
only
over this agreeable passion that they exert this absolute
self-command.
They often bear, in the sight of all their
countrymen,
with injuries, reproach, and the grossest insults,
with
the appearance of the greatest insensibility, and without
expressing
the smallest resentment. When a savage is made
prisoner
of war, and receives, as is usual, the sentence of death
from
his conquerors, he hears it without expressing any emotion,
and
afterwards submits to the most dreadful torments, without
ever
bemoaning himself, or discovering any other passion but
contempt
of his enemies. While he is hung by the shoulders over a
slow
fire, he derides his tormentors, and tells them with how
much
more ingenuity he himself had tormented such of their
countrymen
as had fallen into his hands. After he has been
scorched
and burnt, and lacerated in all the most tender and
sensible
parts of his body for several hours together, he is
often
allowed, in order to prolong his misery, a short respite,
and is
taken down from the stake: he employs this interval in
talking
upon all indifferent subjects, inquires after the news of
the
country, and seems indifferent about nothing but his own
situation.
The spectators express the same insensibility; the
sight
of so horrible an object seems to make no impression upon
them;
they scarce look at the prisoner, except when they lend a
hand to
torment him. At other times they smoke tobacco, and amuse
themselves
with any common object, as if no such matter was going
on.
Every savage is said to prepare himself from his earliest
youth
for this dreadful end. He composes, for this purpose, what
they
call the song of death, a song which he is to sing when he
has
fallen into the hands of his enemies, and is expiring under
the
tortures which they inflict upon him. It consists of insults
upon
his tormentors, and expresses the highest contempt of death
and
pain. He sings this song upon all extraordinary occasions,
when he
goes out to war, when he meets his enemies in the field,
or
whenever he has a mind to show that he has familiarised his
imagination
to the most dreadful misfortunes, and that no human
event
can daunt his resolution, or alter his purpose. The same
contempt
of death and torture prevails among all other savage
nations.
There is not a negro from the coast of Africa who does
not, in
this respect, possess a degree of magnanimity which the
soul of
his sordid master is too often scarce capable of
conceiving.
Fortune never exerted more cruelly her empire over
mankind,
than when she subjected those nations of heroes to the
refuse
of the jails of Europe, to wretches who possess the
virtues
neither of the countries which they come from, nor of
those
which they go to, and whose levity, brutality, and
baseness,
so justly expose them to the contempt of the
vanquished.
This heroic and unconquerable firmness,
which the custom and
education
of his country demand of every savage, is not required
of
those who are brought up to live in civilized societies. If
these
last complain when they are in pain, if they grieve when
they
are in distress, if they allow themselves either to be
overcome
by love, or to be discomposed by anger, they are easily
pardoned.
Such weaknesses are not apprehended to affect the
essential
parts of their character. As long as they do not allow
themselves
to be transported to do any thing contrary to justice
or
humanity, they lose but little reputation, though the serenity
of
their countenance, or the composure of their discourse and
behaviour,
should be somewhat ruffled and disturbed. A humane and
polished
people, who have more sensibility to the passions of
others,
can more readily enter into an animated and passionate
behaviour,
and can more easily pardon some little excess. The
person
principally concerned is sensible of this; and being
assured
of the equity of his judges, indulges himself in stronger
expressions
of passion, and is less afraid of exposing himself to
their
contempt by the violence of his emotions. We can venture to
express
more emotion in the presence of a friend than in that of
a
stranger, because we expect more indulgence from the one than
from
the other. And in the same manner the rules of decorum among
civilized
nations, admit of a more animated behaviour, than is
approved
of among barbarians. The first converse together with
the
openness of friends; the second with the reserve of
strangers.
The emotion and vivacity with which the French and the
Italians,
the two most polished nations upon the continent,
express
themselves on occasions that are at all interesting,
surprise
at first those strangers who happen to be travelling
among
them, and who, having been educated among a people of
duller
sensibility, cannot enter into this passionate behaviour,
of
which they have never seen any example in their own country. A
young
French nobleman will weep in the presence of the whole
court
upon being refused a regiment. An Italian, says the abbot
Dû Bos,
expresses more emotion on being condemned in a fine of
twenty
shillings, than an Englishman on receiving the sentence of
death.
Cicero, in the times of the highest Roman politeness,
could,
without degrading himself, weep with all the bitterness of
sorrow
in the sight of the whole senate and the whole people; as
it is
evident he must have done in the end of almost every
oration.
The orators of the earlier and ruder ages of Rome could
not
probably, consistent with the manners of the times, have
expressed
themselves with so much emotion. It would have been
regarded,
I suppose, as a violation of nature and propriety in
the
Scipios, in the Leliuses, and in the elder Cato, to have
exposed
so much tenderness to the view of the public. Those
ancient
warriors could express themselves with order, gravity,
and
good judgment; but are said to have been strangers to that
sublime
and passionate eloquence which was first introduced into
Rome,
not many years before the birth of Cicero, by the two
Gracchi,
by Crassus, and by Sulpitius. This animated eloquence,
which
has been long practised, with or without success, both in
France
and Italy, is but just beginning to be introduced into
England.
So wide is the difference between the degrees of
self-command
which are required in civilized and in barbarous
nations,
and by such different standards do they judge of the
propriety
of behaviour.
This difference gives occasion to many
others that are not
less
essential. A polished people being accustomed to give way,
in some
measure, to the movements of nature, become frank, open,
and
sincere. Barbarians, on the contrary, being obliged to
smother
and conceal the appearance of every passion, necessarily
acquire
the habits of falsehood and dissimulation. It is observed
by all
those who have been conversant with savage nations,
whether
in Asia, Africa, or America, that they are all equally
impenetrable,
and that, when they have a mind to conceal the
truth,
no examination is capable of drawing it from them. They
cannot
be trepanned by the most artful questions. The torture
itself
is incapable of making them confess any thing which they
have no
mind to tell. The passions of a savage too, though they
never
express themselves by any outward emotion, but lie
concealed
in the breast of the sufferer, are, notwithstanding,
all
mounted to the highest pitch of fury. Though he seldom shows
any
symptoms of anger, yet his vengeance, when he comes to give
way to
it, is always sanguinary and dreadful. The least affront
drives
him to despair. His countenance and discourse indeed are
still
sober and composed, and express nothing but the most
perfect
tranquillity of mind: but his actions are often the most
furious
and violent. Among the North-Americans it is not uncommon
for
persons of the tenderest age and more fearful sex to drown
themselves
upon receiving only a slight reprimand from their
mothers,
and this too without expressing any passion, or saying
any
thing, except, you shall no longer have a daughter. In
civilized
nations the passions of men are not commonly so furious
or so
desperate. They are often clamorous and noisy, but are
seldom
very hurtful; and seem frequently to aim at no other
satisfaction,
but that of convincing the spectator, that they are
in the
right to be so much moved, and of procuring his sympathy
and approbation.
All these effects of custom and fashion,
however, upon the
moral
sentiments of mankind, are inconsiderable, in comparison of
those
which they give occasion to in some other cases; and it is
not
concerning the general style of character and behaviour, that
those
principles produce the greatest perversion of judgment, but
concerning
the propriety or impropriety of particular usages.
The different manners which custom teaches
us to approve of
in the
different professions and states of life, do not concern
things
of the greatest importance. We expect truth and justice
from an
old man as well as from a young, from a clergyman as well
as from
an officer; and it is in matters of small moment only
that we
look for the distinguishing marks of their respective
characters.
With regard to these too, there is often some
unobserved
circumstance which, if it was attended to, would show
us,
that, independent of custom, there was a propriety in the
character
which custom had taught us to allot to each profession.
We
cannot complain, therefore, in this case, that the perversion
of
natural sentiment is very great. Though the manners of
different
nations require different degrees of the same quality,
in the
character which they think worthy of esteem, yet the worst
that
can be said to happen even here, is that the duties of one
virtue
are sometimes extended so as to encroach a little upon the
precincts
of some other. The rustic hospitality that is in
fashion
among the Poles encroaches, perhaps, a little upon
oeconomy
and good order; and the frugality that is esteemed in
Holland,
upon generosity and good-fellowship. The hardiness
demanded
of savages diminishes their humanity; and, perhaps, the
delicate
sensibility required in civilized nations sometimes
destroys
the masculine firmness of the character. In general, the
style
of manners which takes place in any nation, may commonly
upon
the whole be said to be that which is most suitable to its
situation.
Hardiness is the character most suitable to the
circumstances
of a savage; sensibility to those of one who lives
in a
very civilized society. Even here, therefore, we cannot
complain
that the moral sentiments of men are very grossly
perverted.
It is not therefore in the general style
of conduct or
behaviour
that custom authorises the widest departure from what
is the
natural propriety of action. With regard to particular
usages,
its influence is often much more destructive of good
morals,
and it is capable of establishing, as lawful and
blameless,
particular actions, which shock the plainest
principles
of right and wrong.
Can there be greater barbarity for
example, than to hurt an
infant?
Its helplessness, its innocence, its amiableness, call
forth
the compassion, even of an enemy, and not to spare that
tender
age is regarded as the most furious effort of an enraged
and
cruel conqueror. What then should we imagine must be the
heart
of a parent who could injure that weakness which even a
furious
enemy is afraid to violate ? Yet the exposition, that is,
the
murder of new-born infants, was a practice allowed of in
almost
all the states of Greece, even among the polite and
civilized
Athenians; and whenever the circumstances of the parent
rendered
it inconvenient to bring up the child, to abandon it to
hunger,
or to wild beasts, was regarded without blame or censure.
This
practice had probably begun in times of the most savage
barbarity.
The imaginations of men had been first made familiar
with it
in that earliest period of society, and the uniform
continuance
of the custom had hindered them afterwards from
perceiving
its enormity. We find, at this day, that this practice
prevails
among all savage nations; and in that rudest and lowest
state
of society it is undoubtedly more pardonable than in any
other.
The extreme indigence of a savage is often such that he
himself
is frequently exposed to the greatest extremity of
hunger,
he often dies of pure want, and it is frequently
impossible
for him to support both himself and his child. We
cannot
wonder, therefore, that in this case he should abandon it.
One
who, in flying from an enemy, whom it was impossible to
resist,
should throw down his infant, because it retarded his
flight,
would surely be excusable; since, by attempting to save
it, he
could only hope for the consolation of dying with it. That
in this
state of society, therefore, a parent should be allowed
to
judge whether he can bring up his child, ought not to surprise
us so
greatly. In the latter ages of Greece, however, the same
thing
was permitted from views of remote interest or conveniency,
which
could by no means excuse it. Uninterrupted custom had by
this
time so thoroughly authorised the practice, that not only
the
loose maxims of the world tolerated this barbarous
prerogative,
but even the doctrine of philosophers, which ought
to have
been more just and accurate, was led away by the
established
custom, and upon this, as upon many other occasions,
instead
of censuring, supported the horrible abuse, by
far-fetched
considerations of public utility. Aristotle talks of
it as
of what the magistrate ought upon many occasions to
encourage.
The humane Plato is of the same opinion, and, with all
that
love of mankind which seems to animate all his writings, no
where
marks this practice with disapprobation. When custom can
give
sanction to so dreadful a violation of humanity, we may well
imagine
that there is scarce any particular practice so gross
which
it cannot authorise. Such a thing, we hear men every day
saying,
is commonly done, and they seem to think this a
sufficient
apology for what, in itself, is the most unjust and
unreasonable
conduct.
There is an obvious reason why custom
should never pervert
our
sentiments with regard to the general style and character of
conduct
and behaviour, in the same degree as with regard to the
propriety
or unlawfulness of particular usages. There never can
be any
such custom. No society could subsist a moment, in which
the
usual strain of men's conduct and behaviour was of a piece
with
the horrible practice I have just now mentioned.
Part VI
Of the
Character of Virtue
Consisting
of Three Sections
Introduction
When we consider the character of any
individual, we
naturally
view it under two different aspects; first, as it may
affect
his own happiness; and secondly, as it may affect that of
other
people.
Section
I
Of the
Character of the Individual, so far as it affects his own
Happiness;
or of Prudence
The preservation and healthful state of
the body seem to be
the
objects which Nature first recommends to the care of every
individual.
The appetites of hunger and thirst, the agreeable or
disagreeable
sensations of pleasure and pain, of heat and cold,
etc.
may be considered as lessons delivered by the voice of
Nature
herself, directing him what he ought to chuse, and what he
ought
to avoid, for this purpose. The first lessons which he is
taught
by those to whom his childhood is entrusted, tend, the
greater
part of them, to the same purpose. Their principal object
is to
teach him how to keep out of harm's way.
As he grows up, he soon learns that some
care and foresight
are
necessary for providing the means of gratifying those natural
appetites,
of procuring pleasure and avoiding pain, of procuring
the
agreeable and avoiding the disagreeable temperature of heat
and
cold. In the proper direction of this care and foresight
consists
the art of preserving and increasing what is called his
external
fortune.
Though it is in order to supply the
necessities and
conveniencies
of the body, that the advantages of external
fortune
are originally recommended to us, yet we cannot live long
in the
world without perceiving that the respect of our equals,
our
credit and rank in the society we live in, depend very much
upon
the degree in which we possess, or are supposed to possess,
those
advantages. The desire of becoming the proper objects of
this
respect, of deserving and obtaining this credit and rank
among
our equals, is, perhaps, the strongest of all our desires,
and our
anxiety to obtain the advantages of fortune is
accordingly
much more excited and irritated by this desire, than
by that
of supplying all the necessities and conveniencies of the
body,
which are always very easily supplied.
Our rank and credit among our equals, too,
depend very much
upon,
what, perhaps, a virtuous man would wish them to depend
entirely,
our character and conduct, or upon the confidence,
esteem,
and good-will, which these naturally excite in the people
we live
with.
The care of the health, of the fortune, of
the rank and
reputation
of the individual, the objects upon which his comfort
and
happiness in this life are supposed principally to depend, is
considered
as the proper business of that virtue which is
commonly
called Prudence.
We suffer more, it has already been
observed, when we fall
from a
better to a worse situation, than we ever enjoy when we
rise
from a worse to a better. Security, therefore, is the first
and the
principal object of prudence. It is averse to expose our
health,
our fortune, our rank, or reputation, to any sort of
hazard.
It is rather cautious than enterprising, and more anxious
to
preserve the advantages which we already possess, than forward
to
prompt us to the acquisition of still greater advantages. The
methods
of improving our fortune, which it principally recommends
to us,
are those which expose to no loss or hazard; real
knowledge
and skill in our trade or profession, assiduity and
industry
in the exercise of it, frugality, and even some degree
of parsimony,
in all our expences.
The prudent man always studies seriously
and earnestly to
understand
whatever he professes to understand, and not merely to
persuade
other people that he understands it; and though his
talents
may not always be very brilliant, they are always
perfectly
genuine. He neither endeavours to impose upon you by
the
cunning devices of an artful impostor, nor by the arrogant
airs of
an assuming pedant, nor by the confident assertions of a
superficial
and imprudent pretender. He is not ostentatious even
of the
abilities which he really possesses. His conversation is
simple
and modest, and he is averse to all the quackish arts by
which
other people so frequently thrust themselves into public
notice
and reputation. For reputation in his profession he is
naturally
disposed to rely a good deal upon the solidity of his
knowledge
and abilities; and he does not always think of
cultivating
the favour of those little clubs and cabals, who, in
the
superior arts and sciences, so often erect themselves into
the
supreme judges of merit; and who make it their business to
celebrate
the talents and virtues of one another, and to decry
whatever
can come into competition with them. If he ever connects
himself
with any society of this kind, it is merely in
self-defence,
not with a view to impose upon the public, but to
hinder
the public from being imposed upon, to his disadvantage,
by the
clamours, the whispers, or the intrigues, either of that
particular
society, or of some other of the same kind.
The prudent man is always sincere, and
feels horror at the
very
thought of exposing himself to the disgrace which attends
upon
the detection of falsehood. But though always sincere, he is
not
always frank and open; and though he never tells any thing
but the
truth, he does not always think himself bound, when not
properly
called upon, to tell the whole truth. As he is cautious
in his
actions, so he is reserved in his speech; and never rashly
or
unnecessarily obtrudes his opinion concerning either things or
persons.
The prudent man, though not always
distinguished by the most
exquisite
sensibility, is always very capable of friendship. But
his
friendship is not that ardent and passionate, but too often
transitory
affection, which appears so delicious to the
generosity
of youth and inexperience. It is a sedate, but steady
and
faithful attachment to a few well-tried and well-chosen
companions;
in the choice of whom he is not guided by the giddy
admiration
of shining accomplishments, but by the sober esteem of
modesty,
discretion, and good conduct. But though capable of
friendship,
he is not always much disposed to general sociality.
He
rarely frequents, and more rarely figures in those convivial
societies
which are distinguished for the jollity and gaiety of
their
conversation. Their way of life might too often interfere
with
the regularity of his temperance, might interrupt the
steadiness
of his industry, or break in upon the strictness of
his
frugality.
But though his conversation may not always
be very sprightly
or
diverting, it is always perfectly inoffensive. He hates the
thought
of being guilty of any petulance or rudeness. He never
assumes
impertinently over any body, and, upon all common
occasions,
is willing to place himself rather below than above
his
equals. Both in his conduct and conversation, he is an exact
observer
of decency, and respects with an almost religious
scrupulosity,
all the established decorums and ceremonials of
society.
And, in this respect, he sets a much better example than
has
frequently been done by men of much more splendid talents and
virtues;
who, in all ages, from that of Socrates and Aristippus,
down to
that of Dr Swift and Voltaire, and from that of Philip
and
Alexander the Great, down to that of the great Czar Peter of
Moscovy,
have too often distinguished themselves by the most
improper
and even insolent contempt of all the ordinary decorums
of life
and conversation, and who have thereby set the most
pernicious
example to those who wish to resemble them, and who
too
often content themselves with imitating their follies,
without
even attempting to attain their perfections.
In the steadiness of his industry and
frugality, in his
steadily
sacrificing the ease and enjoyment of the present moment
for the
probable expectation of the still greater ease and
enjoyment
of a more distant but more lasting period of time, the
prudent
man is always both supported and rewarded by the entire
approbation
of the impartial spectator, and of the representative
of the
impartial spectator, the man within the breast. The
impartial
spectator does not feel himself worn out by the present
labour
of those whose conduct he surveys; nor does he feel
himself
solicited by the importunate calls of their present
appetites.
To him their present, and what is likely to be their
future
situation, are very nearly the same: he sees them nearly
at the
same distance, and is affected by them very nearly in the
same
manner. He knows, however, that to the persons principally
concerned,
they are very far from being the same, and that they
naturally
affect them in a very different manner. He cannot
therefore
but approve, and even applaud, that proper exertion of
self-command,
which enables them to act as if their present and
their
future situation affected them nearly in the same manner in
which
they affect him.
The man who lives within his income, is
naturally contented
with
his situation, which, by continual, though small
accumulations,
is growing better and better every day. He is
enabled
gradually to relax, both in the rigour of his parsimony
and in
the severity of his application; and he feels with double
satisfaction
this gradual increase of ease and enjoyment, from
having
felt before the hardship which attended the want of them.
He has
no anxiety to change so comfortable a situation, and does
not go
in quest of new enterprises and adventures, which might
endanger,
but could not well increase, the secure tranquillity
which
he actually enjoys. If he enters into any new projects or
enterprises,
they are likely to be well concerted and well
prepared.
He can never be hurried or drove into them by any
necessity,
but has always time and leisure to deliberate soberly
and
coolly concerning what are likely to be their consequences.
The prudent man is not willing to subject
himself to any
responsibility
which his duty does not impose upon him. He is not
a
bustler in business where he has no concern; is not a meddler
in
other people's affairs; is not a professed counsellor or
adviser,
who obtrudes his advice where nobody is asking it. He
confines
himself, as much as his duty will permit, to his own
affairs,
and has no taste for that foolish importance which many
people
wish to derive from appearing to have some influence in
the
management of those of other people. He is averse to enter
into
any party disputes, hates faction, and is not always very
forward
to listen to the voice even of noble and great ambition.
When
distinctly called upon, he will not decline the service of
his
country, but he will not cabal in order to force himself into
it; and
would be much better pleased that the public business
were
well managed by some other person, than that he himself
should
have the trouble, and incur the responsibility, of
managing
it. In the bottom of his heart he would prefer the
undisturbed
enjoyment of secure tranquillity, not only to all the
vain
splendour of successful ambition, but to the real and solid
glory
of performing the greatest and most magnanimous actions.
Prudence, in short, when directed merely
to the care of the
health,
of the fortune, and of the rank and reputation of the
individual,
though it is regarded as a most respectable and even,
in some
degree, as an amiable and agreeable quality, yet it never
is
considered as one, either of the most endearing, or of the
most
ennobling of the virtues. It commands a certain cold esteem,
but
seems not entitled to any very ardent love or admiration.
Wise and judicious conduct, when directed
to greater and
nobler
purposes than the care of the health, the fortune, the
rank
and reputation of the individual, is frequently and very
properly
called prudence. We talk of the prudence of the great
general,
of the great statesman, of the great legislator.
Prudence
is, in all these cases, combined with many greater and
more
splendid virtues, with valour, with extensive and strong
benevolence,
with a sacred regard to the rules of justice, and
all these
supported by a proper degree of self-command. This
superior
prudence, when carried to the highest degree of
perfection,
necessarily supposes the art, the talent, and the
habit
or disposition of acting with the most perfect propriety in
every
possible circumstance and situation. It necessarily
supposes
the utmost perfection of all the intellectual and of all
the
moral virtues. It is the best head joined to the best heart.
It is
the most perfect wisdom combined with the most perfect
virtue.
It constitutes very nearly the character of the
Academical
or Peripatetic sage, as the inferior prudence does
that of
the Epicurean.
Mere imprudence, or the mere want of the
capacity to take
care of
one's-self, is, with the generous and humane, the object
of
compassion; with those of less delicate sentiments, of
neglect,
or, at worst, of contempt, but never of hatred or
indignation.
When combined with other vices, however, it
aggravates
in the highest degree the infamy and disgrace which
would
otherwise attend them. The artful knave, whose dexterity
and
address exempt him, though not from strong suspicions, yet
from
punishment or distinct detection, is too often received in
the
world with an indulgence which he by no means deserves. The
awkward
and foolish one, who, for want of this dexterity and
address,
is convicted and brought to punishment, is the object of
universal
hatred, contempt, and derision. In countries where
great
crimes frequently pass unpunished, the most atrocious
actions
become almost familiar, and cease to impress the people
with
that horror which is universally felt in countries where an
exact
administration of justice takes place. The injustice is the
same in
both countries; but the imprudence is often very
different.
In the latter, great crimes are evidently great
follies.
In the former, they are not always considered as such.
In
Italy, during the greater part of the sixteenth century,
assassinations,
murders, and even murders under trust, seem to
have
been almost familiar among the superior ranks of people.
Caesar
Borgia invited four of the little princes in his
neighbourhood,
who all possessed little sovereignties, and
commanded
little armies of their own, to a friendly conference at
Senigaglia,
where, as soon as they arrived, he put them all to
death.
This infamous action, though certainly not approved of
even in
that age of crimes, seems to have contributed very little
to the
discredit, and not in the least to the ruin of the
perpetrator.
That ruin happened a few years after from causes
altogether
disconnected with this crime. Machiavel, not indeed a
man of
the nicest morality even for his own times, was resident,
as
minister from the republic of Florence, at the court of Caesar
Borgia
when this crime was committed. He gives a very particular
account
of it, and in that pure, elegant, and simple language
which
distinguishes all his writings. He talks of it very coolly;
is
pleased with the address with which Caesar Borgia conducted
it; has
much contempt for the dupery and weakness of the
sufferers;
but no compassion for their miserable and untimely
death,
and no sort of indignation at the cruelty and falsehood of
their
murderer. The violence and injustice of great conquerors
are
often regarded with foolish wonder and admiration; those of
petty
thieves, robbers, and murderers, with contempt, hatred, and
even
horror upon all occasions. The former, though they are a
hundred
times more mischievous and destructive, yet when
successful,
they often pass for deeds of the most heroic
magnanimity.
The latter are always viewed with hatred and
aversion,
as the follies, as well as the crimes, of the lowest
and
most worthless of mankind. The injustice of the former is
certainly,
at least, as great as that of the latter; but the
folly
and imprudence are not near so great. A wicked and
worthless
man of parts often goes through the world with much
more
credit than he deserves. A wicked and worthless fool appears
always,
of all mortals, the most hateful, as well as the most
contemptible.
As prudence combined with other virtues,
constitutes
the noblest; so imprudence combined with other vices,
constitutes
the vilest of all characters.
Section
II
Of the
Character of the Individual, so far as it can affect the
Happiness
of other People
The character of every individual, so far
as it can affect
the
happiness of other people, must do so by its disposition
either
to hurt or to benefit them.
Proper resentment for injustice attempted,
or actually
committed,
is the only motive which, in the eyes of the impartial
spectator,
can justify our hurting or disturbing in any respect
the
happiness of our neighbour. To do so from any other motive is
itself
a violation of the laws of justice, which force ought to
be
employed either to restrain or to punish. The wisdom of every
state
or commonwealth endeavours, as well as it can, to employ
the
force of the society to restrain those who are subject to its
authority,
from hurting or disturbing the happiness of one
another.
The rules which it establishes for this purpose,
constitute
the civil and criminal law of each particular state or
country.
The principles upon which those rules either are, or
ought
to be founded, are the subject of a particular science, of
all
sciences by far the most important, but hitherto, perhaps,
the
least cultivated, that of natural jurisprudence,. concerning
which
it belongs not to our present subject to enter into any
detail.
A sacred and religious regard not to hurt or disturb in
any
respect the happiness of our neighbour, even in those cases
where
no law can properly protect him, constitutes the character
of the
perfectly innocent and just man; a character which, when
carried
to a certain delicacy of attention, is always highly
respectable
and even venerable for its own sake, and can scarce
ever
fail to be accompanied with many other virtues, with great
feeling
for other people, with great humanity and great
benevolence.
It is a character sufficiently understood, and
requires
no further explanation. In the present section I shall
only
endeavour to explain the foundation of that order which
nature
seems to have traced out for the distribution of our good
offices,
or for the direction and employment of our very limited
powers
of beneficence: first, towards individuals; and secondly,
towards
societies.
The same unerring wisdom, it will be
found, which regulates
every
other part of her conduct, directs, in this respect too,
the
order of her recommendations; which are always stronger or
weaker
in proportion as our beneficence is more or less
necessary,
or can be more or less useful.
Chap. I
Of the
Order in which Individuals are recommended by Nature to
our
care and attention
Every man, as the Stoics used to say, is
first and
principally
recommended to his own care; and every man is
certainly,
in every respect, fitter and abler to take care of
himself
than of any other person. Every man feels his own
pleasures
and his own pains more sensibly than those of other
people.
The former are the original sensations; the latter the
reflected
or sympathetic images of those sensations. The former
may be
said to be the substance; the latter the shadow.
After himself, the members of his own family,
those who
usually
live in the same house with him, his parents, his
children,
his brothers and sisters, are naturally the objects of
his
warmest affections. They are naturally and usually the
persons
upon whose happiness or misery his conduct must have the
greatest
influence. He is more habituated to sympathize with
them.
He knows better how every thing is likely to affect them,
and his
sympathy with them is more precise and determinate, than
it can
be with the greater part of other people. It approaches
nearer,
in short, to what he feels for himself.
This sympathy too, and the affections
which are founded on
it, are
by nature more strongly directed towards his children
than
towards his parents, and his tenderness for the former seems
generally
a more active principle, than his reverence and
gratitude
towards the latter. In the natural state of things, it
has
already been observed, the existence of the child, for some
time
after it comes into the world, depends altogether upon the
care of
the parent; that of the parent does not naturally depend
upon
the care of the child. In the eye of nature, it would seem,
a child
is a more important object than an old man; and excites a
much
more lively, as well as a much more universal sympathy. It
ought
to do so. Every thing may be expected, or at least hoped,
from
the child. In ordinary cases, very little can be either
expected
or hoped from the old man. The weakness of childhood
interests
the affections of the most brutal and hard-hearted. It
is only
to the virtuous and humane, that the infirmities of old
age are
not the objects of contempt and aversion. In ordinary
cases,
an old man dies without being much regretted by any body.
Scarce
a child can die without rending asunder the heart of
somebody.
The earliest friendships, the friendships
which are naturally
contracted
when the heart is most susceptible of that feeling,
are
those among brothers and sisters. Their good agreement, while
they
remain in the same family, is necessary for its tranquillity
and
happiness. They are capable of giving more pleasure or pain
to one
another than to the greater part of other people. Their
situation
renders their mutual sympathy of the utmost importance
to
their common happiness; and, by the wisdom of nature, the same
situation,
by obliging them to accommodate to one another,
renders
that sympathy more habitual, and thereby more lively,
more
distinct, and more determinate.
The children of brothers and sisters are
naturally connected
by the
friendship which, after separating into different
families,
continues to take place between their parents. Their
good
agreement improves the enjoyment of that friendship; their
discord
would disturb it. As they seldom live in the same family,
however,
though of more importance to one another, than to the
greater
part of other people, they are of much less than brothers
and
sisters. As their mutual sympathy is less necessary, so it is
less
habitual, and therefore proportionably weaker.
The
children of cousins, being still less connected, are of
still
less importance to one another; and the affection gradually
diminishes
as the relation grows more and more remote.
What is called affection, is in reality
nothing but habitual
sympathy.
Our concern in the happiness or misery of those who are
the
objects of what we call our affections; our desire to promote
the
one, and to prevent the other; are either the actual feeling
of that
habitual sympathy, or the necessary consequences of that
feeling.
Relations being usually placed in situations which
naturally
create this habitual sympathy, it is expected that a
suitable
degree of affection should take place among them. We
generally
find that it actually does take place; we therefore
naturally
expect that it should; and we are, upon that account,
more
shocked when, upon any occasion, we find that it does not.
The
general rule is established, that persons related to one
another
in a certain degree, ought always to be affected towards
one
another in a certain manner, and that there is always the
highest
impropriety, and sometimes even a sort of impiety, in
their
being affected in a different manner. A parent without
parental
tenderness, a child devoid of all filial reverence,
appear
monsters, the objects, not of hatred only, but of horror.
Though in a particular instance, the
circumstances which
usually
produce those natural affections, as they are called,
may, by
some accident, not have taken place, yet respect for the
general
rule will frequently, in some measure, supply their
place,
and produce something which, though not altogether the
same,
may bear, however, a very considerable resemblance to those
affections.
A father is apt to be less attached to a child, who,
by some
accident, has been separated from him in its infancy, and
who
does not return to him till it is grown up to manhood. The
father
is apt to feel less paternal tenderness for the child; the
child,
less filial reverence for the father. Brothers and
sisters,
when they have been educated in distant countries, are
apt to
feel a similar diminution of affection. With the dutiful
and the
virtuous, however, respect for the general rule will
frequently
produce something which, though by no means the same,
yet may
very much resemble those natural affections. Even during
the
separation, the father and the child, the brothers or the
sisters,
are by no means indifferent to one another. They all
consider
one another as persons to and from whom certain
affections
are due, and they live in the hopes of being some time
or
another in a situation to enjoy that friendship which ought
naturally
to have taken place among persons so nearly connected.
Till
they meet, the absent son, the absent brother, are
frequently
the favourite son, the favourite brother. They have
never
offended, or, if they have, it is so long ago, that the
offence
is forgotten, as some childish trick not worth the
remembering.
Every account they have heard of one another, if
conveyed
by people of any tolerable good nature, has been, in the
highest
degree, flattering and favourable. The absent son, the
absent
brother, is not like other ordinary sons and brothers; but
an
all-perfect son, an all-perfect brother; and the most romantic
hopes
are entertained of the happiness to be enjoyed in the
friendship
and conversation of such persons. When they meet, it
is
often with so strong a disposition to conceive that habitual
sympathy
which constitutes the family affection, that they are
very apt
to fancy they have actually conceived it, and to behave
to one
another as if they had. Time and experience, however, I am
afraid,
too frequently undeceive them. Upon a more familiar
acquaintance,
they frequently discover in one another habits,
humours,
and inclinations, different from what they expected, to
which,
from want of habitual sympathy, from want of the real
principle
and foundation of what is properly called
family-affection,
they cannot now easily accommodate themselves.
They
have never lived in the situation which almost necessarily
forces
that easy accommodation, and though they may now be
sincerely
desirous to assume it, they have really become
incapable
of doing so. Their familiar conversation and
intercourse
soon become less pleasing to them, and, upon that
account,
less frequent. They may continue to live with one
another
in the mutual exchange of all essential good offices, and
with
every other external appearance of decent regard. But that
cordial
satisfaction, that delicious sympathy, that confidential
openness
and ease, which naturally take place in the conversation
of
those who have lived long and familiarly with one another, it
seldom
happens that they can completely enjoy.
It is only, however, with the dutiful and
the virtuous, that
the
general rule has even this slender authority. With the
dissipated,
the profligate, and the vain, it is entirely
disregarded.
They are so far from respecting it, that they seldom
talk of
it but with the most indecent derision. and an early and
long
separation of this kind never fails to estrange them most
completely
from one another. With such persons, respect for the
general
rule can at best produce only a cold and affected
civility
(a very slender semblance of real regard); and even
this,
the slightest offence, the smallest opposition of interest,
commonly
puts an end to altogether.
The education of boys at distant great
schools, of young men
at
distant colleges, of young ladies in distant nunneries and
boarding-schools,
seems, in the higher ranks of life, to have
hurt
most essentially the domestic morals, and consequently the
domestic
happiness, both of France and England. Do you wish to
educate
your children to be dutiful to their parents, to be kind
and affectionate
to their brothers and sisters? put them under
the
necessity of being dutiful children, of being kind and
affectionate
brothers and sisters: educate them in your own
house.
From their parent's house they may, with propriety and
advantage,
go out every day to attend public schools: but let
their
dwelling be always at home. Respect for you must always
impose
a very useful restraint upon their conduct; and respect
for
them may frequently impose no useless restraint upon your
own.
Surely no acquirement, which can possibly be derived from
what is
called a public education, can make any sort of
compensation
for what is almost certainly and necessarily lost by
it.
Domestic education is the institution of nature; public
education,
the contrivance of man. It is surely unnecessary to
say,
which is likely to be the wisest.
In some tragedies and romances, we meet
with many beautiful
and
interesting scenes, founded upon, what is called, the force
of
blood, or upon the wonderful affection which near relations
are
supposed to conceive for one another, even before they know
that
they have any such connection. This force of blood, however,
I am
afraid, exists no-where but in tragedies and romances. Even
in
tragedies and romances, it is never supposed to take place
between
any relations, but those who are naturally bred up in the
same
house; between parents and children, between brothers and
sisters.
To imagine any such mysterious affection between
cousins,
or even between aunts or uncles, and nephews or nieces,
would
be too ridiculous.
In pastoral countries, and in all
countries where the
authority
of law is not alone sufficient to give perfect security
to
every member of the state, all the different branches of the
same
family commonly chuse to live in the neighbourhood of one
another.
Their association is frequently necessary for their
common
defence. They are all, from the highest to the lowest, of
more or
less importance to one another. Their concord strengthens
their
necessary association; their discord always weakens, and
might
destroy it. They have more intercourse with one another,
than
with the members of any other tribe. The remotest members of
the
same tribe claim some connection with one another; and, where
all other
circumstances are equal, expect to be treated with more
distinguished
attention than is due to those who have no such
pretensions.
It is not many years ago that, in the Highlands of
Scotland,
the Chieftain used to consider the poorest man of his
clan,
as his cousin and relation. The same extensive regard to
kindred
is said to take place among the Tartars, the Arabs, the
Turkomans,
and, I believe, among all other nations who are nearly
in the
same state of society in which the Scots Highlanders were
about
the beginning of the present century.
In commercial countries, where the
authority of law is always
perfectly
sufficient to protect the meanest man in the state, the
descendants
of the same family, having no such motive for keeping
together,
naturally separate and disperse, as interest or
inclination
may direct. They soon cease to be of importance to
one
another; and, in a few generations, not only lose all care
about
one another, but all remembrance of their common origin,
and of
the connection which took place among their ancestors.
Regard
for remote relations becomes, in every country, less and
less,
according as this state of civilization has been longer and
more
completely established. It has been longer and more
completely
established in England than in Scotland; and remote
relations
are, accordingly, more considered in the latter country
than in
the former, though, in this respect, the difference
between
the two countries is growing less and less every day.
Great
lords, indeed, are, in every country, proud of remembering
and
acknowledging their connection with one another, however
remote.
The remembrance of such illustrious relations flatters
not a
little the family pride of them all; and it is neither from
affection,
nor from any thing which resembles affection, but from
the
most frivolous and childish of all vanities, that this
remembrance
is so carefully kept up. Should some more humble,
though,
perhaps, much nearer kinsman, presume to put such great
men in
mind of his relation to their family, they seldom fail to
tell
him that they are bad genealogists, and miserably
ill-informed
concerning their own family history. It is not in
that
order, I am afraid, that we are to expect any extraordinary
extension
of, what is called, natural affection.
I consider what is called natural
affection as more the
effect
of the moral than of the supposed physical connection
between
the parent and the child. A jealous husband, indeed,
notwithstanding
the moral connection, notwithstanding the child's
having
been educated in his own house, often regards, with hatred
and
aversion, that unhappy child which he supposes to be the
offspring
of his wife's infidelity. It is the lasting monument of
a most
disagreeable adventure; of his own dishonour, and of the
disgrace
of his family.
Among well-disposed people, the necessity
or conveniency of
mutual
accommodation, very frequently produces a friendship not
unlike
that which takes place among those who are born to live in
the
same family. Colleagues in office, partners in trade, call
one
another brothers; and frequently feel towards one another as
if they
really were so. Their good agreement is an advantage to
all;
and, if they are tolerably reasonable people, they are
naturally
disposed to agree. We expect that they should do so;
and
their disagreement is a sort of a small scandal. The Romans
expressed
this sort of attachment by the word necessitudo, which,
from
the etymology, seems to denote that it was imposed by the
necessity
of the situation.
Even the trifling circumstance of living
in the same
neighbourhood,
has some effect of the same kind. We respect the
face of
a man whom we see every day, provided he has never
offended
us. Neighbours can be very convenient, and they can be
very
troublesome, to one another. If they are good sort of
people,
they are naturally disposed to agree. We expect their
good
agreement; and to be a bad neighbour is a very bad
character.
There are certain small good offices, accordingly,
which
are universally allowed to be due to a neighbour in
preference
to any other person who has no such connection.
This natural disposition to accommodate
and to assimilate, as
much as
we can, our own sentiments, principles, and feelings, to
those
which we see fixed and rooted in the persons whom we are
obliged
to live and converse a great deal with, is the cause of
the
contagious effects of both good and bad company. The man who
associates
chiefly with the wise and the virtuous, though he may
not
himself become either wise or virtuous, cannot help
conceiving
a certain respect at least for wisdom and virtue; and
the man
who associates chiefly with the profligate and the
dissolute,
though he may not himself become profligate and
dissolute,
must soon lose, at least, all his original abhorrence
of
profligacy and dissolution of manners. The similarity of
family
characters, which we so frequently see transmitted through
several
successive generations, may, perhaps, be partly owing to
this
disposition, to assimilate ourselves to those whom we are
obliged
to live and converse a great deal with. The family
character,
however, like the family countenance, seems to be
owing,
not altogether to the moral, but partly too to the
physical
connection. The family countenance is certainly
altogether
owing to the latter.
But of all attachments to an individual,
that which is
founded
altogether upon the esteem and approbation of his good
conduct
and behaviour, confirmed by much experience and long
acquaintance,
is, by far, the most respectable. Such friendships,
arising
not from a constrained sympathy, not from a sympathy
which
has been assumed and rendered habitual for the sake of
conveniency
and accommodation; but from a natural sympathy, from
an
involuntary feeling that the persons to whom we attach
ourselves
are the natural and proper objects of esteem and
approbation;
can exist only among men of virtue. Men of virtue
only
can feel that entire confidence in the conduct and behaviour
of one
another, which can, at all times, assure them that they
can
never either offend or be offended by one another. Vice is
always
capricious: virtue only is regular and orderly. The
attachment
which is founded upon the love of virtue, as it is
certainly,
of all attachments, the most virtuous; so it is
likewise
the happiest, as well as the most permanent and secure.
Such
friendships need not be confined to a single person, but may
safely
embrace all the wise and virtuous, with whom we have been
long
and intimately acquainted, and upon whose wisdom and virtue
we can,
upon that account, entirely depend. They who would
confine
friendship to two persons, seem to confound the wise
security
of friendship with the jealousy and folly of love. The
hasty,
fond, and foolish intimacies of young people, founded,
commonly,
upon some slight similarity of character, altogether
unconnected
with good conduct, upon a taste, perhaps, for the
same
studies, the same amusements, the same diversions, or upon
their
agreement in some singular principle or opinion, not
commonly
adopted; those intimacies which a freak begins, and
which a
freak puts an end to, how agreeable soever they may
appear
while they last, can by no means deserve the sacred and
venerable
name of friendship.
Of all the persons, however, whom nature
points out for our
peculiar
beneficence, there are none to whom it seems more
properly
directed than to those whose beneficence we have
ourselves
already experienced. Nature, which formed men for that
mutual
kindness, so necessary for their happiness, renders every
man the
peculiar object of kindness, to the persons to whom he
himself
has been kind. Though their gratitude should not always
correspond
to his beneficence, yet the sense of his merit, the
sympathetic
gratitude of the impartial spectator, will always
correspond
to it. The general indignation of other people,
against
the baseness of their ingratitude, will even, sometimes,
increase
the general sense of his merit. No benevolent man ever
lost
altogether the fruits of his benevolence. If he does not
always
gather them from the persons from whom he ought to have
gathered
them, he seldom fails to gather them, and with a tenfold
increase,
from other people. Kindness is the parent of kindness;
and if
to be beloved by our brethren be the great object of our
ambition,
the surest way of obtaining it is, by our conduct to
show
that we really love them.
After the persons who are recommended to
our beneficence,
either
by their connection with ourselves, by their personal
qualities,
or by their past services, come those who are pointed
out,
not indeed to, what is called, our friendship, but to our
benevolent
attention and good offices; those who are
distinguished
by their extraordinary situation; the greatly
fortunate
and the greatly unfortunate, the rich and the powerful,
the
poor and the wretched. The distinction of ranks, the peace
and
order of society, are, in a great measure, founded upon the
respect
which we naturally conceive for the former. The relief
and
consolation of human misery depend altogether upon our
compassion
for the latter. The peace and order of society, is of
more
importance than even the relief of the miserable. Our
respect
for the great, accordingly, is most apt to offend by its
excess;
our fellow_feeling for the miserable, by its defect.
Moralists
exhort us to charity and compassion. They warn us
against
the fascination of greatness. This fascination, indeed,
is so
powerful, that the rich and the great are too often
preferred
to the wise and the virtuous. Nature has wisely judged
that
the distinction of ranks, the peace and order of society,
would
rest more securely upon the plain and palpable difference
of
birth and fortune, than upon the invisible and often uncertain
difference
of wisdom and virtue. The undistinguishing eyes of the
great
mob of mankind can well enough perceive the former: it is
with
difficulty that the nice discernment of the wise and the
virtuous
can sometimes distinguish the latter. In the order of
all
those recommendations, the benevolent wisdom of nature is
equally
evident.
It may, perhaps, be unnecessary to
observe, that the
combination
of two, or more, of those exciting causes of
kindness,
increases the kindness. The favour and partiality
which,
when there is no envy in the case, we naturally bear to
greatness,
are much increased when it is joined with wisdom and
virtue.
If, notwithstanding that wisdom and virtue, the great man
should
fall into those misfortunes, those dangers and distresses,
to
which the most exalted stations are often the most exposed, we
are
much more deeply interested in his fortune than we should be
in that
of a person equally virtuous, but in a more humble
situation.
The most interesting subjects of tragedies and
romances
are the misfortunes of virtuous and magnanimous kings
and
princes. If, by the wisdom and manhood of their exertions,
they
should extricate themselves from those misfortunes, and
recover
completely their former superiority and security, we
cannot
help viewing them with the most enthusiastic and even
extravagant
admiration. The grief which we felt for their
distress,
the joy which we feel for their prosperity, seem to
combine
together in enhancing that partial admiration which we
naturally
conceive both for the station and the character.
When those different beneficent affections
happen to draw
different
ways, to determine by any precise rules in what cases
we
ought to comply with the one, and in what with the other, is,
perhaps,
altogether impossible. In what cases friendship ought to
yield
to gratitude, or gratitude to friend, ship. in what cases
the
strongest of all natural affections ought to yield to a
regard
for the safety of those superiors upon whose safety often
depends
that of the whole society; and in what cases natural
affection
may, without impropriety, prevail over that regard;
must be
left altogether to the decision of the man within the
breast,
the supposed impartial spectator, the great judge and
arbiter
of our conduct. If we place ourselves completely in his
situation,
if we really view ourselves with his eyes, and as he
views
us, and listen with diligent and reverential attention to
what he
suggests to us, his voice will never deceive us. We shall
stand
in need of no casuistic rules to direct our conduct. These
it is
often impossible to accommodate to all the different shades
and
gradations of circumstance, character, and situation, to
differences
and distinctions which, though not imperceptible,
are, by
their nicety and delicacy, often altogether undefinable.
In that
beautiful tragedy of Voltaire, the Orphan of China, while
we
admire the magnanimity of Zamti, who is willing to sacrifice
the
life of his own child, in order to preserve that of the only
feeble
remnant of his ancient sovereigns and masters; we not only
pardon,
but love the maternal tenderness of Idame, who, at the
risque
of discovering the important secret of her husband,
reclaims
her infant from the cruel hands of the Tartars, into
which
it had been delivered.
Chap.
II
Of the
order in which Societies are by nature recommended to our
Beneficence
The same principles that direct the order
in which
individuals
are recommended to our beneficence, direct that
likewise
in which societies are recommended to it. Those to which
it is,
or may be of most importance, are first and principally
recommended
to it.
The state or sovereignty in which we have
been born and
educated,
and under the protection of which we continue to live,
is, in
ordinary cases, the greatest society upon whose happiness
or
misery, our good or bad conduct can have much influence. It is
accordingly,
by nature, most strongly recommended to us. Not only
we ourselves,
but all the objects of our kindest affections, our
children,
our parents, our relations, our friends, our
benefactors,
all those whom we naturally love and revere the
most,
are commonly comprehended within it; and their prosperity
and
safety depend in some measure upon its prosperity and safety.
It is
by nature, therefore, endeared to us, not only by all our
selfish,
but by all our private benevolent affections. Upon
account
of our own connexion with it, its prosperity and glory
seem to
reflect some sort of honour upon ourselves. When we
compare
it with other societies of the same kind, we are proud of
its
superiority, and mortified in some degree, if it appears in
any
respect below them. All the illustrious characters which it
has produced
in former times (for against those of our own times
envy
may sometimes prejudice us a little), its warriors, its
statesmen,
its poets, its philosophers, and men of letters of all
kinds;
we are disposed to view with the most partial admiration,
and to
rank them (sometimes most unjustly) above those of all
other
nations. The patriot who lays down his life for the safety,
or even
for the vain-glory of this society, appears to act with
the
most exact propriety. He appears to view himself in the light
in
which the impartial spectator naturally and necessarily views
him, as
but one of the multitude, in the eye of that equitable
judge,
of no more consequence than any other in it, but bound at
all
times to sacrifice and devote himself to the safety, to the
service,
and even to the glory of the greater number. But though
this
sacrifice appears to be perfectly just and proper, we know
how
difficult it is to make it, and how few people are capable of
making
it. His conduct, therefore, excites not only our entire
approbation,
but our highest wonder and admiration, and seems to
merit
all the applause which can be due to the most heroic
virtue.
The traitor, on the contrary, who, in some peculiar
situation,
fancies he can promote his own little interest by
betraying
to the public enemy that of his native country. who,
regardless
of the judgment of the man within the breast, prefers
himself,
in this respect so shamefully and so basely, to all
those
with whom he has any connexion; appears to be of all
villains
the most detestable.
The love of our own nation often disposes
us to view, with
the
most malignant jealousy and envy, the prosperity and
aggrandisement
of any other neighbouring nation. Independent and
neighbouring
nations, having no common superior to decide their
disputes,
all live in continual dread and suspicion of one
another.
Each sovereign, expecting little justice from his
neighbours,
is disposed to treat them with as little as he
expects
from them. The regard for the laws of nations, or for
those
rules which independent states profess or pretend to think
themselves
bound to observe in their dealings with one another,
is
often very little more than mere pretence and profession. From
the
smallest interest, upon the slightest provocation, we see
those
rules every day, either evaded or directly violated without
shame
or remorse. Each nation foresees, or imagines it foresees,
its own
subjugation in the increasing power and aggrandisement of
any of
its neighbours; and the mean principle of national
prejudice
is often founded upon the noble one of the love of our
own
country. The sentence with which the elder Cato is said to
have
concluded every speech which he made in the senate, whatever
might
be the subject, 'It is my opinion likewise that Carthage
ought
to be destroyed,' was the natural expression of the savage
patriotism
of a strong but coarse mind, enraged almost to madness
against
a foreign nation from which his own had suffered so much.
The
more humane sentence with which Scipio Nasica is said to have
concluded
all his speeches, 'It is my opinion likewise that
Carthage
ought not to be destroyed,' was the liberal expression
of a
more enlarged and enlightened mind, who felt no aversion to
the
prosperity even of an old enemy, when reduced to a state
which
could no longer be formidable to Rome. France and England
may
each of them have some reason to dread the increase of the
naval
and military power of the other; but for either of them to
envy
the internal happiness and prosperity of the other, the
cultivation
of its lands, the advancement of its manufactures,
the
increase of its commerce, the security and number of its
ports
and harbours, its proficiency in all the liberal arts and
sciences,
is surely beneath the dignity of two such great
nations.
These are all real improvements of the world we live in.
Mankind
are benefited, human nature is ennobled by them. In such
improvements
each nation ought, not only to endeavour itself to
excel,
but from the love of mankind, to promote, instead of
obstructing
the excellence of its neighbours. These are all
proper
objects of national emulation, not of national prejudice
or
envy.
The love of our own country seems not to
be derived from the
love of
mankind. The former sentiment is altogether independent
of the
latter, and seems sometimes even to dispose us to act
inconsistently
with it. France may contain, perhaps, near three
times
the number of inhabitants which Great Britain contains. In
the
great society of mankind, therefore, the prosperity of France
should
appear to be an object of much greater importance than
that of
Great Britain. The British subject, however, who, upon
that
account, should prefer upon all occasions the prosperity of
the
former to that of the latter country, would not be thought a
good
citizen of Great Britain. We do not love our country merely
as a
part of the great society of mankind: we love it for its own
sake,
and independently of any such consideration. That wisdom
which
contrived the system of human affections, as well as that
of
every other part of nature, seems to have judged that the
interest
of the great society of mankind would be best promoted
by
directing the principal attention of each individual to that
particular
portion of it, which was most within the sphere both
of his
abilities and of his understanding.
National prejudices and hatreds seldom
extend beyond
neighbouring
nations. We very weakly and foolishly, perhaps, call
the
French our natural enemies; and they perhaps, as weakly and
foolishly,
consider us in the same manner. Neither they nor we
bear
any sort of envy to the prosperity of China or Japan. It
very
rarely happens, however, that our good-will towards such
distant
countries can be exerted with much effect.
The most extensive public benevolence
which can commonly be
exerted
with any considerable effect, is that of the statesmen,
who
project and form alliances among neighbouring or not very
distant
nations, for the preservation either of, what is called,
the
balance of power, or of the general peace and tranquillity of
the
states within the circle of their negotiations. The
statesmen,
however, who plan and execute such treaties, have
seldom
any thing in view, but the interest of their respective
countries.
Sometimes, indeed, their views are more extensive. The
Count
d'Avaux, the plenipotentiary of France, at the treaty of
Munster,
would have been willing to sacrifice his life (according
to the
Cardinal de Retz, a man not over-credulous in the virtue
of
other people) in order to have restored, by that treaty, the
general
tranquillity of Europe. King William seems to have had a
real
zeal for the liberty and independency of the greater part of
the
sovereign states of Europe; which, perhaps, might be a good
deal
stimulated by his particular aversion to France, the state
from
which, during his time, that liberty and independency were
principally
in danger. Some share of the same spirit seems to
have
descended to the first ministry of Queen Anne.
Every independent state is divided into
many different orders
and
societies, each of which has its own particular powers,
privileges,
and immunities. Every individual is naturally more
attached
to his own particular order or society, than to any
other.
His own interest, his own vanity the interest and vanity
of many
of his friends and companions, are commonly a good deal
connected
with it. He is ambitious to extend its privileges and
immunities.
He is zealous to defend them against the
encroachments
of every other order or society.
Upon the manner in which any state is
divided into the
different
orders and societies which compose it, and upon the
particular
distribution which has been made of their respective
powers,
privileges, and immunities, depends, what is called, the
constitution
of that particular state.
Upon the ability of each particular order
or society to
maintain
its own powers, privileges, and immunities, against the
encroachments
of every other, depends the stability of that
particular
constitution. That particular constitution is
necessarily
more or less altered, whenever any of its subordinate
parts
is either raised above or depressed below whatever had been
its
former rank and condition.
All those different orders and societies
are dependent upon
the
state to which they owe their security and protection. That
they
are all subordinate to that state, and established only in
subserviency
to its prosperity and preservation, is a truth
acknowledged
by the most partial member of every one of them. It
may
often, however, be hard to convince him that the prosperity
and
preservation of the state require any diminution of the
powers,
privileges, and immunities of his own particular order or
society.
This partiality, though it may sometimes be unjust, may
not,
upon that account, be useless. It checks the spirit of
innovation.
It tends to preserve whatever is the established
balance
among the different orders and societies into which the
state
is divided; and while it sometimes appears to obstruct some
alterations
of government which may be fashionable and popular at
the
time, it contributes in reality to the stability and
permanency
of the whole system.
The love of our country seems, in ordinary
cases, to involve
in it
two different principles; first, a certain respect and
reverence
for that constitution or form of government which is
actually
established; and secondly, an earnest desire to render
the
condition of our fellow-citizens as safe, respectable, and
happy
as we can. He is not a citizen who is not disposed to
respect
the laws and to obey the civil magistrate; and he is
certainly
not a good citizen who does not wish to promote, by
every
means in his power, the welfare of the whole society of his
fellow-citizens.
In peaceable and quiet times, those two
principles generally
coincide
and lead to the same conduct. The support of the
established
government seems evidently the best expedient for
maintaining
the safe, respectable, and happy situation of our
fellow-citizens;
when we see that this government actually
maintains
them in that situation. But in times of public
discontent,
faction, and disorder, those two different principles
may
draw different ways, and even a wise man may be disposed to
think
some alteration necessary in that constitution or form of
government,
which, in its actual condition, appears plainly
unable
to maintain the public tranquillity. In such cases,
however,
it often requires, perhaps, the highest effort of
political
wisdom to determine when a real patriot ought to
support
and endeavour to re-establish the authority of the old
system,
and when he ought to give way to the more daring, but
often
dangerous spirit of innovation.
Foreign war and civil faction are the two
situations which
afford
the most splendid opportunities for the display of public
spirit.
The hero who serves his country successfully in foreign
war
gratifies the wishes of the whole nation, and is, upon that
account,
the object of universal gratitude and admiration. In
times
of civil discord, the leaders of the contending parties,
though
they may be admired by one half of their fellow-citizens,
are
commonly execrated by the other. Their characters and the
merit
of their respective services appear commonly more doubtful.
The
glory which is acquired by foreign war is, upon this account,
almost
always more pure and more splendid than that which can be
acquired
in civil faction.
The leader of the successful party,
however, if he has
authority
enough to prevail upon his own friends to act with
proper
temper and moderation (which he frequently has not), may
sometimes
render to his country a service much more essential and
important
than the greatest victories and the most extensive
conquests.
He may re-establish and improve the constitution, and
from
the very doubtful and ambiguous character of the leader of a
party,
he may assume the greatest and noblest of all characters,
that of
the reformer and legislator of a great state; and, by the
wisdom
of his institutions, secure the internal tranquillity and
happiness
of his fellow-citizens for many succeeding generations.
Amidst the turbulence and disorder of
faction, a certain
spirit
of system is apt to mix itself with that public spirit
which
is founded upon the love of humanity, upon a real
fellow-feeling
with the inconveniencies and distresses to which
some of
our fellow-citizens may be exposed. This spirit of system
commonly
takes the direction of that more gentle public spirit;
always
animates it, and often inflames it even to the madness of
fanaticism.
The leaders of the discontented party seldom fail to
hold
out some plausible plan of reformation which, they pretend,
will not
only remove the inconveniencies and relieve the
distresses
immediately complained of, but will prevent, in all
time
coming, any return of the like inconveniencies and
distresses.
They often propose, upon this account, to new-model
the
constitution, and to alter, in some of its most essential
parts,
that system of government under which the subjects of a
great
empire have enjoyed, perhaps, peace, security, and even
glory,
during the course of several centuries together. The great
body of
the party are commonly intoxicated with the imaginary
beauty
of this ideal system, of which they have no experience,
but
which has been represented to them in all the most dazzling
colours
in which the eloquence of their leaders could paint it.
Those
leaders themselves, though they originally may have meant
nothing
but their own aggrandisement, become many of them in time
the
dupes of their own sophistry, and are as eager for this great
reformation
as the weakest and foolishest of their followers.
Even
though the leaders should have preserved their own heads, as
indeed
they commonly do, free from this fanaticism, yet they dare
not
always disappoint the expectation of their followers; but are
often
obliged, though contrary to their principle and their
conscience,
to act as if they were under the common delusion. The
violence
of the party, refusing all palliatives, all
temperaments,
all reasonable accommodations, by requiring too
much
frequently obtains nothing; and those inconveniencies and
distresses
which, with a little moderation, might in a great
measure
have been removed and relieved, are left altogether
without
the hope of a remedy.
The man whose public spirit is prompted
altogether by
humanity
and benevolence, will respect the established powers and
privileges
eVen of individuals, and still more those of the great
orders
and societies, into which the state is divided. Though he
should
consider some of them as in some measure abusive, he will
content
himself with moderating, what he often cannot annihilate
without
great violence. When he cannot conquer the rooted
prejudices
of the people by reason and persuasion, he will not
attempt
to subdue them by force; but will religiously observe
what,
by Cicero, is justly called the divine maxim of Plato,
never
to use violence to his country no more than to his parents.
He will
accommodate, as well as he can, his public arrangements
to the
confirmed habits and prejudices of the people; and will
remedy
as well as he can, the inconveniencies which may flow from
the
want of those regulations which the people are averse to
submit
to. When he cannot establish the right, he will not
disdain
to ameliorate the wrong; but like Solon, when he cannot
establish
the best system of laws, he will endeavour to establish
the
best that the people can bear.
The man of system, on the contrary, is apt
to be very wise in
his own
conceit; and is often so enamoured with the supposed
beauty
of his own ideal plan of government, that he cannot suffer
the smallest
deviation from any part of it. He goes on to
establish
it completely and in all its parts, without any regard
either
to the great interests, or to the strong prejudices which
may
oppose it. He seems to imagine that he can arrange the
different
members of a great society with as much ease as the
hand
arranges the different pieces upon a chess-board. He does
not
consider that the pieces upon the chess-board have no other
principle
of motion besides that which the hand impresses upon
them;
but that, in the great chess-board of human society, every
single
piece has a principle of motion of its own, altogether
different
from that which the legislature might chuse to impress
upon
it. If those two principles coincide and act in the same
direction,
the game of human society will go on easily and
harmoniously,
and is very likely to be happy and successful. If
they
are opposite or different, the game will go on miserably,
and the
society must be at all times in the highest degree of
disorder.
Some general, and even systematical, idea of the perfection
of
policy and law, may no doubt be necessary for directing the
views
of the statesman. But to insist upon establishing, and upon
establishing
all at once, and in spite of all opposition, every
thing
which that idea may seem to require, must often be the
highest
degree of arrogance. It is to erect his own judgment into
the
supreme standard of right and wrong. It is to fancy himself
the
only wise and worthy man in the commonwealth, and that his
fellow-citizens
should accommodate themselves to him and not he
to
them. It is upon this account, that of all political
speculators,
sovereign princes are by far the most dangerous.
This
arrogance is perfectly familiar to them. They entertain no
doubt
of the immense superiority of their own judgment. When such
imperial
and royal reformers, therefore, condescend to
contemplate
the constitution of the country which is committed to
their
government, they seldom see any thing so wrong in it as the
obstructions
which it may sometimes oppose to the execution of
their
own will. They hold in contempt the divine maxim of Plato,
and
consider the state as made for themselves, not themselves for
the
state. The great object of their reformation, therefore, is
to
remove those obstructions; to reduce the authority of the
nobility;
to take away the privileges of cities and provinces,
and to
render both the greatest individuals and the greatest
orders
of the state, as incapable of opposing their commands, as
the
weakest and most insignificant.
Chap.
III
Of
universal Benevolence
Though our effectual good offices can very
seldom be extended
to any
wider society than that of our own country; our good-will
is
circumscribed by no boundary, but may embrace the immensity of
the
universe. We cannot form the idea of any innocent and
sensible
being, whose happiness we should not desire, or to whose
misery,
when distinctly brought home to the imagination, we
should
not have some degree of aversion. The idea of a
mischievous,
though sensible, being, indeed, naturally provokes
our
hatred: but the ill-will which, in this case, we bear to it,
is
really the effect of our universal benevolence. It is the
effect
of the sympathy which we feel with the misery and
resentment
of those other innocent and sensible beings, whose
happiness
is disturbed by its malice.
This universal benevolence, how noble and
generous soever,
can be
the source of no solid happiness to any man who is not
thoroughly
convinced that all the inhabitants of the universe,
the
meanest as well as the greatest, are under the immediate care
and
protection of that great, benevolent, and all-wise Being, who
directs
all the movements of nature; and who is determined, by
his own
unalterable perfections, to maintain in it, at all times,
the
greatest possible quantity of happiness. To this universal
benevolence,
on the contrary, the very suspicion of a fatherless
world,
must be the most melancholy of all reflections; from the
thought
that all the unknown regions of infinite and
incomprehensible
space may be filled with nothing but endless
misery
and wretchedness. All the splendour of the highest
prosperity
can never enlighten the gloom with which so dreadful
an idea
must necessarily over-shadow the imagination; nor, in a
wise
and virtuous man, can all the sorrow of the most afflicting
adversity
ever dry up the joy which necessarily springs from the
habitual
and thorough conviction of the truth of the contrary
system.
The wise and virtuous man is at all times
willing that his
own
private interest should be sacrificed to the public interest
of his
own particular order or society. He is at all times
willing,
too, that the interest of this order or society should
be
sacrificed to the greater interest of the state or
sovereignty,
of which it is only a subordinate part. He should,
therefore,
be equally willing that all those inferior interests
should
be sacrificed to the greater interest of the universe, to
the
interest of that great society of all sensible and
intelligent
beings, of which God himself is the immediate
administrator
and director. If he is deeply impressed with the
habitual
and thorough conviction that this benevolent and
all-wise
Being can admit into the system of his government, no
partial
evil which is not necessary for the universal good, he
must
consider all the misfortunes which may befal himself, his
friends,
his society, or his country, as necessary for the
prosperity
of the universe, and therefore as what he ought, not
only to
submit to with resignation, but as what he himself, if he
had
known all the connexions and dependencies of things, ought
sincerely
and devoutly to have wished for.
Nor does this magnanimous resignation to
the will of the
great
Director of the universe, seem in any respect beyond the
reach
of human nature. Good soldiers, who both love and trust
their
general, frequently march with more gaiety and alacrity to
the
forlorn station, from which they never expect to return, than
they
would to one where there was neither difficulty nor danger.
In
marching to the latter, they could feel no other sentiment
than
that of the dulness of ordinary duty: in marching to the
former,
they feel that they are making the noblest exertion which
it is
possible for man to make. They know that their general
would
not have ordered them upon this station, had it not been
necessary
for the safety of the army, for the success of the war.
They
cheerfully sacrifice their own little systems to the
prosperity
of a greater system. They take an affectionate leave
of
their comrades, to whom they wish all happiness and success;
and
march out, not only with submissive obedience, but often with
shouts
of the most joyful exultation, to that fatal, but splendid
and
honourable station to which they are appointed. No conductor
of an
army can deserve more unlimited trust, more ardent and
zealous
affection, than the great Conductor of the universe. In
the
greatest public as well as private disasters, a wise man
ought
to consider that he himself, his friends and countrymen,
have
only been ordered upon the forlorn station of the universe;
that
had it not been necessary for the good of the whole, they
would
not have been so ordered; and that it is their duty, not
only
with humble resignation to submit to this allotment, but to
endeavour
to embrace it with alacrity and joy. A wise man should
surely
be capable of doing what a good soldier holds himself at
all
times in readiness to do.
The idea of that divine Being, whose
benevolence and wisdom
have,
from all eternity, contrived and conducted the immense
machine
of the universe, so as at all times to produce the
greatest
possible quantity of happiness, is certainly of all the
objects
of human contemplation by far the most sublime. Every
other
thought necessarily appears mean in the comparison. The man
whom we
believe to be principally occupied in this sublime
contemplation,
seldom fails to be the object of our highest
veneration;
and though his life should be altogether
contemplative,
we often regard him with a sort of religious
respect
much superior to that with which we look upon the most
active
and useful servant of the commonwealth. The Meditations of
Marcus
Antoninus, which turn principally upon this subject, have
contributed
more, perhaps, to the general admiration of his
character,
than all the different transactions of his just,
merciful,
and beneficent reign.
The administration of the great system of
the universe,
however,
the care of the universal happiness of all rational and
sensible
beings, is the business of God and not of man. To man is
allotted
a much humbler department, but one much more suitable to
the
weakness of his powers, and to the narrowness of his
comprehension;
the care of his own happiness, of that of his
family,
his friends, his country: that he is occupied in
contemplating
the more sublime, can never be an excuse for his
neglecting
the more humble department; and he must not expose
himself
to the charge which Avidius Cassius is said to have
brought,
perhaps unjustly, against Marcus Antoninus; that while
he
employed himself in philosophical speculations, and
contemplated
the prosperity of the universe, he neglected that of
the
Roman empire. The most sublime speculation of the
contemplative
philosopher can scarce compensate the neglect of
the
smallest active duty.
Section
III
Of
Self-command
The man who acts according to the rules of
perfect prudence,
of
strict justice, and of proper benevolence, may be said to be
perfectly
virtuous. But the most perfect knowledge of those rules
will
not alone enable him to act in this manner: his own passions
are
very apt to mislead him; sometimes to drive him and sometimes
to
seduce him to violate all the rules which he himself, in all
his
sober and cool hours, approves of. The most perfect
knowledge,
if it is not supported by the most perfect
self-command,
will not always enable him to do his duty.
Some of the best of the ancient moralists
seem to have
considered
those passions as divided into two different classes:
first,
into those which it requires a considerable exertion of
self-command
to restrain even for a single moment; and secondly,
into
those which it is easy to restrain for a single moment, or
even
for a short period of time; but which, by their continual
and
almost incessant solicitations, are, in the course of a life,
very
apt to mislead into great deviations.
Fear and anger, together with some other passions
which are
mixed
or connected with them, constitute the first class. The
love of
ease, of pleasure, of applause, and of many other selfish
gratifications,
constitute the second. Extravagant fear and
furious
anger, it is often difficult to restrain even for a
single
moment. The love of ease, of pleasure, of applause, and
other
selfish gratifications, it is always easy to restrain for a
single
moment, or even for a short period of time; but, by their
continual
solicitations, they often mislead us into many
weaknesses
which we have afterwards much reason to be ashamed of.
The
former set of passions may often be said to drive, the
latter,
to seduce us from our duty. The command of the former
was, by
the ancient moralists above alluded to, denominated
fortitude,
manhood, and strength of mind; that of the latter,
temperance,
decency, modesty, and moderation.
The command of each of those two sets of
passions,
independent
of the beauty which it derives from its utility; from
its
enabling us upon all occasions to act according to the
dictates
of prudence, of justice, and of proper benevolence; has
a
beauty of its own, and seems to deserve for its own sake a
certain
degree of esteem and admiration. In the one case, the
strength
and greatness of the exertion excites some degree of
that
esteem and admiration. In the other, the uniformity, the
equality
and unremitting steadiness of that exertion.
The man who, in danger, in torture, upon
the approach of
death,
preserves his tranquillity unaltered, and suffers no word,
no
gesture to escape him which does not perfectly accord with the
feelings
of the most indifferent spectator, necessarily commands
a very
high degree of admiration. If he suffers in the cause of
liberty
and justice, for the sake of humanity and the love of his
country,
the most tender compassion for his sufferings, the
strongest
indignation against the injustice of his persecutors,
the
warmest sympathetic gratitude for his beneficent intentions,
the
highest sense of his merit, all join and mix themselves with
the
admiration of his magnanimity, and often inflame that
sentiment
into the most enthusiastic and rapturous veneration.
The
heroes of ancient and modern history, who are remembered with
the
most peculiar favour and affection, are, many of them, those
who, in
the cause of truth, liberty, and justice, have perished
upon
the scaffold, and who behaved there with that ease and
dignity
which became them. Had the enemies of Socrates suffered
him to
die quietly in his bed, the glory even of that great
philosopher
might possibly never have acquired that dazzling
splendour
in which it has been beheld in all succeeding ages. In
the
english history, when we look over the illustrious heads
which
have been engraven by Vertue and Howbraken, there is scarce
any
body, I imagine, who does not feel that the axe, the emblem
of
having been beheaded, which is engraved under some of the most
illustrious
of them. under those of the Sir Thomas Mores, of the
Rhaleighs,
the Russels, the Sydneys, etc. sheds a real dignity
and
interestingness over the characters to which it is affixed,
much
superior to what they can derive from all the futile
ornaments
of heraldry, with which they are sometimes accompanied.
Nor does this magnanimity give lustre only
to the characters
of
innocent and virtuous men. It draws some degree of favourable
regard
even upon those of the greatest criminals; and when a
robber
or highwayman is brought to the scaffold, and behaves
there
with decency and firmness, though we perfectly approve of
his
punishment, we often cannot help regretting that a man who
possessed
such great and noble powers should have been capable of
such
mean enormities.
War is the great school both for acquiring
and exercising
this
species of magnanimity. Death, as we say, is the king of
terrors;
and the man who has conquered the fear of death, is not
likely
to lose his presence of mind at the approach of any other
natural
evil. In war, men become Familiar with death, and are
thereby
necessarily cured of that superstitious horror with which
it is
viewed by the weak and unexperienced. They consider it
merely
as the loss of life, and as no further the object of
aversion
than as life may happen to be that of desire. They learn
from
experience, too, that many seemingly great dangers are not
so
great as they appear; and that, with courage, activity, and
presence
of mind, there is often a good probability of
extricating
themselves with honour from situations where at first
they
could see no hope. The dread of death is thus greatly
diminished;
and the confidence or hope of escaping it, augmented.
They
learn to expose themselves to danger with less reluctance.
They
are less anxious to get out of it, and less apt to lose
their
presence of mind while they are in it. It is this habitual
contempt
of danger and death which ennobles the profession of a
soldier,
and bestows upon it, in the natural apprehensions of
mankind,
a rank and dignity superior to that of any other
profession.
The skilful and successful exercise of this
profession,
in the service of their country, seems to have
constituted
the most distinguishing feature in the character of
the
favourite heroes of all ages.
Great warlike exploit, though undertaken
contrary to every
principle
of justice, and carried on without any regard to
humanity,
sometimes interests us, and commands even some degree
of a
certain sort of esteem for the very worthless characters
which
conduct it. We are interested even in the exploits of the
Buccaneers;
and read with some sort of esteem and admiration, the
history
of the most worthless men, who, in pursuit of the most
criminal
purposes, endured greater hardships, surmounted greater
difficulties,
and encountered greater dangers, than, perhaps, any
which
the ordinary course of history gives an account of.
The command of anger appears upon many
occasions not less
generous
and noble than that of fear. The proper expression of
just
indignation composes many of the most splendid and admired
passages
both of ancient and modern eloquence. The Philippics of
Demosthenes,
the Catalinarians of Cicero, derive their whole
beauty
from the noble propriety with which this passion is
expressed.
But this just indignation is nothing but anger
restrained
and properly attempered to what the impartial
spectator
can enter into. The blustering and noisy passion which
goes
beyond this, is always odious and offensive, and interests
us, not
for the angry man, but for the man with whom he is angry.
The
nobleness of pardoning appears, upon many occasions, superior
even to
the most perfect propriety of resenting. When either
proper
acknowledgments have been made by the offending party; or,
even
without any such acknowledgments, when the public interest
requires
that the most mortal enemies should unite for the
discharge
of some important duty, the man who can cast away all
animosity,
and act with confidence and cordiality towards the
person
who had most grievously offended him, seems justly to
merit
our highest admiration.
The command of anger, however, does not
always appear in such
splendid
colours. Fear is contrary to anger, and is often the
motive
which restrains it; and in such cases the meanness of the
motive
takes away all the nobleness of the restraint. Anger
prompts
to attack, and the indulgence of it seems sometimes to
shew a
sort of courage and superiority to fear. The indulgence of
anger
is sometimes an object of vanity. That of fear never is.
Vain
and weak men, among their inferiors, or those who dare not
resist
them, often affect to be ostentatiously passionate, and
fancy
that they show, what is called, spirit in being so. A bully
tells
many stories of his own insolence, which are not true, and
imagines
that he thereby renders himself, if not more amiable and
respectable,
at least more formidable to his audience. Modern
manners,
which, by favouring the practice of duelling, may be
said,
in some cases, to encourage private revenge, contribute,
perhaps,
a good deal to render, in modern times, the restraint of
anger
by fear still more contemptible than it might otherwise
appear
to be. There is always something dignified in the command
of
fear, whatever may be the motive upon which it is founded. It
is not
so with the command of anger. Unless it is founded
altogether
in the sense of decency, of dignity, and propriety, it
never
is perfectly agreeable.
To act according to the dictates of
prudence, of justice, and
proper
beneficence, seems to have no great merit where there is
no
temptation to do otherwise. But to act with cool deliberation
in the
midst of the greatest dangers and difficulties; to observe
religiously
the sacred rules of justice in spite both of the
greatest
interests which might tempt, and the greatest injuries
which
might provoke us to violate them; never to suffer the
benevolence
of our temper to be damped or discouraged by the
malignity
and ingratitude of the individuals towards whom it may
have
been exercised; is the character of the most exalted wisdom
and
virtue. Self-command is not only itself a great virtue, but
from it
all the other virtues seem to derive their principal
lustre.
The command of fear, the command of anger,
are always great
and
noble powers. When they are directed by justice and
benevolence,
they are not only great virtues, but increase the
splendour
of those other virtues. They may, however, sometimes be
directed
by very different motives; and in this case, though
still
great and respectable, they may be excessively dangerous.
The
most intrepid valour may be employed in the cause of the
greatest
injustice. Amidst great provocations, apparent
tranquillity
and good humour may sometimes conceal the most
determined
and cruel resolution to revenge. The strength of mind
requisite
for such dissimulation, though always and necessarily
contaminated
by the baseness of falsehood, has, however, been
often
much admired by many people of no contemptible judgment.
The
dissimulation of Catharine of Medicis is often celebrated by
the
profound historian Davila; that of Lord Digby, afterwards
Earl of
Bristol, by the grave and conscientious Lord Clarendon;
that of
the first Ashley Earl of Shaftesbury, by the judicious Mr
Locke.
Even Cicero seems to consider this deceitful character,
not
indeed as of the highest dignity, but as not unsuitable to a
certain
flexibility of manners, which, he thinks, may,
notwithstanding,
be, upon the whole, both agreeable and
respectable.
He exemplifies it by the characters of Homer's
Ulysses,
of the Athenian Themistocles, of the Spartan Lysander,
and of
the Roman Marcus Crassus. This character of dark and deep
dissimulation
occurs most commonly in times of great public
disorder;
amidst the violence of faction and civil war. When law
has
become in a great measure impotent, when the most perfect
innocence
cannot alone insure safety, regard to self-defence
obliges
the greater part of men to have recourse to dexterity, to
address,
and to apparent accommodation to whatever happens to be,
at the
moment, the prevailing party. This false character, too,
is
frequently accompanied with the coolest and most determined
courage.
The proper exercise of it supposes that courage, as
death
is commonly the certain consequence of detection. It may be
employed
indifferently, either to exasperate or to allay those
furious
animosities of adverse factions which impose the
necessity
of assuming it; and though it may sometimes be useful,
it is
at least equally liable to be excessively pernicious.
The command of the less violent and
turbulent passions seems
much
less liable to be abused to any pernicious purpose.
Temperance,
decency, modesty, and moderation, are always amiable,
and can
seldom be directed to any bad end. It is from the
unremitting
steadiness of those gentler exertions of
self-command,
that the amiable virtue of chastity, that the
respectable
virtues of industry and frugality, derive all that
sober
lustre which attends them. The conduct of all those who are
contented
to walk in the humble paths of private and peaceable
life,
derives from the same principle the greater part of the
beauty
and grace which belong to it; a beauty and grace, which,
though
much less dazzling, is not always less pleasing than those
which
accompany the more splendid actions of the hero, the
statesman,
or the legislator.
After what has already been said, in
several different parts
of this
discourse, concerning the nature of self-command, I judge
it
unnecessary to enter into any further detail concerning those
virtues.
I shall only observe at present, that the point of
propriety,
the degree of any passion which the impartial
spectator
approves of, is differently situated in different
passions.
In some passions the excess is less disagreeable than
the
defect; and in such passions the point of propriety seems to
stand
high, or nearer to the excess than to the defect. In other
passions,
the defect is less disagreeable than the excess; and in
such
passions the point of propriety seems to stand low, or
nearer
to the defect than to the excess. The former are the
passions
which the spectator is most, the latter, those which he
is
least disposed to sympathize with. The former, too, are the
passions
of which the immediate feeling or sensation is agreeable
to the
person principally concerned; the latter, those of which
it is
disagreeable. It may be laid down as a general rule, that
the
passions which the spectator is most disposed to sympathize
with,
and in which, upon that account, the point of propriety may
be said
to stand high, are those of which the immediate feeling
or
sensation is more or less agreeable to the person principally
concerned:
and that, on the contrary, the passions which the
spectator
is least disposed to sympathize with, and in which,
upon
that account, the point of propriety may be said to stand
low,
are those of which the immediate feeling or sensation is
more or
less disagreeable, or even painful, to the person
principally
concerned. This general rule, so far as I have been
able to
observe, admits not of a single exception. A few examples
will at
once, both sufficiently explain it and demonstrate the
truth
of it.
The disposition to the affections which
tend to unite men in
society,
to humanity, kindness, natural affection, friendship,
esteem,
may sometimes be excessive. Even the excess of this
disposition,
however, renders a man interesting to every body.
Though
we blame it, we still regard it with compassion, and even
with kindness,
and never with dislike. We are more sorry for it
than
angry at it. To the person himself, the indulgence even of
such
excessive affections is, upon many occasions, not only
agreeable,
but delicious. Upon some occasions, indeed, especially
when directed,
as is too often the case, towards unworthy
objects,
it exposes him to much real and heartfelt distress. Even
upon
such occasions, however, a well-disposed mind regards him
with
the most exquisite pity, and feels the highest indignation
against
those who affect to despise him for his weakness and
imprudence.
The defect of this disposition, on the contrary, what
is
called hardness of heart, while it renders a man insensible to
the
feelings and distresses of other people, renders other people
equally
insensible to his; and, by excluding him from the
friendship
of all the world, excludes him from the best and most
comfortable
of all social enjoyments.
The disposition to the affections which
drive men from one
another,
and which tend, as it were, to break the bands of human
society;
the disposition to anger, hatred, envy, malice, revenge;
is, on
the contrary, much more apt to offend by its excess than
by its
defect. The excess renders a man wretched and miserable in
his own
mind, and the object of hatred, and sometimes even of
horror,
to other people. The defect is very seldom complained of.
It may,
however, be defective. The want of proper indignation is
a most
essential defect in the manly character, and, upon many
occasions,
renders a man incapable of protecting either himself
or his
friends from insult and injustice. Even that principle, in
the
excess and improper direction of which consists the odious
and
detestable passion of envy, may be defective. Envy is that
passion
which views with malignant dislike the superiority of
those
who are really entitled to all the superiority they
possess.
The man, however, who, in matters of consequence, tamely
suffers
other people, who are entitled to no such superiority, to
rise
above him or get before him, is justly condemned as
mean-spirited.
This weakness is commonly founded in indolence,
sometimes
in good nature, in an aversion to opposition, to bustle
and
solicitation, and sometimes, too, in a sort of ill-judged
magnanimity,
which fancies that it can always continue to despise
the
advantage which it then despises, and, therefore, so easily
gives
up. Such weakness, however, is commonly followed by much
regret
and repentance; and what had some appearance of
magnanimity
in the beginning frequently gives place to a most
malignant
envy in the end, and to a hatred of that superiority,
which
those who have once attained it, may often become really
entitled
to, by the very circumstance of having attained it. In
order
to live comfortably in the world, it is, upon all
occasions,
as necessary to defend our dignity and rank, as it is
to
defend our life or our fortune.
Our sensibility to personal danger and
distress, like that to
personal
provocation, is much more apt to offend by its excess
than by
its defect. No character is more contemptible than that
of a
coward; no character is more admired than that of the man
who
faces death with intrepidity, and maintains his tranquillity
and
presence of mind amidst the most dreadful dangers. We esteem
the man
who supports pain and even torture with manhood and
firmness;
and we can have little regard for him who sinks under
them,
and abandons himself to useless outcries and womanish
lamentations.
A fretful temper, which feels, with too much
sensibility,
every little cross accident, renders a man miserable
in
himself and offensive to other people. A calm one, which does
not
allow its tranquillity to be disturbed, either by the small
injuries,
or by the little disasters incident to the usual course
of
human affairs; but which, amidst the natural and moral evils
infesting
the world, lays its account and is contented to suffer
a
little from both, is a blessing to the man himself, and gives
ease
and security to all his companions.
Our sensibility, however, both to our own
injuries and to our
own
misfortunes, though generally too strong, may likewise be too
weak.
The man who feels little for his own misfortunes must
always
feel less for those of other people, and be less disposed
to
relieve them. The man who has little resentment for the
injuries
which are done to himself, must always have less for
those
which are done to other people, and be less disposed either
to
protect or to avenge them. A stupid insensibility to the
events
of human life necessarily extinguishes all that keen and
earnest
attention to the propriety of our own conduct, which
constitutes
the real essence of virtue. We can feel little
anxiety
about the propriety of our own actions, when we are
indifferent
about the events which may result from them. The man
who
feels the full distress of the calamity which has befallen
him,
who feels the whole baseness of the injustice which has been
done to
him, but who feels still more strongly what the dignity
of his
own character requires; who does not abandon himself to
the
guidance of the undisciplined passions which his situation
might
naturally inspire; but who governs his whole behaviour and
conduct
according to those restrained and corrected emotions
which
the great inmate, the great demi-god within the breast
prescribes
and approves of; is alone the real man of virtue, the
only
real and proper object of love, respect, and admiration.
Insensibility
and that noble firmness, that exalted self-command,
which
is founded in the sense of dignity and propriety, are so
far
from being altogether the same, that in proportion as the
former
takes place, the merit of the latter is, in many cases,
entirely
taken away.
But though the total want of sensibility
to personal injury,
to
personal danger and distress, would, in such situations, take
away
the whole merit of self-command, that sensibility, however,
may
very easily be too exquisite, and it frequently is so. When
the
sense of propriety, when the authority of the judge within
the
breast, can control this extreme sensibility, that authority
must no
doubt appear very noble and very great. But the exertion
of it
may be too fatiguing; it may have too much to do. The
individual,
by a great effort, may behave perfectly well. But the
contest
between the two principles, the warfare within the
breast,
may be too violent to be at all consistent with internal
tranquillity
and happiness. The wise man whom Nature has endowed
with
this too exquisite sensibility, and whose too lively
feelings
have not been sufficiently blunted and hardened by early
education
and proper exercise, will avoid, as much as duty and
propriety
will permit, the situations for which he is not
perfectly
fitted. The man whose feeble and delicate constitution
renders
him too sensible to pain, to hardship, and to every sort
of
bodily distress, should not wantonly embrace the profession of
a
soldier. The man of too much sensibility to injury, should not
rashly
engage in the contests of faction. Though the sense of
propriety
should be strong enough to command all those
sensibilities,
the composure of the mind must always be disturbed
in the
struggle. In this disorder the judgment cannot always
maintain
its ordinary acuteness and precision; and though he may
always
mean to act properly, he may often act rashly and
imprudently,
and in a manner which he himself will, in the
succeeding
part of his life, be for ever ashamed of. A certain
intrepidity,
a certain firmness of nerves and hardiness of
constitution,
whether natural or acquired, are undoubtedly the
best
preparatives for all the great exertions of self-command.
Though war and faction are certainly the
best schools for
forming
every man to this hardiness and firmness of temper,
though
they are the best remedies for curing him of the opposite
weaknesses,
yet, if the day of trial should happen to come before
he has
completely learned his lesson, before the remedy has had
time to
produce its proper effect, the consequences might not be
agreeable.
Our sensibility to the pleasures, to the
amusements and
enjoyments
of human life, may offend, in the same manner, either
by its
excess or by its defect. Of the two, however, the excess
seems
less disagreeable than the defect. Both to the spectator
and to
the person principally concerned, a strong propensity to
joy is
certainly more pleasing than a dull insensibility to the
objects
of amusement and diversion. We are charmed with the
gaiety
of youth, and even with the playfulness of childhood: but
we soon
grow weary of the flat and tasteless gravity which too
frequently
accompanies old age. When this propensity, indeed, is
not
restrained by the sense of propriety, when it is unsuitable
to the
time or to the place, to the age or to the situation of
the
person, when, to indulge it, he neglects either his interest
or his
duty; it is justly blamed as excessive, and as hurtful
both to
the individual and to the society. In the greater part of
such
cases, however, what is chiefly to be found fault with is,
not so
much the strength of the propensity to joy, as the
weakness
of the sense of propriety and duty. A young man who has
no
relish for the diversions and amusements that are natural and
suitable
to his age, who talks of nothing but his book or his
business,
is disliked as formal and pedantic; and we give him no
credit
for his abstinence even from improper indulgences, to
which
he seems to have so little inclination.
The principle of self-estimation may be
too high, and it may
likewise
be too low. It is so very agreeable to think highly, and
so very
disagreeable to think meanly of ourselves, that, to the
person
himself, it cannot well be doubted, but that some degree
of
excess must be much less disagreeable than any degree of
defect.
But to the impartial spectator, it may perhaps be
thought,
things must appear quite differently, and that to him,
the
defect must always be less disagreeable than the excess. And
in our
companions, no doubt, we much more frequently complain of
the
latter than of the former. When they assume upon us, or set
themselves
before us, their self-estimation mortifies our own.
Our own
pride and vanity prompt us to accuse them of pride and
vanity,
and we cease to be the impartial spectators of their
conduct.
When the same companions, however, suffer any other man
to
assume over them a superiority which does not belong to him,
we not
only blame them, but often despise them as mean-spirited.
When,
on the contrary, among other people, they push themselves a
little
more forward, and scramble to an elevation
disproportioned,
as we think, to their merit, though we may not
perfectly
approve of their conduct, we are often, upon the whole,
diverted
with it; and, where there is no envy in the case, we are
almost
always much less displeased with them, than we should have
been,
had they suffered themselves to sink below their proper
station.
In estimating our own merit, in judging of
our own character
and
conduct, there are two different standards to which we
naturally
compare them. The one is the idea of exact propriety
and
perfection, so far as we are each of us capable of
comprehending
that idea. The other is that degree of
approximation
to this idea which is commonly attained in the
world,
and which the greater part of our friends and companions,
of our
rivals and competitors, may have actually arrived at. We
very
seldom (I am disposed to think, we never) attempt to judge
of
ourselves without giving more or less attention to both these
different
standards. But the attention of different men, and even
of the
same man at different times, is often very unequally
divided
between them; and is sometimes principally directed
towards
the one, and sometimes towards the other.
So far as our attention is directed
towards the first
standard,
the wisest and best of us all, can, in his own
character
and conduct, see nothing but weakness and imperfection;
can
discover no ground for arrogance and presumption, but a great
deal
for humility, regret and repentance. So far as our attention
is
directed towards the second, we may be affected either in the
one way
or in the other, and feel ourselves, either really above,
or
really below, the standard to which we compare ourselves.
The wise and virtuous man directs his
principal attention to
the
first standard; the idea of exact propriety and perfection.
There
exists in the mind of every man, an idea of this kind,
gradually
formed from his observations upon the character and
conduct
both of himself and of other people. It is the slow,
gradual,
and progressive work of the great demigod within the
breast,
the great judge and arbiter of conduct. This idea is in
every
man more or less accurately drawn, its colouring is more or
less
just, its outlines are more or less exactly designed,
according
to the delicacy and acuteness of that sensibility, with
which
those observations were made, and according to the care and
attention
employed in making them. In the wise and virtuous man
they
have been made with the most acute and delicate sensibility,
and the
utmost care and attention have been employed in making
them.
Every day some feature is improved; every day some blemish
is
corrected. He has studied this idea more than other people, he
comprehends
it more distinctly, he has formed a much more correct
image
of it, and is much more deeply enamoured of its exquisite
and
divine beauty. He endeavours as well as he can, to assimilate
his own
character to this archetype of perfection. But he
imitates
the work of a divine artist, which can never be
equalled.
He feels the imperfect success of all his best
endeavours,
and sees, with grief and affliction, in how many
different
features the mortal copy falls short of the immortal
original.
He remembers, with concern and humilation, how often,
from
want of attention, from want of judgment, from want of
temper,
he has, both in words and actions, both in conduct and
conversation,
violated the exact rules of perfect propriety; and
has so
far departed from that model, according to which he wished
to
fashion his own character and conduct. When he directs his
attention
towards the second standard, indeed, that degree of
excellence
which his friends and acquaintances have commonly
arrived
at, he may be sensible of his own superiority. But, as
his
principal attention is always directed towards the first
standard,
he is necessarily much more humbled by the one
comparison,
than he ever can be elevated by the other. He is
never
so elated as to look down with insolence even upon those
who are
really below him. He feels so well his own imperfection,
he
knows so well the difficulty with which he attained his own
distant
approximation to rectitude, that he cannot regard with
contempt
the still greater imperfection of other people. Far from
insulting
over their inferiority, he views it with the most
indulgent
commiseration, and, by his advice as well as example,
is at
all times willing to promote their further advancement. If,
in any
particular qualification, they happen to be superior to
him
(for who is so perfect as not to have many superiors in many
different
qualifications?), far from envying their superiority,
he, who
knows how difficult it is to excel, esteems and honours
their
excellence, and never fails to bestow upon it the full
measure
of applause which it deserves. His whole mind, in short,
is
deeply impressed, his whole behaviour and deportment are
distinctly
stamped with the character of real modesty; with that
of a
very moderate estimation of his own merit, and, at the same
time,
of a full sense of the merit of other people.
In all the liberal and ingenious arts, in
painting, in
poetry,
in music, in eloquence, in philosophy, the great artist
feels
always the real imperfection of his own best works, and is
more
sensible than any man how much they fall short of that ideal
perfection
of which he has formed some conception, which he
imitates
as well as he can, but which he despairs of ever
equalling.
It is the inferior artist only, who is ever perfectly
satisfied
with his own performances. He has little conception of
this
ideal perfection, about which he has little employed his
thoughts;
and it is chiefly to the works of other artists, of,
perhaps,
a still lower order, that he deigns to compare his own
works.
Boileau, the great French poet (in some of his works,
perhaps
not inferior to the greatest poet of the same kind,
either
ancient or modern), used to say, that no great man was
ever
completely satisfied with his own works. His acquaintance
Santeuil
(a writer of Latin verses, and who, on account of that
schoolboy
accomplishment, had the weakness to fancy himself a
poet),
assured him, that he himself was always completely
satisfied
with his own. Boileau replied, with, perhaps, an arch
ambiguity,
that he certainly was the only great man that ever was
so.
Boileau, in judging of his own works, compared them with the
standard
of ideal perfection, which, in his own particular branch
of the
poetic art, he had, I presume, meditated as deeply, and
conceived
as distinctly, as it is possible for man to conceive
it.
Santeuil, in judging of his own works, compared them, I
suppose,
chiefly to those of the other Latin poets of his own
time,
to the greater part of whom he was certainly very far from
being
inferior. But to support and finish off, if I may say so,
the
conduct and conversation of a whole life to some resemblance
of this
ideal perfection, is surely much more difficult than to
work up
to an equal resemblance any of the productions of any of
the
ingenious arts. The artist sits down to his work undisturbed,
at
leisure, in the full possession and recollection of all his
skill,
experience, and knowledge. The wise man must support the
propriety
of his own conduct in health and in sickness, in
success
and in disappointment, in the hour of fatigue and drowsy
indolence,
as well as in that of the most awakened attention. The
most
sudden and unexpected assaults of difficulty and distress
must
never surprise him. The injustice of other people must never
provoke
him to injustice. The violence of faction must never
confound
him. All the hardships and hazards of war must never
either
dishearten or appal him.
Of the persons who, in estimating their
own merit, in judging
of
their own character and conduct, direct by far the greater
part of
their attention to the second standard, to that ordinary
degree
of excellence which is commonly attained by other people,
there
are some who really and justly feel themselves very much
above
it, and who, by every intelligent and impartial spectator,
are
acknowledged to be so. The attention of such persons,
however,
being always principally directed, not to the standard
of
ideal, but to that of ordinary perfection, they have little
sense
of their own weaknesses and imperfections; they have little
modesty;
are often assuming, arrogant, and presumptuous; great
admirers
of themselves, and great contemners of other people.
Though
their characters are in general much less correct, and
their
merit much inferior to that of the man of real and modest
virtue;
yet their excessive presumption, founded upon their own
excessive
self-admiration, dazzles the multitude, and often
imposes
even upon those who are much superior to the multitude.
The
frequent, and often wonderful, success of the most ignorant
quacks
and imposters, both civil and religious, sufficiently
demonstrate
how easily the multitude are imposed upon by the most
extravagant
and groundless pretensions. But when those
pretensions
are supported by a very high degree of real and solid
merit,
when they are displayed with all the splendour which
ostentation
can bestow upon them, when they are supported by high
rank
and great power, when they have often been successfully
exerted,
and are, upon that account, attended by the loud
acclamations
of the multitude; even the man of sober judgment
often
abandons himself to the general admiration. The very noise
of
those foolish acclamations often contributes to confound his
understanding,
and while he sees those great men only at a
certain
distance, he is often disposed to worship them with a
sincere
admiration, superior even to that with which they appear
to
worship themselves. When there is no envy in the case, we all
take
pleasure in admiring, and are, upon that account, naturally
disposed,
in our own fancies, to render complete and perfect in
every
respect the characters which, in many respects, are so very
worthy
of admiration. The excessive self-admiration of those
great
men is well understood, perhaps, and even seen through,
with
some degree of derision, by those wise men who are much in
their
familiarity, and who secretly smile at those lofty
pretensions,
which, by people at a distance, are often regarded
with
reverence, and almost with adoration. Such, however, have
been,
in all ages, the greater part of those men who have
procured
to themselves the most noisy fame, the most extensive
reputation;
a fame and reputation, too, which have often
descended
to the remotest posterity.
Great success in the world, great
authority over the
sentiments
and opinions of mankind, have very seldom been
acquired
without some degree of this excessive self-admiration.
The
most splendid characters, the men who have performed the most
illustrious
actions, who have brought about the greatest
revolutions,
both in the situations and opinions of mankind; the
most
successful warriors, the greatest statesmen and legislators,
the
eloquent founders and leaders of the most numerous and most
successful
sects and parties; have many of them been, not more
distinguished
for their very great merit, than for a degree of
presumption
and self-admiration altogether disproportioned even
to that
very great merit. This presumption was, perhaps,
necessary,
not only to prompt them to undertakings which a more
sober
mind would never have thought of, but to command the
submission
and obedience of their followers to support them in
such
undertakings. When crowned with success, accordingly, this
presumption
has often betrayed them into a vanity that approached
almost
to insanity and folly. Alexander the Great appears, not
only to
have wished that other people should think him a God, but
to have
been at least very well disposed to fancy himself such.
Upon
his death-bed, the most ungodlike of all situations, he
requested
of his friends that, to the respectable list of
Deities,
into which himself had long before been inserted, his
old
mother Olympia might likewise have the honour of being added.
Amidst
the respectful admiration of his followers and disciples,
amidst
the universal applause of the public, after the oracle,
which
probably had followed the voice of that applause, had
pronounced
him the wisest of men, the great wisdom of Socrates,
though
it did not suffer him to fancy himself a God, yet was not
great
enough to hinder him from fancying that he had secret and
frequent
intimations from some invisible and divine Being. The
sound
head of Caesar was not so perfectly sound as to hinder him
from
being much pleased with his divine genealogy from the
goddess
Venus; and, before the temple of this pretended
great-grandmother,
to receive, without rising from his seat, the
Roman
Senate, when that illustrious body came to present him with
some
decrees conferring upon him the most extravagant honours.
This
insolence, joined to some other acts of an almost childish
vanity,
little to be expected from an understanding at once so
very
acute and comprehensive, seems, by exasperating the public
jealousy,
to have emboldened his assassins, and to have hastened
the
execution of their conspiracy. The religion and manners of
modern
times give our great men little encouragement to fancy
themselves
either Gods or even Prophets. Success, however, joined
to
great popular favour, has often so far turned the heads of the
greatest
of them, as to make them ascribe to themselves both an
importance
and an ability much beyond what they really possessed;
and, by
this presumption, to precipitate themselves into many
rash
and sometimes ruinous adventures. It is a characteristic
almost
peculiar to the great Duke of Marlborough, that ten years
of such
uninterrupted and such splendid success as scarce any
other
general could boast of, never betrayed him into a single
rash
action, scarce into a single rash word or expression. The
same
temperate coolness and self-command cannot, I think, be
ascribed
to any other great warrior of later times; not to Prince
Eugene,
not to the late King of Prussia, not to the great Prince
of
Conde, not even to Gustavus Adolphus. Turrenne seems to have
approached
the nearest to it; but several different transactions
of his
life sufficiently demonstrate that it was in him by no
means
so perfect as in the great Duke of Marlborough.
In the humble project of private life, as
well as in the
ambitious
and proud pursuit of high stations, great abilities and
successful
enterprise, in the beginning, have frequently
encouraged
to undertakings which necessarily led to bankruptcy
and
ruin in the end.
The esteem and admiration which every
impartial spectator
conceives
for the real merit of those spirited, magnanimous, and
high-minded
persons, as it is a just and well-founded sentiment,
so it
is a steady and permanent one, and altogether independent
of
their good or bad fortune. It is otherwise with that
admiration
which he is apt to conceive for their excessive
self-estimation
and presumption. While they are successful,
indeed,
he is often perfectly conquered and overborne by them.
Success
covers from his eyes, not only the great imprudence, but
frequently
the great injustice of their enterprises; and, far
from
blaming this defective part of their character, he often
views
it with the most enthusiastic admiration. When they are
unfortunate,
however, things change their colours and their
names.
What was before heroic magnanimity, resumes its proper
appellation
of extravagant rashness and folly; and the blackness
of that
avidity and injustice, which was before hid under the
splendour
of prosperity, comes full into view, and blots the
whole
lustre of their enterprise. Had Caesar, instead of gaining,
lost
the battle of Pharsalia, his character would, at this hour,
have
ranked a little above that of Catiline, and the weakest man
would
have viewed his enterprise against the laws of his country
in
blacker colours, than, perhaps, even Cato, with all the
animosity
of a party-man, ever viewed it at the time. His real
merit,
the justness of his taste, the simplicity and elegance of
his
writings, the propriety of his eloquence, his skill in war,
his
resources in distress, his cool and sedate judgment in
danger,
his faithful attachment to his friends, his unexampled
generosity
to his enemies, would all have been acknowledged; as
the
real merit of Catiline, who had many great qualities, is
acknowledged
at this day. But the insolence and injustice of his
all-grasping
ambition would have darkened and extinguished the
glory
of all that real merit. Fortune has in this, as well as in
some
other respects already mentioned, great influence over the
moral
sentiments of mankind, and, according as she is either
favourable
or adverse, can render the same character the object,
either
of general love and admiration, or of universal hatred and
contempt.
This great disorder in our moral sentiments is by no
means,
however, without its utility; and we may on this, as well
as on
many other occasions, admire the wisdom of God even in the
weakness
and folly of man. Our admiration of success is founded
upon
the same principle with our respect for wealth and
greatness,
and is equally necessary for establishing the
distinction
of ranks and the order of society. By this admiration
of
success we are taught to submit more easily to those
superiors,
whom the course of human affairs may assign to us; to
regard
with reverence, and sometimes even with a sort of
respectful
affection, that fortunate violence which we are no
longer
capable of resisting; not only the violence of such
splendid
characters as those of a Caesar or an Alexander, but
often
that of the most brutal and savage barbarians, of an
Attila,
a Gengis, or a Tamerlane. To all such mighty conquerors
the
great mob of mankind are naturally disposed to look up with a
wondering,
though, no doubt, with a very weak and foolish
admiration.
By this admiration, however, they are taught to
acquiesce
with less reluctance under that government which an
irresistible
force imposes upon them, and from which no
reluctance
could deliver them.
Though in prosperity, however, the man of
excessive
self-estimation
may sometimes appear to have some advantage over
the man
of correct and modest virtue; though the applause of the
multitude,
and of those who see them both only at a distance, is
often
much louder in favour of the one than it ever is in favour
of the
other; yet, all things fairly computed, the real balance
of
advantage is, perhaps in all cases, greatly in favour of the
latter
and against the former. The man who neither ascribes to
himself,
nor wishes that other people should ascribe to him, any
other
merit besides that which really belongs to him, fears no
humiliation,
dreads no detection; but rests contented and secure
upon
the genuine truth and solidity of his own character. His
admirers
may neither be very numerous nor very loud in their
applauses;
but the wisest man who sees him the nearest and who
knows
him the best, admires him the most. To a real wise man the
judicious
and well-weighed approbation of a single wise man,
gives
more heartfelt satisfaction than all the noisy applauses of
ten
thousand ignorant though enthusiastic admirers. He may say
with
Parmenides, who, upon reading a philosophical discourse
before
a public assembly at Athens, and observing, that, except
Plato,
the whole company had left him, continued,
notwithstanding,
to read on, and said that Plato alone was
audience
sufficient for him.
It is otherwise with the man of excessive
self-estimation.
The
wise men who see him the nearest, admire him the least.
Amidst
the intoxication of prosperity, their sober and just
esteem
falls so far short of the extravagance of his own
self-admiration,
that he regards it as mere malignity and envy.
He
suspects his best friends. Their company becomes offensive to
him. He
drives them from his presence, and often rewards their
services,
not only with ingratitude, but with cruelty and
injustice.
He abandons his confidence to flatterers and traitors,
who
pretend to idolize his vanity and presumption; and that
character
which in the beginning, though in some respects
defective,
was, upon the whole, both amiable and respectable,
becomes
contemptible and odious in the end. Amidst the
intoxication
of prosperity, Alexander killed Clytus, for having
preferred
the exploits of his father Philip to his own; put
Calisthenes
to death in torture, for having refused to adore him
in the
Persian manner; and murdered the great friend of his
father,
the venerable Parmenio, after having, upon the most
groundless
suspicions, sent first to the torture and afterwards
to the
scaffold the only remaining son of that old man, the rest
having
all before died in his own service. This was that Parmenio
of whom
Philip used to say, that the Athenians were very
fortunate
who could find ten generals every year, while he
himself,
in the whole course of his life, could never find one
but
Parmenio. It was upon the vigilance and attention of this
Parmenio
that he reposed at all times with confidence and
security,
and, in his hours of mirth and jollity, used to say,
Let us
drink, my friends, we may do it with safety, for Parmenio
never
drinks. It was this same Parmenio, with whose presence and
counsel,
it had been said, Alexander had gained all his
victories;
and without whose presence and counsel, he had never
gained
a single victory. The humble, admiring, and flattering
friends,
whom Alexander left in power and authority behind him,
divided
his empire among themselves, and after having thus robbed
his
family and kindred of their inheritance, put, one after
another,
every single surviving individual of them, whether male
or
female, to death.
We frequently, not only pardon, but
thoroughly enter into and
sympathize
with the excessive self-estimation of those splendid
characters
in which we observe a great and distinguished
superiority
above the common level of mankind. We call them
spirited,
magnanimous, and high-minded; words which all involve
in
their meaning a considerable degree of praise and admiration.
But we
cannot enter into anD sympathize with the excessive
self-estimation
of those characters in which we can discern no
such
distinguished superiority. We are disgusted and revolted by
it; and
it is with some difficulty that we can either pardon or
suffer
it: We call it pride or vanity; two words, of which the
latter
always, and the former for the most part, involve in their
meaning
a considerable degree of blame.
Those two vices, however, though
resembling, in some
respects,
as being both modifications of excessive
self-estimation,
are yet, in many respects, very different from
one
another.
The proud man is sincere, and, in the
bottom of his heart, is
convinced
of his own superiority; though it may sometimes be
difficult
to guess upon what that conviction is founded. He
wishes
you to view him in no other light than that in which, when
he
places himself in your situation, he really views himself. He
demands
no more of you than, what he thinks, justice. If you
appear
not to respect him as he respects himself, he is more
offended
than mortified, and feels the same indignant resentment
as if
he had suffered a real injury. He does not even then,
however,
deign to explain the grounds of his own pretensions. He
disdains
to court your esteem. He affects even to despise it, and
endeavours
to maintain his assumed station, not so much by making
you
sensible of his superiority, as of your own meanness. He
seems
to wish, not so much to excite your esteem for himself as
to
mortify that for yourself.
The vain man is not sincere, and, in the
bottom of his heart,
is very
seldom convinced of that superiority which he wishes you
to
ascribe to him. He wishes you to view him in much more
splendid
colours than those in which, when he places himself in
your
situation, and supposes you to know all that he knows, he
can
really view himself. When you appear to view him, therefore,
in
different colours, perhaps in his proper colours, he is much
more
mortified than offended. The grounds of his claim to that
character
which he wishes you to ascribe to him, he takes every
opportunity
of displaying, both by the most ostentatious and
unnecessary
exhibition of the good qualities and accomplishments
which
he possesses in some tolerable degree, and sometimes even
by
false pretensions to those which he either possesses in no
degree,
or in so very slender a degree that he may well enough be
said to
possess them in no degree. Far from despising your
esteem,
he courts it with the most anxious assiduity. Far from
wishing
to mortify your self-estimation, he is happy to cherish
it, in
hopes that in return you will cherish his own. He flatters
in
order to be flattered. He studies to please, and endeavours to
bribe
you into a good opinion of him by politeness and
complaisance,
and sometimes even by real and essential good
offices,
though often displayed, perhaps, with unnecessary
ostentation.
The vain man sees the respect which is
paid to rank and
fortune,
and wishes to usurp this respect, as well as that for
talents
and virtues. His dress, his equipage, his way of living,
accordingly,
all announce both a higher rank and a greater
fortune
than really belong to him; and in order to support this
foolish
imposition for a few years in the beginning of his life,
he
often reduces himself to poverty and distress long before the
end of
it. As long as he can continue his expence, however, his
vanity
is delighted with viewing himself, not in the light in
which
you would view him if you knew all that he knows; but in
that in
which, he imagines, he has, by his own address, induced
you
actually to view him. Of all the illusions of vanity this is,
perhaps,
the most common. Obscure strangers who visit foreign
countries,
or who, from a remote province, come to visit, for a
short
time, the capital of their own country, most frequently
attempt
to practise it. The folly of the attempt, though always
very
great and most unworthy of a man of sense, may not be
altogether
so great upon such as upon most other occasions. If
their
stay is short, they may escape any disgraceful detection;
and,
after indulging their vanity for a few months or a few
years,
they may return to their own homes, and repair, by future
parsimony,
the waste of their past profusion.
The proud man can very seldom be accused
of this folly. His
sense
of his own dignity renders him careful to preserve his
independency,
and, when his fortune happens not to be large,
though
he wishes to be decent, he studies to be frugal and
attentive
in all his expences. The ostentatious expence of the
vain
man is highly offensive to him. It outshines, perhaps, his
own. It
provokes his indignation as an insolent assumption of a
rank
which is by no means due; and he never talks of it without
loading
it with the harshest and severest reproaches.
The proud man does not always feel himself
at his ease in the
company
of his equals, and still less in that of his superiors.
He
cannot lay down his lofty pretensions, and the countenance and
conversation
of such company overawe him so much that he dare not
display
them. He has recourse to humbler company, for which he
has
little respect, which he would not willingly chuse; and which
is by
no means agreeable to him; that of his inferiors, his
flatterers,
and dependants. He seldom visits his superiors, or,
if he
does, it is rather to show that he is entitled to live in
such
company, than for any real satisfaction that he enjoys in
it. It
is as Lord Clarendon says of the Earl of Arundel, that he
sometimes
went to court, because he could there only find a
greater
man than himself; but that he went very seldom, because
he
found there a greater man than himself.
It is quite otherwise with the vain man.
He courts the
company
of his superiors as much as the proud man shuns it. Their
splendour,
he seems to think, reflects a splendour upon those who
are
much about them. He haunts the courts of kings and the levees
of
ministers, and gives himself the air of being a candidate for
fortune
and preferment, when in reality he possesses the much
more
precious happiness, if he knew how to enjoy it, of not being
one. He
is fond of being admitted to the tables of the great, and
still
more fond of magnifying to other people the familiarity
with
which he is honoured there. He associates himself, as much
as he
can, with fashionable people, with those who are supposed
to
direct the public opinion, with the witty, with the learned,
with
the popular; and he shuns the company of his best friends
whenever
the very uncertain current of public favour happens to
run in
any respect against them. With the people to whom he
wishes
to recommend himself, he is not always very delicate about
the
means which he employs for that purpose; unnecessary
ostentation,
groundless pretensions, constant assentation,
frequently
flattery, though for the most part a pleasant and a
sprightly
flattery, and very seldom the gross and fulsome
flattery
of a parasite. The proud man, on the contrary, never
flatters,
and is frequently scarce civil to any body.
Notwithstanding all its groundless
pretensions, however,
vanity
is almost always a sprightly and a gay, and very often a
good-natured
passion. Pride is always a grave, a sullen, and a
severe
one. Even the falsehoods of the vain man are all innocent
falsehoods,
meant to raise himself, not to lower other people. To
do the
proud man justice, he very seldom stoops to the baseness
of
falsehood. When he does, however, his falsehoods are by no
means
so innocent. They are all mischievous, and meant to lower
other
people. He is full of indignation at the unjust
superiority,
as he thinks it, which is given to them. He views
them
with malignity and envy, and, in talking of them, often
endeavours,
as much as he can, to extenuate and lessen whatever
are the
grounds upon which their superiority is supposed to be
founded.
Whatever tales are circulated to their disadvantage,
though
he seldom forges them himself, yet he often takes pleasure
in
believing them, is by no means unwilling to repeat them, and
even
sometimes with some degree of exaggeration. The worst
falsehoods
of vanity are all what we call white lies: those of
pride,
whenever it condescends to falsehood, are all of the
opposite
complexion.
Our dislike to pride and vanity generally
disposes us to rank
the
persons whom we accuse of those vices rather below than above
the
common level. In this judgment, however, I think, we are most
frequently
in the wrong, and that both the proud and the vain man
are
often (perhaps for the most part) a good deal above it;
though
not near so much as either the one really thinks himself,
or as
the other wishes you to think him. If we compare them with
their
own pretensions, they may appear the just objects of
contempt.
But when we compare them with what the greater part of
their
rivals and competitors really are, they may appear quite
otherwise,
and very much above the common level. Where there is
this
real superiority, pride is frequently attended with many
respectable
virtues; with truth, with integrity, with a high
sense
of honour, with cordial and steady friendship, with the
most
inflexible firmness and resolution. Vanity, with many
amiable
ones; with humanity, with politeness, with a desire to
oblige
in all little matters, and sometimes with a real
generosity
in great ones; a generosity, however, which it often
wishes
to display in the most splendid colours that it can. By
their
rivals and enemies, the French, in the last century, were
accused
of vanity; the Spaniards, of pride; and foreign nations
were
disposed to consider the one as the more amiable; the other,
as the
more respectable people.
The words vain and vanity are never taken
in a good sense. We
sometimes
say of a man, when we are talking of him in good
humour,
that he is the better for his vanity, or that his vanity
is more
diverting than offensive; but we still consider it as a
foible
and a ridicule in his character.
The words proud and pride, on the
contrary, are sometimes
taken
in a good sense. We frequently say of a man, that he is too
proud,
or that he has too much noble pride, ever to suffer
himself
to do a mean thing. Pride is, in this case, confounded
with
magnanimity. Aristotle, a Philosopher who certainly knew the
world,
in drawing the character of the magnanimous man, paints
him
with many features which, in the two last centuries, were
commonly
ascribed to the Spanish character: that he was
deliberate
in all his resolutions; slow, and even tardy, in all
his
actions; that his voice was grave, his speech deliberate, his
step
and motion slow; that he appeared indolent and even
slothful,
not at all disposed to bustle about little matters, but
to act
with the most determined and vigorous resolution upon all
great
and illustrious occasions; that he was not a lover of
danger,
or forward to expose himself to little dangers, but to
great
dangers; and that, when he exposed himself to danger, he
was
altogether regardless of his life.
The proud man is commonly too well
contented with himself to
think
that his character requires any amendment. The man who
feels
himself all-perfect, naturally enough despises all further
improvement.
His self-sufficiency and absurd conceit of his own
superiority,
commonly attend him from his youth to his most
advanced
age; and he dies, as Hamlet says, with all his sins upon
his
head, unanointed, unanealed.
It is frequently otherwise with the vain
man. The desire of
the
esteem and admiration of other people, when for qualities and
talents
which are the natural and proper objects of esteem and
admiration,
is the real love of true glory; a passion which, if
not the
very best passion of human nature, is certainly one of
the
best. Vanity is very frequently no more than an attempt
prematurely
to usurp that glory before it is due. Though your
son,
under five-and-twenty years of age, should be but a coxcomb;
do not,
upon that account, despair of his becoming, before he is
forty,
a very wise and worthy man, and a real proficient in all
those
talents and virtues to which, at present, he may only be an
ostentatious
and empty pretender. The great secret of education
is to
direct vanity to proper objects. Never suffer him to value
himself
upon trivial accomplishments. But do not always
discourage
his pretensions to those that are of real importance.
He
would not pretend to them if he did not earnestly desire to
possess
them. encourage this desire; afford him every means to
facilitate
the acquisition; and do not take too much offence,
although
he should sometimes assume the air of having attained it
a
little before the time.
Such, I say, are the distinguishing
characteristics of pride
and
vanity, when each of them acts according to its proper
character.
But the proud man is often vain; and the vain man is
often
proud. Nothing can be more natural than that the man, who
thinks
much more highly of himself than he deserves, should wish
that
other people should think still more highly of him: or that
the
man, who wishes that other people should think more highly of
him
than he thinks of himself, should, at the same time, think
much
more highly of himself than he deserves. Those two vices
being
frequently in the same character, the characteristics of
both
are necessarily confounded; and we sometimes find the
superficial
and impertinent ostentation of vanity joined to the
most
malignant and derisive insolence of pride. We are sometimes,
upon
that account, at a loss how to rank a particular character,
or
whether to place it among the proud or among the vain.
Men of merit considerably above the common
level, sometimes
underrate
as well as over-rate themselves. Such characters,
though
not very dignified, are often, in private society, far
from
being disagreeable. His companions all feel themselves much
at
their ease in the society of a man so perfectly modest and
unassuming.
If those companions, however, have not both more
discernment
and more generosity than ordinary, though they may
have
some kindness for him, they have seldom much respect; and
the
warmth of their kindness is very seldom sufficient to
compensate
the coldness of their respect. Men of no more than
ordinary
discernment never rate any person higher than he appears
to rate
himself. He seems doubtful himself, they say, whether he
is
perfectly fit for such a situation or such an office; and
immediately
give the preference to some impudent blockhead who
entertains
no doubt about his own qualifications. Though they
should
have discernment, yet, if they want generosity, they never
fail to
take advantage of his simplicity, and to assume over him
an
impertinent superiority which they are by no means entitled
to. His
good-nature may enable him to bear this for some time;
but he
grows weary at last, and frequently when it is too late,
and
when that rank, which he ought to have assumed, is lost
irrecoverably,
and usurped, in consequence of his own
backwardness,
by some of his more forward, though much less
meritorious
companions. A man of this character must have been
very
fortunate in the early choice of his companions, if, in
going
through the world, he meets always with fair justice, even
from
those whom, from his own past kindness, he might have some
reason
to consider as his best friends; and a youth, too
unassuming
and too unambitious, is frequently followed by an
insignificant,
complaining, and discontented old age.
Those unfortunate persons whom nature has
formed a good deal
below
the common level, seem sometimes to rate themselves still
more
below it than they really are. This humility appears
sometimes
to sink them into idiotism. Whoever has taken the
trouble
to examine idiots with attention, will find that, in many
of
them, the faculties of the understanding are by no means
weaker
than in several other people, who, though acknowledged to
be dull
and stupid, are not, by any body, accounted idiots. Many
idiots,
with no more than ordinary education, have been taught to
read,
write, and account tolerably well. Many persons, never
accounted
idiots, notwithstanding the most careful education, and
notwithstanding
that, in their advanced age, they have had spirit
enough
to attempt to learn what their early education had not
taught
them, have never been able to acquire, in any tolerable
degree,
any one of those three accomplishments. By an instinct of
pride,
however, they set themselves upon a level with their
equals
in age and situation; and, with courage and firmness,
maintain
their proper station among their companions. By an
opposite
instinct, the idiot feels himself below every company
into
which you can introduce him. Ill-usage, to which he is
extremely
liable, is capable of throwing him into the most
violent
fits of rage and fury. But no good usage, no kindness or
indulgence,
can ever raise him to converse with you as your
equal.
If you can bring him to converse with you at all, however,
you
will frequently find his answers sufficiently pertinent, and
even
sensible. But they are always stamped with a distinct
consciousness
of his own great inferiority. He seems to shrink
and, as
it were, to retire from your look and conversation; and
to
feel, when he places himself in your situation, that,
notwithstanding
your apparent condescension, you cannot help
considering
him as immensely below you. Some idiots, perhaps the
greater
part, seem to be so, chiefly or altogether, from a
certain
numbness or torpidity in the faculties of the
understanding.
But there are others, in whom those faculties do
not
appear more torpid or benumbed than in many other people who
are not
accounted idiots. But that instinct of pride, necessary
to
support them upon an equality with their brethren, seems
totally
wanting in the former and not in the latter.
That degree of self-estimation, therefore,
which contributes
most to
the happiness and contentment of the person himself,
seems
likewise most agreeable to the impartial spectator. The man
who
esteems himself as he ought, and no more than he ought,
seldom
fails to obtain from other people all the esteem that he
himself
thinks due. He desires no more than is due to him, and he
rests
upon it with complete satisfaction.
The proud and the vain man, on the contrary,
are constantly
dissatisfied.
The one is tormented with indignation at the unjust
superiority,
as he thinks it, of other people. The other is in
continual
dread of the shame which, he foresees, would attend
upon
the detection of his groundless pretensions. Even the
extravagant
pretensions of the man of real magnanimity, though,
when
supported by splendid abilities and virtues, and, above all,
by good
fortune, they impose upon the multitude, whose applauses
he
little regards, do not impose upon those wise men whose
approbation
he can only value, and whose esteem he is most
anxious
to acquire. He feels that they see through, and suspects
that
they despise his excessive presumption; and he often suffers
the
cruel misfortune of becoming, first the jealous and secret,
and at
last the open, furious, and vindictive enemy of those very
persons,
whose friendship it would have given him the greatest
happiness
to enjoy with unsuspicious security.
Though our dislike to the proud and the
vain often disposes
us to
rank them rather below than above their proper station,
yet,
unless we are provoked by some particular and personal
impertinence,
we very seldom venture to use them ill. In common
cases,
we endeavour, for our own ease, rather to acquiesce, and,
as well
as we can, to accommodate ourselves to their folly. But,
to the
man who under-rates himself, unless we have both more
discernment
and more generosity than belong to the greater part
of men,
we seldom fail to do, at least, all the injustice which
he does
to himself, and frequently a great deal more. He is not
only
more unhappy in his own feelings than either the proud or
the
vain, but he is much more liable to every sort of ill-usage
from
other people. In almost all cases, it is better to be a
little
too proud, than, in any respect, too humble; and, in the
sentiment
of self-estimation, some degree of excess seems, both
to the
person and to the impartial spectator, to be less
disagreeable
than any degree of defect.
In this, therefore, as well as in every
other emotion,
passion,
and habit, the degree that is most agreeable to the
impartial
spectator is likewise most agreeable to the person
himself;
and according as either the excess or the defect is
least
offensive to the former, so, either the one or the other is
in
proportion least disagreeable to the latter.
Conclusion
of the Sixth Part
Concern for our own happiness recommends
to us the virtue of
prudence:
concern for that of other people, the virtues of
justice
and beneficence; of which, the one restrains us from
hurting,
the other prompts us to promote that happiness.
Independent
of any regard either to what are, or to what ought to
be, or
to what upon a certain condition would be, the sentiments
of
other people, the first of those three virtues is originally
recommended
to us by our selfish, the other two by our benevolent
affections.
Regard to the sentiments of other people, however,
comes
afterwards both to enforce and to direct the practice of
all those
virtues; and no man during, either the whole of his
life,
or that of any considerable part of it, ever trod steadily
and
uniformly in the paths of prudence, of justice, or of proper
beneficence,
whose conduct was not principally directed by a
regard
to the sentiments of the supposed impartial spectator, of
the
great inmate of the breast, the great judge and arbiter of
conduct.
If in the course of the day we have swerved in any
respect
from the rules which he prescribes to us; if we have
either
exceeded or relaxed in our frugality; if we have either
exceeded
or relaxed in our industry; if, through passion or
inadvertency,
we have hurt in any respect the interest or
happiness
of our neighbour; if we have neglected a plain and
proper
opportunity of promoting that interest and happiness; it
is this
inmate who, in the evening, calls us to an account for
all
those omissions and violations, and his reproaches often make
us
blush inwardly both for our folly and inattention to our own
happiness,
and for our still greater indifference and
inattention,
perhaps, to that of other people.
But though the virtues of prudence,
justice, and beneficence,
may,
upon different occasions, be recommended to us almost
equally
by two different principles; those of self-command are,
upon
most occasions, principally and almost entirely recommended
to us
by one; by the sense of propriety, by regard to the
sentiments
of the supposed impartial spectator. Without the
restraint
which this principle imposes, every passion would, upon
most
occasions, rush headlong, if I may say so, to its own
gratification.
Anger would follow the suggestions of its own
fury;
fear those of its own violent agitations. Regard to no time
or
place would induce vanity to refrain from the loudest and most
impertinent
ostentation; or voluptuousness from the most open,
indecent,
and scandalous indulgence. Respect for what are, or for
what
ought to be, or for what upon a certain condition would be,
the
sentiments of other people, is the sole principle which, upon
most
occasions, overawes all those mutinous and turbulent
passions
into that tone and temper which the impartial spectator
can
enter into and sympathize with.
Upon some occasions, indeed, those
passions are restrained,
not so
much by a sense of their impropriety, as by prudential
considerations
of the bad consequences which might follow from
their
indulgence. In such cases, the passions, though restrained,
are not
always subdued, but often remain lurking in the breast
with
all their original fury. The man whose anger is restrained
by
fear, does not always lay aside his anger, but only reserves
its
gratification for a more safe opportunity. But the man who,
in
relating to some other person the injury which has been done
to him,
feels at once the fury of his passion cooled and becalmed
by
sympathy with the more moderate sentiments of his companion,
who at
once adopts those more moderate sentiments, and comes to
view
that injury, not in the black and atrocious colours in which
he had
originally beheld it, but in the much milder and fairer
light
in which his companion naturally views it; not only
restrains,
but in some measure subdues, his anger. The passion
becomes
really less than it was before, and less capable of
exciting
him to the violent and bloody revenge which at first,
perhaps,
he might have thought of inflicting.
Those passions which are restrained by the
sense of
propriety,
are all in some degree moderated and subdued by it.
But
those which are restrained only by prudential considerations
of any
kind, are, on the contrary, frequently inflamed by the
restraint,
and sometimes (long after the provocation given, and
when
nobody is thinking about it) burst out absurdly and
unexpectedly,
and with tenfold fury and violence.
Anger, however, as well as every other
passion, may, upon
many
occasions, be very properly restrained by prudential
considerations.
Some exertion of manhood and self-command is even
necessary
for this sort of restraint; and the impartial spectator
may
sometimes view it with that sort of cold esteem due to that
species
of conduct which he considers as a mere matter of vulgar
prudence;
but never with that affectionate admiration with which
he
surveys the same passions, when, by the sense of propriety,
they
are moderated and subdued to what he himself can readily
enter
into. In the former species of restraint, he may frequently
discern
some degree of propriety, and, if you will, even of
virtue;
but it is a propriety and virtue of a much inferior order
to
those which he always feels with transport and admiration in
the
latter.
The virtues of prudence, justice, and
beneficence, have no
tendency
to produce any but the most agreeable effects. Regard to
those effects,
as it originally recommends them to the actor, so
does it
afterwards to the impartial spectator. In our approbation
of the
character of the prudent man, we feel, with peculiar
complacency,
the security which he must enjoy while he walks
under the
safeguard of that sedate and deliberate virtue. In our
approbation
of the character of the just man, we feel, with equal
complacency,
the security which all those connected with him,
whether
in neighbourhood, society, or business, must derive from
his
scrupulous anxiety never either to hurt or offend. In our
approbation
of the character of the beneficent man, we enter into
the
gratitude of all those who are within the sphere of his good
offices,
and conceive with them the highest sense of his merit.
In our
approbation of all those virtues, our sense of their
agreeable
effects, of their utility, either to the person who
exercises
them, or to some other persons, joins with our sense of
their
propriety, and constitutes always a considerable,
frequently
the greater part of that approbation.
But in our approbation of the virtues of
self-command,
complacency
with their effects sometimes constitutes no part, and
frequently
but a small part, of that approbation. Those effects
may
sometimes be agreeable, and sometimes disagreeable; and
though
our approbation is no doubt stronger in the former case,
it is
by no means altogether destroyed in the latter. The most
heroic
valour may be employed indifferently in the cause either
of
justice or of injustice; and though it is no doubt much more
loved
and admired in the former case, it still appears a great
and
respectable quality even in the latter. In that, and in all
the
other virtues of self-command, the splendid and dazzling
quality
seems always to be the greatness and steadiness of the
exertion,
and the strong sense of propriety which is necessary in
order
to make and to maintain that exertion. The effects are too
often
but too little regarded.
PART
VII
Of
Systems of Moral Philosophy
Consisting
of Four Section
Section
I
Of the
Questions which ought to be examined in a Theory of Moral
Sentiments
If we examine the most celebrated and
remarkable of the
different
theories which have been given concerning the nature
and
origin of our moral sentiments, we shall find that almost all
of them
coincide with some part or other of that which I have
been
endeavouring to give an account of; and that if every thing
which
has already been said be fully considered, we shall be at
no loss
to explain what was the view or aspect of nature which
led
each particular author to form his particular system. From
some
one or other of those principles which I have been
endeavouring
to unfold, every system of morality that ever had
any
reputation in the world has, perhaps, ultimately been
derived.
As they are all of them, in this respect, founded upon
natural
principles, they are all of them in some measure in the
right.
But as many of them are derived from a partial and
imperfect
view of nature, there are many of them too in some
respects
in the wrong.
In treating of the principles of morals
there are two
questions
to be considered. First, wherein does virtue consist?
Or what
is the tone of temper, and tenour of conduct, which
constitutes
the excellent and praise-worthy character, the
character
which is the natural object of esteem, honour, and
approbation?
And, secondly, by what power or faculty in the mind
is it,
that this character, whatever it be, is recommended. to
us? Or
in other words, how and by what means does it come to
pass,
that the mind prefers one tenour of conduct to another,
denominates
the one right and the other wrong; considers the one
as the
object of approbation, honour, and reward, and the other
of
blame, censure, and punishment?
We examine the first question when we
consider whether virtue
consists
in benevolence, as Dr Hutcheson imagines; or in acting
suitably
to the different relations we stand in, as Dr Clarke
supposes;
or in the wise and prudent pursuit of our own real and
solid
happiness, as has been the opinion of others.
We examine the second question, when we
consider, whether the
virtuous
character, whatever it consists in, be recommended to us
by
self-love, which makes us perceive that this character, both
in
ourselves and others, tends most to promote our own private
interest;
or by reason, which points out to us the difference
between
one character and another, in the same manner as it does
that
between truth and falsehood; or by a peculiar power of
perception,
called a moral sense, which this virtuous character
gratifies
and pleases, as the contrary disgusts and displeases
it; or
last of all, by some other principle in human nature, such
as a
modification of sympathy, or the like.
I shall begin with considering the systems
which have been
formed
concerning the first of these questions, and shall proceed
afterwards
to examine those concerning the second.
Section
II
Of the
different Accounts which have been given of the Nature of
Virtue
The different accounts which have been
given of the nature of
virtue,
or of the temper of mind which constitutes the excellent
and
praise-worthy character, may be reduced to three different
classes.
According to some, the virtuous temper of mind does not
consist
in any one species of affections, but in the proper
government
and direction of all our affections, which may be
either
virtuous or vicious according to the objects which they
pursue,
and the degree of vehemence with which they pursue them.
According
to these authors, therefore, virtue consists in
propriety.
According to others, virtue consists in
the judicious pursuit
of our
own private interest and happiness, or in the proper
government
and direction of those selfish affections which aim
solely
at this end. In the opinion of these authors, therefore,
virtue
consists in prudence.
Another set of authors make virtue consist
in those
affections
only which aim at the happiness of others, not in
those
which aim at our own. According to them, therefore,
disinterested
benevolence is the only motive which can stamp upon
any
action the character of virtue.
The character of virtue, it is evident,
must either be
ascribed
indifferently to all our affections, when under proper
government
and direction; or it must be confined to some one
class
or division of them. The great division of our affections
is into
the selfish and the benevolent. If the character of
virtue,
therefore, cannot be ascribed indifferently to all our
affections,
when under proper government and direction, it must
be
confined either to those which aim directly at our own private
happiness,
or to those which aim directly at that of others. If
virtue,
therefore, does not consist in propriety, it must consist
either
in prudence or in benevolence. Besides these three, it is
scarce
possible to imagine that any other account can be given of
the
nature of virtue. I shall endeavour to show hereafter how all
the
other accounts, which are seemingly different from any of
these,
coincide at bottom with some one or other of them.
Chap. I
Of
those Systems which make Virtue consist in Propriety
According to Plato, to Aristotle, and to
Zeno, virtue
consists
in the propriety of conduct, or in the suitableness of
the
affection from which we act to the object which excites it.
I. In the system of Plato(1*) the soul is
considered as
something
like a little state or republic, composed of three
different
faculties or orders.
The first is the judging faculty, the
faculty which
determines
not only what are the proper means for attaining any
end,
but also what ends are fit to be pursued, and what degree of
relative
value we ought to put upon each. This faculty Plato
called,
as it is very properly called, reason, and considered it
as what
had a right to be the governing principle of the whole.
Under
this appellation, it is evident, he comprehended not only
that
faculty by which we judge of truth and falsehood, but that
by
which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of desires and
affections.
The different passions and appetites, the
natural subjects of
this
ruling principle, but which are so apt to rebel against
their
master, he reduced to two different classes or orders. The
first
consisted of those passions, which are founded in pride and
resentment,
or in what the schoolmen called the irascible part of
the
soul; ambition, animosity, the love of honour, and the dread
of
shame, the desire of victory, superiority, and revenge; all
those
passions, in short, which are supposed either to rise from,
or to
denote what, by a metaphor in our language, we commonly
call
spirit or natural fire. The second consisted of those
passions
which are founded in the love of pleasure, or in what
the
schoolmen called the concupiscible part of the soul. It
comprehended
all the appetites of the body, the love of ease and
security,
and of all sensual gratifications.
It rarely happens that we break in upon
that plan of conduct,
which
the governing principle prescribes, and which in all our
cool
hours we had laid down to ourselves as what was most proper
for us
to pursue, but when prompted by one or other of those two
different
sets of passions; either by ungovernable ambition and
resentment,
or by the importunate solicitations of present ease
and
pleasure. But though these two orders of passions are so apt
to
mislead us, they are still considered as necessary parts of
human
nature: the first having been given to defend us against
injuries,
to assert our rank and dignity in the world, to make us
aim at
what is noble and honourable, and to make us distinguish
those
who act in the same manner; the second, to provide for the
support
and necessities of the body.
In the strength, acuteness, and perfection
of the governing
principle
was placed the essential virtue of prudence, which,
according
to Plato, consisted in a just and clear discernment,
founded
upon general and scientific ideas, of the ends which were
proper
to be pursued, and of the means which were proper for
attaining
them.
When the first set of passions, those of
the irascible part
of the
soul, had that degree of strength and firmness, which
enabled
them, under the direction of reason, to despise all
dangers
in the pursuit of what was honourable and noble; it
constituted
the virtue of fortitude and magnanimity. This order
of
passions, according to this system, was of a more generous and
noble
nature than the other. They were considered upon many
occasions
as the auxiliaries of reason, to check and restrain the
inferior
and brutal appetites. We are often angry at ourselves,
it was
observed, we often become the objects of our own
resentment
and indignation, when the love of pleasure prompts to
do what
we disapprove of; and the irascible part of our nature is
in this
manner called in to assist the rational against the
concupiscible.
When all those three different parts of
our nature were in
perfect
concord with one another, when neither the irascible nor
concupiscible
passions ever aimed at any gratification which
reason
did not approve of, and when reason never commanded any
thing,
but what these of their own accord were willing to
perform:
this happy composure, this perfect and complete harmony
of
soul, constituted that virtue which in their language is
expressed
by a word which we commonly translate temperance, but
which
might more properly be translated good temper, or sobriety
and
moderation of mind.
Justice, the last and greatest of the four
cardinal virtues,
took
place, according to this system, when each of those three
faculties
of the mind confined itself to its proper office,
without
attempting to encroach upon that of any other; when
reason
directed and passion obeyed, and when each passion
performed
its proper duty, and exerted itself towards its proper
object
easily and without reluctance, and with that degree of
force
and energy, which was suitable to the value of what it
pursued.
In this consisted that complete virtue, that perfect
propriety
of conduct, which Plato, after some of the ancient
Pythagoreans,
denominated Justice.
The word, it is to be observed, which
expresses justice in
the Greek
language, has several different meanings; and as the
correspondent
word in all other languages, so far as I know, has
the
same, there must be some natural affinity among those various
significations.
In one sense we are said to do justice to our
neighbour
when we abstain from doing him any positive harm, and
do not
directly hurt him, either in his person, or in his estate,
or in
his reputation. This is that justice which I have treated
of
above, the observance of which may be extorted by force, and
the
violation of which exposes to punishment. In another sense we
are
said not to do justice to our neighbour unless we conceive
for him
all that love, respect, and esteem, which his character,
his
situation, and his connexion with ourselves, render suitable
and
proper for us to feel, and unless we act accordingly. It is
in this
sense that we are said to do injustice to a man of merit
who is
connected with us, though we abstain from hurting him in
every
respect, if we do not exert ourselves to serve him and to
place
him in that situation in which the impartial spectator
would
be pleased to see him. The first sense of the word
coincides
with what Aristotle and the Schoolmen call commutative
justice,
and with what Grotius calls the justitia expletrix,
which
consists in abstaining from what is another's, and in doing
voluntarily
whatever we can with propriety be forced to do. The
second
sense of the word coincides with what some have called
distributive
justice,(2*) and with the justitia attributrix of
Grotius,
which consists in proper beneficence, in the becoming
use of
what is our own, and in the applying it to those purposes
either
of charity or generosity, to which it is most suitable, in
our
situation, that it should be applied. In this sense justice
comprehends
all the social virtues: There is yet another sense in
which
the word justice is sometimes taken, still more extensive
than
either of the former, though very much a-kin to the last;
and
which runs too, so far as I know, through all languages. It
is in
this last sense that we are said to be unjust, when we do
not
seem to value any particular object with that degree of
esteem,
or to pursue it with that degree of ardour which to the
impartial
spectator it may appear to deserve or to be naturally
fitted
for exciting. Thus we are said to do injustice to a poem
or a
picture, when we do not admire them enough, and we are said
to do
them more than justice when we admire them too much. In the
same
manner we are said to do injustice to ourselves when we
appear
not to give sufficient attention to any particular object
of
self-interest. In this last sense, what is called justice
means
the same thing with exact and perfect propriety of conduct
and
behaviour, and comprehends in it, not only the offices of
both
commutative and distributive justice, but of every other
virtue,
of prudence, of fortitude, of temperance. It is in this
last
sense that Plato evidently understands what he calls
justice,
and which, therefore, according to him, comprehends in
it the
perfection of every sort of virtue.
Such is the account given by Plato of the
nature of virtue,
or of
that temper of mind which is the proper object of praise
and
approbation. It consists, according to him, in that state of
mind in
which every faculty confines itself within its proper
sphere
without encroaching upon that of any other, and performs
its
proper office with that precise degree of strength and vigour
which
belongs to it. His account, it is evident, coincides in
every
respect with what we have said above concerning the
propriety
of conduct.
II. Virtue, according to Aristotle,(3*)
consists in the habit
of
mediocrity according to right reason. Every particular virtue,
according
to him, lies in a kind of middle between two opposite
vices,
of which the one offends from being too much, the other
from
being too little affected by a particular species of
objects.
Thus the virtue of fortitude or courage lies in the
middle
between the opposite vices of cowardice and of
presumptuous
rashness, of which the one offends from being too
much,
and the other from being too little affected by the objects
of
fear. Thus too the virtue of frugality lies in a middle
between
avarice and profusion, of which the one consists in an
excess,
the other in a defect of the proper attention to the
objects
of self-interest. Magnanimity, in the same manner, lies
in a
middle between the excess of arrogance and the defect of
pusillanimity,
of which the one consists in too extravagant, the
other
in too weak a sentiment of our own worth and dignity. It is
unnecessary
to observe that this account of virtue corresponds
too
pretty exactly with what has been said above concerning the
propriety
and impropriety of conduct.
According to Aristotle,(4*) indeed, virtue
did not so much
consist
in those moderate and right affections, as in the habit
of this
moderation. In order to understand this, it is to be
observed,
that virtue may be considered either as the quality of
an action,
or as the quality of a person. Considered as the
quality
of an action, it consists, even according to Aristotle,
in the
reasonable moderation of the affection from which the
action
proceeds, whether this disposition be habitual to the
person
or not. Considered as the quality of a person, it consists
in the
habit of this reasonable moderation, in its having become
the
customary and usual disposition of the mind. Thus the action
which
proceeds from an occasional fit of generosity is
undoubtedly
a generous action, but the man who performs it, is
not
necessarily a generous person, because it may be the single
action
of the kind which he ever performed. The motive and
disposition
of heart, from which this action was performed, may
have
been quite just and proper: but as this happy mood seems to
have
been the effect rather of accidental humour than of any
thing
steady or permanent in the character, it can reflect no
great
honour on the performer. When we denominate a character
generous
or charitable, or virtuous in any respect, we mean to
signify
that the disposition expressed by each of those
appellations
is the usual and customary disposition of the
person.
But single actions of any kind, how proper and suitable
soever,
are of little consequence to show that this is the case.
If a
single action was sufficient to stamp the character of any
virtue
upon the person who performed it, the most worthless of
mankind.
might lay claim to all the virtues; since there is no
man who
has not, upon some occasions, acted with prudence,
justice,
temperance, and fortitude. But though single actions,
how
laudable soever, reflect very little praise upon the person
who
performs them, a single vicious action performed by one whose
conduct
is usually very regular, greatly diminishes and sometimes
destroys
altogether our opinion of his virtue. A single action of
this
kind sufficiently shows that his habits are not perfect, and
that he
is less to be depended upon, than, from the usual train
of his
behaviour, we might have been apt to imagine.
Aristotle too,(5*) when he made virtue to
consist in
practical
habits, had it probably in his view to oppose the
doctrine
of Plato, who seems to have been of opinion that just
sentiments
and reasonable judgments concerning what was fit to be
done or
to be avoided, were alone sufficient to constitute the
most
perfect virtue. Virtue, according to Plato, might be
considered
as a species of science, and no man, he thought, could
see
clearly and demonstratively what was right and what was
wrong,
and not act accordingly. Passion might make us act
contrary
to doubtful and uncertain opinions, not to plain and
evident
judgments. Aristotle, on the contrary, was of opinion,
that no
conviction of the understanding was capable of getting
the
better of inveterate habits, and that good morals arose not
from
knowledge but from action.
III. According to Zeno,(6*) the founder of
the Stoical
doctrine,
every animal was by nature recommended to its own care,
and was
endowed with the principle of self-love, that it might
endeavour
to preserve, not only its existence, but all the
different
parts of its nature, in the best and most perfect state
of
which they were capable.
The self-love of man embraced, if I may
say so, his body and
all its
different members, his mind and all its different
faculties
and powers, and desired the preservation and
maintenance
of them all in their best and most perfect condition.
Whatever
tended to support this state of existence was,
therefore,
by nature pointed out to him as fit to be chosen; and
whatever
tended to destroy it, as fit to be rejected. Thus
health,
strength, agility and ease of body as well as the eternal
conveniencies
which could promote these; wealth, power, honours,
the
respect and esteem of those we live with; were naturally
pointed
out to us as things eligible, and of which the possession
was
preferable to the want. On the other hand, sickness,
infirmity,
unwieldiness, pain of body, as well as all the eternal
inconveniencies
which tend to occasion or bring on any of them;
poverty,
the want of authority, the contempt or hatred of those
we live
with; were, in the same manner, pointed out to us as
things
to be shunned and avoided. In each of those two opposite
classes
of objects, there were some which appeared to be more the
objects
either of choice or rejection, than others in the same
class.
Thus, in the first class, health appeared evidently
preferable
to strength, and strength to agility; reputation to
power,
and power to riches. And thus too, in the second class,
sickness
was more to be avoided than unwieldiness of body,
ignominy
than poverty, and poverty than the loss of power. Virtue
and the
propriety of conduct consisted in choosing and rejecting
all
different objects and circumstances according as they were by
nature
rendered more or less the objects of choice or rejection;
in
selecting always from among the several objects of choice
presented
to us, that which was most to be chosen, when we could
not
obtain them all; and in selecting too, out of the several
objects
of rejection offered to us, that which was least to be
avoided,
when it was not in our power to avoid them all. By
choosing
and rejecting with this just and accurate discernment,
by thus
bestowing upon every object the precise degree of
attention
it deserved, according to the place which it held in
this
natural scale of things, we maintained, according to the
Stoics,
that perfect rectitude of conduct which constituted the
essence
of virtue. This was what they called to live
consistently,
to live according to nature, and to obey those laws
and
directions which nature, or the Author of nature, had
prescribed
for our conduct.
So far the Stoical idea of propriety and
virtue is not very
different
from that of Aristotle and the ancient Peripatetics.
Among those primary objects which nature
had recommended to
us as
eligible, was the prosperity of our family, of our
relations,
of our friends, of our country, of mankind, and of the
universe
in general. Nature, too, had taught us, that as the
prosperity
of two was preferable to that of one, that of many, or
of all,
must be infinitely more so. That we ourselves were but
one,
and that consequently wherever our prosperity was
inconsistent
with that, either of the whole, or of any
considerable
part of the whole, it ought, even in our own choice,
to
yield to what was so vastly preferable. As all the events in
this
world were conducted by the providence of a wise, powerful,
and
good God, we might be assured that whatever happened tended
to the
prosperity and perfection of the whole. If we ourselves,
therefore,
were in poverty, in sickness, or in any other
calamity,
we ought, first of all, to use our utmost endeavours,
so far
as justice and our duty to others would allow, to rescue
ourselves
from this disagreeable circumstance. But if, after all
we
could do, we found this impossible, we ought to rest satisfied
that
the order and perfection of the universe required that we
should
in the mean time continue in this situation. And as the
prosperity
of the whole should, even to us, appear preferable to
so
insignificant a part as ourselves, our situation, whatever it
was,
ought from that moment to become the object of our liking,
if we
would maintain that complete propriety and rectitude of
sentiment
and conduct in which consisted the perfection of our
nature.
If, indeed, any opportunity of extricating ourselves
should
offer, it became our duty to embrace it. The order of the
universe,
it was evident, no longer required our continuance in
this
situation, and the great Director of the world plainly
called
upon us to leave it, by so clearly pointing out the road
which
we were to follow. It was the same case with the adversity
of our
relations, our friends, our country. If, without violating
any
more sacred obligation, it was in our power to prevent or put
an end
to their calamity, it undoubtedly was our duty to do so.
The
propriety of action, the rule which Jupiter had given us for
the
direction of our conduct, evidently required this of us. But
if it
was altogether out of our power to do either, we ought then
to
consider this event as the most fortunate which could possibly
have
happened; because we might be assured that it tended most to
the
prosperity and order of the whole, which was what we
ourselves,
if we were wise and equitable, ought most of all to
desire.
It was our own final interest considered as a part of
that
whole, of which the prosperity ought to be, not only the
principal,
but the sole object of our desire.
'In what sense,' says Epictetus, 'are some
things said to be
according
to our nature, and others contrary to it? It is in that
sense
in which we consider ourselves as separated and detached
from
all other things. For thus it may be said to be according to
the
nature of the foot to be always clean. But if you consider it
as a
foot, and not as something detached from the rest of the
body,
it must behove it sometimes to trample in the dirt, and
sometimes
to tread upon thorns, and sometimes, too, to be cut off
for the
sake of the whole body; and if it refuses this, it is no
longer
a foot. Thus, too, ought we to conceive with regard to
ourselves.
What are you? A man. If you consider yourself as
something
separated and detached, it is agreeable to your nature
to live
to old age, to be rich, to be in health. But if you
consider
yourself as a man, and as a part of a whole, upon
account
of that whole, it will behove you sometimes to be in
sickness,
sometimes to be exposed to the inconveniency of a sea
voyage,
sometimes to be in want; and at last, perhaps, to die
before
your time. Why then do you complain? Do not you know that
by
doing so, as the foot ceases to be a foot, so you cease to be
a
man?'(7*)
A wise man never complains of the destiny
of Providence, nor
thinks
the universe in confusion when he is out of order. He does
not
look upon himself as a whole, separated and detached from
every
other part of nature, to be taken care of by itself and for
itself.
He regards himself in the light in which he imagines the
great
genius of human nature, and of the world, regards him. He
enters,
if I may say so, into the sentiments of that divine
Being,
and considers himself as an atom, a particle, of an
immense
and infinite system, which must and ought to be disposed
of,
according to the conveniency of the whole. Assured of the
wisdom
which directs all the events of human life, whatever lot
befalls
him, he accepts it with joy, satisfied that, if he had
known
all the connections and dependencies of the different parts
of the
universe, it is the very lot which he himself would have
wished
for. If it is life, he is contented to live; and if it is
death,
as nature must have no further occasion for his presence
here,
he willingly goes where he is appointed. I accept, said a
cynical
philosopher, whose doctrines were in this respect the
same as
those of the Stoics, I accept, with equal joy and
satisfaction,
whatever fortune can befall me. Riches or poverty,
pleasure
or pain, health or sickness, all is alike: nor would I
desire
that the Gods should in any respect change my destination.
If I
was to ask of them any thing beyond what their bounty has
already
bestowed, it should be that they would inform me
before-hand
what it was their pleasure should be done with me,
that I
might of my own accord place myself in this situation, and
demonstrate
the cheerfulness with which I embraced their
allotment.
If I am going to sail, says Epictetus, I chuse the
best
ship and the best pilot, and I wait for the fairest weather
that my
circumstances and duty will allow. Prudence and
propriety,
the principles which the Gods have given me for the
direction
of my conduct, require this of me; but they require no
more:
and if, notwithstanding, a storm arises, which neither the
strength
of the vessel nor the skill of the pilot are likely to
withstand,
I give myself no trouble about the consequence. All
that I
had to do is done already. The directors of my conduct
never
command me to be miserable, to be anxious, desponding, or
afraid.
Whether we are to be drowned, or to come to a harbour, is
the
business of Jupiter, not mine. I leave it entirely to his
determination,
nor ever break my rest with considering which way
he is
likely to decide it, but receive whatever comes with equal
indifference
and security.
From this perfect confidence in that
benevolent wisdom which
governs
the universe, and from this entire resignation to
whatever
order that wisdom might think proper to establish, it
necessarily
followed, that, to the Stoical wise man, all the
events
of human life must be in a great measure indifferent. His
happiness
consisted altogether, first, in the contemplation of
the
happiness and perfection of the great system of the universe,
of the
good government of the great republic of Gods and men, of
all
rational and sensible beings; and, secondly, in discharging
his
duty, in acting properly in the affairs of this great
republic
whatever little part that wisdom had assigned to him.
The
propriety or impropriety of his endeavours might be of great
consequence
to him. Their success or disappointment could be of
none at
all; could excite no passionate joy or sorrow, no
passionate
desire or aversion. If he preferred some events to
others,
if some situations were the objects of his choice and
others
of his rejection, it was not because he regarded the one
as in
themselves in any respect better than the other, or thought
that
his own happiness would be more complete in what is called
the
fortunate than in what is regarded as the distressful
situation;
but because the propriety of action, the rule which
the
Gods had given him for the direction of his conduct, required
him to
chuse and reject in this manner. All his affections were
absorbed
and swallowed up in two great affections; in that for
the
discharge of his own duty, and in that for the greatest
possible
happiness of all rational and sensible beings. For the
gratification
of this latter affection, he rested with the most
perfect
security upon the wisdom and power of the great
Superintendant
of the universe. His sole anxiety was about the
gratification
of the former; not about the event, but about the
propriety
of his own endeavours. Whatever the event might be, he
trusted
to a superior power and wisdom for turning it to promote
that
great end which he himself was most desirous of promoting.
This propriety of chusing and rejecting,
though originally
pointed
out to us, and as it were recommended and introduced to
our
acquaintance by the things, and for the sake of the things,
chosen
and rejected; yet when we had once become thoroughly
acquainted
with it, the order, the grace, the beauty which we
discerned
in this conduct, the happiness which we felt resulted
from
it, necessarily appeared to us of much greater value than
the
actual obtaining of all the different objects of choice, or
the
actual avoiding of all those of rejection. From the
observation
of this propriety arose the happiness and the glory;
from
the neglect of it, the misery and the disgrace of human
nature.
But to a wise man, to one whose passions
were brought under
perfect
subjection to the ruling principles of his nature, the
exact
observation of this propriety was equally easy upon all
occasions.
Was he in prosperity, he returned thanks to Jupiter
for
having joined him with circumstances which were easily
mastered,
and in which there was little temptation to do wrong.
Was he
in adversity, he equally returned thanks to the director
of this
spectacle of human life, for having opposed to him a
vigorous
athlete, over whom, though the contest was likely to be
more
violent, the victory was more glorious, and equally certain.
Can
there be any shame in that distress which is brought upon us
without
any fault of our own, and in which we behave with perfect
propriety?
There can, therefore, be no evil, but, on the
contrary,
the greatest good and advantage. A brave man exults in
those
dangers in which, from no rashness of his own, his fortune
has
involved him. They afford an opportunity of exercising that
heroic
intrepidity, whose exertion gives the exalted delight
which
flows from the consciousness of superior propriety and
deserved
admiration. One who is master of all his exercises has
no
aversion to measure his strength and activity with the
strongest.
And, in the same manner, one who is master of all his
passions,
does not dread any circumstance in which the
Superintendant
of the universe may think proper to place him. The
bounty
of that divine Being has provided him with virtues which
render
him superior to every situation. If it is pleasure, he has
temperance
to refrain from it; if it is pain, he has constancy to
bear
it; if it is danger or death, he has magnanimity and
fortitude
to despise it. The events of human life can never find
him
unprepared, or at a loss how to maintain that propriety of
sentiment
and conduct which, in his own apprehension, constitutes
at once
his glory and his happiness.
Human life the Stoics appear to have
considered as a game of
great
skill; in which, however, there was a mixture of chance, or
of what
is vulgarly understood to be chance. In such games the
stake
is commonly a trifle, and the whole pleasure of the game
arises
from playing well, from playing fairly, and playing
skilfully.
If notwithstanding all his skill, however, the good
player
should, by the influence of chance, happen to lose, the
loss
ought to be a matter, rather of merriment, than of serious
sorrow.
He has made no false stroke; he has done nothing which he
ought
to be ashamed of; he has enjoyed completely the whole
pleasure
of the game. If, on the contrary, the bad player,
notwithstanding
all his blunders, should, in the same manner,
happen
to win, his success can give him but little satisfaction.
He is
mortified by the remembrance of all the faults which he
committed.
Even during the play he can enjoy no part of the
pleasure
which it is capable of affording. From ignorance of the
rules
of the game, fear and doubt and hesitation are the
disagreeable
sentiments that precede almost every stroke which he
plays;
and when he has played it, the mortification of finding it
a gross
blunder, commonly completes the unpleasing circle of his
sensations.
Human life, with all the advantages which can
possibly
attend it, ought, according to the Stoics, to be
regarded
but as a mere two-penny stake; a matter by far too
insignificant
to merit any anxious concern. Our only anxious
concern
ought to be, not about the stake, but about the proper
method
of playing. If we placed our happiness in winning the
stake,
we placed it in what depended upon causes beyond our
power,
and out of our direction. We necessarily exposed ourselves
to
perpetual fear and uneasiness, and frequently to grievous and
mortifying
disappointments. If we placed it in playing well, in
playing
fairly, in playing wisely and skilfully; in the propriety
of our
own conduct in short; we placed it in what, by proper
discipline,
education, and attention, might be altogether in our
own
power, and under our own direction. Our happiness was
perfectly
secure, and beyond the reach of fortune. The event of
our
actions, if it was out of our power, was equally out of our
concern,
and we could never feel either fear or anxiety about it;
nor
ever suffer any grievous, or even any serious disappointment.
Human life itself, as well as every
different advantage or
disadvantage
which can attend it, might, they said, according to
Different
circumstances, be the proper object either of our
choice
or of our rejection. If, in our actual situation, there
were
more circumstances agreeable to nature than contrary to it;
more
circumstances which were the objects of choice than of
rejection;
life, in this case, was, upon the whole, the proper
object
of choice, and the propriety of conduct required that we
should
remain in it. If, on the other hand, there were, in our
actual
situation, without any probable hope of amendment, more
circumstances
contrary to nature than agreeable to it; more
circumstances
which were the objects of rejection than of choice;
life
itself, in this case, became, to a wise man, the object of
rejection,
and he was not only at liberty to remove out of it,
but the
propriety of conduct, the rule which the Gods had given
him for
the direction of his conduct, required him to do so. I am
ordered,
says Epictetus, not to dwell at Nicopolis. I do not
dwell
there. I am ordered not to dwell at Athens. I do not dwell
at
Athens. I am ordered not to dwell in Rome. I do not dwell in
Rome. I
am ordered to dwell in the little and rocky island of
Gyarae.
I go and dwell there. But the house smokes in Gyarae. If
the
smoke is moderate, I will bear it, and stay there. If it is
excessive,
I will go to a house from whence no tyrant can remove
me. I
keep in mind always that the door is open, that I can walk
out
when I please, and retire to that hospitable house which is
at all
times open to all the world; for beyond my undermost
garment,
beyond my body, no man living has any power over me. If
your
situation is upon the whole disagreeable; if your house
smokes
too much for you, said the Stoics, walk forth by all
means.
But walk forth without, repining, without murmuring or
complaining.
Walk forth calm, contented, rejoicing, returning
thanks
to the Gods, who, from their infinite bounty, have opened
the
safe and quiet harbour of death, at all times ready to
receive
us from the stormy ocean of human life; who have prepared
this
sacred, this inviolable, this great asylum, always open,
always
accessible; altogether beyond the reach of human rage and
injustice;
and large enough to contain both all those who wish,
and all
those who do not wish to retire to it: an asylum which
takes
away from every man every pretence of complaining, or even
of
fancying that there can be any evil in human life, except such
as he
may suffer from his own folly and weakness.
The Stoics, in the few fragments of their
philosophy which
have
come down to us, sometimes talk of leaving life with a
gaiety,
and even with a levity, which, were we to consider those
passages
by themselves, might induce us to believe that they
imagined
we could with propriety leave it whenever we had a mind,
wantonly
and capriciously, upon the slightest disgust or
uneasiness.
'When you sup with such a person,' says Epictetus,
'you
complain of the long stories which he tells you about his
Mysian
wars. "Now my friend, says he, having told you how I took
possession
of an eminence at such a place, I will tell you how I
was
besieged in such another place." But if you have a mind not
to be
troubled with his long stories, do not accept of his
supper.
If you accept of his supper, you have not the least
pretence
to complain of his long stories. It is the same case
with
what you call the evils of human life. Never complain of
that of
which it is at all times in your power to rid yourself.'
Notwithstanding
this gaiety and even levity of expression,
however,
the alternative of leaving life, or of remaining in it,
was,
according to the Stoics, a matter of the most serious and
important
deliberation. We ought never to leave it till we were
distinctly
called upon to do so by that superintending power
which
had originally placed us in it. But we were to consider
ourselves
as called upon to do so, not merely at the appointed
and
unavoidable term of human life. Whenever the providence of
that
superintending Power had rendered our condition in life upon
the
whole the proper object rather of rejection than of choice;
the
great rule which he had given us for the direction of our
conduct,
then required us to leave it. We might then be said to
hear
the awful and benevolent voice of that divine Being
distinctly
calling upon us to do so.
It was upon this account that, according
to the Stoics, it
might
be the duty of a wise man to remove out of life though he
was
perfectly happy; while, on the contrary, it might be the duty
of a
weak man to remain in it, though he was necessarily
miserable.
If, in the situation of the wise man, there were more
circumstances
which were the natural objects of rejection than of
choice,
the whole situation became the object of rejection, and
the
rule which the Gods had given him for the direction of his
conduct,
required that he should remove out of it as speedily as
particular
circumstances might render convenient. He was,
however,
perfectly happy even during the time that he might think
proper
to remain in it. He had placed his happiness, not in
obtaining
the objects of his choice, or in avoiding those of his
rejection;
but in always choosing and rejecting with exact
propriety;
not in the success, but in the fitness of his
endeavours
and exertions. If, in the situation of the weak man,
on the
contrary, there were more circumstances which were the
natural
objects of choice than of rejection; his whole situation
became
the proper object of choice, and it was his duty to remain
in it.
He was unhappy, however, from not knowing how to use those
circumstances.
Let his cards be ever so good, he did not know how
to play
them, and could enjoy no sort of real satisfaction,
either
in the progress, or in the event of the game, in whatever
manner
it might happen to turn out.(8*)
The propriety, upon some occasions, of
voluntary death,
though
it was, perhaps, more insisted upon by the Stoics, than by
any
other sect of ancient philosophers, was, however, a doctrine
common
to them all, even to the peaceable and indolent
Epicureans.
During the age in which flourished the founders of
all the
principal sects of ancient philosophy; during the
Peloponnesian
war and for many years after its conclusion, all
the
different republics of Greece were, at home, almost always
distracted
by the most furious factions; and abroad, involved in
the
most sanguinary wars, in which each sought, not merely
superiority
or dominion, but either completely to extirpate all
its
enemies, or, what was not less cruel, to reduce them into the
vilest
of all states, that of domestic slavery, and to sell them,
man,
woman, and child, like so many herds of cattle, to the
highest
bidder in the market. The smallness of the greater part
of
those states, too, rendered it, to each of them, no very
improbable
event, that it might itself fall into that very
calamity
which it had so frequently, either, perhaps, actually
inflicted,
or at least attempted to inflict upon some of its
neighbours.
In this disorderly state of things, the most perfect
innocence,
joined to both the highest rank and the greatest
public
services, could give no security to any man that, even at
home
and among his own relations and fellow-citizens, he was not,
at some
time or another, from the prevalence of some hostile and
furious
faction, to be condemned to the most cruel and
ignominious
punishment. If he was taken prisoner in war, or if
the
city of which he was a member was conquered, he was exposed,
if
possible, to still greater injuries and insults. But every man
naturally,
or rather necessarily, familiarizes his imagination
with
the distresses to which he foresees that his situation may
frequently
expose him. It is impossible that a sailor should not
frequently
think of storms and shipwrecks, and foundering at sea,
and of
how he himself is likely both to feel and to act upon such
occasions.
It was impossible, in the same manner, that a Grecian
patriot
or hero should not familiarize his imagination with all
the
different calamities to which he was sensible his situation
must
frequently, or rather constantly expose him. As an American
savage
prepares his death-song, and considers how he should act
when he
has fallen into the hands of his enemies, and is by them
put to
death in the most lingering tortures, and amidst the
insults
and derision of all the spectators; so a Grecian patriot
or hero
could not avoid frequently employing his thoughts in
considering
what he ought both to suffer and to do in banishment,
in
captivity, when reduced to slavery, when put to the torture,
when
brought to the scaffold. But the philosophers of all the
different
sects very justly represented virtue; that is, wise,
just,
firm, and temperate conduct; not only as the most probable,
but as
the certain and infallible road to happiness even in this
life.
This conduct, however, could not always exempt, and might
even
sometimes expose the person who followed it to all the
calamities
which were incident to that unsettled situation of
public
affairs. They endeavoured, therefore, to show that
happiness
was either altogether, or at least in a great measure,
independent
of fortune; the Stoics, that it was so altogether;
the
Academic and Peripatetic philosophers, that it was so in a
great
measure. Wise, prudent, and good conduct was, in the first
place,
the conduct most likely to ensure success in every species
of
undertaking; and secondly, though it should fail of success,
yet the
mind was not left without consolation. The virtuous man
might
still enjoy the complete approbation of his own breast; and
might
still feel that, how untoward soever things might be
without,
all was calm and peace and concord within. He might
generally
comfort himself, too, with the assurance that he
possessed
the love and esteem of every intelligent and impartial
spectator,
who could not fail both to admire his conduct, and to
regret
his misfortune.
Those philosophers endeavoured, at the
same time, to show,
that
the greatest misfortunes to which human life was liable,
might
be supported more easily than was commonly imagined. They
endeavoured
to point out the comforts which a man might still
enjoy
when reduced to poverty, when driven into banishment, when
exposed
to the injustice of popular clamour, when labouring under
blindness,
under deafness, in the extremity of old age, upon the
approach
of death. They pointed out, too, the considerations
which
might contribute to support his constancy under the agonies
of pain
and even of torture, in sickness, in sorrow for the loss
of
children, for the death of friends and relations, etc. The few
fragments
which have come down to us of what the ancient
philosophers
had written upon these subjects, form, perhaps, one
of the
most instructive, as well as one of the most interesting
remains
of antiquity. The spirit and manhood of their doctrines
make a
wonderful contrast with the desponding, plaintive, and
whining
tone of some modern systems.
But while those ancient philosophers
endeavoured in this
manner
to suggest every consideration which could, as Milton
says,
arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience, as with
triple
steel; they, at the same time, laboured above all to
convince
their followers that there neither was nor could be any
evil in
death; and that, if their situation became at any time
too
hard for their constancy to support, the remedy was at hand,
the
door was open, and they might, without fear, walk out when
they
pleased. If there was no world beyond the present, death,
they
said, could be no evil; and if there was another world, the
Gods
must likewise be in that other, and a just man could fear no
evil
while under their protection. Those philosophers, in short,
prepared
a death-song, if I may say so, which the Grecian
patriots
and heroes might make use of upon the proper occasions;
and, of
all the different sects, the Stoics, I think it must be
acknowledged,
had prepared by far the most animated and spirited
song.
Suicide, however, never seems to have been
very common among
the
Greeks. Excepting Cleomenes, I cannot at present recollect
any
very illustrious either patriot or hero of Greece, who died
by his
own hand. The death of Aristomenes is as much beyond the
period
of true history as that of Ajax. The common story of the
death
of Themistocles, though within that period, bears upon its
face
all the marks of a most romantic fable. Of all the Greek
heroes
whose lives have been written by Plutarch, Cleomenes
appears
to have been the only one who perished in this manner.
Theramines,
Socrates, and Phocion, who certainly did not want
courage,
suffered themselves to be sent to prison, and submitted
patiently
to that death to which the injustice of their
fellow-citizens
had condemned them. The brave Eumenes allowed
himself
to be delivered up, by his own mutinous soldiers, to his
enemy
Antigonus, and was starved to death, without attempting any
violence.
The gallant Philopoemen suffered himself to be taken
prisoner
by the Messenians, was thrown into a dungeon, and was
supposed
to have been privately poisoned. Several of the
philosophers,
indeed, are said to have died in this manner; but
their
lives have been so very foolishly written, that very little
credit
is due to the greater part of the tales which are told of
them.
Three different accounts have been given of the death of
Zeno
the Stoic. One is, that after enjoying, for ninety-eight
years,
the most perfect state of health, he happened, in going
out of
his school, to fall; and though he suffered no other
damage
than that of breaking or dislocating one of his fingers,
he
struck the ground with his hand, and, in the words of the
Niobe
of Euripides, said, I come, why doest thou call me? and
immediately
went home and hanged himself. At that great age, one
should
think, he might have had a little more patience. Another
account
is, that, at the same age, and in consequence of a like
accident,
he starved himself to death. The third account is,
that,
at seventy-two years of age, he died in the natural way; by
far the
most probable account of the three, and supported too by
the
authority of a co-temporary, who must have had every
opportunity
of being well informed; of Persaeus, originally the
slave,
and afterwards the friend and disciple of Zeno. The first
account
is given by Apollonius of Tyre, who flourished about the
time of
Augustus Caesar, between two and three hundred years
after
the death of Zeno. I know not who is the author of the
second
account. Apollonius, who was himself a Stoic, had probably
thought
it would do honour to the founder of a sect which talked
so much
about voluntary death, to die in this manner by his own
hand.
Men of letters, though, after their death, they are
frequently
more talked of than the greatest princes or statesmen
of
their times, are generally, during their life, so obscure and
insignificant
that their adventures are seldom recorded by
co-temporary
historians. Those of after-ages, in order to satisfy
the
public curiosity, and having no authentic documents either to
support
or to contradict their narratives, seem frequently to
have
fashioned them according to their own fancy; and almost
always
with a great mixture of the marvellous. In this particular
case
the marvellous, though supported by no authority, seems to
have
prevailed over the probable, though supported by the best.
Diogenes
Laertius plainly gives the preference to the story of
Apollonius.
Lucian and Lactantius appear both to have given
credit
to that of the great age and of the violent death.
This fashion of voluntary death appears to
have been much
more
prevalent among the proud Romans, than it ever was among the
lively,
ingenious, and accommodating Greeks. Even among the
Romans,
the fashion seems not to have been established in the
early
and, what are called, the virtuous ages of the republic.
The
common story of the death of Regulus, though probably a
fable,
could never have been invented, had it been supposed that
any
dishonour could fall upon that hero, from patiently
submitting
to the tortures which the Carthaginians are said to
have
inflicted upon him. In the later ages of the republic some
dishonour
I apprehend, would have attended this submission. In
the
different civil wars which preceded the fall of the
commonwealth,
many of the eminent men of all the contending
parties
chose rather to perish by their own hands, than to fall
into
those of their enemies. The death of Cato, celebrated by
Cicero,
and censured by Caesar, and become the subject of a very
serious
controversy between, perhaps, the two most illustrious
advocates
that the world had ever beheld, stamped a character of
splendour
upon this method of dying which it seems to have
retained
for several ages after. The eloquence of Cicero was
superior
to that of Caesar. The admiring prevailed greatly over
the
censuring party, and the lovers of liberty, for many ages
afterwards,
looked up to Cato as to the most venerable martyr of
the
republican party. The head of a party, the Cardinal de Retz
observes,
may do what he pleases; as long as he retains the
confidence
of his own friends, he can never do wrong; a maxim of
which
his Eminence had himself, upon several occasions, an
opportunity
of experiencing the truth. Cato, it seems, joined to
his
other virtues that of an excellent bottle companion. His
enemies
accused him of drunkenness, but, says Seneca, whoever
objected
this vice to Cato, will find it much easier to prove
that
drunkenness is a virtue, than that Cato could be addicted to
any
vice.
Under the Emperors this method of dying
seems to have been,
for a
long time, perfectly fashionable. In the epistles of Pliny
we find
an account of several persons who chose to die in this
manner,
rather from vanity and ostentation, it would seem, than
from what
would appear, even to a sober and judicious Stoic, any
proper
or necessary reason. Even the ladies, who are seldom
behind
in following the fashion, seem frequently to have chosen,
most
unnecessarily, to die in this manner; and, like the ladies
in Bengal,
to accompany, upon some occasions, their husbands to
the
tomb. The prevalence of this fashion certainly occasioned
many
deaths which would not otherwise have happened. All the
havock,
however, which this, perhaps the highest exertion of
human
vanity and impertinence, could occasion, would, probably,
at no
time, be very great.
The principle of suicide, the principle
which would teach us,
upon
some occasions, to consider that violent action as an object
of
applause and approbation, seems to be altogether a refinement
of
philosophy. Nature, in her sound and healthful state, seems
never
to prompt us to suicide. There is, indeed, a species of
melancholy
(a disease to which human nature, among its other
calamities,
is unhappily subject) which seems to be accompanied
with,
what one may call, an irresistible appetite for
self-destruction.
In circumstances often of the highest external
prosperity,
and sometimes too, in spite even of the most serious
and
deeply impressed sentiments of religion, this disease has
frequently
been known to drive its wretched victims to this fatal
extremity.
The unfortunate persons who perish in this miserable
manner,
are the proper objects, not of censure, but of
commiseration.
To attempt to punish them, when they are beyond
the
reach of all human punishment, is not more absurd than it is
unjust.
That punishment can fall only on their surviving friends
and
relations, who are always perfectly innocent, and to whom the
loss of
their friend, in this disgraceful manner, must always be
alone a
very heavy calamity. Nature, in her sound and healthful
state,
prompts us to avoid distress upon all occasions; upon many
occasions
to defend ourselves against it, though at the hazard,
or even
with the certainty of perishing in that defence. But,
when we
have neither been able to defend ourselves from it, nor
have
perished in that defence, no natural principle, no regard to
the
approbation of the supposed impartial spectator, to the
judgment
of the man within the breast, seems to call upon us to
escape
from it by destroying ourselves. It is only the
consciousness
of our own weakness, of our own incapacity to
support
the calamity with proper manhood and firmness, which can
drive
us to this resolution. I do not remember to have either
read or
heard of any American savage, who, upon being taken
prisoner
by some hostile tribe, put himself to death, in order to
avoid
being afterwards put to death in torture, and amidst the
insults
and mockery of his enemies. He places his glory in
supporting
those torments with manhood, and in retorting those
insults
with tenfold contempt and derision.
This contempt of life and death, however,
and, at the same
time,
the most entire submission to the order of Providence; the
most
complete contentment with every event which the current of
human
affairs could possibly cast up, may be considered as the
two
fundamental doctrines upon which rested the whole fabric of
Stoical
morality. The independent and spirited, but often harsh
Epictetus,
may be considered as the great apostle of the first of
those
doctrines: the mild, the humane, the benevolent Antoninus,
of the
second.
The emancipated slave of Epaphriditus,
who, in his youth, had
been
subjected to the insolence of a brutal master, who, in his
riper
years, was, by the jealousy and caprice of Domitian,
banished
from Rome and Athens, and obliged to dwell at Nicopolis,
and
who, by the same tyrant, might expect every moment to be sent
to
Gyarae, or, perhaps, to be put to death; could preserve his
tranquillity
only by fostering in his mind the most sovereign
contempt
of human life. He never exults so much, accordingly his
eloquence
is never so animated as when he represents the futility
and
nothingness of all its pleasures and all its pains.
The good-natured Emperor, the absolute
sovereign of the whole
civilized
part of the world, who certainly had no peculiar reason
to
complain of his own allotment, delights in expressing his
contentment
with the ordinary course of things, and in pointing
out
beauties even in those parts of it where vulgar observers are
not apt
to see any. There is a propriety and even an engaging
grace,
he observes, in old age as well as in youth; and the
weakness
and decrepitude of the one state are as suitable to
nature
as the bloom and vigour of the other. Death, too, is just
as
proper a termination of old age, as youth is of childhood, or
manhood
of youth. As we frequently say, he remarks upon another
occasion,
that the physician has ordered to such a man to ride on
horseback,
or to use the cold bath, or to walk barefooted; so
ought
we to say, that Nature, the great conductor and physician
of the
universe, has ordered to such a man a disease, or the
amputation
of a limb, or the loss of a child. By the
prescriptions
of ordinary physicians the patient swallows many a
bitter
potion; undergoes many a painful operation. From the very
uncertain
hope, however, that health may be the consequence, he
gladly
submits to all. The harshest prescriptions of the great
Physician
of nature, the patient may, in the same manner, hope
will
contribute to his own health, to his own final prosperity
and
happiness: and he may be perfectly assured that they not only
contribute,
but are indispensably necessary to the health, to the
prosperity
and happiness of the universe, to the furtherance and
advancement
of the great plan of Jupiter. Had they not been so,
the
universe would never have produced them; its all-wise
Architect
and Conductor would never have suffered them to happen.
As all,
even the smallest of the co-existent parts of the
universe,
are exactly fitted to one another, and all contribute
to
compose one immense and connected system; so all, even
apparently
the most insignificant of the successive events which
follow
one another, make parts, and necessary parts, of that
great
chain of causes and effects which had no beginning, and
which
will have no end; and which, as they all necessarily result
from
the original arrangement and contrivance of the whole; so
they
are all essentially necessary, not only to its prosperity,
but to
its continuance and preservation. Whoever does not
cordially
embrace whatever befals him, whoever is sorry that it
has
befallen him, whoever wishes that it had not befallen him,
wishes,
so far as in him lies, to stop the motion of the
universe,
to break that great chain of succession, by the
progress
of which that system can alone be continued and
preserved,
and, for some little conveniency of his own, to
disorder
and discompose the whole machine of the world. 'O
world,'
says he, in another place, 'all things are suitable to me
which
are suitable to thee. Nothing is too early or too late to
me
which is seasonable for thee. All is fruit to me which thy
seasons
bring forth. From thee are all things; in thee are all
things;
for thee are all things. One man says, O beloved city of
Cecrops.
Wilt not thou say, O beloved city of God?'
From these very sublime doctrines the
Stoics, or at least
some of
the Stoics, attempted to deduce all their paradoxes.
The Stoical wise man endeavoured to enter
into the views of
the
great Superintendant of the universe, and to see things in
the
same light in which that divine Being beheld them. But, to
the great
Superintendant of the universe, all the different
events
which the course of his providence may bring forth, what
to us
appear the smallest and the greatest, the bursting of a
bubble,
as Mr Pope says, and that of a world, for example, were
perfectly
equal, were equally parts of that great chain which he
had
predestined from all eternity, were equally the effects of
the
same unerring wisdom, of the same universal and boundless
benevolence.
To the Stoical wise man, in the same manner, all
those
different events were perfectly equal. In the course of
those
events, indeed, a little department, in which he had
himself
some little management and direction, had been assigned
to him.
In this department he endeavoured to act as properly as
he
could, and to conduct himself according to those orders which,
he
understood, had been prescribed to him. But he took no anxious
or
passionate concern either in the success, or in the
disappointment
of his own most faithful endeavours. The highest
prosperity
and the total destruction of that little department,
of that
little system which had been in some measure committed to
his
charge, were perfectly indifferent to him. If those events
had
depended upon him, he would have chosen the one, and he would
have rejected
the other. But as they did not depend upon him, he
trusted
to a superior wisdom, and was perfectly satisfied that
the
event which happened, whatever it might be, was the very
event
which he himself, had he known all the connections and
dependencies
of things, would most earnestly and devoutly have
wished
for. Whatever he did under the influence and direction of
those
principles was equally perfect; and when he stretched out
his
finger, to give the example which they commonly made use of,
he
performed an action in every respect as meritorious, as worthy
of
praise and admiration, as when he laid down his life for the
service
of his country. As, to the great Superintendant of the
universe,
the greatest and the smallest exertions of his power,
the
formation and dissolution of a world, the formation and
dissolution
of a bubble, were equally easy, were equally
admirable,
and equally the effects of the same divine wisdom and
benevolence;
so, to the Stoical wise man, what we would call the
great
action required no more exertion than the little one, was
equally
easy, proceeded from exactly the same principles, was in
no
respect more meritorious, nor worthy of any higher degree of
praise
and admiration.
As all those who had arrived at this state
of perfection,
were
equally happy. so all those who fell in the smallest degree
short
of it, how nearly soever they might approach to it, were
equally
miserable. As the man, they said, who was but an inch
below
the surface of the water, could no more breathe than he who
was an
hundred yards below it; so the man who had not completely
subdued
all his private, partial, and selfish passions, who had
any
other earnest desire but that for the universal happiness,
who had
not completely emerged from that abyss of misery and
disorder
into which his anxiety for the gratification of those
private,
partial, and selfish passions had involved him, could no
more
breathe the free air of liberty and independency, could no
more
enjoy the security and happiness of the wise man, than he
who was
most remote from that situation. As all the actions of
the
wise man were perfect, and equally perfect; so all those of
the man
who had not arrived at this supreme wisdom were faulty,
and, as
some Stoics pretended, equally faulty. As one truth, they
said,
could not be more true, nor one falsehood more false than
another;
so an honourable action could not be more honourable,
nor a
shameful one more shameful than another. As in shooting at
a mark,
the man who missed it by an inch had equally missed it
with
him who had done so by a hundred yards; so the man who, in
what to
us appears the most insignificant action, had acted
improperly
and without a sufficient reason, was equally faulty
with
him who had done so in, what to us appears, the most
important;
the man who has killed a cock, for example, improperly
and
without a sufficient reason, with him who had murdered his
father.
If the first of those two paradoxes should
appear
sufficiently
violent, the second is evidently too absurd to
deserve
any serious consideration. It is, indeed, so very absurd
that
one can scarce help suspecting that it must have been in
some
measure misunderstood or misrepresented. At any rate, I
cannot
allow myself to believe that such men as Zeno or
Cleanthes,
men, it is said, of the most simple as well as of the
most
sublime eloquence, could be the authors, either of these, or
of the
greater part of the other Stoical paradoxes, which are in
general
mere impertinent quibbles, and do so little honour to
their
system that I shall give no further account of them. I am
disposed
to impute them rather to Chrysippus, the disciple and
follower,
indeed, of Zeno and Cleanthes, but who, from all that
has
been delivered down to us concerning him, seems to have been
a mere
dialectical pedant, without taste or elegance of any kind.
He may
have been the first who reduced their doctrines into a
scholastic
or technical system of artificial definitions,
divisions,
and subdivisions; one of the most effectual
expedients,
perhaps, for extinguishing whatever degree of good
sense
there may be in any moral or metaphysical doctrine. Such a
man may
very easily be supposed to have understood too literally
some
animated expressions of his masters in describing the
happiness
of the man of perfect virtue, and the unhappiness of
whoever
fell short of that character.
The Stoics in general seem to have
admitted that there might
be a
degree of proficiency in those who had not advanced to
perfect
virtue and happiness. They distributed those proficients
into
different classes, according to the degree of their
advancement;
and they called the imperfect virtues which they
supposed
them capable of exercising, not rectitudes, but
proprieties,
fitnesses, decent and becoming actions, for which a
plausible
or probable reason could be assigned, what Cicero
expresses
by the Latin word officia, and Seneca, I think more
exactly,
by that of convenientia. The doctrine of those
imperfect,
but attainable virtues, seems to have constituted what
we may
call the practical morality of the Stoics. It is the
subject
of Cicero's Offices; and is said to have been that of
another
book written by Marcus Brutus, but which is now lost.
The plan and system which Nature has
sketched out for our
conduct,
seems to be altogether different from that of the
Stoical
philosophy.
By Nature the events which immediately
affect that little
department
in which we ourselves have some little management and
direction,
which immediately affect ourselves, our friends, our
country,
are the events which interest us the most, and which
chiefly
excite our desires and aversions, our hopes and fears,
our
joys and sorrows. Should those passions be, what they are
very apt
to be, too vehement, Nature has provided a proper remedy
and
correction. The real or even the imaginary presence of the
impartial
spectator, the authority of the man within the breast,
is
always at hand to overawe them into the proper tone and temper
of
moderation.
If, notwithstanding our most faithful
exertions, all the
events
which can affect this little department, should turn out
the
most unfortunate and disastrous, Nature has by no means left
us
without consolation. That consolation may be drawn, not only
from
the complete approbation of the man within the breast, but,
if
possible, from a still nobler and more generous principle,
from a
firm reliance upon, and a reverential submission to, that
benevolent
wisdom which directs all the events of human life, and
which,
we may be assured, would never have suffered those
misfortunes
to happen, had they not been indispensably necessary
for the
good of the whole.
Nature has not prescribed to us this
sublime contemplation as
the
great business and occupation of our lives. She only points
it out
to us as the consolation of our misfortunes. The Stoical
philosophy
prescribes it as the great business and occupation of
our
lives. That philosophy teaches us to interest ourselves
earnestly
and anxiously in no events, external to the good order
of our
own minds, to the propriety of our own choosing and
rejecting,
except in those which concern a department where we
neither
have nor ought to have any sort of management or
direction,
the department of the great Superintendant of the
universe.
By the perfect apathy which it prescribes to us, by
endeavouring,
not merely to moderate, but to eradicate all our
private,
partial, and selfish affections, by suffering us to feel
for
whatever can befall ourselves, our friends, our country, not
even
the sympathetic and reduced passions of the impartial
spectator,
it endeavours to render us altogether indifferent and
unconcerned
in the success or miscarriage of every thing which
Nature
has prescribed to us as the proper business and occupation
of our
lives.
The reasonings of philosophy, it may be
said, though they may
confound
and perplex the understanding, can never break down the
necessary
connection which Nature has established between causes
and
their effects. The causes which naturally excite our desires
and
aversions, our hopes and fears, our joys and sorrows, would
no
doubt, notwithstanding all the reasonings of Stoicism, produce
upon
each individual, according to the degree of his actual
sensibility,
their proper and necessary effects. The judgments of
the man
within the breast, however, might be a good deal affected
by
those reasonings, and that great inmate might be taught by
them to
attempt to overawe all our private, partial, and selfish
affections
into a more or less perfect tranquillity. To direct
the
judgments of this inmate is the great purpose of all systems
of
morality. That the Stoical philosophy had very great influence
upon
the character and conduct of its followers, cannot be
doubted;
and that though it might sometimes incite them to
unnecessary
violence, its general tendency was to animate them to
actions
of the most heroic magnanimity and most extensive
benevolence.
IV. Besides these ancient, there are some
modern systems,
according
to which virtue consists in propriety; or in the
suitableness
of the affection from which we act, to the cause or
object
which excites it. The system of Dr Clark, which places
virtue
in acting according to the relations of things, in
regulating
our conduct according to the fitness or incongruity
which
there may be in the application of certain actions to
certain
things, or to certain relations: that of Mr Woollaston,
which
places it in acting according to the truth of things,
according
to their proper nature and essence, or in treating them
as what
they really are, and not as what they are not: that of my
Lord
Shaftesbury, which places it in maintaining a proper balance
of the
affections, and in allowing no passion to go beyond its
proper
sphere; are all of them more or less inaccurate
descriptions
of the same fundamental idea.
None of those systems either give, or even
pretend to give,
any
precise or distinct measure by which this fitness or
propriety
of affection can be ascertained or judged of. That
precise
and distinct measure can be found nowhere but in the
sympathetic
feelings of the impartial and well-informed
spectator.
The description of virtue, besides, which
is either given, or
at least
meant and intended to be given in each of those systems,
for
some of the modern authors are not very fortunate in their
manner
of expressing themselves, is no doubt quite just, so far
as it
goes. There is no virtue without propriety, and wherever
there
is propriety some degree of approbation is due. But still
this
description is imperfect. For though propriety is an
essential
ingredient in every virtuous action, it is not always
the
sole ingredient. Beneficent actions have in them another
quality
by which they appear not only to deserve approbation but
recompense.
None of those systems account either easily or
sufficiently
for that superior degree of esteem which seems due
to such
actions, or for that diversity of sentiment which they
naturally
excite. Neither is the description of vice more
complete.
For, in the same manner, though impropriety is a
necessary
ingredient in every vicious action, it is not always
the
sole ingredient; and there is often the highest degree of
absurdity
and impropriety in very harmless and insignificant
actions.
Deliberate actions, of a pernicious tendency to those we
live
with, have, besides their impropriety, a peculiar quality of
their
own by which they appear to deserve, not only
disapprobation,
but punishment; and to be the objects, not of
dislike
merely, but of resentment and revenge: and none of those
systems
easily and sufficiently account for that superior degree
of
detestation which we feel for such actions.
Chap.
II
Of
those Systems which make Virtue consist in Prudence
The most ancient of those systems which
make virtue consist
in
prudence, and of which any considerable remains have come down
to us,
is that of Epicurus, who is said, however, to have
borrowed
all the leading principles of his philosophy from some
of
those who had gone before him, particularly from Aristippus;
though
it is very probable, notwithstanding this allegation of
his
enemies, that at least his manner of applying those
principles
was altogether his own.
According to Epicurus,(9*) bodily pleasure
and pain were the
sole
ultimate objects of natural desire and aversion. That they
were
always the natural objects of those passions, he thought
required
no proof. Pleasure might, indeed, appear sometimes to be
avoided;
not, however, because it was pleasure, but because, by
the
enjoyment of it, we should either forfeit some greater
pleasure,
or expose ourselves to some pain that was more to be
avoided
than this pleasure was to be desired. Pain, in the same
manner,
might appear sometimes to be eligible; not, however,
because
it was pain, but because by enduring it we might either
avoid a
still greater pain, or acquire some pleasure of much more
importance.
That bodily pain and pleasure, therefore, were always
the
natural objects of desire and aversion, was, he thought,
abundantly
evident. Nor was it less so, he imagined, that they
were
the sole ultimate objects of those passions. Whatever else
was
either desired or avoided, was so, according to him, upon
account
of its tendency to produce one or other of those
sensations.
The tendency to procure pleasure rendered power and
riches
desirable, as the contrary tendency to produce pain made
poverty
and insignificancy the objects of aversion. Honour and
reputation
were valued, because the esteem and love of those we
live
with were of the greatest consequence both to procure
pleasure
and to defend us from pain. Ignominy and bad fame, on
the
contrary, were to be avoided, because the hatred, contempt
and
resentment of those we lived with, destroyed all security,
and
necessarily exposed us to the greatest bodily evils.
All the pleasures and pains of the mind
were, according to
Epicurus,
ultimately derived from those of the body. The mind was
happy
when it thought of the past pleasures of the body, and
hoped
for others to come: and it was miserable when it thought of
the
pains which the body had formerly endured, and dreaded the
same or
greater thereafter.
But the pleasures and pains of the mind,
though ultimately
derived
from those of the body, were vastly greater than their
originals.
The body felt only the sensation of the present
instant,
whereas the mind felt also the past and the future, the
one by
remembrance, the other by anticipation, and consequently
both
suffered and enjoyed much more. When we are under the
greatest
bodily pain, he observed, we shall always find, if we
attend
to it, that it is not the suffering of the present instant
which
chiefly torments us, but either the agonizing remembrance
of the
past, or the yet more horrible dread of the future. The
pain of
each instant, considered by itself, and cut off from all
that
goes before and all that comes after it, is a trifle, not
worth
the regarding. Yet this is all which the boDy can ever be
said to
suffer. In the same manner, when we enjoy the greatest
pleasure,
we shall always find that the bodily sensation, the
sensation
of the present instant, makes but a small part of our
happiness,
that our enjoyment chiefly arises either from the
cheerful
recollection of the past, or the still more joyous
anticipation
of the future, and that the mind always contributes
by much
the largest share of the entertainment.
Since our happiness and misery, therefore,
depended chiefly
on the
mind, if this part of our nature was well disposed, if our
thoughts
and opinions were as they should be, it was of little
importance
in what manner our body was affected. Though under
great
bodily pain, we might still enjoy a considerable share of
happiness,
if our reason and judgment maintained their
superiority.
We might entertain ourselves with the remembrance of
past,
and with the hopes of future pleasure; we might soften the
rigour
of our pains, by recollecting what it was which, even in
this
situation, we were under any necessity of suffering. That
this
was merely the bodily sensation, the pain of the present
instant,
which by itself could never be very great. That whatever
agony
we suffered from the dread of its continuance, was the
effect
of an opinion of the mind, which might be corrected by
juster
sentiments; by considering that, if our pains were
violent,
they would probably be of short duration; and that if
they
were of long continuance, they would probably be moderate,
and
admit of many intervals of ease; and that, at any rate, death
was
always at hand and within call to deliver us, which as,
according
to him, it put an end to all sensation, either of pain
or
pleasure, could not be regarded as an evil. When we are, said
he,
death is not; and when death is, we are not; death therefore
can be
nothing to us.
If the actual sensation of positive pain
was in itself so
little
to be feared, that of pleasure was still less to be
desired.
Naturally the sensation of pleasure was much less
pungent
than that of pain. If, therefore, this last could take so
very
little from the happiness of a well-disposed mind, the other
could
add scarce any thing to it. When the body was free from
pain
and the mind from fear and anxiety, the superadded sensation
of
bodily pleasure could be of very little importance; and though
it
might diversify could not properly be said to increase the
happiness
of the situation.
In ease of body, therefore, and in
security or tranquillity
of
mind, consisted, according to Epicurus, the most perfect state
of
human nature, the most complete happiness which man was
capable
of enjoying. To obtain this great end of natural desire
was the
sole object of all the virtues, which, according to him,
were
not desirable upon their own account, but upon account of
their
tendency to bring about this situation.
Prudence, for example, though, according
to this philosophy,
the
source and principle of all the virtues, was not desirable
upon
its own account. That careful and laborious and circumspect
state
of mind, ever watchful and ever attentive to the most
distant
consequences of every action. could not be a thing
pleasant
or agreeable for its own sake, but upon account of its
tendency
to procure the greatest goods and to keep off the
greatest
evils.
To abstain from pleasure too, to curb and
restrain our
natural
passions for enjoyment, which was the office of
temperance,
could never be desirable for its own sake. The whole
value
of this virtue arose from its utility, from its enabling us
to
postpone the present enjoyment for the sake of a greater to
come,
or to avoid a greater pain that might ensue from it.
Temperance,
in short, was nothing but prudence with regard to
pleasure.
To support labour, to endure pain, to be
exposed to danger or
to
death, the situations which fortitude would often lead us
into,
were surely still less the objects of natural desire. They
were
chosen only to avoid greater evils. We submitted to labour,
in
order to avoid the greater shame and pain of poverty, and we
exposed
ourselves to danger and to death in defence of our
liberty
and property, the means and instruments of pleasure and
happiness;
or in defence of our country, in the safety of which
our own
was necessarily comprehended. Fortitude enabled us to do
all
this cheerfully, as the best which, in our present situation,
could
possibly be done, and was in reality no more than prudence,
good
judgment, and presence of mind in properly appreciating
pain,
labour, and danger, always choosing the less in order to
avoid
the greater.
It is the same case with justice. To
abstain from what is
another's
was not desirable on its own account, and it could not
surely
be better for you, that I should possess what is my own,
than
that you should possess it. You ought, however, to abstain
from
whatever belongs to me, because by doing otherwise you will
provoke
the resentment and indication of mankind. The security
and
tranquillity of your mind will be entirely destroyed. You
will be
filled with fear and consternation at the thought of that
punishment
which you will imagine that men are at all times ready
to
inflict upon you, and from which no power, no art, no
concealment,
will ever, in your own fancy, be sufficient to
protect
you. That other species of justice which. consists in
doing
proper good offices to different persons, according to the
various
relations of neighbours, kinsmen, friends, benefactors,
superiors,
or equals, which they may stand in to us, is
recommended
by the same reasons. To act properly in all these
different
relations procures us the esteem and love of those we
live
with; as to do otherwise excites their contempt and hatred.
By the
one we naturally secure, by the other we necessarily
endanger
our own ease and tranquillity, the great and ultimate
objects
of all our desires. The whole virtue of justice,
therefore,
the most important of all the virtues, is no more than
discreet
and prudent conduct with regard to our neighbours.
Such is the doctrine of Epicurus
concerning the nature of
virtue.
It may seem extraordinary that this philosopher, who is
described
as a person of the most amiable manners, should never
have
observed, that, whatever may be the tendency of those
virtues,
or of the contrary vices, with regard to our bodily ease
and
security, the sentiments which they naturally excite in
others
are the objects of a much more passionate desire or
aversion
than all their other consequences; that to be amiable,
to be
respectable, to be the proper object of esteem, is by every
well-disposed
mind more valued than all the ease and security
which
love, respect, and esteem can procure us; that, on the
contrary,
to be odious, to be contemptible, to be the proper
object
of indignation, is more dreadful than all that we can
suffer
in our body from hatred, contempt, or indignation; and
that
consequently our desire of the one character, and our
aversion
to the other, cannot arise from any regard to the
effects
which either of them is likely to produce upon the body.
This system is, no doubt, altogether
inconsistent with that
which I
have been endeavouring to establish. It is not difficult,
however,
to discover from what phasis, if I may say so, from what
particular
view or aspect of nature, this account of things
derives
its probability. By the wise contrivance of the Author of
nature,
virtue is upon all ordinary occasions, even with regard
to this
life, real wisdom, and the surest and readiest means of
obtaining
both safety and advantage. Our success or
disappointment
in our undertakings must very much depend upon the
good or
bad opinion which is commonly entertained of us, and upon
the
general disposition of those we live with, either to assist
or to
oppose us. But the best, the surest, the easiest, and the
readiest
way of obtaining the advantageous and of avoiding the
unfavourable
judgments of others, is undoubtedly to render
ourselves
the proper objects of the former and not of the latter.
'Do you
desire,' said Socrates, 'the reputation of a good
musician?
The only sure way of obtaining it, is to become a good
musician.
Would you desire in the same manner to be thought
capable
of serving your country either as a general or as a
statesman?
The best way in this case too is really to acquire the
art and
experience of war and government, and to become really
fit to
be a general or a statesman. And in the same manner if you
would
be reckoned sober, temperate, just, and equitable, the best
way of
acquiring this reputation is to become sober, temperate,
just,
and equitable. If you can really render yourself amiable,
respectable,
and the proper object of esteem, there is no fear of
your
not soon acquiring the love, the respect, and esteem of
those
you live with.' Since the practice of virtue, therefore, is
in
general so advantageous, and that of vice so contrary to our
interest,
the consideration of those opposite tendencies
undoubtedly
stamps an additional beauty and propriety upon the
one,
and a new deformity and impropriety upon the other.
Temperance,
magnanimity, justice, and beneficence, come thus to
be
approved of, not only under their proper characters, but under
the
additional character of the highest wisDom and most real
prudence.
And in the same manner, the contrary vices of
intemperance,
pusillanimity, injustice, and either malevolence or
sordid
selfishness, come to be disapproved of, not only under
their
proper characters, but under the additional character of
the
most short-sighted folly and weakness. Epicurus appears in
every
virtue to have attended to this species of propriety only.
It is
that which is most apt to occur to those who are
endeavouring
to persuade others to regularity of conduct. When
men by their
practice, and perhaps too by their maxims,
manifestly
show that the natural beauty of virtue is not like to
have
much effect upon them, how is it possible to move them but
by
representing the folly of their conduct, and how much they
themselves
are in the end likely to suffer by it?
By running up all the different virtues
too to this one
species
of propriety, Epicurus indulged a propensity, which is
natural
to all men, but which philosophers in particular are apt
to
cultivate with a peculiar fondness, as the great means of
displaying
their ingenuity, the propensity to account for all
appearances
from as few principles as possible. And he, no doubt,
indulged
this propensity still further, when he referred all the
primary
objects of natural desire and aversion to the pleasures
and
pains of the body. The great patron of the atomical
philosophy,
who took so much pleasure in deducing all the powers
and
qualities of bodies from the most obvious and familiar, the
figure,
motion, and arrangement of the small parts of matter,
felt no
doubt a similar satisfaction, when he accounted, in the
same
manner, for all the sentiments and passions of the mind from
those
which are most obvious and familiar.
The system of Epicurus agreed with those
of Plato, Aristotle,
and
Zeno, in making virtue consist in acting in the most suitable
manner
to obtain the (10*)primary objects of natural desire. It
differed
from all of them in two other respects; first, in the
account
which it gave of those primary objects of natural desire;
and
secondly, in the account which it gave of the excellence of
virtue,
or of the reason why that quality ought to be esteemed.
The primary objects of natural desire
consisted, according to
Epicurus,
in bodily pleasure and pain, and in nothing else:
whereas,
according to the other three philosophers, there were
many
other objects, such as knowledge, such as the happiness of
our
relations, of our friends, of our country, which were
ultimately
desirable for their own sakes.
Virtue too, according to Epicurus, did not
deserve to be
pursued
for its own sake, nor was itself one of the ultimate
objects
of natural appetite, but was eligible only upon account
of its
tendency to prevent pain and to procure ease and pleasure.
In the
opinion of the other three, on the contrary, it was
desirable,
not merely as the means of procuring the other primary
objects
of natural desire, but as something which was in itself
more
valuable than them all. Man, they thought, being born for
action,
his happiness must consist, not merely in the
agreeableness
of his passive sensations, but also in the
propriety
of his active exertions.
Chap.
III
Of
those Systems which make Virtue consist in Benevolence
The system which makes virtue consist in
benevolence, though
I think
not so ancient as all of those which I have already given
an
account of, is, however, of very great antiquity. It seems to
have
been the doctrine of the greater part of those philosophers
who,
about and after the age of Augustus, called themselves
Eclectics,
who pretended to follow chiefly the opinions of Plato
and
Pythagoras, and who upon that account are commonly known by
the
name of the later Platonists.
In the divine nature, according to these
authors, benevolence
or love
was the sole principle of action, and directed the
exertion
of all the other attributes. The wisdom of the Deity was
employed
in finding out the means for bringing about those ends
which
his goodness suggested, as his infinite power was exerted
to
execute them. Benevolence, however, was still the supreme and
governing
attribute, to which the others were subservient, and
from
which the whole excellency, or the whole morality, if I may
be
allowed such an expression, of the divine operations, was
ultimately
derived. The whole perfection and virtue of the human
mind
consisted in some resemblance or participation of the divine
perfections,
and, consequently, in being filled with the same
principle
of benevolence and love which influenced all the
actions
of the Deity. The actions of men which flowed from this
motive
were alone truly praise-worthy, or could claim any merit
in the
sight of the Deity. It was by actions of charity and love
only
that we could imitate, as became us, the conduct of God,
that we
could express our humble and devout admiration of his
infinite
perfections, that by fostering in our own minds the same
divine
principle, we could bring our own affections to a greater
resemblance
with his holy attributes, and thereby become more
proper
objects of his love and esteem; till at last we arrived at
that
immediate converse and communication with the Deity to which
it was
the great object of this philosophy to raise us.
This system, as it was much esteemed by
many ancient fathers
of the
Christian church, so after the Reformation it was adopted
by
several divines of the most eminent piety and learning and of
the
most amiable manners; particularly, by Dr Ralph Cudworth, by
Dr
Henry More, and by Mr John Smith of Cambridge. But of all the
patrons
of this system, ancient or modern, the late Dr Hutcheson
was
undoubtedly, beyond all comparison, the most acute, the most
distinct,
the most philosophical, and what is of the greatest
consequence
of all, the soberest and most judicious.
That virtue consists in benevolence is a
notion supported by
many
appearances in human nature. It has been observed already,
that
proper benevolence is the most graceful and agreeable of all
the
affections, that it is recommended to us by a double
sympathy,
that as its tendency is necessarily beneficent, it is
the
proper object of gratitude and reward, and that upon all
these
accounts it appears to our natural sentiments to possess a
merit
superior to any other. It has been observed too, that even
the
weaknesses of benevolence are not very disagreeable to us,
whereas
those of every other passion are always extremely
disgusting.
Who does not abhor excessive malice, excessive
selfishness,
or excessive resentment? But the most excessive
indulgence
even of partial friendship is not so offensive. It is
the
benevolent passions only which can exert themselves without
any
regard or attention to propriety, and yet retain something
about
them which is engaging. There is something pleasing even in
mere
instinctive good-will which goes on to do good offices
without
once reflecting whether by this conduct it is the proper
object
either of blame or approbation. It is not so with the
other
passions. The moment they are deserted, the moment they are
unaccompanied
by the sense of propriety, they cease to be
agreeable.
As benevolence bestows upon those actions
which proceed from
it, a
beauty superior to all others, so the want of it, and much
more
the contrary inclination, communicates a peculiar deformity
to
whatever evidences such a disposition. Pernicious actions are
often
punishable for no other reason than because they shew a
want of
sufficient attention to the happiness of our neighbour.
Besides all this, Dr Hutcheson(11*)
observed that whenever in
any
action, supposed to proceed from benevolent affections, some
other
motive had been discovered, our sense of the merit of this
action
was just so far diminished as this motive was believed to
have
influenced it. If an action, supposed to proceed from
gratitude,
should be discovered to have arisen from an
expectation
of some new favour, or if what was apprehended to
proceed
from public spirit, should be found out to have taken its
origin
from the hope of a pecuniary reward, such a discovery
would
entirely destroy all notion of merit or praise-worthiness
in
either of these actions. Since, therefore, the mixture of any
selfish
motive, like that of a baser alloy, diminished or took
away
altogether the merit which would otherwise have belonged to
any
action, it was evident, he imagined, that virtue must consist
in pure
and disinterested benevolence alone.
When those actions, on the contrary, which
are commonly
supposed
to proceed from a selfish motive, are discovered to have
arisen
from a benevolent one, it greatly enhances our sense of
their
merit. If we believed of any person that he endeavoured to
advance
his fortune from no other view but that of doing friendly
offices,
and of making proper returns to his benefactors, we
should
only love and esteem him the more. And this observation
seemed
still more to confirm the conclusion, that it was
benevolence
only which could stamp upon any action the character
of
virtue.
Last of all, what, he imagined, was an
evident proof of the
justness
of this account of virtue, in all the disputes of
casuists
concerning the rectitude of conduct, the public good, he
observed,
was the standard to which they constantly referred;
thereby
universally acknowledging that whatever tended to promote
the
happiness of mankind was right and laudable and virtuous, and
the
contrary, wrong, blamable, and vicious. In the late debates
about
passive obeDience and the right of resistance, the sole
point
in controversy among men of sense was, whether universal
submission
would probably be attended with greater evils than
temporary
insurrections when privileges were invaded. Whether
what,
upon the whole, tended most to the happiness of mankind,
was not
also morally good, was never once, he said, made a
question.
Since benevolence, therefore, was the only
motive which could
bestow
upon any action the character of virtue, the greater the
benevolence
which was evidenced by any action, the greater the
praise
which must belong to it.
Those actions which aimed at the happiness
of a great
community,
as they demonstrated a more enlarged benevolence than
those
which aimed only at that of a smaller system, so were they,
likewise,
proportionally the more virtuous. The most virtuous of
all
affections, therefore, was that which embraced as its object
the
happiness of all intelligent beings. The least virtuous, on
the
contrary, of those to which the character of virtue could in
any
respect belong, was that which aimed no further than at the
happiness
of an individual, such as a son, a brother, a friend.
In directing all our actions to promote
the greatest possible
good,
in submitting all inferior affections to the desire of the
general
happiness of mankind, in regarding one's self but as one
of the
many, whose prosperity was to be pursued no further than
it was
consistent with, or conducive to that of the whole,
consisted
the perfection of virtue.
Self-love was a principle which could
never be virtuous in
any
degree or in any direction. It was vicious whenever it
obstructed
the general good. When it had no other effect than to
make
the individual take care of his own happiness, it was merely
innocent,
and though it deserved no praise, neither ought it to
incur
any blame. Those benevolent actions which were performed,
notwithstanding
some strong motive from self-interest, were the
more
virtuous upon that account. They demonstrated the strength
and
vigour of the benevolent principle.
Dr Hutcheson(12*) was so far from allowing
self-love to be in
any
case a motive of virtuous actions, that even a regard to the
pleasure
of self-approbation, to the comfortable applause of our
own
consciences, according to him, diminished the merit of a
benevolent
action. This was a selfish motive, he thought, which,
so far
as it contributed to any action, demonstrated the weakness
of that
pure and disinterested benevolence which could alone
stamp
upon the conduct of man the character of virtue. In the
common
judgments of mankind, however, this regard to the
approbation
of our own minds is so far from being considered as
what
can in any respect diminish the virtue of any action, that
it is
rather looked upon as the sole motive which deserves the
appellation
of virtuous.
Such is the account given of the nature of
virtue in this
amiable
system, a system which has a peculiar tendency to nourish
and
support in the human heart the noblest and the most agreeable
of all
affections, and not only to check the injustice of
self-love,
but in some measure to discourage that principle
altogether,
by representing it as what could never reflect any
honour
upon those who were influenced by it.
As some of the other systems which I have
already given an
account
of, do not sufficiently explain from whence arises the
peculiar
excellency of the supreme virtue of beneficence, so this
system
seems to have the contrary defect, of not sufficiently
explaining
from whence arises our approbation of the inferior
virtues
of prudence, vigilance, circumspection, temperance,
constancy,
firmness. The view and aim of our affections, the
beneficent
and hurtful effects which they tend to produce, are
the
only qualities at all attended to in this system. Their
propriety
and impropriety, their suitableness and unsuitableness,
to the
cause which excites them, are disregarded altogether.
Regard to our own private happiness and
interest, too, appear
upon
many occasions very laudable principles of action. The
habits
of oeconomy, industry, discretion, attention, and
application
of thought, are generally supposed to be cultivated
from
self-interested motives, and at the same time are
apprehended
to be very praise-worthy qualities, which deserve the
esteem
and approbation of every body. The mixture of a selfish
motive,
it is true, seems often to sully the beauty of those
actions
which ought to arise from a benevolent affection. The
cause
of this, however, is not that self-love can never be the
motive
of a virtuous action, but that the benevolent principle
appears
in this particular case to want its due degree of
strength,
and to be altogether unsuitable to its object. The
character,
therefore, seems evidently imperfect, and upon the
whole
to deserve blame rather than praise. The mixture of a
benevolent
motive in an action to which self-love alone ought to
be
sufficient to prompt us, is not so apt indeed to diminish our
sense
of its propriety, or of the virtue of the person who
performs
it. We are not ready to suspect any person of being
defective
in selfishness. This is by no means the weak side of
human
nature, or the failing of which we are apt to be
suspicious.
If we could really believe, however, of any man,
that,
was it not from a regard to his family and friends, he
would
not take that proper care of his health, his life, or his
fortune,
to which self-preservation alone ought to be sufficient
to
prompt him, it would undoubtedly be a failing, though one of
those
amiable failings, which render a person rather the object
of pity
than of contempt or hatred. It would still, however,
somewhat
diminish the dignity and respectableness of his
character.
Carelessness and want of oeconomy are universally
disapproved
of, not, however, as proceeding from a want of
benevolence,
but from a want of the proper attention to the
objects
of self-interest.
Though the standard by which casuists
frequently determine
what is
right or wrong in human conduct, be its tendency to the
welfare
or disorder of society, it does not follow that a regard
to the
welfare of society should be the sole virtuous motive of
action,
but only that, in any competition, it ought to cast the
balance
against all other motives.
Benevolence may, perhaps, be the sole
principle of action in
the
Deity, and there are several, not improbable, arguments which
tend to
persuade us that it is so. It is not easy to conceive
what
other motive an independent and all-perfect Being, who
stands
in need of nothing external, and whose happiness is
complete
in himself, can act from. But whatever may be the case
with
the Deity, so imperfect a creature as man, the support of
whose
existence requires so many things external to him, must
often
act from many other motives. The condition of human nature
were
peculiarly hard, if those affections, which, by the very
nature
of our being, ought frequently to influence our conduct,
could
upon no occasion appear virtuous, or deserve esteem and
commendation
from any body.
Those three systems, that which places
virtue in propriety,
that
which places it in prudence, and that which makes it consist
in
benevolence, are the principal accounts which have been given
of the
nature of virtue. To one or other of them, all the other
descriptions
of virtue, how different soever they may appear, are
easily
reducible.
That system which places virtue in
obedience to the will of
the
Deity, may be counted either among those which make it
consist
in prudence, or among those which make it consist in
propriety.
When it is asked, why we ought to obey the will of the
Deity,
this question, which would be impious and absurd in the
highest
degree, if asked from any doubt that we ought to obey
him,
can admit but of two different answers. It must either be
said
that we ought to obey the will of the Deity because he is a
Being
of infinite power, who will reward us eternally if we do
so, and
punish us eternally if we do otherwise: or it must be
said,
that independent of any regard to our own happiness, or to
rewards
and punishments of any kind, there is a congruity and
fitness
that a creature should obey its creator, that a limited
and
imperfect being should submit to one of infinite and
incomprehensible
perfections. Besides one or other of these two,
it is
impossible to conceive that any other answer can be given
to this
question. If the first answer be the proper one, virtue
consists
in prudence, or in the proper pursuit of our own final
interest
and happiness; since it is upon this account that we are
obliged
to obey the will of the Deity. If the second answer be
the
proper one, virtue must consist in propriety, since the
ground
of our obligation to obedience is the suitableness or
congruity
of the sentiments of humility and submission to the
superiority
of the object which excites them.
That system which places virtue in
utility, coincides too
with
that which makes it consist in propriety. According to this
system,
all those qualities of the mind which are agreeable or
advantageous,
either to the person himself or to others, are
approved
of as virtuous, and the contrary disapproved of as
vicious.
But the agreeableness or utility of any affection
depends
upon the degree which it is allowed to subsist in. Every
affection
is useful when it is confined to a certain degree of
moderation;
and every affection is disadvantageous when it
exceeds
the proper bounds. According to this system therefore,
virtue
consists not in any one affection, but in the proper
degree
of all the affections. The only difference between it and
that
which I have been endeavouring to establish, is, that it
makes
utility, and not sympathy, or the correspondent affection
of the
spectator, the natural and original measure of this proper
degree.
Chap.
IV
Of
licentious Systems
All those systems, which I have hitherto
given an account of,
suppose
that there is a real and essential distinction between
vice
and virtue, whatever these qualities may consist in. There
is a
real and essential difference between the propriety and
impropriety
of any affection, between benevolence and any other
principle
of action, between real prudence and shortsighted folly
or
precipitate rashness. In the main too all of them contribute
to
encourage the praise-worthy, and to discourage the blamable
disposition.
It may be true, perhaps, of some of them,
that they tend, in
some
measure, to break the balance of the affections, and to give
the
mind a particular bias to some principles of action, beyond
the
proportion that is due to them. The ancient systems, which
place
virtue in propriety, seem chiefly to recommend the great,
the
awful, and the respectable virtues, the virtues of
self-government
and self-command; fortitude, magnanimity,
independency
upon fortune, the contempt of all outward accidents,
of
pain, poverty, exile, and death. It is in these great
exertions
that the noblest propriety of conduct is displayed. The
soft,
the amiable, the gentle virtues, all the virtues of
indulgent
humanity are, in comparison, but little insisted upon,
and
seem, on the contrary, by the Stoics in particular, to have
been
often regarded as mere weaknesses which it behoved a wise
man not
to harbour in his breast.
The benevolent system, on the other hand,
while it fosters
and
encourages all those milder virtues in the highest degree,
seems
entirely to neglect the more awful and respectable
qualities
of the mind. It even denies them the appellation of
virtues.
It calls them moral abilities, and treats them as
qualities
which do not deserve the same sort of esteem and
approbation,
that is due to what is properly denominated virtue.
All
those principles of action which aim only at our own
interest,
it treats, if that be possible, still worse. So far
from
having any merit of their own, they diminish, it pretends,
the
merit of benevolence, when they co-operate with it: and
prudence,
it is asserted, when employed only in promoting private
interest,
can never even be imagined a virtue.
That system, again, which makes virtue
consist in prudence
only,
while it gives the highest encouragement to the habits of
caution,
vigilance, sobriety, and judicious moderation, seems to
degrade
equally both the amiable and respectable virtues, and to
strip
the former of all their beauty, and the latter of all their
grandeur.
But notwithstanding these defects, the
general tendency of
each of
those three systems is to encourage the best and most
laudable
habits of the human mind: and it were well for society,
if, either
mankind in general, or even those few who pretend to
live
according to any philosophical rule, were to regulate their
conduct
by the precepts of any one of them. We may learn from
each of
them something that is both valuable and peculiar. If it
was
possible, by precept and exhortation, to inspire the mind
with
fortitude and magnanimity, the ancient systems of propriety
would
seem sufficient to do this. Or if it was possible, by the
same
means, to soften it into humanity, and to awaken the
affections
of kindness and general love towards those we live
with,
some of the pictures with which the benevolent system
presents
us, might seem capable of producing this effect. We may
learn
from the system of Epicurus, though undoubtedly the most
imperfect
of all the three, how much the practice of both the
amiable
and respectable virtues is conducive to our own interest,
to our
own ease and safety and quiet even in this life. As
Epicurus
placed happiness in the attainment of ease and security,
he exerted
himself in a particular manner to show that virtue
was,
not merely the best and the surest, but the only means of
acquiring
those invaluable possessions. The good effects of
virtue,
upon our inward tranquillity and peace of mind, are what
other philosophers
have chiefly celebrated. Epicurus, without
neglecting
this topic, has chiefly insisted upon the influence of
that
amiable quality on our outward prosperity and safety. It was
upon
this account that his writings were so much studied in the
ancient
world by men of all different philosophical parties. It
is from
him that Cicero, the great enemy of the Epicurean system,
borrows
his most agreeable proofs that virtue alone is sufficient
to
secure happiness. Seneca, though a Stoic, the sect most
opposite
to that of Epicurus, yet quotes this philosopher more
frequently
than any other.
There is, however, another system which
seems to take away
altogether
the distinction between vice and virtue, and of which
the
tendency is, upon that account, wholly pernicious: I mean the
system
of Dr Mandeville. Though the notions of this author are in
almost
every respect erroneous, there are, however, some
appearances
in human nature, which, when viewed in a certain
manner,
seem at first sight to favour them. These, described and
exaggerated
by the lively and humorous, though coarse and rustic
eloquence
of Dr Mandeville, have thrown upon his doctrines an air
of
truth and probability which is very apt to impose upon the
unskilful.
Dr Mandeville considers whatever is done
from a sense of
propriety,
from a regard to what is commendable and
praise-worthy,
as being done from a love of praise and
commendation,
or as he calls it from vanity. Man, he observes, is
naturally
much more interested in his own happiness than in that
of
others, and it is impossible that in his heart he can ever
really
prefer their prosperity to his own. Whenever he appears to
do so,
we may be assured that he imposes upon us, and that he is
then
acting from the same selfish motives as at all other times.
Among
his other selfish passions, vanity is one of the strongest,
and he
is always easily flattered and greatly delighted with the
applauses
of those about him. When he appears to sacrifice his
own
interest to that of his companions, he knows that his conduct
will be
highly agreeable to their self-love, and that they will
not
fail to express their satisfaction by bestowing upon him the
most
extravagant praises. The pleasure which he expects from
this,
over-balances, in his opinion, the interest which he
abandons
in order to procure it. His conduct, therefore, upon
this
occasion, is in reality just as selfish, and arises from
just as
mean a motive, as upon any other. He is flattered,
however,
and he flatters himself, with the belief that it is
entirely
disinterested; since, unless this was supposed, it would
not
seem to merit any commendation either in his own eyes or in
those
of others. All public spirit, therefore, all preference of
public
to private interest, is, according to him, a mere cheat
and
imposition upon mankind; and that human virtue which is so
much
boasted of, and which is the occasion of so much emulation
among
men, is the mere offspring of flattery begot upon pride.
Whether the most generous and
public-spirited actions may
not, in
some sense, be regarded as proceeding from self-love, I
shall
not at present examine. The decision of this question is
not, I
apprehend, of any importance towards establishing the
reality
of virtue, since self-love may frequently be a virtuous
motive
of action. I shall only endeavour to show that the desire
of
doing what is honourable and noble, of rendering ourselves the
proper
objects of esteem and approbation, cannot with any
propriety
be called vanity. Even the love of well-grounded fame
and
reputation, the desire of acquiring esteem by what is really
estimable,
does not deserve that name. The first is the love of
virtue,
the noblest and the best passion in human nature. The
second
is the love of true glory, a passion inferior no doubt to
the
former, but which in dignity appears to come immediately
after
it. He is guilty of vanity who desires praise for qualities
which
are either not praise-worthy in any degree, or not in that
degree
in which he expects to be praised for them who sets his
character
upon the frivolous ornaments of dress and equipage, or
upon
the equally frivolous accomplishments of ordinary behaviour.
He is
guilty of vanity who desires praise for what indeed very
well
deserves it, but what he perfectly knows does not belong to
him.
The empty coxcomb who gives himself airs of importance which
he has
no title to, the silly liar who assumes the merit of
adventures
which never happened, the foolish plagiary who gives
himself
out for the author of what he has no pretensions to, are
properly
accused of this passion. He too is said to be guilty of
vanity
who is not contented with the silent sentiments of esteem
and
approbation, who seems to be fonder of their noisy
expressions
and acclamations than of the sentiments themselves,
who is
never satisfied but when his own praises are ringing in
his
ears, and who solicits with the most anxious importunity all
external
marks of respect, is fond of titles, of compliments, of
being
visited, of being attended, of being taken notice of in
public
places with the appearance of deference and attention.
This
frivolous passion is altogether different from either of the
two
former, and is the passion of the lowest and the least of
mankind,
as they are of the noblest and the greatest.
But though these three passions, the
desire of rendering
ourselves
the proper objects of honour and esteem; or of becoming
what is
honourable and estimable; the desire of acquiring honour
and
esteem by really deserving those sentiments; and the
frivolous
desire of praise at any rate, are widely different;
though
the two former are always approved of, while the latter
never
fails to be despised; there is, however, a certain remote
affinity
among them, which, exaggerated by the humorous and
diverting
eloquence of this lively author, has enabled him to
impose
upon his readers. There is an affinity between vanity and
the
love of true glory, as both these passions aim at acquiring
esteem
and approbation. But they are different in this, that the
one is
a just, reasonable, and equitable passion, while the other
is
unjust, absurd, and ridiculous. The man who desires esteem for
what is
really estimable, desires nothing but what he is justly
entitled
to, and what cannot be refused him without some sort of
injury.
He, on the contrary, who desires it upon any other terms,
demands
what he has no just claim to. The first is easily
satisfied,
is not apt to be jealous or suspicious that we do not
esteem
him enough, and is seldom solicitous about receiving many
external
marks of our regard. The other, on the contrary, is
never
to be satisfied, is full of jealousy and suspicion that we
do not
esteem him so much as he desires, because he has some
secret
consciousness that he desires more than he deserves. The
least
neglect of ceremony, he considers as a mortal affront, and
as an
expression of the most determined contempt. He is restless
and
impatient, and perpetually afraid that we have lost all
respect
for him, and is upon this account always anxious to
obtain
new expressions of esteem, and cannot be kept in temper
but by
continual attention and adulation.
There is an affinity too between the
desire of becoming what
is
honourable and estimable, and the desire of honour and esteem,
between
the love of virtue and the love of true glory. They
resemble
one another not only in this respect, that both aim at
really
being what is honourable and noble, but even in that
respect
in which the love of true glory resembles what is
properly
called vanity, some reference to the sentiments of
others.
The man of the greatest magnanimity, who desires virtue
for its
own sake, and is most indifferent about what actually are
the
opinions of mankind with regard to him, is still, however,
delighted
with the thoughts of what they should be, with the
consciousness
that though he may neither be honoured nor
applauded,
he is still the proper object of honour and applause,
and
that if mankind were cool and candid and consistent with
themselves,
and properly informed of the motives and
circumstances
of his conduct, they would not fail to honour and
applaud
him. Though he despises the opinions which are actually
entertained
of him, he has the highest value for those which
ought
to be entertained of him. That he might think himself
worthy
of those honourable sentiments, and, whatever was the idea
which
other men might conceive of his character, that when he
should
put himself in their situation, and consider, not what
was,
but what ought to be their opinion, he should always have
the
highest idea of it himself, was the great and exalted motive
of his
conduct. As even in the love of virtue, therefore, there
is
still some reference, though not to what is, yet to what in
reason
and propriety ought to be, the opinion of others, there is
even in
this respect some affinity between it, and the love of
true
glory. There is, however, at the same time, a very great
difference
between them. The man who acts solely from a regard to
what is
right and fit to be done, from a regard to what is the
proper
object of esteem and approbation, though these sentiments
should
never be bestowed upon him, acts from the most sublime and
godlike
motive which human nature is even capable of conceiving.
The
man, on the other hand, who while he desires to merit
approbation
is at the same time anxious to obtain it, though he
too is
laudable in the main, yet his motives have a greater
mixture
of human infirmity. He is in danger of being mortified by
the
ignorance and injustice of mankind, and his happiness is
exposed
to the envy of his rivals and the folly of the public.
The
happiness of the other, on the contrary, is altogether secure
and
independent of fortune, and of the caprice of those he lives
with.
The contempt and hatred which may be thrown upon him by the
ignorance
of mankind, he considers as not belonging to him, and
is not
at all mortified by it. Mankind despise and hate him from
a false
notion of his character and conduct. If they knew him
better,
they would esteem and love him. It is not him whom,
properly
speaking, they hate and despise, but another person whom
they
mistake him to be. Our friend, whom we should meet at a
masquerade
in the garb of our enemy, would be more diverted than
mortified,
if under that disguise we should vent our indignation
against
him. Such are the sentiments of a man of real
magnanimity,
when exposed to unjust censure. It seldom happens,
however,
that human nature arrives at this degree of firmness.
Though
none but the weakest and most worthless of mankind are
much
delighted with false glory, yet, by a strange inconsistency,
false
ignominy is often capable of mortifying those who appear
the
most resolute and determined.
Dr
Mandeville is not satisfied with representing the
frivolous
motive of vanity, as the source of all those actions
which
are commonly accounted virtuous. He endeavours to point out
the
imperfection of human virtue in many other respects. In every
case,
he pretends, it falls short of that complete self-denial
which
it pretends to, and, instead of a conquest, is commonly no
more
than a concealed indulgence of our passions. Wherever our
reserve
with regard to pleasure falls short of the most ascetic
abstinence,
he treats it as gross luxury and sensuality. Every
thing,
according to him, is luxury which exceeds what is
absolutely
necessary for the support of human nature, so that
there
is vice even in the use of a clean shirt, or of a
convenient
habitation. The indulgence of the inclination to sex,
in the
most lawful union, he considers as the same sensuality
with
the most hurtful gratification of that passion, and derides
that
temperance and that chastity which can be practised at so
cheap a
rate. The ingenious sophistry of his reasoning, is here,
as upon
many other occasions, covered by the ambiguity of
language.
There are some of our passions which have no other
names
except those which mark the disagreeable and offensive
degree.
The spectator is more apt to take notice of them in this
degree
than in any other. When they shock his own sentiments,
when
they give him some sort of antipathy and uneasiness, he is
necessarily
obliged to attend to them, and is from thence
naturally
led to give them a name. When they fall in with the
natural
state of his own mind, he is very apt to overlook them
altogether,
and either gives them no name at all, or, if he give
them
any, it is one which marks rather the subjection and
restraint
of the passion, than the degree which it still is
allowed
to subsist in, after it is so subjected and restrained.
Thus
the common names(13*) of the love of pleasure, and of the
love of
sex, denote a vicious and offensive degree of those
passions.
The words temperance and chastity, on the other hand,
seem to
mark rather the restraint and subjection which they are
kept
under, than the degree which they are still allowed to
subsist
in. When he can show, therefore, that they still subsist
in some
degree, he imagines, he has entirely demolished the
reality
of the virtues of temperance and chastity, and shown them
to be
mere impositions upon the inattention and simplicity of
mankind.
Those virtues, however, do not require an entire
insensibility
to the objects of the passions which they mean to
govern.
They only aim at restraining the violence of those
passions
so far as not to hurt the individual, and neither
disturb
nor offend the society.
It is the great fallacy of Dr.
Mandeville's book(14*) to
represent
every passion as wholly vicious, which is so in any
degree
and in any direction. It is thus that he treats every
thing
as vanity which has any reference, either to what are, or
to what
ought to be the sentiments of others: and it is by means
of this
sophistry, that he establishes his favourite conclusion,
that
private vices are public benefits. If the love of
magnificence,
a taste for the elegant arts and improvements of
human
life, for whatever is agreeable in dress, furniture, or
equipage,
for architecture, statuary, painting, and music, is to
be
regarded as luxury, sensuality, and ostentation, even in those
whose
situation allows, without any inconveniency, the indulgence
of
those passions, it is certain that luxury, sensuality, and
ostentation
are public benefits: since without the qualities upon
which
he thinks proper to bestow such opprobrious names, the arts
of
refinement could never find encouragement, and must languish
for
want of employment. Some popular ascetic doctrines which had
been
current before his time, and which placed virtue in the
entire
extirpation and annihilation of all our passions, were the
real
foundation of this licentious system. It was easy for Dr
Mandeville
to prove, first, that this entire conquest never
actually
took place among men; and secondly, that, if it was to
take
place universally, it would be pernicious to society, by
putting
an end to all industry and commerce, and in a manner to
the
whole business of human life. By the first of these
propositions
he seemed to prove that there was no real virtue,
and
that what pretended to be such, was a mere cheat and
imposition
upon mankind; and by the second, that private vices
were
public benefits, since without them no society could prosper
or
flourish.
Such is the system of Dr Mandeville, which
once made so much
noise
in the world, and which, though, perhaps, it never gave
occasion
to more vice than what would have been without it, at
least
taught that vice, which arose from other causes, to appear
with
more effrontery, and to avow the corruption of its motives
with a
profligate audaciousness which had never been heard of
before.
But how destructive soever this system may
appear, it could
never
have imposed upon so great a number of persons, nor have
occasioned
so general an alarm among those who are the friends of
better
principles, had it not in some respects bordered upon the
truth.
A system of natural philosophy may appear very plausible,
and be
for a long time very generally received in the world, and
yet
have no foundation in nature, nor any sort of resemblance to
the
truth. The vortices of Des Cartes were regarded by a very
ingenious
nation, for near a century together, as a most
satisfactory
account of the revolutions of the heavenly bodies.
Yet it
has been demonstrated, to the conviction of all mankind,
that
these pretended causes of those wonderful effects, not only
do not
actually exist, but are utterly impossible, and if they
did
exist, could produce no such effects as are ascribed to them.
But it
is otherwise with systems of moral philosophy, and an
author
who pretends to account for the origin of our moral
sentiments,
cannot deceive us so grossly, nor depart so very far
from
all resemblance to the truth. When a traveller gives an
account
of some distant country, he may impose upon our credulity
the
most groundless and absurd fictions as the most certain
matters
of fact. But when a person pretends to inform us of what
passes
in our neighbourhood, and of the affairs of the very
parish
which we live in, though here too, if we are so careless
as not
to examine things with our own eves, he may deceive us in
many
respects, yet the greatest falsehoods which he imposes upon
us must
bear some resemblance to the truth, and must even have a
considerable
mixture of truth in them. An author who treats of
natural
philosophy, and pretends to assign the causes of the
great
phaenomena of the universe, pretends to give an account of
the
affairs of a very distant country, concerning which he may
tell us
what he pleases, and as long as his narration keeps
within
the bounds of seeming possibility, he need not despair of
gaining
our belief. But when he proposes to explain the origin of
our
desires and affections, of our sentiments of approbation and
disapprobation,
he pretends to give an account, not only of the
affairs
of the very parish that we live in, but of our own
domestic
concerns. Though here too, like indolent masters who put
their
trust in a steward who deceives them, we are very liable to
be
imposed upon, yet we are incapable of passing any account
which
does not preserve some little regard to the truth. Some of
the
articles, at least, must be just, and even those which are
most
overcharged must have had some foundation, otherwise the
fraud
would be detected even by that careless inspection which we
are
disposed to give. The author who should assign, as the cause
of any
natural sentiment, some principle which neither had any
connexion
with it, nor resembled any other principle which had
some
such connexion, would appear absurd and ridiculous to the
most
injudicious and unexperienced reader.
Section
III
Of the
different Systems which have been formed concerning the
Principle
of Approbation
Introduction
After the inquiry concerning the nature of
virtue, the next
question
of importance in Moral Philosophy, is concerning the
principle
of approbation, concerning the power or faculty of the
mind
which renders certain characters agreeable or disagreeable
to us,
makes us prefer one tenour of conduct to another,
denominate
the one right and the other wrong, and consider the
one as
the object of approbation, honour, and reward; the other
as that
of blame, censure, and punishment.
Three different accounts have been given
of this principle of
approbation.
According to some, we approve and disapprove both of
our own
actions and of those of others, from self-love only, or
from
some view of their tendency to our own happiness or
disadvantage:
according to others, reason, the same faculty by
which
we distinguish between truth and falsehood, enables us to
distinguish
between what is fit and unfit both in actions and
affections:
accorDing to others this distinction is altogether
the effect
of immediate sentiment and feeling, and arises from
the
satisfaction or disgust with which the view of certain
actions
or affections inspires us. Self-love, reason, and
sentiment,
therefore, are the three different sources which have
been
assigned for the principle of approbation.
Before I proceed to give an account of
those different
systems,
I must observe, that the determination of this second
question,
though of the greatest importance in speculation, is of
none in
practice. The question concerning the nature of virtue
necessarily
has some influence upon our notions of right and
wrong
in many particular cases. That concerning the principle of
approbation
can possibly have no such effect. To examine from
what
contrivance or mechanism within, those different notions or
sentiments
arise, is a mere matter of philosophical curiosity.
Chap. I
Of
those Systems which deduce the Principle of Approbation from
Self-love
Those who account for the principle of
approbation from
self-love,
do not all account for it in the same manner, and
there
is a good deal of confusion and inaccuracy in all their
different
systems. According to Mr Hobbes, and many of his
followers,(15*)
man is driven to take refuge in society, not by
any
natural love which he bears to his own kind, but because
without
the assistance of others he is incapable of subsisting
with
ease or safety. Society, upon this account, becomes
necessary
to him, and whatever tends to its support and welfare,
he
considers as having a remote tendency to his own interest;
and, on
the contrary, whatever is likely to disturb or destroy
it, he
regards as in some measure hurtful or pernicious to
himself.
Virtue is the great support, and vice the great
disturber
of human society. The former, therefore, is agreeable,
and the
latter offensive to every man; as from the one he
foresees
the prosperity, and from the other the ruin and disorder
of what
is so necessary for the comfort and security of his
existence.
That the tendency of virtue to promote,
and of vice to
disturb
the order of society, when we consider it coolly and
philosophically,
reflects a very great beauty upon the one, and a
very
great deformity upon the other, cannot, as I have observed
upon a
former occasion, be called in question. Human society,
when we
contemplate it in a certain abstract and philosophical
light,
appears like a great, an immense machine, whose regular
and
harmonious movements produce a thousand agreeable effects. As
in any
other beautiful and noble machine that was the production
of
human art, whatever tended to render its movements more smooth
and
easy, would derive a beauty from this effect, and, on the
contrary,
whatever tended to obstruct them would displease upon
that
account: so virtue, which is, as it were, the fine polish to
the
wheels of society, necessarily pleases; while vice, like the
vile
rust, which makes them jar and grate upon one another, is as
necessarily
offensive. This account, therefore, of the origin of
approbation
and disapprobation, so far as it derives them from a
regard
to the order of society, runs into that principle which
gives
beauty to utility, and which I have explained upon a former
occasion;
and it is from thence that this system derives all that
appearance
of probability which it possesses. When those authors
describe
the innumerable advantages of a cultivated and social,
above a
savage and solitary life; when they expatiate upon the
necessity
of virtue and good order for the maintenance of the
one,
and demonstrate how infallibly the prevalence of vice and
disobedience
to the laws tend to bring back the other, the reader
is
charmed with the novelty and grandeur of those views which
they
open to him: he sees plainly a new beauty in virtue, and a
new
deformity in vice, which he had never taken notice of before,
and is
commonly so delighted with the discovery, that he seldom
takes
time to reflect, that this political view, having never
occurred
to him in his life before, cannot possibly be the ground
of that
approbation and disapprobation with which he has always
been
accustomed to consider those different qualities.
When those authors, on the other hand,
deduce from self-love
the
interest which we take in the welfare of society, and the
esteem
which upon that account we bestow upon virtue, they do not
mean,
that when we in this age applaud the virtue of Cato, and
detest
the villany of Catiline, our sentiments are influenced by
the
notion of any benefit we receive from the one, or of any
detriment
we suffer from the other. It was not because the
prosperity
or subversion of society, in those remote ages and
nations,
was apprehended to have any influence upon our happiness
or
misery in the present times; that according to those
philosophers,
we esteemed the virtuous, and blamed the disorderly
characters.
They never imagined that our sentiments were
influenced
by any benefit or damage which we supposed actually to
redound
to us, from either; but by that which might have
redounded
to us, had we lived in those distant ages and
countries;
or by that which might still redound to us, if in our
own
times we should meet with characters of the same kind. The
idea,
in short, which those authors were groping about, but which
they were
never able to unfold distinctly, was that indirect
sympathy
which we feel with the gratitude or resentment of those
who
received the benefit or suffered the damage resulting from
such
opposite characters: and it was this which they were
indistinctly
pointing at, when they said, that it was not the
thought
of what we had gained or suffered which prompted our
applause
or indignation, but the conception or imagination of
what we
might gain or suffer if we were to act in society with
such
associates.
Sympathy, however, cannot, in any sense,
be regarded as a
selfish
principle. When I sympathize with your sorrow or your
indignation,
it may be pretended, indeed, that my emotion is
founded
in self-love, because it arises from bringing your case
home to
myself, from putting myself in your situation, and thence
conceiving
what I should feel in the like circumstances. But
though
sympathy is very properly said to arise from an imaginary
change
of situations with the person principally concerned, yet
this
imaginary change is not supposed to happen to me in my own
person
and character, but in that of the person with whom I
sympathize.
When I condole with you for the loss of your only
son, in
order to enter into your grief I do not consider what I,
a
person of such a character and profession, should suffer, if I
had a
son, and if that son was unfortunately to die: but I
consider
what I should suffer if I was really you, and I not only
change
circumstances with you, but I change persons and
characters.
My grief, therefore, is entirely upon your account,
and not
in the least upon my own. It is not, therefore, in the
least
selfish. How can that be regarded as a selfish passion,
which
does not arise even from the imagination of any thing that
has
befallen, or that relates to myself, in my own proper person
and
character, but which is entirely occupied about what relates
to you?
A man may sympathize with a woman in child-bed; though it
is
impossible that he should conceive himself as suffering her
pains
in his own proper person and character. That whole account
of
human nature, however, which deduces all sentiments and
affections
from self-love, which has made so much noise in the
world,
but which, so far as I know, has never yet been fully and
distinctly
explained, seems to me to have arisen from some
confused
misapprehension of the system of sympathy.
Chap.
II
Of
those Systems which make Reason the Principle of Approbation
It is well known to have been the doctrine
of Mr Hobbes, that
a state
of nature is a state of war; and that antecedent to the
institution
of civil government there could be no safe or
peaceable
society among men. To preserve society, therefore,
according
to him, was to support civil government, and to destroy
civil
government was the same thing as to put an end to society.
But the
existence of civil government depends upon the obedience
that is
paid to the supreme magistrate. The moment he loses his
authority,
all government is at an end. As self-preservation,
therefore,
teaches men to applaud whatever tends to promote the
welfare
of society, and to blame whatever is likely to hurt it;
so the
same principle, if they would think and speak
consistently,
ought to teach them to applaud upon all occasions
obedience
to the civil magistrate, and to blame all disobedience
and
rebellion. The very ideas of laudable and blamable, ought to
be the
same with those of obedience and disobedience. The laws of
the
civil magistrate, therefore, ought to be regarded as the sole
ultimate
standards of what was just and unjust, of what was right
and
wrong.
It was the avowed intention of Mr Hobbes,
by propagating
these
notions, to subject the consciences of men immediately to
the
civil, and not to the ecclesiastical powers, whose turbulence
and
ambition, he had been taught, by the example of his own
times,
to regard as the principal source of the disorders of
society.
His doctrine, upon this account, was peculiarly
offensive
to theologians, who accorDingly did not fail to vent
their
indignation against him with great asperity and bitterness.
It was
likewise offensive to all sound moralists, as it supposed
that
there was no natural distinction between right and wrong,
that
these were mutable and changeable, and depended upon the
mere
arbitrary will of the civil magistrate. This account of
things,
therefore, was attacked from all quarters, and by all
sorts
of weapons, by sober reason as well as by furious
declamation.
In order to confute so odious a doctrine,
it was necessary to
prove,
that antecedent to all law or positive institution, the
mind
was naturally endowed with a faculty, by which it
distinguished
in certain actions and affections, the qualities of
right,
laudable, and virtuous, and in others those of wrong,
blamable,
and vicious.
Law, it was justly observed by Dr
Cudworth,(16*) could not be
the
original source of those distinctions; since upon the
supposition
of such a law, it must either be right to obey it,
and
wrong to disobey it, or indifferent whether we obeyed it, or
disobeyed
it. That law which it was indifferent whether we obeyed
or
disobeyed, could not, it was evident, be the source of those
distinctions;
neither could that which it was right to obey and
wrong
to disobey, since even this still supposed the antecedent
notions
or ideas of right and wrong, and that obedience to the
law was
conformable to the idea of right, and disobedience to
that of
wrong.
Since the mind, therefore, had a notion of
those distinctions
antecedent
to all law, it seemed necessarily to follow, that it
derived
this notion from reason, which pointed out the difference
between
right and wrong, in the same manner in which it did that
between
truth and falsehood: and this conclusion, which, though
true in
some respects, is rather hasty in others, was more easily
received
at a time when the abstract science of human nature was
but in
its infancy, and before the distinct offices and powers of
the
different faculties of the human mind had been carefully
examined
and distinguished from one another. When this
controversy
with Mr Hobbes was carried on with the greatest
warmth
and keenness, no other faculty had been thought of from
which
any such ideas could possibly be supposed to arise. It
became
at this time, therefore, the popular doctrine, that the
essence
of virtue and vice did not consist in the conformity or
disagreement
of human actions with the law of a superior, but in
their
conformity or disagreement with reason, which was thus
considered
as the original source and principle of approbation
and
disapprobation.
That virtue consists in conformity to
reason, is true in some
respects,
and this faculty may very justly be considered as, in
some
sense, the source and principle of approbation and
disapprobation,
and of all solid judgments concerning right and
wrong.
It is by reason that we discover those general rules of
justice
by which we ought to regulate our actions: and it is by
the
same faculty that we form those more vague and indeterminate
ideas
of what is prudent, of what is decent, of what is generous
or
noble, which we carry constantly about with us, and according
to
which we endeavour, as well as we can, to model the tenor of
our
conduct. The general maxims of morality are formed, like all
other
general maxims, from experience and induction. We observe
in a
great variety of particular cases what pleases or displeases
our
moral faculties, what these approve or disapprove of, and, by
induction
from this experience, we establish those general rules.
But
induction is always regarded as one of the operations of
reason.
From reason, therefore, we are very properly said to
derive
all those general maxims and ideas. It is by these,
however,
that we regulate the greater part of our moral
judgments,
which would be extremely uncertain and precarious if
they
depended altogether upon what is liable to so many
variations
as immediate sentiment and feeling, which the
different
states of health and humour are capable of altering so
essentially.
As our most solid judgments, therefore, with regard
to
right and wrong, are regulated by maxims and ideas derived
from an
induction of reason, virtue may very properly be said to
consist
in a conformity to reason, and so far this faculty may be
considered
as the source and principle of approbation and
disapprobation.
But though reason is undoubtedly the
source of the general
rules
of morality, and of all the moral judgments which we form
by
means of them; it is altogether absurd and unintelligible to
suppose
that the first perceptions of right and wrong can be
derived
from reason, even in those particular cases upon the
experience
of which the general rules are formed. These first
perceptions,
as well as all other experiments upon which any
general
rules are founded, cannot be the object of reason, but of
immediate
sense and feeling. It is by finding in a vast variety
of
instances that one tenor of conduct constantly pleases in a
certain
manner, and that another as constantly displeases the
mind,
that we form the general rules of morality. But reason
cannot
render any particular object either agreeable or
disagreeable
to the mind for its own sake. Reason may show that
this
object is the means of obtaining some other which is
naturally
either pleasing or displeasing, and in this manner may
render
it either agreeable or disagreeable for the sake of
something
else. But nothing can be agreeable or disagreeable for
its own
sake, which is not rendered such by immediate sense and
feeling.
If virtue, therefore, in every particular instance,
necessarily
pleases for its own sake, and if vice as certainly
displeases
the mind, it cannot be reason, but immediate sense and
feeling,
which, in this manner, reconciles us to the one, and
alienates
us from the other.
Pleasure and pain are the great objects of
desire and
aversion:
but these are distinguished not by reason, but by
immediate
sense and feeling. If virtue, therefore, be desirable
for its
own sake, and if vice be, in the same manner, the object
of
aversion, it cannot be reason which originally distinguishes
those
different qualities, but immediate sense and feeling.
As reason, however, in a certain sense,
may justly be
considered
as the principle of approbation and disapprobation,
these
sentiments were, through inattention, long regarded as
originally
flowing from the operations of this faculty. Dr
Hutcheson
had the merit of being the first who distinguished with
any
degree of precision in what respect all moral distinctions
may be
said to arise from reason, and in what respect they are
founded
upon immediate sense and feeling. In his illustrations
upon
the moral sense he has explained this so fully, and, in my
opinion,
so unanswerably, that, if any controversy is still kept
up
about this subject, I can impute it to nothing, but either to
inattention
to what that gentleman has written, or to a
superstitious
attachment to certain forms of expression, a
weakness
not very uncommon among the learned, especially in
subjects
so deeply interesting as the present, in which a man of
virtue
is often loath to abandon, even the propriety of a single
phrase
which he has been accustomed to.
Chap.
III
Of
those Systems which make Sentiment the Principle of
Approbation
Those systems which make sentiment the
principle of
approbation
may be divided into two different classes.
I. According to some the principle of
approbation is founded
upon a
sentiment of a peculiar nature, upon a particular power of
perception
exerted by the mind at the view of certain actions or
affections;
some of which affecting this faculty in an agreeable
and
others in a disagreeable manner, the former are stamped with
the
characters of right, laudable, and virtuous; the latter with
those
of wrong, blamable, and vicious. This sentiment being of a
peculiar
nature distinct from every other, and the effect of a
particular
power of perception, they give it a particular name,
and
call it a moral sense.
II. According to others, in order to
account for the
principle
of approbation, there is no occasion for supposing any
new
power of perception which had never been heard of before:
Nature,
they imagine, acts here, as in all other cases, with the
strictest
oeconomy, and produces a multitude of effects from one
and the
same cause; and sympathy, a power which has always been
taken
notice of, and with which the mind is manifestly endowed,
is,
they think, sufficient to account for all the effects
ascribed
to this peculiar faculty.
I. Dr Hutcheson(17*) had been at great
pains to prove that
the
principle of approbation was not founded on self-love. He had
demonstrated
too that it could not arise from any operation of
reason.
Nothing remained, he thought, but to suppose it a faculty
of a
peculiar kind, with which Nature had endowed the human mind,
in
order to produce this one particular and important effect.
When
self-love and reason were both excluded, it did not occur to
him
that there was any other known faculty of the mind which
could
in any respect answer this purpose.
This new power of perception he called a
moral sense, and
supposed
it to be somewhat analogous to the external senses. As
the
bodies around us, by affecting these in a certain manner,
appear
to possess the different qualities of sound, taste, odour,
colour;
so the various affections of the human mind, by touching
this
particular faculty in a certain manner, appear to possess
the
different qualities of amiable and odious, of virtuous and
vicious,
of right and wrong.
The various senses or powers of
perception,(18*) from which
the
human mind derives all its simple ideas, were, according to
this
system, of two different kinds, of which the one were called
the
direct or antecedent, the other, the reflex or consequent
senses.
The direct senses were those faculties from which the
mind
derived the perception of such species of things as did not
presuppose
the antecedent perception of any other. Thus sounds
and
colours were objects of the direct senses. To hear a sound or
to see
a colour does not presuppose the antecedent perception of
any
other quality or object. The reflex or consequent senses, on
the
other hand, were those faculties from which the mind derived
the
perception of such species of things as presupposed the
antecedent
perception of some other. Thus harmony and beauty were
objects
of the reflex senses. In order to perceive the harmony of
a
sound, or the beauty of a colour, we must first perceive the
sound
or the colour. The moral sense was considered as a faculty
of this
kind. That faculty, which Mr Locke calls reflection, and
from
which he derived the simple ideas of the different passions
and
emotions of the human mind, was, according to Dr Hutcheson, a
direct
internal sense. That faculty again by which we perceived
the
beauty or deformity, the virtue or vice of those different
passions
and emotions, was a reflex, internal sense.
Dr Hutcheson endeavoured still further to
support this
doctrine,
by shewing that it was agreeable to the analogy of
nature,
and that the mind was endowed with a variety of other
reflex
senses exactly similar to the moral sense; such as a sense
of
beauty and deformity in external objects; a public sense, by
which
we sympathize with the happiness or misery of our
fellow-creatures;
a sense of shame and honour, and a sense of
ridicule.
But notwithstanding all the pains which
this ingenious
philosopher
has taken to prove that the principle of approbation
is
founded in a peculiar power of perception, somewhat analogous
to the
external senses, there are some consequences, which he
acknowledges
to follow from this doctrine, that will, perhaps, be
regarded
by many as a sufficient confutation of it. The qualities
he
allows,(19*) which belong to the objects of any sense, cannot,
without
the greatest absurdity, be ascribed to the sense itself.
Who
ever thought of calling the sense of seeing black or white,
the
sense of hearing loud or low, or the sense of tasting sweet
or
bitter? And, according to him, it is equally absurd to call
our
moral faculties virtuous or vicious, morally good or evil.
These
qualities belong to the objects of those faculties, not to
the
faculties themselves. If any man, therefore, was so absurdly
constituted
as to approve of cruelty and injustice as the highest
virtues,
and to disapprove of equity and humanity as the most
pitiful
vices, such a constitution of mind might indeed be
regarded
as inconvenient both to the individual and to the
society,
and likewise as strange, surprising, and unnatural in
itself;
but it could not, without the greatest absurdity, be
denominated
vicious or morally evil.
Yet surely if we saw any man shouting with
admiration and
applause
at a barbarous and unmerited execution, which some
insolent
tyrant had ordered, we should not think we were guilty
of any
great absurdity in denominating this behaviour vicious and
morally
evil in the highest degree, though it expressed nothing
but
depraved moral faculties, or an absurd approbation of this
horrid
action, as of what was noble, magnanimous, and great. Our
heart,
I imagine, at the sight of such a spectator, would forget
for a
while its sympathy with the sufferer, and feel nothing but
horror
and detestation, at the thought of so execrable a wretch.
We
should abominate him even more than the tyrant who might be
goaded
on by the strong passions of jealousy, fear, and
resentment,
and upon that account be more excusable. But the
sentiments
of the spectator would appear altogether without cause
or
motive, and therefore most perfectly and completely
detestable.
There is no perversion of sentiment or affection
which
our heart would be more averse to enter into, or which it
would
reject with greater hatred and indignation than one of this
kind;
and so far from regarding such a constitution of mind as
being
merely something strange or inconvenient, and not in any
respect
vicious or morally evil, we should rather consider it as
the
very last and most dreadful stage of moral depravity.
Correct moral sentiments, on the contrary,
naturally appear
in some
degree laudable and morally good. The man, whose censure
and
applause are upon all occasions suited with the greatest
accuracy
to the value or unworthiness of the object, seems to
deserve
a degree even of moral approbation. We admire the
delicate
precision of his moral sentiments: they lead our own
judgments,
and, upon account of their uncommon and surprising
justness,
they even excite our wonder and applause. We cannot
indeed
be always sure that the conduct of such a person would be
in any
respect correspondent to the precision and accuracy of his
judgments
concerning the conduct of others. Virtue requires habit
and
resolution of mind, as well as delicacy of sentiment; and
unfortunately
the former qualities are sometimes wanting, where
the
latter is in the greatest perfection. This disposition of
mind,
however, though it may sometimes be attended with
imperfections,
is incompatible with any thing that is grossly
criminal,
and is the happiest foundation upon which the
superstructure
of perfect virtue can be built. There are many men
who
mean very well, and seriously purpose to do what they think
their
duty, who notwithstanding are disagreeable on account of
the
coarseness of their moral sentiments.
It may be said, perhaps, that though the
principle of
approbation
is not founded upon any power of perception that is
in any
respect analogous to the external senses, it may still be
founded
upon a peculiar sentiment which answers this one
particular
purpose and no other. Approbation and disapprobation,
it may
be pretended, are certain feelings or emotions which arise
in the
mind upon the view of different characters and actions;
and as
resentment might be called a sense of injuries, or
gratitude
a sense of benefits, so these may very properly receive
the
name of a sense of right and wrong, or of a moral sense.
But this account of things, though it may
not be liable to
the
same objections with the foregoing, is exposed to others
which
are equally unanswerable.
First of all, whatever variations any
particular emotion may
undergo,
it still preserves the general features which
distinguish
it to be an emotion of such a kind, and these general
features
are always more striking and remarkable than any
variation
which it may undergo in particular cases. Thus anger is
an
emotion of a particular kind: and accordingly its general
features
are always more distinguishable than all the variations
it
undergoes in particular cases. Anger against a man is, no
doubt,
somewhat different from anger against a woman, and that
again
from anger against a child. In each of those three cases,
the
general passion of anger receives a different modification
from
the particular character of its object, as may easily be
observed
by the attentive. But still the general features of the
passion
predominate in all these cases. To distinguish these,
requires
no nice observation: a very delicate attention, on the
contrary,
is necessary to discover their variations: every body
takes
notice of the former; scarce any body observes the latter.
If
approbation and disapprobation, therefore, were, like
gratitude
and resentment, emotions of a particular kind, distinct
from
every other, we should expect that in all the variations
which
either of them might undergo, it would still retain the
general
features which mark it to be an emotion of such a
particular
kind, clear, plain, and easily distinguishable. But in
fact it
happens quite otherwise. If we attend to what we really
feel
when upon different occasions we either approve or
disapprove,
we shall find that our emotion in one case is often
totally
different from that in another, and that no common
features
can possibly be discovered between them. Thus the
approbation
with which we view a tender, delicate, and humane
sentiment,
is quite different from that with which we are struck
by one
that appears great, daring, and magnanimous. Our
approbation
of both may, upon different occasions, be perfect and
entire;
but we are softened by the one, and we are elevated by
the
other, and there is no sort of resemblance between the
emotions
which they excite in us. But according to that system
which I
have been endeavouring to establish, this must
necessarily
be the case. As the emotions of the person whom we
approve
of, are, in those two cases, quite opposite to one
another,
and as our approbation arises from sympathy with those
opposite
emotions, what we feel upon the one occasion, can have
no sort
of resemblance to what we feel upon the other. But this
could
not happen if approbation consisted in a peculiar emotion
which
had nothing in common with the sentiments we approved of,
but
which arose at the view of those sentiments, like any other
passion
at the view of its proper object. The same thing holds
true
with regard to disapprobation. Our horror for cruelty has no
sort of
resemblance to our contempt for mean-spiritedness. It is
quite a
different species of discord which we feel at the view of
those
two different vices, between our own minds and those of the
person
whose sentiments and behaviour we consider.
Secondly, I have already observed, that
not only the
different
passions or affections of the human mind which are
approved
or disapproved of, appear morally good or evil, but that
proper
and improper approbation appear, to our natural
sentiments,
to be stamped with the same characters. I would ask,
therefore,
how it is, that, according to this system, we approve
or
disapprove of proper or improper approbation? To this question
there
is, I imagine, but one reasonable answer, which can
possibly
be given. It must be said, that when the approbation
with
which our neighbour regards the conduct of a third person
coincides
with our own, we approve of his approbation, and
consider
it as, in some measure, morally good; and that, on the
contrary,
when it does not coincide with our own sentiments, we
disapprove
of it, and consider it as, in some measure, morally
evil.
It must be allowed, therefore, that, at least in this one
case,
the coincidence or opposition of sentiments, between the
observer
and the person observed, constitutes moral approbation
or
disapprobation. And if it does so in this one case, I would
ask,
why not in every other? Or to what purpose imagine a new
power
of perception in order to account for those sentiments?
Against every account of the principle of
approbation, which
makes
it depend upon a peculiar sentiment, distinct from every
other,
I would object; that it is strange that this sentiment,
which
Providence undoubtedly intended to be the governing
principle
of human nature, should hitherto have been so little
taken notice
of, as not to have got a name in any language. The
word
moral sense is of very late formation, and cannot yet be
considered
as making part of the English tongue. The word
approbation
has but within these few years been appropriated to
denote
peculiarly any thing of this kind. In propriety of
language
we approve of whatever is entirely to our satisfaction,
of the
form of a building, of the contrivance of a machine, of
the
flavour of a dish of meat. The word conscience does not
immediately
denote any moral faculty by which we approve or
disapprove.
Conscience supposes, indeed, the existence of some
such
faculty, and properly signifies our consciousness of having
acted
agreeably or contrary to its directions. When love, hatred,
joy,
sorrow, gratitude, resentment, with so many other passions
which
are all supposed to be the subjects of this principle, have
made
themselves considerable enough to get titles to know them
by, is
it not surprising that the sovereign of them all should
hitherto
have been so little heeded, that, a few philosophers
excepted,
nobody has yet thought it worth while to bestow a name
upon
it?
When we approve of any character or
action, the sentiments
which
we feel, are, according to the foregoing system, derived
from
four sources, which are in some respects different from one
another.
First, we sympathize with the motives of the agent;
secondly,
we enter into the gratitude of those who receive the
benefit
of his actions; thirdly, we observe that his conduct has
been
agreeable to the general rules by which those two sympathies
generally
act; and, last of all, when we consider such actions as
making
a part of a system of behaviour which tends to promote the
happiness
either of the individual or of the society, they appear
to
derive a beauty from this utility, not unlike that which we
ascribe
to any well-contrived machine. After deducting, in any
one
particular case, all that must be acknowledged to proceed
from
some one or other of these four principles, I should be glad
to know
what remains, and I shall freely allow this overplus to
be
ascribed to a moral sense, or to any other peculiar faculty,
provided
any body will ascertain precisely what this overplus is.
It
might be expected, perhaps, that if there was any such
peculiar
principle, such as this moral sense is supposed to be,
we
should feel it, in some particular cases, separated and
detached
from every other, as we often feel joy, sorrow, hope,
and
fear, pure and unmixed with any other emotion. This however,
I
imagine, cannot even be pretended. I have never heard any
instance
alleged in which this principle could be said to exert
itself
alone and unmixed with sympathy or antipathy, with
gratitude
or resentment, with the perception of the agreement or
disagreement
of any action to an established rule, or last of all
with
that general taste for beauty and or der which is excited by
inanimated
as well as by animated objects.
II. There is another system which attempts
to account for the
origin
of our moral sentiments from sympathy, distinct from that
which I
have been endeavouring to establish. It is that which
places
virtue in utility, and accounts for the pleasure with
which
the spectator surveys the utility of any quality from
sympathy
with the happiness of those who are affected by it. This
sympathy
is different both from that by which we enter into the
motives
of the agent, and from that by which we go along with the
gratitude
of the persons who are benefited by his actions. It is
the
same principle with that by which we approve of a
well-contrived
machine. But no machine can be the object of
either
of those two last mentioned sympathies. I have already, in
the
fourth part of this discourse, given some account of this
system.
Section
IV
Of the
Manner in which different Authors have treated of the
practical
Rules of Morality
It was observed in the third part of this
discourse, that the
rules
of justice are the only rules of morality which are precise
and accurate;
that those of all the other virtues are loose,
vague,
and indeterminate; that the first may be compared to the
rules
of grammar; the others to those which critics lay down for
the
attainment of what is sublime and elegant in composition, and
which
present us rather with a general idea of the perfection we
ought
to aim at, than afford us any certain and infallible
directions
for acquiring it.
As the different rules of morality admit
such different
degrees
of accuracy, those authors who have endeavoured to
collect
and digest them into systems have done it in two
Different
manners; and one set has followed through the whole
that
loose method to which they were naturally directed by the
consideration
of one species of virtues; while another has as
universally
endeavoured to introduce into their precepts that
sort of
accuracy of which only some of them are susceptible. The
first
have wrote like critics, the second like grammarians.
I. The first, among whom we may count all
the ancient
moralists,
have contented themselves with describing in a general
manner
the different vices and virtues, and with pointing out the
deformity
and misery of the one disposition as well as the
propriety
and happiness of the other, but have not affected to
lay
down many precise rules that are to hold good unexceptionably
in all
particular cases. They have only endeavoured to ascertain,
as far
as language is capable of ascertaining, first, wherein
consists
the sentiment of the heart, upon which each particular
virtue
is founded, what sort of internal feeling or emotion it is
which
constitutes the essence of friendship, of humanity, of
generosity,
of justice, of magnanimity, and of all the other
virtues,
as well as of the vices which are opposed to them: and,
secondly,
what is the general way of acting, the ordinary tone
and
tenor of conduct to which each of those sentiments would
direct
us, or how it is that a friendly, a generous, a brave, a
just,
and a humane man, would, upon ordinary occasions, chuse to
act.
To characterize the sentiment of the
heart, upon which each
particular
virtue is founded, though it requires both a delicate
and an
accurate pencil, is a task, however, which may be executed
with
some degree of exactness. It is impossible, indeed, to
express
all the variations which each sentiment either does or
ought
to undergo, according to every possible variation of
circumstances.
They are endless, and language wants names to mark
them
by. The sentiment of friendship, for example, which we feel
for an
old man is different from that which we feel for a young:
that
which we entertain for an austere man different from that
which
we feel for one of softer and gentler manners: and that
again
from what we feel for one of gay vivacity and spirit. The
friendship
which we conceive for a man is different from that
with
which a woman affects us, even where there is no mixture of
any
grosser passion. What author could enumerate and ascertain
these
and all the other infinite varieties which this sentiment
is
capable of undergoing? But still the general sentiment of
friendship
and familiar attachment which is common to them all,
may be
ascertained with a sufficient degree of accuracy. The
picture
which is drawn of it, though it will always be in many
respects
incomplete, may, however, have such a resemblance as to
make us
know the original when we meet with it, and even
distinguish
it from other sentiments to which it has a
considerable
resemblance, such as good-will, respect, esteem,
admiration.
To describe, in a general manner, what is
the ordinary way of
acting
to which each virtue would prompt us, is still more easy.
It is,
indeed, scarce possible to describe the internal sentiment
or
emotion upon which it is founded, without doing something of
this
kind. It is impossible by language to express, if I may say
so, the
invisible features of all the different modifications of
passion
as they show themselves within. There is no other way of
marking
and distinguishing them from one another, but by
describing
the effects which they produce without, the
alterations
which they occasion in the countenance, in the air
and
eternal behaviour, the resolutions they suggest, the actions
they
prompt to. It is thus that Cicero, in the first book of his
Offices,
endeavours to direct us to the practice of the four
cardinal
virtues, and that Aristotle in the practical parts of
his
Ethics, points out to us the different habits by which he
would
have us regulate our behaviour, such as liberality,
magnificence,
magnanimity, and even jocularity and good-humour,
qualities
which that indulgent philosopher has thought worthy of
a place
in the catalogue of the virtues, though the lightness of
that
approbation which we naturally bestow upon them, should not
seem to
entitle them to so venerable a name.
Such works present us with agreeable and
lively pictures of
manners.
By the vivacity of their descriptions they inflame our
natural
love of virtue, and increase our abhorrence of vice: by
the
justness as well as delicacy of their observations they may
often
help both to correct and to ascertain our natural
sentiments
with regard to the propriety of conduct, and
suggesting
many nice and delicate attentions, form us to a more
exact
justness of behaviour, than what, without such instruction,
we
should have been apt to think of. In treating of the rules of
morality,
in this manner, consists the science which is properly
called
Ethics, a science which, though like criticism it does not
admit
of the most accurate precision, is, however, both highly
useful
and agreeable. It is of all others the most susceptible of
the
embellishments of eloquence, and by means of them of
bestowing,
if that be possible, a new importance upon the
smallest
rules of duty. Its precepts, when thus dressed and
adorned,
are capable of producing upon the flexibility of youth,
the
noblest and most lasting impressions, and as they fall in
with
the natural magnanimity of that generous age, they are able
to
inspire, for a time at least, the most heroic resolutions, and
thus
tend both to establish and confirm the best and most useful
habits
of which the mind of man is susceptible. Whatever precept
and
exhortation can do to animate us to the practice of virtue,
is done
by this science delivered in this manner.
II. The second set of moralists, among whom
we may count all the
casuists
of the middle and latter ages of the christian church,
as well
as all those who in this and in the preceding century
have
treated of what is called natural jurisprudence, do not
content
themselves with characterizing in this general manner
that
tenor of conduct which they would recommend to us, but
endeavour
to lay down exact and precise rules for the direction
of
every circumstance of our behaviour. As justice is the only
virtue
with regard to which such exact rules can properly be
given;
it is this virtue, that has chiefly fallen under the
consideration
of those two different sets of writers. They treat
of it,
however, in a very different manner.
Those who write upon the principles of
jurisprudence,
consider
only what the person to whom the obligation is due,
ought
to think himself entitled to exact by force; what every
impartial
spectator would approve of him for exacting, or what a
judge
or arbiter, to whom he had submitted his case, and who had
undertaken
to do him justice, ought to oblige the other person to
suffer
or to perform. The casuists, on the other hand, do not so
much
examine what it is, that might properly be exacted by force,
as what
it is, that the person who owes the obligation ought to
think
himself bound to perform from the most sacred and
scrupulous
regard to the general rules of justice, and from the
most
conscientious dread, either of wronging his neighbour, or of
violating
the integrity of his own character. It is the end of
jurisprudence
to prescribe rules for the decisions of judges and
arbiters.
It is the end of casuistry to prescribe rules for the
conduct
of a good man. By observing all the rules of
jurisprudence,
supposing them ever so perfect, we should deserve
nothing
but to be free from external punishment. By observing
those
of casuistry, supposing them such as they ought to be, we
should
be entitled to considerable praise by the exact and
scrupulous
delicacy of our behaviour.
It may frequently happen that a good man
ought to think
himself
bound, from a sacred and conscientious regard to the
general
rules of justice, to perform many things which it would
be the
highest injustice to extort from him, or for any judge or
arbiter
to impose upon him by force. To give a trite example; a
highwayman,
by the fear of death, obliges a traveller to promise
him a
certain sum of money. Whether such a promise, extorted in
this
manner by unjust force, ought to be regarded as obligatory,
is a
question that has been very much debated.
If we consider it merely as a question of
jurisprudence, the
decision
can admit of no doubt. It would be absurd to suppose
that
the highwayman can be entitled to use force to constrain the
other
to perform. To extort the promise was a crime which
deserved
the highest punishment, and to extort the performance
would
only be adding a new crime to the former. He can complain
of no
injury who has been only deceived by the person by whom he
might
justly have been killed. To suppose that a judge ought to
enforce
the obligation of such promises, or that the magistrate
ought
to allow them to sustain action at law, would be the most
ridiculous
of all absurdities. If we consider this question,
therefore,
as a question of jurisprudence, we can be at no loss
about
the decision.
But if we consider it as a question of
casuistry, it will not
be so
easily determined. Whether a good man, from a conscientious
regard
to that most sacred rule of justice, which commands the
observance
of all serious promises, would not think himself bound
to
perform, is at least much more doubtful. That no regard is due
to the
disappointment of the wretch who brings him into this
situation,
that no injury is done to the robber, and consequently
that
nothing can be extorted by force, will admit of no sort of
dispute.
But whether some regard is not, in this case, due to his
own
dignity and honour, to the inviolable sacredness of that part
of his
character which makes him reverence the law of truth and
abhor
every thing that approaches to treachery and falsehood,
may,
perhaps, more reasonably be made a question. The casuists
accordingly
are greatly divided about it. One party, with whom we
may
count Cicero among the ancients, among the moderns,
Puffendorf,
Barbeyrac his commentator, and above all the late Dr
Hutcheson,
one who in most cases was by no means a loose casuist,
determine,
without any hesitation, that no sort of regard is due
to any
such promise, and that to think otherwise is mere weakness
and
superstition. Another party, among whom we may reckon
(20*)some
of the ancient fathers of the church, as well as some
very
eminent modern casuists, have been of another opinion, and
have
judged all such promises obligatory.
If we consider the matter according to the
common sentiments
of
mankind, we shall find that some regard would be thought due
even to
a promise of this kind; but that it is impossible to
determine
how much, by any general rule that will apply to all
cases
without exception. The man who was quite frank and easy in
making
promises of this kind, and who violated them with as
little
ceremony, we should not chuse for our friend and
companion.
A gentleman who should promise a highwayman five
pounds
and not perform, would incur some blame. If the sum
promised,
however, was very great, it might be more doubtful,
what
was proper to be done. If it was such, for example, that the
payment
of it would entirely ruin the family of the promiser, if
it was
so great as to be sufficient for promoting the most useful
purposes,
it would appear in some measure criminal, at least
extremely
improper, to throw it, for the sake of a punctilio,
into
such worthless hands. The man who should beggar himself, or
who
should throw away an hundred thousand pounds, though he could
afford
that vast sum, for the sake of observing such a parole
with a
thief, would appear to the common sense of mankind, absurd
and
extravagant in the highest degree. Such profusion would seem
inconsistent
with his duty, with what he owed both to himself and
others,
and what, therefore, regard to a promise extorted in this
manner,
could by no means authorise. To fix, however, by any
precise
rule, what degree of regard ought to be paid to it, or
what
might be the greatest sum which could be due from it, is
evidently
impossible. This would vary according to the characters
of the
persons, according to their circumstances, according to
the
solemnity of the promise, and even according to the incidents
of the
rencounter. and if the promiser had been treated with a
great
deal of that sort of gallantry, which is sometimes to be
met
with in persons of the most abandoned characters, more would
seem
due than upon other occasions. It may be said in general,
that
exact propriety requires the observance of all such
promises,
wherever it is not inconsistent with some other duties
that
are more sacred; such as regard to the public interest, to
those
whom gratitude, whom natural affection, or whom the laws of
proper
beneficence should prompt us to provide for. But, as was
formerly
taken notice of, we have no precise rules to determine
what
external actions are due from a regard to such motives, nor,
consequently,
when it is that those virtues are inconsistent with
the
observance of such promises.
It is to be observed, however, that
whenever such promises
are
violated, though for the most necessary reasons, it is always
with
some degree of dishonour to the person who made them. After
they
are made, we may be convinced of the impropriety of
observing
them. But still there is some fault in having made
them.
It is at least a departure from the highest and noblest
maxims
of magnanimity and honour. A brave man ought to die,
rather
than make a promise which he can neither keep without
folly,
nor violate without ignominy. For some degree of ignominy
always
attends a situation of this kind. Treachery and falsehood
are
vices so dangerous, so dreadful, and, at the same time, such
as may
so easily, and, upon many occasions, so safely be
indulged,
that we are more jealous of them than of almost any
other.
Our imagination therefore attaches the idea of shame to
all
violations of faith, in every circumstance and in every
situation.
They resemble, in this respect, the violations of
chastity
in the fair sex, a virtue of which, for the like
reasons,
we are excessively jealous; and our sentiments are not
more
delicate with regard to the one, than with regard to the
other.
Breach of chastity dishonours irretrievably. No
circumstances,
no solicitation can excuse it; no sorrow, no
repentance
atone for it. We are so nice in this respect that even
a rape
dishonours, and the innocence of the mind cannot, in our
imagination,
wash out the pollution of the body. It is the same
case
with the violation of faith, when it has been solemnly
pledged,
even to the most worthless of mankind. Fidelity is so
necessary
a virtue, that we apprehend it in general to be due
even to
those to whom nothing else is due, and whom we think it
lawful
to kill and destroy. It is to no purpose that the person
who has
been guilty of the breach of it, urges that he promised
in
order to save his life, and that he broke his promise because
it was
inconsistent with some other respectable duty to keep it.
These
circumstances may alleviate, but cannot entirely wipe out
his
dishonour. He appears to have been guilty of an action with
which,
in the imaginations of men, some degree of shame is
inseparably
connected. He has broke a promise which he had
solemnly
averred he would maintain; and his character, if not
irretrievably
stained and polluted, has at least a ridicule
affixed
to it, which it will be very difficult entirely to
efface;
and no man, I imagine, who had gone through an adventure
of this
kind would be fond of telling the story.
This instance may serve to show wherein
consists the
difference
between casuistry and jurisprudence, even when both of
them
consider the obligations of the general rules of justice.
But though this difference be real and
essential, though
those
two sciences propose quite different ends, the sameness of
the
subject has made such a similarity between them, that the
greater
part of authors whose professed design was to treat of
jurisprudence,
have determined the different questions they
examine,
sometimes according to the principles of that science,
and
sometimes according to those of casuistry, without
distinguishing,
and, perhaps, without being themselves aware when
they
did the one, and when the other.
The doctrine of the casuists, however, is
by no means
confined
to the consideration of what a conscientious regard to
the
general rules of justice would demand of us. It embraces many
other
parts of Christian and moral duty. What seems principally
to have
given occasion to the cultivation of this species of
science
was the custom of auricular confession, introduced by the
Roman
Catholic superstition, in times of barbarism and ignorance.
By that
institution, the most secret actions, and even the
thoughts
of every person, which could be suspected of receding in
the
smallest degree from the rules of Christian purity, were to
be
revealed to the confessor. The confessor informed his
penitents
whether, and in what respect they had violated their
duty,
and what penance it behoved them to undergo, before he
could
absolve them in the name of the offended Deity.
The consciousness, or even the suspicion
of having done
wrong,
is a load upon every mind, and is accompanied with anxiety
and
terror in all those who are not hardened by long habits of
iniquity.
Men, in this, as in all other distresses, are naturally
eager
to disburthen themselves of the oppression which they feel
upon
their thoughts, by unbosoming the agony of their mind to
some
person whose secrecy and discretion they can confide in. The
shame,
which they suffer from this acknowledgment, is fully
compensated
by that deviation of their uneasiness which the
sympathy
of their confident seldom fails to occasion. It relieves
them to
find that they are not altogether unworthy of regard, and
that
however their past conduct may be censured, their present
disposition
is at least approved of, and is perhaps sufficient to
compensate
the other, at least to maintain them in some degree of
esteem
with their friend. A numerous and artful clergy had, in
those
times of superstition, insinuated themselves into the
confidence
of almost every private family. They possessed all the
little
learning which the times could afford, and their manners,
though
in many respects rude and disorderly, were polished and
regular
compared with those of the age they lived in. They were
regarded,
therefore, not only as the great directors of all
religious,
but of all moral duties. Their familiarity gave
reputation
to whoever was so happy as to possess it, and every
mark of
their disapprobation stamped the deepest ignominy upon
all who
had the misfortune to fall under it. Being considered as
the
great judges of right and wrong, they were naturally
consulted
about all scruples that occurred, and it was reputable
for any
person to have it known that he made those holy men the
confidents
of all such secrets, and took no important or delicate
step in
his conduct without their advice and approbation. It was
not
difficult for the clergy, therefore, to get it established as
a
general rule, that they should be entrusted with what it had
already
become fashionable to entrust them, and with what they
generally
would have been entrusted, though no such rule had been
established.
To qualify themselves for confessors became thus a
necessary
part of the study of churchmen and divines, and they
were
thence led to collect what are called cases of conscience,
nice
and delicate situations in which it is hard to determine
whereabouts
the propriety of conduct may lie. Such works, they
imagined,
might be of use both to the directors of consciences
and to
those who were to be directed; and hence the origin of
books
of casuistry.
The moral duties which fell under the
consideration of the
casuists
were chiefly those which can, in some measure at least,
be
circumscribed within general rules, and of which the violation
is
naturally attended with some degree of remorse and some dread
of
suffering punishment. The design of that institution which
gave
occasion to their works, was to appease those terrors of
conscience
which attend upon the infringement of such duties. But
it is
not every virtue of which the defect is accompanied with
any
very severe compunctions of this kind, and no man applies to
his
confessor for absolution, because he did not perform the most
generous,
the most friendly, or the most magnanimous action
which,
in his circumstances, it was possible to perform. In
failures
of this kind, the rule that is violated is commonly not
very
determinate, and is generally of such a nature too, that
though
the observance of it might entitle to honour and reward,
the
violation seems to expose to no positive blame, censure, or
punishment.
The exercise of such virtues the casuists seem to
have
regarded as a sort of works of supererogation, which could
not be
very strictly exacted, and which it was therefore
unnecessary
for them to treat of.
The breaches of moral duty, therefore,
which came before the
tribunal
of the confessor, and upon that account fell under the
cognizance
of the casuists, were chiefly of three different
kinds.
First and principally, breaches of the
rules of justice. The
rules
here are all express and positive, and the violation of
them is
naturally attended with the consciousness of deserving,
and the
dread of suffering punishment both from God and man.
Secondly, breaches of the rules of
chastity. These in all
grosser
instances are real breaches of the rules of justice, and
no
person can be guilty of them without doing the most
unpardonable
injury to some other. In smaller instances, when
they
amount only to a violation of those exact decorums which
ought
to be observed in the conversation of the two sexes, they
cannot
indeed justly be considered as violations of the rules of
justice.
They are generally, however, violations of a pretty
plain
rule, and, at least in one of the sexes, tend to bring
ignominy
upon the person who has been guilty of them, and
consequently
to be attended in the scrupulous with some degree of
shame
and contrition of mind.
Thirdly, breaches of the rules of veracity.
The violation of
truth,
it is to be observed, is not always a breach of justice,
though
it is so upon many occasions, and consequently cannot
always
expose to any external punishment. The vice of common
lying,
though a most miserable meanness, may frequently do hurt
to
nobody, and in this case no claim of vengeance or satisfaction
can be
due either to the persons imposed upon, or to others. But
though
the violation of truth is not always a breach of justice,
it is
always a breach of a very plain rule, and what naturally
tends
to cover with shame the person who has been guilty of it.
There seems to be in young children an
instinctive
disposition
to believe whatever they are told. Nature seems to
have
judged it necessary for their preservation that they should,
for
some time at least, put implicit confidence in those to whom
the
care of their childhood, and of the earliest and most
necessary
parts of their education, is intrusted. Their
credulity,
accordingly, is excessive, and it requires long and
much
experience of the falsehood of mankind to reduce them to a
reasonable
degree of diffidence and distrust. In grown-up people
the
degrees of credulity are, no doubt, very different. The
wisest
and most experienced are generally the least credulous.
But the
man scarce lives who is not more credulous than he ought
to be,
and who does not, upon many occasions, give credit to
tales,
which not only turn out to be perfectly false, but which a
very
moderate degree of reflection and attention might have
taught
him could not well be true. The natural disposition is
always
to believe. It is acquired wisdom and experience only that
teach
incredulity, and they very seldom teach it enough. The
wisest
and most cautious of us all frequently gives credit to
stories
which he himself is afterwards both ashamed and
astonished
that he could possibly think of believing.
The man whom we believe is necessarily, in
the things
concerning
which we believe him, our leader and director, and we
look up
to him with a certain degree of esteem and respect. But
as from
admiring other people we come to wish to be admired
ourselves;
so from being led and directed by other people we
learn
to wish to become ourselves leaders and directors. And as
we cannot
always be satisfied merely with being admired, unless
we can
at the same time persuade ourselves that we are in some
degree
really worthy of admiration; so we cannot always be
satisfied
merely with being believed, unless we are at the same
time
conscious that we are really worthy of belief. As the desire
of
praise and that of praise-worthiness, though very much a-kin,
are yet
distinct and separate desires; so the desire of being
believed
and that of being worthy of belief, though very much
a-kin too,
are equally distinct and separate desires.
The desire of being believed, the desire
of persuading, of
leading
and directing other people, seems to be one of the
strongest
of all our natural desires. It is, perhaps, the
instinct
upon which is founded the faculty of speech, the
characteristical
faculty of human nature. No other animal
possesses
this faculty, and we cannot discover in any other
animal
any desire to lead and direct the judgment and conduct of
its
fellows. Great ambition, the desire of real superiority, of
leading
and directing, seems to be altogether peculiar to man,
and
speech is the great instrument of ambition, of real
superiority,
of leading and directing the judgments and conduct
of
other people.
It is always mortifying not to be
believed, and it is doubly
so when
we suspect that it is because we are supposed to be
unworthy
of belief and capable of seriously and wilfully
deceiving.
To tell a man that he lies, is of all affronts the
most
mortal. But whoever seriously and wilfully deceives is
necessarily
conscious to himself that he merits this affront,
that he
does not deserve to be believed, and that he forfeits all
title
to that sort of credit from which alone he can derive any
sort of
ease, comfort, or satisfaction in the society of his
equals.
The man who had the misfortune to imagine that nobody
believed
a single word he said, would feel himself the outcast of
human
society, would dread the very thought of going into it, or
of
presenting himself before it, and could scarce fail, I think,
to die
of despair. It is probable, however, that no man ever had
just
reason to entertain this humiliating opinion of himself. The
most
notorious liar, I am disposed to believe, tells the fair
truth
at least twenty times for once that he seriously and
deliberately
lies; and, as in the most cautious the disposition
to
believe is apt to prevail over that to doubt and distrust; so
in
those who are the most regardless of truth, the natural
disposition
to tell it prevails upon most occasions over that to
deceive,
or in any respect to alter or disguise it.
We are mortified when we happen to deceive
other people,
though
unintentionally, and from having been ourselves deceived.
Though
this involuntary falsehood may frequently be no mark of
any
want of veracity, of any want of the most perfect love of
truth,
it is always in some degree a mark of want of judgment, of
want of
memory, of improper credulity, of some degree of
precipitancy
and rashness. It always diminishes our authority to
persuade,
and always brings some degree of suspicion upon our
fitness
to lead and direct. The man who sometimes misleads from
mistake,
however, is widely different from him who is capable of
wilfully
deceiving. The former may safely be trusted upon many
occasions;
the latter very seldom upon any.
Frankness and openness conciliate
confidence. We trust the
man who
seems willing to trust us. We see clearly, we think, the
road by
which he means to conduct us, and we abandon ourselves
with
pleasure to his guidance and direction. Reserve and
concealment,
on the contrary, call forth diffidence. We are
afraid
to follow the man who is going we do not know where. The
great
pleasure of conversation and society, besides, arises from
a
certain correspondence of sentiments and opinions, from a
certain
harmony of minds, which like so many musical instruments
coincide
and keep time with one another. But this most delightful
harmony
cannot be obtained unless there is a free communication
of
sentiments and opinions. We all desire, upon this account, to
feel
how each other is affected, to penetrate into each other's
bosoms,
and to observe the sentiments and affections which really
subsist
there. The man who indulges us in this natural passion,
who
invites us into his heart, who, as it were, sets open the
gates
of his breast to us, seems to exercise a species of
hospitality
more delightful than any other. No man, who is in
ordinary
good temper, can fail of pleasing, if he has the courage
to
utter his real sentiments as he feels them, and because he
feels
them. It is this unreserved sincerity which renders even
the
prattle of a child agreeable. How weak and imperfect soever
the
views of the open-hearted, we take pleasure to enter into
them,
and endeavour, as much as we can, to bring down our own
understanding
to the level of their capacities, and to regard
every
subject in the particular light in which they appear to
have
considered it. This passion to discover the real sentiments
of
others is naturally so strong, that it often degenerates into
a
troublesome and impertinent curiosity to pry into those secrets
of our
neighbours which they have very justifiable reasons for
concealing;
and, upon many occasions, it requires prudence and a
strong
sense of propriety to govern this, as well as all the
other
passions of human nature, and to reduce it to that pitch
which
any impartial spectator can approve of. To disappoint this
curiosity,
however, when it is kept within proper bounds, and
aims at
nothing which there can be any just reason for
concealing,
is equally disagreeable in its turn. The man who
eludes
our most innocent questions, who gives no satisfaction to
our
most inoffensive inquiries, who plainly wraps himself up in
impenetrable
obscurity, seems, as it were, to build a wall about
his
breast. We run forward to get within it, with all the
eagerness
of harmless curiosity; and feel ourselves all at once
pushed
back with the rudest and most offensive violence.
The man of reserve and concealment, though
seldom a very
amiable
character, is not disrespected or despised. He seems to
feel
coldly towards us, and we feel as coldly towards him. He is
not
much praised or beloved, but he is as little hated or blamed.
He very
seldom, however, has occasion to repent of his caution,
and is
generally disposed rather to value himself upon the
prudence
of his reserve. Though his conduct, therefore, may have
been
very faulty, and sometimes even hurtful, he can very seldom
be
disposed to lay his case before the casuists, or to fancy that
he has
any occasion for their acquittal or approbation.
It is not always so with the man, who,
from false
information,
from inadvertency, from precipitancy and rashness,
has involuntarily
deceived. Though it should be in a matter of
little
consequence, in telling a piece of common news, for
example,
if he is a real lover of truth, he is ashamed of his own
carelessness,
and never fails to embrace the first opportunity of
making
the fullest acknowledgments. If it is in a matter of some
consequence,
his contrition is still greater; and if any unlucky
or
fatal consequence has followed from his misinformation, he can
scarce
ever forgive himself. Though not guilty, he feels himself
to be
in the highest degree, what the ancients called, piacular,
and is
anxious and eager to make every sort of atonement in his
power.
Such a person might frequently be disposed to lay his case
before
the casuists, who have in general been very favourable to
him,
and though they have sometimes justly condemned him for
rashness,
they have universally acquitted him of the ignominy of
falsehood.
But the man who had the most frequent
occasion to consult
them,
was the man of equivocation and mental reservation, the man
who
seriously and deliberately meant to deceive, but who, at the
same
time, wished to flatter himself that he had really told the
truth.
With him they have dealt variously. When they approved
very
much of the motives of his deceit, they have sometimes
acquitted
him, though, to do them justice, they have in general
and
much more frequently condemned him.
The chief subjects of the works of the
casuists, therefore,
were
the conscientious regard that is due to the rules of
justice;
how far we ought to respect the life and property of our
neighbour;
the duty of restitution; the laws of chastity and
modesty,
and wherein consisted what, in their language, are
called
the sins of concupiscence; the rules of veracity, and the
obligation
of oaths, promises, and contracts of all kinds.
It may be said in general of the works of
the casuists that
they
attempted, to no purpose, to direct by precise rules what it
belongs
to feeling and sentiment only to judge of. How is it
possible
to ascertain by rules the exact point at which, in every
case, a
delicate sense of justice begins to run into a frivolous
and
weak scrupulosity of conscience? When it is that secrecy and
reserve
begin to grow into dissimulation? How far an agreeable
irony
may be carried, and at what precise point it begins to
degenerate
into a detest. able lie? What is the highest pitch of
freedom
and ease of behaviour which can be regarded as graceful
and
becoming, and when it is that it first begins to run into a
negligent
and thoughtless licentiousness? With regard to all such
matters,
what would hold good in any one case would scarce do so
exactly
in any other, and what constitutes the propriety and
happiness
of behaviour varies in every case with the smallest
variety
of situation. Books of casuistry, therefore, are
generally
as useless as they are commonly tiresome. They could be
of
little use to one who should consult them upon occasion, even
supposing
their decisions to be just; because, notwithstanding
the
multitude of cases collected in them, yet upon account of the
still
greater variety of possible circumstances, it is a chance,
if
among all those cases there be found one exactly parallel to
that
under consideration. One, who is really anxious to do his
duty,
must be very weak, if he can imagine that he has much
occasion
for them; and with regard to one who is negligent of it,
the
style of those writings is not such as is likely to awaken
him to
more attention. None of them tend to animate us to what is
generous
and noble. None of them tend to soften us to what is
gentle
and humane. Many of them, on the contrary, tend rather to
teach
us to chicane with our own consciences, and by their vain
subtilties
serve to authorise innumerable evasive refinements
with
regard to the most essential articles of our duty. That
frivolous
accuracy which they attempted to introduce into
subjects
which do not admit of it, almost necessarily betrayed
them
into those dangerous errors, and at the same time rendered
their
works dry and disagreeable, abounding in abtruse and
metaphysical
distinctions, but incapable of exciting in the heart
any of
those emotions which it is the principal use of books of
morality
to excite.
The two useful parts of moral philosophy,
therefore, are
Ethics
and Jurisprudence: casuistry ought to be rejected
altogether;
and the ancient moralists appear to have judged much
better,
who, in treating of the same subjects, did not affect any
such
nice exactness, but contented themselves with describing, in
a
general manner, what is the sentiment upon which justice,
modesty,
and veracity are founded, and what is the ordinary way
of
acting to which those virtues would commonly prompt us.
Something, indeed, not unlike the doctrine
of the casuists,
seems
to have been attempted by several philosophers. There is
something
of this kind in the third book of Cicero's Offices,
where
he endeavours like a casuist to give rules for our conduct
in many
nice cases, in which it is difficult to determine
whereabouts
the point of propriety may lie. It appears too, from
many
passages in the same book, that several other philosophers
had
attempted something of the same kind before him. Neither he
nor
they, however, appear to have aimed at giving a complete
system
of this sort, but only meant to show how situations may
occur,
in which it is doubtful, whether the highest propriety of
conduct
consists in observing or in receding from what, in
ordinary
cases, are the rules of duty.
Every system of positive law may be
regarded as a more or
less
imperfect attempt towards a system of natural jurisprudence,
or
towards an enumeration of the particular rules of justice. As
the
violation of justice is what men will never submit to from
one
another, the public magistrate is under a necessity of
employing
the power of the commonwealth to enforce the practice
of this
virtue. Without this precaution, civil society would
become
a scene of bloodshed and disorder, every man revenging
himself
at his own hand whenever he fancied he was injured. To
prevent
the confusion which would attend upon every man's doing
justice
to himself, the magistrate, in all governments that have
acquired
any considerable authority, undertakes to do justice to
all,
and promises to hear and to redress every complaint of
injury.
In all well-governed states too, not only judges are
appointed
for determining the controversies of individuals, but
rules
are prescribed for regulating the decisions of those
judges;
and these rules are, in general, intended to coincide
with
those of natural justice. It does not, indeed, always happen
that
they do so in every instance. Sometimes what is called the
constitution
of the state, that is, the interest of the
government;
sometimes the interest of particular orders of men
who
tyrannize the government, warp the positive laws of the
country
from what natural justice would prescribe. In some
countries,
the rudeness and barbarism of the people hinder the
natural
sentiments of justice from arriving at that accuracy and
precision
which, in more civilized nations, they naturally attain
to.
Their laws are, like their manners, gross and rude and
undistinguishing.
In other countries the unfortunate constitution
of
their courts of judicature hinders any regular system of
jurisprudence
from ever establishing itself among them, though
the
improved manners of the people may be such as would admit of
the
most accurate. In no country do the decisions of positive law
coincide
exactly, in every case, with the rules which the natural
sense
of justice would dictate. Systems of positive law,
therefore,
though they deserve the greatest authority, as the
records
of the sentiments of mankind in different ages and
nations,
yet can never be regarded as accurate systems of the
rules
of natural justice.
It might have been expected that the
reasonings of lawyers,
upon
the different imperfections and improvements of the laws of
different
countries, should have given occasion to an inquiry
into
what were the natural rules of justice independent of all
positive
institution. It might have been expected that these
reasonings
should have led them to aim at establishing a system
of what
might properly be called natural jurisprudence, or a
theory
of the general principles which ought to run through and
be the
foundation of the laws of all nations. But though the
reasonings
of lawyers did produce something of this kind, and
though
no man has treated systematically of the laws of any
particular
country, without intermixing in his work many
observations
of this sort; it was very late in the world before
any
such general system was thought of, or before the philosophy
of law
was treated of by itself, and without regard to the
particular
institutions of any one nation. In none of the ancient
moralists,
do we find any attempt towards a particular
enumeration
of the rules of justice. Cicero in his Offices, and
Aristotle
in his Ethics, treat of justice in the same general
manner
in which they treat of all the other virtues. In the laws
of
Cicero and Plato, where we might naturally have expected some
attempts
towards an enumeration of those rules of natural equity,
which
ought to be enforced by the positive laws of every country,
there
is, however, nothing of this kind. Their laws are laws of
police,
not of justice. Grotius seems to have been the first who
attempted
to give the world any thing like a system of those
principles
which ought to ruin through, and be the foundation of
the
laws of all nations: and his treatise of the laws of war and
peace,
with all its imperfections, is perhaps at this day the
most
complete work that has yet been given upon this subject. I
shall
in another discourse endeavour to give an account of the
general
principles of law and government, and of the different
revolutions
they have undergone in the different ages and periods
of
society, not only in what concerns justice, but in what
concerns
police, revenue, and arms, and whatever else is the
object
of law. I shall not, therefore, at present enter into any
further
detail concerning the history of jurisprudence.
NOTES:
1. See
Plato de Rep. lib. iv.
2. The
distributive justice of Aristotle is somewhat different.
It
consists in the proper distribution of rewards from the public
stock
of a community. See Aristotle Ethic. Nic. l.5.c.2.
3. See
Artistotle Ethic. Nic. l.a.c.5. et seq. et l.3.c.3 et seq.
4. See
Aristotle Ethic. Nic. lib. ii. ch 1, 2, 3, and 4.
5. See
Aristotle Mag. Mor. lib. i. ch. 1.
6. See
Cicero de finibus. lib. iii.; also Dogenes Laertius in
Zenone,
lib. vii. segment 84.
7.
Arrian. lib. ii.c.5.
8. See
Cicero de finibus, lib. 3. c.28. Olivet's edition.
9. See
Cicero de finibus. lib. i. Diogenes Laert. i, x.
10.
Prima naturae.
11. See
Inquiry concerning Virtue, sect. 1 and 2.
12.
Inquiry concerning virtue, sect. 2. art. 4. also
Illustrations
on the moral sense, sect. 5. last paragraph.
13.
Luxury and lust.
14.
Fable of the Bees.
15. Puffendorff,
Mandeville.
16.
Immutable Morality, l. 1.
17.
Inquiry concerning Virtue.
18.
Treatise of the Passions.
19.
Illustrations upon the Moral Sense, sect. 1, p. 237, et seq.; third edition.
20. St
Augustine, La Placette.