{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_67363/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_67363","id":"gutenberg_67363","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67363","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Ethics -- Early works to 1800","Language and languages -- Early works to 1800"],"text":"THE\n THEORY\n OF\n MORAL SENTIMENTS;\n OR,\n AN ESSAY\n TOWARDS\n An ANALYSIS of the PRINCIPLES by which MEN naturally judge concerning\nthe CONDUCT and CHARACTER, first of their NEIGHBOURS, and afterwards of\n THEMSELVES.\n TO WHICH IS ADDED,\n A DISSERTATION\n ON THE\n ORIGIN OF LANGUAGES.\n\n\n BY ADAM SMITH, L.L.D. F.R.S.\n\n Formerly Professor of Philosophy in the University of Glasgow; and\n Author of the Nature and Cause of the Wealth of Nations.\n\n\n THE SIXTH EDITION.\n\n\n DUBLIN:\n\n Printed for J. BEATTY and C. JACKSON, No. 32, SKINNER-ROW.\n\n M,DCC,LXXVII.\n\n\n\n\n CONTENTS.\n\n\n PART I.\n\n Of the Propriety of Action.\n\n\n SECTION I.\n\n Of the sense of propriety Page\n 1.\n\n CHAP. I. _Of Sympathy_ ibid.\n\n CHAP. II. _Of the Pleasure of mutual Sympathy_ 9\n\n CHAP. III. _Of the manner in which we judge of the propriety or\n impropriety of the affections of other men, by their concord or\n dissonance with our own_ 14\n\n CHAP. IV. _The same subject continued_ 19\n\n CHAP. V. _Of the amiable and respectable virtues_ 27\n\n\n SECTION II.\n\n Of the degrees of the different passions which are consistent\n with propriety 33\n\n CHAP. I. _Of the passions which take their origin from the body_ 34\n\n CHAP. II. _Of those passions which take their origin from a\n particular turn or habit of the imagination_ 41\n\n CHAP. III. _Of the unsocial passions_ 46\n\n CHAP. IV. _Of the social passions_ 54\n\n CHAP. V. _Of the selfish passions_ 58\n\n\n SECTION III.\n\n Of the effects of prosperity and adversity upon the judgment of\n mankind with regard to the propriety of action; and why it is\n more easy to obtain their approbation in the one state than in\n the other 64\n\n CHAP. I. _That though our sympathy with sorrow is generally a\n more lively sensation than our sympathy with joy, it commonly\n falls much more short of the violence of what is naturally felt\n by the person principally concerned_ ibid.\n\n CHAP. II. _Of the origin of ambition, and of the distinction of\n ranks_ 74\n\n CHAP. III. _Of the stoical philosophy_ 89\n\n\n PART II.\n\n Of Merit and Demerit; or of the objects of reward and punishment.\n\n\n SECTION I.\n\n Of the sense of merit and demerit 97\n\n CHAP. I. _That whatever appears to be the proper object of\n gratitude, appears to deserve reward; and that, in the same\n manner, whatever appears to be the proper object of resentment,\n appears to deserve punishment_ 98\n\n CHAP. II. _Of the proper objects of gratitude and resentment_ 102\n\n CHAP. III. _That where there is no approbation of the conduct of\n the person who confers the benefit, there is little sympathy\n with the gratitude of him who receives it: and that, on the\n contrary, where there is no disapprobation of the motives of\n the person who does the mischief, there is no sort of sympathy\n with the resentment of him who suffers it_ 106\n\n CHAP. IV. _Recapitulation of the foregoing chapters_ 109\n\n CHAP. V. _The analysis of the sense of merit and demerit_ 112\n\n\n SECTION II.\n\n Of justice and beneficence 119\n\n CHAP. I. _Comparison of those two virtues_ ibid.\n\n CHAP. II. _Of the sense of justice, of remorse, and of the\n consciousness of merit_ 126\n\n CHAP. III. _Of the utility of this constitution of nature_ 132\n\n\n SECTION III.\n\n Of the influence of fortune upon the sentiments of mankind, with\n regard to the merit or demerit of actions 145\n\n CHAP. I. _Of the causes of this influence of fortune_ 148\n\n CHAP. II. _Of the extent of this influence of fortune_ 154\n\n CHAP. III. _Of the final cause of this irregularity of\n sentiments_ 167\n\n\n PART III.\n\n Of the foundation of our judgments concerning our own sentiments and\n conduct, and of the sense of duty.\n\n CHAP. I. _Of the consciousness of merited praise or blame_ 173\n\n CHAP. II. _In what manner our own judgments refer to what ought\n to be the judgments of others: and of the origin of general\n rules_ 180\n\n CHAP. III. _Of the influence and authority of the general rules\n of morality, and that they are justly regarded as the laws of\n the Deity_ 207\n\n CHAP. IV. _In what cases the sense of duty ought to be the sole\n principle of our conduct; and in what cases it ought to concur\n with other motives_ 223\n\n\n PART IV.\n\n Of the effect of utility upon the sentiments of approbation.\n\n CHAP. I. _Of the beauty which the appearance of Utility bestows\n upon all the productions of art, and of the extensive influence\n of this species of beauty_ 237\n\n CHAP. II. _Of the beauty which the appearance of utility bestows\n upon the characters and actions of men; and how far the\n perception of this beauty may be regarded as one of the\n original principles of approbation_ 250\n\n\n PART V.\n\n Of the influence of custom and fashion upon the sentiments of moral\n approbation and disapprobation.\n\n CHAP. I. _Of the influence of custom and fashion upon our notions\n of beauty and deformity_ 261\n\n CHAP. II. _Of the influence of custom and fashion upon moral\n sentiments_ 271\n\n\n PART VI.\n\n Of Systems of Moral Philosophy.\n\n\n SECTION I.\n\n Of the questions which ought to be examined in a theory of moral\n sentiments 291\n\n\n SECTION II.\n\n Of the different accounts which have been given of the nature of\n virtue 294\n\n CHAP. I. _Of those systems which make virtue consist in\n propriety_ 295\n\n CHAP. II. _Of those systems which make virtue consist in\n prudence_ 311\n\n CHAP. III. _Of those systems which make virtue consist in\n benevolence_ 321\n\n CHAP. IV. _Of licentious systems_ 331\n\n\n SECTION III.\n\n Of the different systems which have been formed concerning the\n principle of approbation 345\n\n CHAP. I. _Of those systems which deduce the principle of\n approbation from self-love_ 346\n\n CHAP. II. _Of those systems which make reason the principle of\n approbation_ 350\n\n CHAP. III. _Of those systems which make sentiment the principle\n of approbation_ 356\n\n\n SECTION IV.\n\n Of the manner in which different authors have treated of the\n practical rules of morality 367\n\n _Considerations concerning the first formation of languages, and\n the different genius of original and compound languages_ 389\n\n\n\n\n PART I.\n Of the PROPRIETY of ACTION.\n\n Consisting of three Sections.\n\n\n\n\n SECTION I.\n Of the SENSE of PROPRIETY.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. I.\n _Of_ SYMPATHY.\n\n\nHow selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some\nprinciples in his nature, which interest him in the fortune of others,\nand render their happiness necessary to him, though he derives nothing\nfrom it, except the pleasure of seeing it. Of this kind is pity or\ncompassion, the emotion which we feel for the misery of others, when we\neither see it, or are made to conceive it in a very lively manner. That\nwe often derive sorrow from the sorrow of others, is a matter of fact\ntoo obvious to require any instances to prove it; for this sentiment,\nlike all the other original passions of human nature, is by no means\nconfined to the virtuous and humane, though they perhaps may feel it\nwith the most exquisite sensibility. The greatest ruffian, the most\nhardened violator of the laws of society, is not altogether without it.\n\nAs we have no immediate experience of what other men feel, we can form\nno idea of the manner in which they are affected, but by conceiving what\nwe ourselves should feel in the like situation. Though our brother is\nupon the rack, as long as we ourselves are at our ease, our senses will\nnever inform us of what he suffers. They never did and never can carry\nus beyond our own person, and it is by the imagination only that we can\nform any conception of what are his sensations. Neither can that faculty\nhelp us to this any other way, than by representing to us what would be\nour own, if we were in his case. It is the impressions of our own senses\nonly, not those of his, which our imaginations copy. By the imagination\nwe place ourselves in his situation, we conceive ourselves enduring all\nthe same torments, we enter as it were into his body and become in some\nmeasure him, and thence form some idea of his sensations and even feel\nsomething which, though weaker in degree, is not altogether unlike them.\nHis agonies, when they are thus brought home to ourselves, when we have\nthus adopted and made them our own, begin at last to affect us, and we\nthen tremble and shudder at the thought of what he feels. For as to be\nin pain or distress of any kind excites the most excessive sorrow, so to\nconceive or to imagine that we are in it, excites some degree of the\nsame emotion, in proportion to the vivacity or dullness of the\nconception.\n\nThat this is the source of our fellow-feeling for the misery of others,\nthat it is by changing places in fancy with the sufferer, that we come\neither to conceive or to be affected by what he feels, may be\ndemonstrated by many obvious observations, if it should not be thought\nsufficiently evident of itself. When we see a stroke aimed and just\nready to fall upon the leg or arm of another person, we naturally shrink\nand draw back our own leg or our own arm; and when it does fall, we feel\nit in some measure, and are hurt by it as well as the sufferer. The mob,\nwhen they are gazing at a dancer on the slack rope, naturally writhe and\ntwist and balance their own bodies, as they see him do, and as they feel\nthat they themselves must do if in his situation. Persons of delicate\nfibres and a weak constitution of body, complain that in looking on the\nsores and ulcers which are exposed by beggars in the streets, they are\napt to feel an itching or uneasy sensation in the correspondent part of\ntheir own bodies. The horror which they conceive at the misery of those\nwretches affects that particular part in themselves more than any other;\nbecause that horror arises from conceiving what they themselves would\nsuffer, if they really were the wretches whom they are looking upon, and\nif that particular part in themselves was actually affected in the same\nmiserable manner. The very force of this conception is sufficient, in\ntheir feeble frames, to produce that itching or uneasy sensation\ncomplained of. Men of the most robust make, observe that in looking upon\nsore eyes they often feel a very sensible soreness in their own, which\nproceeds from the same reason; that organ being in the strongest man\nmore delicate than any other part of the body is in the weakest.\n\nNeither is it those circumstances only, which create pain or sorrow,\nthat call forth our fellow-feeling. Whatever is the passion which arises\nfrom any object in the person principally concerned, an analogous\nemotion springs up, at the thought of his situation, in the breast of\nevery attentive spectator. Our joy for the deliverance of those heroes\nof tragedy or romance who interest us, is as sincere as our grief for\ntheir distress, and our fellow-feeling with their misery is not more\nreal than that with their happiness. We enter into their gratitude\ntowards those faithful friends who did not desert them in their\ndifficulties; and we heartily go along with their resentment against\nthose perfidious traitors who injured, abandoned, or deceived them. In\nevery passion of which the mind of man is susceptible, the emotions of\nthe by-stander always correspond to what, by bringing the case home to\nhimself, he imagines, should be the sentiments of the sufferer.\n\nPity and compassion are words appropriated to signify our fellow-feeling\nwith the sorrow of others. Sympathy, though its meaning was, perhaps,\noriginally the same, may now, however, without much impropriety, be made\nuse of to denote our fellow-feeling with any passion whatever.\n\nUpon some occasions sympathy may seem to arise merely from the view of a\ncertain emotion in another person. The passions, upon some occasions,\nmay seem to be transfused from one man to another, instantaneously, and\nantecedent to any knowledge of what excited them in the person\nprincipally concerned. Grief and joy, for example, strongly expressed in\nthe look and gestures of any one, at once affect the spectator with some\ndegree of a like painful or agreeable emotion. A smiling face is, to\nevery body that sees it, a chearful object; as a sorrowful countenance,\non the other hand, is a melancholy one.\n\nThis, however, does not hold universally, or with regard to every\npassion. There are some passions of which the expressions excite no sort\nof sympathy, but before we are acquainted with what gave occasion to\nthem, serve rather to disgust and provoke us against them. The furious\nbehavior of an angry man is more likely to exasperate us against himself\nthan against his enemies. As we are unacquainted with his provocation,\nwe cannot bring his case home to ourselves, nor conceive any thing like\nthe passions which it excites. But we plainly see what is the situation\nof those with whom he is angry, and to what violence they may be exposed\nfrom so enraged an adversary. We readily, therefore, sympathize with\ntheir fear or resentment, and are immediately disposed to take part\nagainst the man from whom they appear to be in so much danger.\n\nIf the very appearances of grief and joy inspire us with some degree of\nthe like emotions, it is because they suggest to us the general idea of\nsome good or bad fortune that has befallen the person in whom we observe\nthem: and in these passions this is sufficient to have some little\ninfluence upon us. The effects of grief and joy terminate in the person\nwho feels those emotions, of which the expressions do not, like those of\nresentment, suggest to us the idea of any other person for whom we are\nconcerned, and whose interests are opposite to his. The general idea of\ngood or bad fortune, therefore, creates some concern for the person who\nhas met with it, but the general idea of provocation excites no sympathy\nwith the anger of the man who has received it. Nature, it seems, teaches\nus to be more averse to enter into this passion, and, till informed of\nits cause, to be disposed rather to take part against it.\n\nEven our sympathy with the grief or joy of another, before we are\ninformed of the cause of either, is always extremely imperfect. General\nlamentations, which express nothing but the anguish of the sufferer,\ncreate rather a curiosity to inquire into his situation, along with some\ndisposition to sympathize with him, than any actual sympathy that is\nvery sensible. The first question which we ask is, What has befallen\nyou? Till this be answered, tho\u2019 we are uneasy both from the vague idea\nof his misfortune, and still more from torturing ourselves with\nconjectures about what it may be, yet our fellow-feeling is not very\nconsiderable.\n\nSympathy, therefore, does not arise so much from the view of the\npassion, as from that of the situation which excites it. We sometimes\nfeel for another, a passion of which he himself seems to be altogether\nincapable; because when we put ourselves in his case, that passion\narises in our breast from the imagination, though it does not in his\nfrom the reality. We blush for the impudence and rudeness of another,\nthough he himself appears to have no sense of the impropriety of his own\nbehavior; because we cannot help feeling with what confusion we\nourselves should be covered, had we behaved in so absurd a manner.\n\nOf all the calamities to which the condition of mortality exposes\nmankind, the loss of reason appears, to those who have the least spark\nof humanity, by far the most dreadful, and they behold that last stage\nof human wretchedness with deeper commiseration than any other. But the\npoor wretch, who is in it, laughs and sings perhaps, and is altogether\ninsensible of his own misery. The anguish which humanity feels,\ntherefore, at the sight of such an object, cannot be the reflection of\nany sentiment of the sufferer. The compassion of the spectator must\narise altogether from the consideration of what he himself would feel if\nhe was reduced to the same unhappy situation, and, what perhaps is\nimpossible, was at the same time able to regard it with his present\nreason and judgment.\n\nWhat are the pangs of a mother when she hears the moanings of her infant\nthat during the agony of disease cannot express what it feels? In her\nidea of what it suffers, she joins, to its real helplessness, her own\nconsciousness of that helplessness, and her own terrors for the unknown\nconsequences of its disorder; and out of all these, forms, for her own\nsorrow, the most complete image of misery and distress. The infant,\nhowever, feels only the uneasiness of the present instant, which can\nnever be great. With regard to the future it is perfectly secure, and in\nits thoughtlessness and want of foresight possesses an antidote against\nfear and anxiety, the great tormentors of the human breast, from which\nreason and philosophy will in vain attempt to defend it when it grows up\nto a man.\n\nWe sympathize even with the dead, and overlooking what is of real\nimportance in their situation, that awful futurity which awaits them, we\nare chiefly affected by those circumstances which strike our senses, but\ncan have no influence upon their happiness. It is miserable, we think,\nto be deprived of the light of the sun; to be shut out from life and\nconversation; to be laid in the cold grave, a prey to corruption and the\nreptiles of the earth; to be no more thought of in this world, but to be\nobliterated in a little time from the affections and almost from the\nmemory of their dearest friends and relations. Surely, we imagine, we\ncan never feel too much for those who have suffered so dreadful a\ncalamity. The tribute of our fellow-feeling seems doubly due to them\nnow, when they are in danger of being forgot by every body; and, by the\nvain honors which we pay to their memory, we endeavor, for our own\nmisery, artificially to keep alive our melancholy remembrance of their\nmisfortune. That our sympathy can afford them no consolation seems to be\nan addition to their calamity; and to think that all we can do is\nunavailing, and that, what alleviates all other distress, the regret,\nthe love, and the lamentations of their friends, can yield no comfort to\nthem, serves only to exasperate our sense of their misery. The happiness\nof the dead, however, most assuredly, is affected by none of these\ncircumstances; nor is it the thought of these things which can ever\ndisturb the profound security of their repose. The idea of that dreary\nand endless melancholy, which the fancy naturally ascribes to their\ncondition, arises altogether from our joining to the change which has\nbeen produced upon them, our own consciousness of that change, from our\nputting ourselves in their situation, and from our lodging, if I may be\nallowed to say so, our own living souls in their inanimated bodies, and\nthence conceiving what would be our emotions in this case. It is from\nthis very illusion of the imagination, that the foresight of our own\ndissolution is so terrible to us, and that the idea of those\ncircumstances, which undoubtedly can give us no pain when we are dead,\nmakes us miserable while we are alive. And from thence arises one of the\nmost important principles in human nature, the dread of death, the great\npoison to the happiness, but the great restraint upon the injustice of\nmankind, which, while it afflicts and mortifies the individual, guards\nand protects the society.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. II.\n _Of the Pleasure of mutual Sympathy._\n\n\nBut whatever may be the cause of sympathy, or however it may be excited,\nnothing pleases us more than to observe in other men a fellow-feeling\nwith all the emotions of our own breast; nor are we ever so much shocked\nas by the appearance of the contrary. Those who are fond of deducing all\nour sentiments from certain refinements of self-love, think themselves\nat no loss to account, according to their own principles, both for this\npleasure and this pain. Man, say they, conscious of his own weakness and\nof the need which he has for the assistance of others, rejoices whenever\nhe observes that they adopt his own passions, because he is then assured\nof that assistance; and grieves whenever he observes the contrary,\nbecause he is then assured of their opposition. But both the pleasure\nand the pain are always felt so instantaneously, and often upon such\nfrivolous occasions, that it seems evident that neither of them can be\nderived from any such self-interested consideration. A man is mortified\nwhen, after having endeavored to divert the company, he looks round and\nsees that no body laughs at his jests but himself. On the contrary, the\nmirth of the company is highly agreeable to him, and he regards this\ncorrespondence of their sentiments with his own as the greatest\napplause.\n\nNeither does his pleasure seem to arise altogether from the additional\nvivacity which his mirth may receive from sympathy with theirs, nor his\npain from the disappointment he meets with when he misses this pleasure;\nthough both the one and the other, no doubt, do in some measure. When we\nhave read a book or poem so often that we can no longer find any\namusement in reading it by ourselves, we can still take pleasure in\nreading it to a companion. To him it has all the graces of novelty; we\nenter into the surprise and admiration which it naturally excites in\nhim, but which it is no longer capable of exciting in us; we consider\nall the ideas which it presents rather in the light in which they appear\nto him, than in that in which they appear to ourselves, and we are\namused by sympathy with his amusement which thus enlivens our own. On\nthe contrary, we should be vexed if he did not seem to be entertained\nwith it, and we could no longer take any pleasure in reading it to him.\nIt is the same case here. The mirth of the company, no doubt, enlivens\nour own mirth, and their silence, no doubt, disappoints us. But though\nthis may contribute both to the pleasure which we derive from the one,\nand to the pain which we feel from the other, it is by no means the sole\ncause of either; and this correspondence of the sentiments of others\nwith our own appears to be a cause of pleasure, and the want of it a\ncause of pain, which cannot be accounted for in this manner. The\nsympathy, which my friends express with my joy, might, indeed, give me\npleasure by enlivening that joy: but that which they express with my\ngrief could give me none, if it served only to enliven that grief.\nSympathy, however, enlivens joy and alleviates grief. It enlivens joy by\npresenting another source of satisfaction; and it alleviates grief by\ninsinuating into the heart almost the only agreeable sensation which it\nis at that time capable of receiving.\n\nIt is to be observed accordingly, that we are still more anxious to\ncommunicate to our friends our disagreeable than our agreeable passions,\nthat we derive still more satisfaction from their sympathy with the\nformer than from that with the latter, and that we are still more\nshocked by the want of it.\n\nHow are the unfortunate relieved when they have sound out a person to\nwhom they can communicate the cause of their sorrow? Upon his sympathy\nthey seem to disburthen themselves of a part of their distress: he is\nnot improperly said to share it with them. He not only feels a sorrow of\nthe same kind with that which they feel, but as if he had derived a part\nof it to himself, what he feels seems to alleviate the weight of what\nthey feel. Yet by relating their misfortunes, they in some measure renew\ntheir grief. They awaken in their memory the remembrance of those\ncircumstances which occasion their affliction. Their tears accordingly\nflow faster than before, and they are apt to abandon themselves to all\nthe weakness of sorrow. They take pleasure, however, in all this, and,\nit is evident, are sensibly relieved by it; because the sweetness of his\nsympathy more than compensates the bitterness of that sorrow, which, in\norder to excite that sympathy, they had thus enlivened and renewed. The\ncruelest insult, on the contrary, which can be offered to the\nunfortunate, is to appear to make light of their calamities. To seem not\nto be affected with the joy of our companions is but want of politeness;\nbut not to wear a serious countenance when they tell us their\nafflictions, is real and gross inhumanity.\n\nLove is an agreeable, resentment a disagreeable passion; and accordingly\nwe are not half so anxious that our friends should adopt our\nfriendships, as that they should enter into our resentments. We can\nforgive them though they seem to be little affected with the favors\nwhich we may have received, but lose all patience if they seem\nindifferent about the injuries which may have been done to us: nor are\nwe half so angry with them for not entering into our gratitude, as for\nnot sympathizing with our resentment. They can easily avoid being\nfriends to our friends, but can hardly avoid being enemies to those with\nwhom we are at variance. We seldom resent their being at enmity with the\nfirst, though upon that account we may sometimes affect to make an\nawkward quarrel with them; but we quarrel with them in good earnest if\nthey live in friendship with the last. The agreeable passions of love\nand joy can satisfy and support the heart without any auxiliary\npleasure. The bitter and painful emotions of grief and resentment more\nstrongly require the healing consolation of sympathy.\n\nAs the person who is principally interested in any event is pleased with\nour sympathy, and hurt by the want of it, so we, too, seem to be pleased\nwhen we are able to sympathize with him, and to be hurt when we are\nunable to do so. We run not only to congratulate the successful, but to\ncondole with the afflicted; and the pleasure which we find in the\nconversation of one whom in all the passions of his heart we can\nentirely sympathize with, seems to do more than compensate the\npainfulness of that sorrow with which the view of his situation affects\nus. On the contrary, it is always disagreeable to feel that we cannot\nsympathize with him, and instead of being pleased with this exemption\nfrom sympathetic pain, it hurts us to find that we cannot share his\nuneasiness. If we hear a person loudly lamenting his misfortunes, which,\nhowever, upon bringing the case home to ourselves, we feel, can produce\nno such violent effect upon us, we are shocked at his grief; and,\nbecause we cannot enter into it, call it pusillanimity and weakness. It\ngives us the spleen, on the other hand, to see another too happy or too\nmuch elevated, as we call it, with any little piece of good fortune. We\nare disobliged even with his joy, and, because we cannot go along with\nit, call it levity and folly. We are even put out of humor if our\ncompanion laughs louder or longer at a joke than we think it deserves;\nthat is, than we feel that we ourselves could laugh at it.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. III.\n_Of the manner in which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of the\n affections of other men, by their concord or dissonance with our own._\n\n\nWhen the original passions of the person principally concerned are in\nperfect concord with the sympathetic emotions of the spectator, they\nnecessarily appear to this last just and proper, and suitable to their\nobjects; and, on the contrary, when, upon bringing the case home to\nhimself, he finds that they do not coincide with what he feels, they\nnecessarily appear to him unjust and improper, and unsuitable to the\ncauses which excite them. To approve of the passions of another,\ntherefore, as suitable to their objects, is the same thing as to observe\nthat we entirely sympathize with them; and not to approve of them as\nsuch, is the same thing as to observe that we do not entirely sympathize\nwith them. The man who resents the injuries that have been done to me,\nand observes that I resent them precisely as he does, necessarily\napproves of my resentment. The man whose sympathy keeps time to my\ngrief, cannot but admit the reasonableness of my sorrow. He who admires\nthe same poem, or the same picture, and admires them exactly as I do,\nmust surely allow the justness of my admiration. He who laughs at the\nsame joke, and laughs along with me, cannot well deny the propriety of\nmy laughter. On the contrary, the person who, upon these different\noccasions, either feels no such emotion as that which I feel, or feels\nnone that bears any proportion to mine, cannot avoid disapproving my\nsentiments on account of their dissonance with his own. If my animosity\ngoes beyond what the indignation of my friend can correspond to; if my\ngrief exceeds what his most tender compassion can go along with; if my\nadmiration is either too high or too low to tally with his own; if I\nlaugh loud and heartily when he only smiles, or, on the contrary, only\nsmile when he laughs loud and heartily; in all these cases, as soon as\nhe comes from considering the object, to observe how I am affected by\nit, according as there is more or less disproportion between his\nsentiments and mine, I must incur a greater or less degree of his\ndisapprobation: and upon all occasions his own sentiments are the\nstandards and measures by which he judges of mine.\n\nTo approve of another man\u2019s opinions is to adopt those opinions, and to\nadopt them is to approve of them. If the same arguments which convince\nyou convince me likewise, I necessarily approve of your conviction; and\nif they do not, I necessarily disapprove of it: neither can I possibly\nconceive that I should do the one without the other. To approve or\ndisapprove, therefore, of the opinions of others is acknowledged, by\nevery body, to mean no more than to observe their agreement or\ndisagreement with our own. But this is equally the case with regard to\nour approbation or disapprobation of the sentiments or passions of\nothers.\n\nThere are, indeed, some cases in which we seem to approve without any\nsympathy or correspondence of sentiments, and in which, consequently,\nthe sentiment of approbation would seem to be different from the\nperception of this coincidence. A little attention, however, will\nconvince us that even in these cases our approbation is ultimately\nfounded upon a sympathy or correspondence of this kind. I shall give an\ninstance in things of a very frivolous nature, because in them the\njudgments of mankind are less apt to be perverted by wrong systems. We\nmay often approve of a jest, and think the laughter of the company quite\njust and proper, though we ourselves do not laugh, because, perhaps, we\nare in a grave humour, or happen to have our attention engaged with\nother objects. We have learned, however, from experience, what sort of\npleasantry as upon most occasions capable of making us laugh, and we\nobserve that this is one of that kind. We approve, therefore, of the\nlaughter of the company, and feel that it is natural and suitable to its\nobject; because, though in our present mood we cannot easily enter into\nit, we are sensible that upon most occasions we should very heartily\njoin in it.\n\nThe same thing often happens with regard to all the other passions. A\nstranger passes by us in the street with all the marks of the deepest\naffliction; and we are immediately told that he has just received the\nnews of the death of his father. It is impossible that, in this case, we\nshould not approve of his grief. Yet it may often happen, without any\ndefect of humanity on our part, that, so far from entering into the\nviolence of his sorrow, we should scarce conceive the first movements of\nconcern upon his account. Both he and his father, perhaps, are intirely\nunknown to us, or we happen to be employed about other things, and do\nnot take time to picture out in our imagination the different\ncircumstances of distress which must occur to him. We have learned,\nhowever, from experience, that such a misfortune naturally excites such\na degree of sorrow, and we know that if we took time to consider his\nsituation, fully and in all its parts, we should, without doubt, most\nsincerely sympathize with him. It is upon the consciousness of this\nconditional sympathy, that our approbation of his sorrow is founded,\neven in those cases in which that sympathy does not actually take place;\nand the general rules derived from our preceding experience of what our\nsentiments would commonly correspond with, correct upon this, as upon\nmany other occasions, the impropriety of our present emotions.\n\nThe sentiment or affection of the heart from which any action proceeds,\nand upon which its whole virtue or vice must ultimately depend, may be\nconsidered under two different aspects, or in two different relations;\nfirst, in relation to the cause which excites it, or the motive which\ngives occasion to it; and secondly, in relation to the end which it\nproposes, or the effect which it tends to produce.\n\nIn the suitableness or unsuitableness, in the proportion or\ndisproportion which the affection seems to bear to the cause or object\nwhich excites it, consists the propriety or impropriety, the decency or\nungracefulness of the consequent action.\n\nIn the beneficial or hurtful nature of the effects which the affection\naims at, or tends to produce, consists the merit or demerit of the\naction, the qualities by which it is entitled to reward, or is deserving\nof punishment.\n\nPhilosophers have, of late years, considered chiefly the tendency of\naffections, and have given little attention to the relation which they\nstand in to the cause which excites them. In common life, however, when\nwe judge of any person\u2019s conduct, and of the sentiments which directed\nit, we constantly consider them under both these aspects. When we blame\nin another man the excesses of love, of grief, of resentment, we not\nonly consider the ruinous effects which they tend to produce, but the\nlittle occasion which was given for them. The merit of his favourite, we\nsay, is not so great, his misfortune is not so dreadful, his provocation\nis not so extraordinary, as to justify so violent a passion. We should\nhave indulged, we say; perhaps, have approved of the violence of his\nemotion, had the cause been in any respect proportioned to it.\n\nWhen we judge in this manner of any affection, as proportioned or\ndisproportioned to the cause which excites it, it is scarce possible\nthat we should make use of any other rule or canon but the correspondent\naffection in ourselves. If, upon bringing the case home to our own\nbreast, we find that the sentiments which it gives occasion to, coincide\nand tally with our own, we necessarily approve of them as proportioned\nand suitable to their objects; if otherwise, we necessarily disapprove\nof them, as extravagant and out of proportion.\n\nEvery faculty in one man is the measure by which he judges of the like\nfaculty in another. I judge of your sight by my sight, of your ear by my\near, of your reason by my reason, of your resentment by my resentment,\nof your love by my love. I neither have nor can have any other way of\njudging about them.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. IV.\n _The same subject continued._\n\n\nWe may judge of the propriety or impropriety of the sentiments of\nanother person by their correspondence or disagreement with our own,\nupon two different occasions; either, first, when the objects which\nexcite them are considered without any peculiar relation, either to\nthemselves or to the person whose sentiments we judge of; or, secondly,\nwhen they are considered as peculiarly affecting one or other of us.\n\n1. With regard to those objects which are considered without any\npeculiar relation either to ourselves or to the person whose sentiments\nwe judge of; wherever his sentiments intirely correspond with our own,\nwe ascribe to him the qualities of taste and good judgment. The beauty\nof a plain, the greatness of a mountain, the ornaments of a building,\nthe expression of a picture, the composition of a discourse, the conduct\nof a third person, the proportions of different quantities and numbers,\nthe various appearances which the great machine of the universe is\nperpetually exhibiting, with the secret wheels and springs which produce\nthem; all the general subjects of science and taste, are what we and our\ncompanions regard, as having no peculiar relation to either of us. We\nboth look at them from the same point of view, and we have no occasion\nfor sympathy, or for that imaginary change of situations from which it\narises, in order to produce, with regard to these, the most perfect\nharmony of sentiments and affections. If, notwithstanding, we are often\ndifferently affected, it arises either from the different degrees of\nattention, which our different habits of life allow us to give easily to\nthe several parts of those complex objects, or from the different\ndegrees of natural acuteness in the faculty of the mind to which they\nare addressed.\n\nWhen the sentiments of our companion coincide with our own in things of\nthis kind, which are obvious and easy, and in which, perhaps, we never\nfound a single person who differed from us, though we, no doubt, must\napprove of them, yet he seems to deserve no praise or admiration on\naccount of them. But when they not only coincide with our own, but lead\nand direct our own; when in forming them he appears to have attended to\nmany things which we had overlooked, and to have adjusted them to all\nthe various circumstances of their objects; we not only approve of them,\nbut wonder and are surprised at their uncommon and unexpected acuteness\nand comprehensiveness, and he appears to deserve a very high degree of\nadmiration and applause. For approbation heightened by wonder and\nsurprise, constitutes the sentiment which is properly palled admiration,\nand of which applause is the natural expression. The decision of the man\nwho judges that exquisite beauty is preferable to the grossest\ndeformity, or that twice two are equal to four, must certainly be\napproved of by all the world, but will not, surely, be much admired. It\nis the acute and delicate discernment of the man of taste, who\ndistinguishes the minute, and scarce perceptible, differences of beauty\nand deformity; it is the comprehensive accuracy of the experienced\nmathematician, who unravels, with ease, the most intricate and perplexed\nproportions; it is the great leader in science and taste, the man who\ndirects and conducts our own sentiments, the extent and superior\njustness of whole talents astonish us with wonder and surprise, who\nexcites our admiration and seems to deserve our applause: and upon this\nfoundation is grounded the greater part of the praise which is bestowed\nupon what are called the intellectual virtues.\n\nThe utility of those qualities, it may be thought, is what first\nrecommends them to us; and, no doubt, the consideration of this, when we\ncome to attend to it, gives them a new value. Originally, however, we\napprove of another man\u2019s judgment, not as something useful, but as\nright, as accurate, as agreeable to truth and reality: and it is evident\nwe attribute those qualities to it for no other reason but because we\nfind that it agrees with our own. Taste, in the same manner, is\noriginally approved of, not as useful, but as just, as delicate, and as\nprecisely suited to its object. The idea of the utility of all qualities\nof this kind, is plainly an after-thought, and not what first\nrecommended them to our approbation.\n\n2. With regard to those objects, which affect in a particular manner\neither ourselves or the person whose sentiments we judge of, it is at\nonce more difficult to preserve this harmony and correspondence, and at\nthe same time, vastly more important. My companion does not naturally\nlook upon the misfortune that has befallen me, or the injury that has\nbeen done me, from the same point of view in which I consider them. They\naffect me much more nearly. We do not view them from the same station,\nas we do a picture, or a poem, or a system of philosophy, and are,\ntherefore, apt to be very differently affected by them. But I can much\nmore easily overlook the want of this correspondence of sentiments with\nregard to such indifferent objects as concern neither me nor my\ncompanion, than with regard to what interests me so much as the\nmisfortune that has befallen me, or the injury that has been done me.\nThough you despise that picture, or that poem, or even that system of\nphilosophy, which I admire, there is little danger of our quarrelling\nupon that account. Neither of us can reasonably be much interested about\nthem. They ought all of them to be matters of great indifference to us\nboth; so that, though our opinions may be opposite, our affections may\nstill be very nearly the same. But it is quite otherwise with regard to\nthose objects by which either you or I are particularly affected. Though\nyour judgment in matters of speculation, though your sentiments in\nmatters of taste, are quite opposite to mine, I can easily overlook this\nopposition; and if I have any degree of temper, I may still find some\nentertainment in your conversation, even upon those very subjects. But\nif you have either no fellow-feeling for the misfortunes I have met\nwith, or none that bears any proportion to the grief which distracts me,\nor if you have either no indignation at the injuries I have suffered, or\nnone that bears any proportion to the resentment which transports me, we\ncan no longer converse upon these subjects. We become intolerable to one\nanother. I can neither support your company, nor you mine. You are\nconfounded at my violence and passion, and I am enraged at your cold\ninsensibility and want of feeling.\n\nIn all such cases, that there may be some correspondence of sentiments\nbetween the spectator and the person principally concerned, the\nspectator must, first of all, endeavour, as much as he can, to put\nhimself in the situation of the other, and to bring home to himself\nevery little circumstance of distress which can possibly occur to the\nsufferer. He must adopt the whole case of his companion with all its\nminutest incidents; and strive to render as perfect as possible, that\nimaginary change of situation upon which his sympathy is founded.\n\nAfter all this, however, the emotions of the spectator will still be\nvery apt to fall short of the violence of what is felt by the sufferer.\nMankind, though naturally sympathetic, never conceive, for what has\nbefallen another, that degree of passion which naturally animates the\nperson principally concerned. That imaginary change of situation, upon\nwhich their sympathy is founded, is but momentary. The thought of their\nown safety, the thought that they themselves are not really the\nsufferers, continually intrudes itself upon them; and though it does not\nhinder them from conceiving a passion somewhat analogous to what is felt\nby the sufferer, hinders them from conceiving any thing that approaches\nto the same degree of violence. The person principally concerned is\nsensible of this, and, at the same time passionately desires a more\ncomplete sympathy. He longs for that relief which nothing can afford him\nbut the entire concord of the affections of the spectators with his own.\nTo see the emotions of their hearts, in every respect, beat time to his\nown, in the violent and disagreeable passions, constitutes his sole\nconsolation. But he can only hope to obtain this by lowering his passion\nto that pitch, in which the spectators are capable of going along with\nhim. He must flatten, if I may be allowed to say so, the sharpness of\nits natural tone, in order to reduce it to harmony and concord with the\nemotions of those who are about him. What they feel, will, indeed,\nalways be, in some respects, different from what he feels, and\ncompassion can never be exactly the same with original sorrow; because\nthe secret consciousness that the change of situations, from which the\nsympathetic sentiment arises, is but imaginary, not only lowers it in\ndegree, but in some measure, varies it in kind, and gives it a quite\ndifferent modification. These two sentiments, however, may, it is\nevident, have such a correspondence with one another, as is sufficient\nfor the harmony of society. Though they will never be unisons, they may\nbe concords, and this is all that is wanted or required.\n\nIn order to produce this concord, as nature teaches the spectators to\nassume the circumstances of the person principally concerned, so she\nteaches this last in some measure to assume those of the spectators. As\nthey are continually placing themselves in this situation, and thence\nconceiving emotions similar to what he feels; so he is as constantly\nplacing himself in theirs, and thence conceiving some degree of that\ncoolness about his own fortune, with which he is sensible that they will\nview it. As they are constantly considering what they themselves would\nfeel, if they actually were the sufferers, so he is as constantly led to\nimagine in what manner he would be affected if he was only one of the\nspectators of his own situation. As their sympathy makes them look at\nit, in some measure, with his eyes, so his sympathy makes him look at\nit, in some measure, with theirs, especially when in their presence and\nacting under their observation: and as the reflected passion, which he\nthus conceives, is much weaker than the original one, it necessarily\nabates the violence of what he felt before he came into their presence,\nbefore he began to recollect in what manner they would be affected by\nit, and to view his situation in this candid and impartial light.\n\nThe mind, therefore, is rarely so disturbed, but that the company of a\nfriend will restore it to some degree of tranquillity and sedateness.\nThe breast is, in some measure, calmed and composed the moment we come\ninto his presence. We are immediately put in mind of the light in which\nhe will view our situation, and we begin to view it ourselves in the\nsame light; for the effect of sympathy is instantaneous. We expect less\nsympathy from a common acquaintance than from a friend: we cannot open\nto the former all those little circumstances which we can unfold to the\nlatter: we assume, therefore, more tranquillity before him, and\nendeavour to fix our thoughts upon those general outlines of our\nsituation which he is willing to consider. We expect still less sympathy\nfrom an assembly of strangers, and we assume, therefore, still more\ntranquillity before them, and always endeavour to bring down our passion\nto that pitch, which the particular company we are in may be expected to\ngo along with. Nor is this only an assumed appearance: for if we are at\nall masters of ourselves, the presence of a mere acquaintance will\nreally compose us, still more than that of a friend; and that of an\nassembly of strangers still more than that of an acquaintance.\n\nSociety and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful remedies for\nrestoring the mind to its tranquillity, if, at any time, it has\nunfortunately lost it; as well as the best preservatives of that equal\nand happy temper, which is so necessary to self-satisfaction and\nenjoyment. Men of retirement and speculation, who are apt to sit\nbrooding at home over either grief or resentment, though they may often\nhave more humanity, more generosity, and a nicer sense of honour, yet\nseldom possess that equality of temper which is so common among men of\nthe world.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. V.\n _Of the amiable and respectable virtues._\n\n\nUpon these two different efforts, upon that of the spectator to enter\ninto the sentiments of the person principally concerned, and upon that\nof the person principally concerned, to bring down his emotions to what\nthe spectator can go along with, are founded two different sets of\nvirtues. The soft, the gentle, the amiable virtues, the virtues of\ncandid condescension and indulgent humanity, are founded upon the one:\nthe great, the awful and respectable, the virtues of self-denial, of\nself-government, of that command of the passions which subjects all the\nmovements of our nature to what our own dignity and honour, and the\npropriety of our own conduct require, derive their origin from the\nother.\n\nHow amiable does he appear to be, whose sympathetic heart seems to\nre-echo all the sentiments of those with whom he converses, who grieves\nfor their calamities, who resents their injuries, and rejoices at their\ngood fortune! When we bring home to ourselves the situation of his\ncompanions, we enter into their gratitude, and feel what consolation\nthey must derive from the tender sympathy of so affectionate a friend.\nAnd for a contrary reason, how disagreeable does he appear to be, whose\nhard and obdurate heart feels for himself only, but is altogether\ninsensible of the happiness or misery of others! We enter, in this case\ntoo, into the pain which his presence must give to every mortal with\nwhom he converses, to those especially with whom we are most apt to\nsympathize, the unfortunate and the injured.\n\nOn the other hand, what noble propriety and grace do we feel in the\nconduct of those who, in their own case, exert that recollection and\nself-command which constitute the dignity of every passion, and which\nbring it down to what others can enter into? We are disgusted with that\nclamorous grief, which, without any delicacy, calls upon our compassion\nwith sighs and tears and importunate lamentations. But we reverence that\nreserved, that silent and majestic sorrow, which discovers itself only\nin the swelling of the eyes, in the quivering of the lips and cheeks,\nand in the distant, but affecting, coldness of the whole behaviour. It\nimposes the like silence upon us. We regard it with respectful\nattention, and watch with anxious concern over our whole behaviour, lest\nby any impropriety we should disturb that concerted tranquillity, which\nit requires so great an effort to support.\n\nThe insolence and brutality of anger, in the same manner when we indulge\nits fury without check or restraint, is, of all subjects, the most\ndetestable. But we admire that noble and generous resentment which\ngoverns its pursuit of the greatest injuries, not by the rage which they\nare apt to excite in the breast of the sufferer, but by the indignation\nwhich they naturally call forth in that of the impartial spectator;\nwhich allows no word, no gesture, to escape it beyond what this more\nequitable sentiment would dictate; which never, even in thought,\nattempts any greater vengeance, nor desires to inflict any greater\npunishment, than what every indifferent person would rejoice to see\nexecuted.\n\nAnd hence it is, that to feel much for others and little for ourselves,\nthat to restrain our selfish, and to indulge our benevolent affections,\nconstitutes the perfection of human nature; and can alone produce among\nmankind that harmony of sentiments and passions in which consist their\nwhole grace and propriety. As to love our neighbour as we love ourselves\nis the great law of christianity, so it is the great precept of nature\nto love ourselves only as we love our neighbour, or what comes to the\nsame thing, as our neighbour is capable of loving us.\n\nAs taste and good judgment, when they are considered as qualities which\ndeserve praise and admiration, are supposed to imply a delicacy of\nsentiment and an acuteness of understanding not commonly to be met with;\nso the virtues of sensibility and self-command are not apprehended to\nconsist in the ordinary, but in the uncommon degrees of those qualities.\nThe amiable virtue of humanity requires, surely, a sensibility, much\nbeyond what is possessed by the rude vulgar of mankind. The great and\nexalted virtue of magnanimity undoubtedly demands much more than that\ndegree of self-command, which the weakest of mortals are capable of\nexerting. As in the common degree of the intellectual qualities, there\nare no abilities; so in the common degree of the moral, there is no\nvirtue. Virtue is excellence, something uncommonly great and beautiful,\nwhich rises far above what is vulgar and ordinary. The amiable virtues\nconsist in that degree of sensibility which surprises by its exquisite\nand unexpected delicacy and tenderness. The awful and respectable, in\nthat degree of self-command which astonishes by its amazing superiority\nover the most ungovernable passions of human nature.\n\nThere is, in this respect, a considerable difference between virtue and\nmere propriety; between those qualities and actions which deserve to be\nadmired and celebrated, and those which simply deserve to be approved\nof. Upon many occasions, to act with the most perfect propriety,\nrequires no more than that common and ordinary degree of sensibility or\nself-command which the most worthless of mankind are possessed of, and\nsometimes even that degree is not necessary. Thus, to give a very low\ninstance, to eat when we are hungry, is certainly, upon ordinary\noccasions, perfectly right and proper, and cannot miss being approved of\nas such by every body. Nothing, however, could be more absurd than to\nsay it is virtuous.\n\nOn the contrary, there may frequently be a considerable degree of virtue\nin those actions, which fall short of the most perfect propriety;\nbecause they may still approach nearer to perfection than could well be\nexpected upon occasions in which it was so extremely difficult to attain\nit: and this is very often the case upon those occasions which require\nthe greatest exertions of self-command. There are some situations which\nbear so hard upon human nature, that the greatest degree of\nself-government, which can belong to so imperfect a creature as man, is\nnot able to stifle, altogether, the voice of human weakness, or reduce\nthe violence of the passions to that pitch of moderation, in which the\nimpartial spectator can entirely enter into them. Though in those cases,\ntherefore, the behaviour of the sufferer fall short of the most perfect\npropriety, it may still deserve some applause, and even in a certain\nsense, may be denominated virtuous. It may still manifest an effort or\ngenerosity and magnanimity of which the greater part of men are\nincapable; and though it fails of absolute perfection, it may be a much\nnearer approximation towards perfection, than what, upon such trying\noccasions, is commonly either to be found or to be expected.\n\nIn cases of this kind, when we are determining the degree of blame or\napplause which seems due to any action, we very frequently make use of\ntwo different standards. The first is the idea of complete propriety and\nperfection, which, in those difficult situations, no human conduct ever\ndid, or even can come up to; and in comparison with which the actions of\nall men must for ever appear blameable and imperfect. The second is the\nidea of that degree of proximity or distance from this complete\nperfection, which the actions of the greater part of men commonly arrive\nat. Whatever goes beyond this degree, how far soever it may be removed\nfrom absolute perfection, seems to deserve applause; and whatever falls\nshort of it, to deserve blame.\n\nIt is in the same manner that we judge of the productions of all arts\nwhich address themselves to the imagination. When a critic examines the\nwork of any of the great masters for poetry or painting, he may\nsometimes examine it by an idea of perfection, in his own mind, which\nneither that nor any other human work will ever come up to; and as long\nas he compares it with this standard, he can see nothing in it but\nfaults and imperfections. But when he come to consider the rank which it\nought to hold among other works of the same kind, he necessarily\ncompares it with a very different standard, the common degree of\nexcellence which is usually attained in this particular art; and when he\njudges of it by this new measure, it may often appear to deserve the\nhighest applause, upon account of its approaching much nearer to\nperfection than the greater part of those works which can be brought\ninto competition with it.\n\n\n\n\n SECTION II.\n Of the degrees of the different passions which are consistent with\n propriety.\n\n\n INTRODUCTION.\n\nThe propriety of every passion excited by objects peculiarly related to\nourselves the pitch which the spectator can go along with, must lie, it\nis evident, in certain mediocrity. If the passion is too high, or if it\nis too low, he cannot enter into it. Grief and resentment for private\nmisfortunes and injuries may easily, for example, be too high, and in\nthe greater part of mankind they are so. They may likewise, though this\nmore rarely happens, be too low. We denominate the excess, weakness and\nfury: and we call the defect, stupidity, insensibility, and want of\nspirit. We can enter into neither of them, but are astonished and\nconfounded to see them.\n\nThis mediocrity, however, in which the point of propriety consists, is\ndifferent in different passions. It is high in some, and low in others.\nThere are some passions which it is indecent to express very strongly,\neven upon those occasions, in which it is acknowledged that we cannot\navoid feeling them in the highest degree. And there are others of which\nthe strongest expressions are upon many occasions extremely graceful,\neven though the passions themselves do not, perhaps, arise so\nnecessarily. The first are those passions with which, for certain\nreasons, there is little or no sympathy: the second are those with\nwhich, for other reasons, there is the greatest. And if we consider all\nthe different passions of human nature, we shall find that they are\nregarded as decent, or indecent, just in proportion as mankind are more\nor less disposed to sympathize with them.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. I.\n _Of the passions which take their origin from the body._\n\n\n1. It is indecent to express any strong degree of those passions which\narise from a certain situation or disposition of the body; because the\ncompany, not being in the same disposition, cannot be expected to\nsympathize with them. Violent hunger, for example, though upon many\noccasions not only natural, but unavoidable, is always indecent, and to\neat voraciously is universally regarded as a piece of ill manners. There\nis, however, some degree of sympathy, even with hunger. It is agreeable\nto see our companions eat with a good appetite, and all expressions of\nloathing are offensive. The disposition of body which is habitual to a\nman in health, makes his stomach easily keep time, if I may be allowed\nso coarse an expression, with the one, and not with the other. We can\nsympathize with the distress which excessive hunger occasions when we\nread the description of it in the journal of a siege, or of a sea\nvoyage. We imagine ourselves in the situation of the sufferers, and\nthence readily conceive the grief, the fear and consternation, which\nmust necessarily distract them. We feel, ourselves, some degree of those\npassions, and therefore sympathize with them: but as we do not grow\nhungry by reading the description, we cannot properly, even in this\ncase, be said to sympathize with their hunger.\n\nIt is the same case with the passion by which Nature unites the two\nsexes. Though naturally the most furious of all passions, all strong\nexpressions of it are upon every occasion indecent, even between persons\nin whom its most complete indulgence is acknowledged by all laws, both\nhuman and divine, to be perfectly innocent. There seems, however, to be\nsome degree of sympathy even with this passion. To talk to a woman as we\nshould to a man is improper: it is expected that their company should\ninspire us with more gaiety, more pleasantry, and more attention; and an\nentire insensibility to the fair sex, renders a man contemptible in some\nmeasure even to the men.\n\nSuch is our aversion for all the appetites which take their origin from\nthe body: all strong expressions of them are loathsome and disagreeable.\nAccording to some ancient philosophers, these are the passions which we\nshare in common with the brutes, and which having no connexion with the\ncharacteristical qualities of human nature, are upon that account\nbeneath its dignity. But there are many other passions which we share in\ncommon with the brutes, such as resentment, natural affection, even\ngratitude, which do not, upon that account, appear to be so brutal. The\ntrue cause of the peculiar disgust which we conceive for the appetites\nof the body when we see them in other men, is that we cannot enter into\nthem. To the person himself who feels them, as soon as they are\ngratified, the object that excited them ceases to be agreeable: even its\npresence often becomes offensive to him; he looks round to no purpose\nfor the charm which transported him the moment before, and he can now as\nlittle enter into his own passion as another person. When we have dined,\nwe order the covers to be removed; and we should treat in the same\nmanner the objects of the most ardent and passionate desires, if they\nwere the objects of no other passions but those which take their origin\nfrom the body.\n\nIn the command of those appetites of the body consists that virtue which\nis properly called temperance. To restrain them within those bounds,\nwhich regard to health and fortune prescribes, is the part of prudence.\nBut to confine them within those limits, which grace, which propriety,\nwhich delicacy, and modesty, require, is the office of temperance.\n\n2. It is for the same reason that to cry out with bodily pain, how\nintolerable soever, appears always unmanly and unbecoming. There is,\nhowever, a good deal of sympathy even with bodily pain. If, as has\nalready been observed, I see a stroke aimed, and just ready to fall upon\nthe leg or arm, of another person, I naturally shrink and draw back my\nown leg, or my own arm; and when it does fall, I feel it in some\nmeasure, and am hurt by it as well as the sufferer. My hurt, however,\nis, no doubt, excessively slight, and, upon that account, if he makes\nany violent out-cry, as I cannot go along with him, I never fail to\ndespise him. And this is the case of all the passions which take their\norigin from the body: they excite either no sympathy at all, or such a\ndegree of it, as is altogether disproportioned to the violence of what\nis felt by the sufferer.\n\nIt is quite otherwise with those passions which take their origin from\nthe imagination. The frame of my body can be but little affected by the\nalterations which are brought about upon that of my companion: but my\nimagination is more ductile, and more readily assumes, if I may so, the\nshape and configuration of the imaginations of those with whom I am\nfamiliar. A disappointment in love, or ambition, will, upon this\naccount, call forth more sympathy than the greatest bodily evil. Those\npassions arise altogether from the imagination. The person who has lost\nhis whole fortune, if he is in health, feels nothing in his body. What\nhe suffers is from the imagination only, which represents to him the\nloss of his dignity, neglect from his friends, contempt from his\nenemies, dependence, want, and misery, coming fast upon him; and we\nsympathize with him more strongly upon this account, because our\nimaginations can more readily mould themselves upon his imagination,\nthan our bodies can mould themselves upon his body.\n\nThe loss of a leg may generally be regarded as a more real calamity than\nthe loss of a mistress. It would be a ridiculous tragedy, however, of\nwhich the catastrophe was to turn upon a loss of that kind. A misfortune\nof the other kind, how frivolous soever it may appear to be, has given\noccasion to many a fine one.\n\nNothing is so soon forgot as pain. The moment it is gone the whole agony\nof it is over, and the thought of it can no longer give us any sort of\ndisturbance. We ourselves cannot then enter into the anxiety and anguish\nwhich we had before conceived. An unguarded word from a friend will\noccasion a more durable uneasiness. The agony which this creates is by\nno means over with the word. What at first disturbs us is not the object\nof the senses, but the idea of the imagination. As it is an idea,\ntherefore, which occasions our uneasiness, till time and other accidents\nhave in some measure effaced it from our memory, the imagination\ncontinues to fret and rankle within, from the thought of it.\n\nPain never calls forth any very lively sympathy unless it is accompanied\nwith danger. We sympathize with the fear, though not with the agony of\nthe sufferer. Fear, however, is a passion derived altogether from the\nimagination, which represents, with an uncertainty and fluctuation that\nincreases our anxiety, not what we really feel, but what we may\nhereafter possibly suffer. The gout or the tooth-ache, though\nexquisitely painful, excite very little sympathy; more dangerous\ndiseases, though accompanied with very little pain, excite the highest.\n\nSome people faint and grow sick at the sight of a chirurgical operation,\nand that bodily pain which is occasioned by tearing the flesh, seems, in\nthem, to excite the most excessive sympathy. We conceive in a much more\nlively and distinct manner, the pain which proceeds from an external\ncause, than we do that which arises from an internal disorder. I can\nscarce form an idea of the agonies of my neighbour when he is tortured\nwith the gout, or the stone; but I have the clearest conception of what\nhe must suffer from an incision, a wound, or a fracture. The chief\ncause, however, why such objects produce such violent effects upon us,\nis their novelty. Once who has been witness to a dozen dissections, and\nas many amputations, sees, ever after, all operations of this kind with\ngreat indifference, and often with perfect insensibility. Though we have\nread or seen represented more than five hundred tragedies, we shall\nseldom feel so entire an abatement of our sensibility to the object\nwhich they represent to us.\n\nIn some of the Greek tragedies there is an attempt to excite compassion,\nby the representation of the agonies of bodily pain. Philoctetes cries\nout and faints from the extremity of his sufferings. Hippolytus and\nHercules are both introduced as expiring under the severest tortures,\nwhich, it seems, even the fortitude of Hercules was incapable of\nsupporting. In all these cases, however, it is not the pain which\ninterests us, but some other circumstance. It is not the sore foot, but\nthe solitude, of Philoctetes which affects us, and diffuses over that\ncharming tragedy, that romantic wildness, which is so agreeable to the\nimagination. The agonies of Hercules and Hippolytus are interested only\nbecause we foresee that death is to be the consequence. If those heroes\nwere to recover, we should think the representation of their sufferings\nperfectly ridiculous. What a tragedy would that be of which the distress\nconsisted in a colic. Yet no pain is more exquisite. These attempts to\nexcite compassion by the representation of bodily pain, may be regarded\nas among the greatest breaches of decorum of which the Greek theatre has\nset the example.\n\nThe little sympathy which we feel with bodily pain is the foundation of\nthe propriety of constancy and patience in enduring it. The man, who\nunder the severest tortures allows no weakness to escape him, vents no\ngroan, gives way to no passion which we do not entirely enter into,\ncommands our highest admiration. His firmness enables him to keep time\nwith our indifference and insensibility. We admire and entirely go along\nwith the magnanimous effort which he makes for this purpose. We approve\nof his behaviour, and from our experience of the common weakness of\nhuman nature, we are surprised, and wonder how he should be able to act\nso as to deserve approbation. Approbation, mixed and animated by wonder\nand surprise, constitutes the sentiment which is properly called\nadmiration, of which, applause is the natural expression, as has already\nbeen observed.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. II.\n _Of those passions which take their origin from a particular turn or\n habit of the imagination._\n\n\nEven of the passions derived from the imagination, those which take\ntheir origin from a peculiar turn or habit it has acquired, though they\nmay be acknowledged to be perfectly natural, are, however, but little\nsympathized with. The imaginations of mankind, not having acquired that\nparticular turn, cannot enter into them; and such passions, though they\nmay be allowed to be almost unavoidable in some part of life, are always\nin some measure ridiculous. This is the case with that strong attachment\nwhich naturally grows up between two persons of different sexes, who\nhave long fixed their thoughts upon one another. Our imagination not\nhaving run in the same channel with that of the lover, we cannot enter\ninto the eagerness of his emotions. If our friend has been injured, we\nreadily sympathize with his resentment, and grow angry with the very\nperson with whom he is angry. If he has received a benefit, we readily\nenter into his gratitude, and have a very high sense of the merit of his\nbenefactor. But if he is in love, though we may think his passion just\nas reasonable as any of the kind, yet we never think ourselves bound to\nconceive a passion of the same kind, and for the same person for whom he\nhas conceived it. The passion appears to every body, but the man who\nfeels it, entirely disproportioned to the value of the object; and love,\nthough it is pardoned in a certain age because we know it is natural, is\nalways laughed at, because we cannot enter into it. All serious and\nstrong expressions of it appear ridiculous to a third person; and though\na lover may be good company to his mistress, he is so to nobody else. He\nhimself is sensible of this; and as long as he continues in his sober\nsenses, endeavours to treat his own passion with raillery and ridicule.\nIt is the only style in which we care to hear of it; because it is the\nonly style in which we ourselves are disposed to talk of it. We grow\nweary of the grave, pedantic, and long-sentenced love of Cowley and\nPropertius, who never have done with exaggerating the violence of their\nattachments; but the gaiety of Ovid, and the gallantry of Horace, are\nalways agreeable.\n\nBut though we feel no proper sympathy with an attachment of this kind,\nthough we never approach even in imagination towards conceiving a\npassion for that particular person, yet as we either have conceived, or\nmay be disposed to conceive, passions of the same kind, we readily enter\ninto those high hopes of happiness which are proposed from its\ngratification, as well as into that exquisite distress which is feared\nfrom its disappointment. It interests us not as a passion, but as a\nsituation that gives occasion to other passions which interest us; to\nhope, to fear, and to distress of every kind: in the same manner as in a\ndescription of a sea voyage, it is not the hunger which interests us,\nbut the distress which that hunger occasions. Though we do not properly\nenter into the attachment of the lover, we readily go along with those\nexpectations of romantic happiness which he derives from it. We feel how\nnatural it is for the mind, in a certain situation, relaxed with\nindolence, and fatigued with the violence of desire, to long for\nserenity and quiet, to hope to find them in the gratification of that\npassion which distracts it, and to frame to itself the idea of that life\nof pastoral tranquillity and retirement which the elegant, the tender,\nand the passionate Tibullus takes so much pleasure in deferring; a life\nlike what the poets describe in the Fortunate Islands, a life of\nfriendship, liberty, and repose; free from labour, and from care, and\nfrom all the turbulent passions which attend them. Even scenes of this\nkind interest us most, when they are painted rather as what is hoped,\nthan as what is enjoyed. The grossness of that passion which mixes with,\nand is, perhaps, the foundation of love, disappears when its\ngratification is far off and at a distance; but renders the whole\noffensive, when described as what is immediately possessed. The happy\npassion, upon this account, interests us much less than the fearful and\nthe melancholy. We tremble for whatever can disappoint such natural and\nagreeable hopes: and thus enter into all the anxiety, and concern, and\ndistress of the lover.\n\nHence it is, that, in some modern tragedies and romances, this passion\nappears so wonderfully interesting. It is not so much the love of\nCastalio and Monimia which attaches us in the Orphan, as the distress\nwhich that love occasions. The author who should introduce two lovers,\nin a scene of perfect security, expressing their mutual fondness for one\nanother, would excite laughter, and not sympathy. If a scene of this\nkind is ever admitted into a tragedy, it is always, in some measure,\nimproper, and is endured, not from any sympathy with the passion that is\nexpressed in it, but from concern for the dangers and difficulties with\nwhich the audience foresee that its gratification is likely to be\nattended.\n\nThe reserve which the laws of society impose upon the fair sex, with\nregard to this weakness, renders it more peculiarly distressful in them,\nand, upon that very account, more deeply interesting. We are charmed\nwith the love of Ph\u00e6dra, as it is expressed in the French tragedy of\nthat name, notwithstanding all the extravagance and guilt which attends\nit. That very extravagance and guilt may be said, in some measure, to\nrecommend it to us. Her fear, her shame, her remorse, her horror, her\ndespair, become thereby more natural and interesting. All the secondary\npassions, if I may be allowed to call them so, which arise from the\nsituation of love, become necessarily more furious and violent: and it\nis with these secondary passions only that we can properly be said to\nsympathize.\n\nOf all the passions, however, which are so extravagantly disproportioned\nto the value of their objects, love is the only one that appears, even\nto the weakest minds, to have any thing in it that is either graceful or\nagreeable. In itself, first of all, though it may be ridiculous, it is\nnot naturally odious; and though its consequences are often fatal and\ndreadful, its intentions are seldom mischievous. And then, though there\nis little propriety in the passion itself, there is a good deal in some\nof those which always accompany it. There is in love a strong mixture of\nhumanity, generality, kindness, friendship, esteem; passions with which,\nof all others, for reasons which shall be explained immediately, we have\nthe greatest propensity to sympathize, even notwithstanding we are\nsensible that they are, in some measure, excessive. The sympathy which\nwe feel with them, renders the passion which they accompany less\ndisagreeable, and supports it in our imagination, notwithstanding all\nthe vices which commonly go along with it; though in the one sex it\nnecessarily leads to ruin and infamy; and though in the other, where it\nis apprehended to be least fatal, it is almost always attended with an\nincapacity for labour, a neglect of duty, a contempt of fame, and even\nof common reputation. Notwithstanding all this, the degree of\nsensibility and generosity with which it is supposed to be accompanied,\nrenders it to many the object of vanity; and they are fond of appearing\ncapable of feeling what would do them no honour if they had really felt\nit.\n\nIt is for a reason of the same kind, that a certain reserve is necessary\nwhen we talk of our own friends, our own studies, our own professions.\nAll these are objects which we cannot expect should interest our\ncompanions in the same degree in which they interest us. And it is for\nwant of this reserve, that the one half of mankind make bad company to\nthe other. A philosopher is company to a philosopher only; the member of\na club, to his own little knot of companions.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. III.\n _Of the unsocial passions._\n\n\nThere is another set of passions, which though derived from the\nimagination, yet before we can enter into them, or regard them as\ngraceful or becoming, must always be brought down to a pitch much lower\nthan that to which undisciplined nature would raise them. These are\nhatred and resentment, with all their different modifications. With\nregard to all such passions, our sympathy is divided between the person\nwho feels them and the person who is the object of them. The interests\nof these two are directly opposite. What our sympathy with the person\nwho feels them would prompt us to wish for, our fellow-feeling with the\nother would lead us to fear. As they are both men, we are concerned for\nboth, and our fear for what the one may suffer, damps our resentment for\nwhat the other has suffered. Our sympathy, therefore, with the man who\nhas received the provocation, necessarily falls short of the passion\nwhich naturally animates him, not only upon account of those general\ncauses which render all sympathetic passions inferior to the original\nones, but upon account of that particular cause which is peculiar to\nitself, our opposite sympathy with another person. Before resentment,\ntherefore, can become graceful and agreeable, it must be more humbled\nand brought down below that pitch to which it would naturally rise, than\nalmost any other passion.\n\nMankind, at the same time, have a very strong sense of the injuries that\nare done to another. The villain, in a tragedy or romance, is as much\nthe object of our indignation, as the hero is that of our sympathy and\naffection. We detest Iago as much as we esteem Othello; and delight as\nmuch in the punishment of the one, as we are grieved at the distress of\nthe other. But though mankind have so strong a fellow-feeling with the\ninjuries that are done to their brethren, they do not always resent them\nthe more that the sufferer appears to resent them. Upon most occasions,\nthe greater his patience, his mildness, his humanity, provided it does\nnot appear that he wants spirit, or that fear was the motive of his\nforbearance, the higher the resentment against the person who injured\nhim. The amiableness of the character exasperates their sense of the\natrocity of the injury.\n\nThese passions, however, are regarded as necessary parts of the\ncharacter of human nature. A person becomes contemptible who tamely sits\nstill, and submits to insults, without attempting either to repel or to\nrevenge them. We cannot enter into his indifference and insensibility:\nwe call his behaviour mean-spiritedness, and are as really provoked by\nit as by the insolence of his adversary. Even the mob are enraged to see\nany man submit patiently to affronts and ill usage. They desire to see\nthis insolence resented, and resented by the person who suffers from it.\nThey cry to him with fury, to defend, or to revenge himself. If his\nindignation rouses at last, they heartily applaud, and sympathize with\nit. It enlivens their own indignation against his enemy, whom they\nrejoice to see him attack in turn, and are as really gratified by his\nrevenge, provided it is not immoderate, as if the injury had been done\nto themselves.\n\nBut though the utility of those passions to the individual, by rendering\nit dangerous to insult or injure him, be acknowledged; and though their\nutility to the public, as the guardians of justice, and of the equality\nof its administration, be not less considerable, as shall be shewn\nhereafter; yet there is still something disagreeable in the passions\nthemselves, which makes the appearance of them in other men the natural\nobject of our aversion. The expression of anger towards any body\npresent, if it exceeds a bare intimation that we are sensible of his ill\nusage, is regarded not only as an insult to that particular person, but\nas a rudeness to the whole company. Respect for them ought to have\nrestrained us from giving way to so boisterous and offensive an emotion.\nIt is the remote effects of these passions which are agreeable; the\nimmediate effects are mischief to the person against whom they are\ndirected. But it is the immediate, and not the remote effects of objects\nwhich render them agreeable or disagreeable to the imagination. A prison\nis certainly more useful to the public than a palace; and the person who\nfounds the one is generally directed by a much juster spirit of\npatriotism, than he who builds the other. But the immediate effects of a\nprison, the confinement of the wretches shut up in it, are disagreeable;\nand the imagination either does not take time to trace out the remote\nones, or sees them at too great a distance to be much affected by them.\nA prison, therefore, will always be a disagreeable object; and the\nfitter it is for the purpose for which it was intended, it will be the\nmore so. A palace, on the contrary, will always be agreeable; yet its\nremote effects may often be inconvenient to the public. It may serve to\npromote luxury, and set the example of the dissolution of manners. Its\nimmediate effects, however, the conveniency, the pleasure, and the\ngaiety of the people who live in it, being all agreeable, and suggesting\nto the imagination a thousand agreeable ideas, that faculty generally\nrests upon them, and seldom goes further in tracing its more distant\nconsequences. Trophies of the instruments of music or of agriculture,\nimitated in painting or in stucco, make a common and an agreeable\nornament of our halls and dining-rooms. A trophy of the same kind,\ncomposed of the instruments of surgery, of dissecting and\namputation-knives, of saws for cutting the bones, of trepanning\ninstruments, &c. would be absurd and shocking. Instruments of surgery,\nhowever, are always more finely polished, and generally more nicely\nadapted to the purposes for which they are intended, than instruments of\nagriculture. The remote effects of them too, the health of the patient,\nis agreeable, yet as the immediate effect of them is pain and suffering,\nthe sight of them always displeases us. Instruments of war are\nagreeable, though their immediate effect may seem to be in the same\nmanner pain and suffering. But then it is the pain and suffering of our\nenemies, with whom we have no sympathy. With regard to us, they are\nimmediately connected with the agreeable ideas of courage, victory, and\nhonour. They are themselves, therefore, supposed to make one of the\nnoblest parts of dress, and the imitation of them one of the finest\nornaments of architecture. It is the same case with the qualities of the\nmind. The ancient stoics were of opinion, that as the world was governed\nby the all-ruling providence of a wise, powerful, and good God, every\nsingle event ought to be regarded, as making a necessary part of the\nplan of the universe, and as tending to promote the general order and\nhappiness of the whole: that the vices and follies of mankind,\ntherefore, made as necessary a part of this plan as their wisdom or\ntheir virtue; and by that eternal art which educes good from ill, were\nmade to tend equally to the prosperity and perfection of the great\nsystem of nature. No speculation of this kind, however, how deeply\nsoever it might be rooted in the mind, could diminish our natural\nabhorrence for vice, whose immediate effects are so destructive, and\nwhose remote ones are too distant to be traced by the imagination.\n\nIt is the same case with those passions we have been just now\nconsidering. Their immediate effects are so disagreeable, that even when\nthey are most justly provoked, there is still something about them which\ndisgusts us. These, therefore, are the only passions of which the\nexpressions, as I formerly observed, do not dispose and prepare us to\nsympathize with them, before we are informed of the cause which excites\nthem. The plaintive voice of misery, when heard at a distance, will not\nallow us to be indifferent about the person from whom it comes. As soon\nas it strikes our ear, it interests us in his fortune, and, if\ncontinued, forces us almost involuntarily to fly to his assistance. The\nsight of a smiling countenance, in the same manner, elevates even the\npensive into that gay and airy mood, which disposes him to sympathize\nwith, and share the joy which it expresses; and he feels his heart,\nwhich with thought and care was before that shrunk and depressed,\ninstantly expanded and elated. But it is quite otherwise with the\nexpressions of hatred and resentment. The hoarse, boisterous, and\ndiscordant voice of anger, when heard at a distance, inspires us either\nwith fear or aversion. We do not fly towards it, as to one who cries out\nwith pain and agony. Women, and men of weak nerves, tremble and are\novercome with fear, though sensible that themselves are not the objects\nof the anger. They conceive fear, however, by putting themselves in the\nsituation of the person who is so. Even those of stouter hearts are\ndisturbed; not indeed enough to make them afraid, but enough to make\nthem angry; for anger is the passion which they would feel in the\nsituation of the other person. It is the same case with hatred. Mere\nexpressions of spite inspire it against no body, but the man who uses\nthem. Both these passions are by nature the objects of our aversion.\nTheir disagreeable and boisterous appearance never excites, never\nprepares, and often disturbs our sympathy. Grief does not more\npowerfully engage and attract us to the person in whom we observe it,\nthan these, while we are ignorant of their cause, disgust and detach us\nfrom him. It was, it seems, the intention of Nature, that those rougher\nand more unamiable emotions, which drive men from one another, should be\nless easily and more rarely communicated.\n\nWhen music imitates the modulations of grief or joy, it either actually\ninspires us with those passions, or at least puts us in the mood which\ndisposes us to conceive them. But when it imitates the notes of anger,\nit inspires us with fear. Joy, grief, love, admiration, devotion, are\nall of them passions which are naturally musical. Their natural tones\nare all soft, clear, and melodious; and they naturally express\nthemselves in periods which are distinguished by regular pauses, and\nwhich upon that account are easily adapted to the regular returns of the\ncorrespondent airs of a tune. The voice of anger, on the contrary, and\nof all the passions which are akin to it, is harsh and discordant. It\nperiods too are all irregular, sometimes very long, and sometimes very\nshort, and distinguished by no regular pauses. It is with difficulty,\ntherefore, that music can imitate any of those passions; and the music\nwhich does imitate them is not the most agreeable. A whole entertainment\nmay consist, without any impropriety, of the imitation of the social and\nagreeable passions. It would be a strange entertainment which consisted\naltogether of the imitations of hatred and resentment.\n\nIf those passions are disagreeable to the spectator, they are not less\nso to the person who feels them. Hatred and anger are the greatest\npoison to the happiness of a good mind. There is, in the very feeling of\nthose passions, something harsh, jarring, and convulsive, something that\ntears and distracts the breast, and is altogether destructive of that\ncomposure and tranquillity of mind which is so necessary to happiness,\nand which is best promoted by the contrary passions of gratitude and\nlove. It is not the value of what they lose by the perfidy and\ningratitude of those they live with, which the generous and humane are\nmost apt to regret. Whatever they may have lost, they can generally be\nvery happy without it. What most disturbs them is the idea of perfidy\nand ingratitude exercised towards themselves; and the discordant and\ndisagreeable passions which this excites, constitutes, in their own\nopinion, the chief part of the injury which they suffer.\n\nHow many things are requisite to render the gratification of resentment\ncompleatly agreeable, and to make the spectator thoroughly sympathize\nwith our revenge? The provocation must first of all be such that we\nshould become contemptible, and be exposed to perpetual insults, if we\ndid not, in some measure, resent it. Smaller offences are always better\nneglected; nor is there any thing more despicable than that froward and\ncaptious humour which takes fire upon every slight occasion of quarrel.\nWe should resent more from a sense of the propriety of resentment, from\na sense that mankind expect and require it of us, than because we feel\nin ourselves the furies of that disagreeable passion. There is no\npassion, of which the human mind is capable, concerning whose justness\nwe ought to be so doubtful, concerning whose indulgence we ought so\ncarefully to consult our natural sense of propriety, or so diligently to\nconsider what will be the sentiments of the impartial spectator.\nMagnanimity, or a regard to maintain our own rank and dignity in\nsociety, is the only motive which can ennoble the expressions of this\ndisagreeable passion. This motive must characterize our whole stile and\ndeportment. These must be plain, open, and direct; determined without\npositiveness, and elevated without insolence; not only free from\npetulance and low scurrility, but generous, candid, and full of all\nproper regards, even for the person who has offended us. It must appear,\nin short, from our whole manner, without our labouring affectedly to\nexpress it, that passion has not extinguished our humanity; and that if\nwe yield to the dictates of revenge, it is with reluctance, from\nnecessity, and in consequence of great and repeated provocations. When\nresentment is guarded and qualified in this manner, it may be admitted\nto be even generous and noble.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. IV.\n _Of the social passions._\n\n\nAs it is a divided sympathy which renders the whole set of passions just\nnow mentioned, upon most occasions, so ungraceful and disagreeable; so\nthere is another set opposite to these, which a redoubled sympathy\nrenders almost always peculiarly agreeable and becoming. Generosity,\nhumanity, kindness, compassion, mutual friendship and esteem, all the\nsocial and benevolent affections, when expressed in the countenance or\nbehaviour, even towards those who are peculiarly connected with\nourselves, please the indifferent spectator upon almost every occasion.\nHis sympathy with the person who feels those passions, exactly coincides\nwith his concern for the person who is the object of them. The interest,\nwhich, as a man, he is obliged to take in the happiness of this last,\nenlivens his fellow-feeling with the sentiments of the other, whose\nemotions are employed about the same object. We have always, therefore,\nthe strongest disposition to sympathize with the benevolent affections.\nThey appear in every respect agreeable to us. We enter into the\nsatisfaction both of the person who feels them, and of the person who is\nthe object of them. For as to be the object of hatred and indignation\ngives more pain than all the evils which a brave man can fear from his\nenemies; so there is a satisfaction in the consciousness of being\nbeloved, which, to a person of delicacy and sensibility, is of more\nimportance to happiness than all the advantage which he can expect to\nderive from it. What character is so detectable as that of one who takes\npleasure to sow dissension among friends, and to turn their most tender\nlove into mortal hatred? Yet wherein does the atrocity of this so much\nabhorred injury consist? Is it in depriving them of the frivolous good\noffices, which had their friendship continued, they might have expected\nfrom one another? It is in depriving them of that friendship itself, in\nrobbing them of each others affections, from which both derived so much\nsatisfaction; it is in disturbing the harmony of their hearts, and\nputting an end to that happy commerce which had before subsisted between\nthem. These affections, that harmony, this commerce, are felt, not only\nby the tender and the delicate, but by the rudest vulgar of mankind, to\nbe of more importance to happiness than all the little services which\ncould be expected to flow from them.\n\nThe sentiment of love is, in itself, agreeable to the person who feels\nit. It sooths and composes the breast, seems to favour the vital\nmotions, and to promote the healthful state of the human constitution;\nand it is rendered still more delightful by the consciousness of the\ngratitude and satisfaction which it must excite in him who is the object\nof it. Their mutual regard renders them happy in one another, and\nsympathy, with this mutual regard, makes them agreeable to every other\nperson. With what pleasure do we look upon a family, through the whole\nof which reign mutual love and esteem, where the parents and children\nare companions for one another, without any other difference than what\nis made by respectful affection on the one side, and kind indulgence on\nthe other; where freedom and fondness, mutual raillery, and mutual\nkindness, show that no opposition of interest divides the brothers, nor\nany rivalship of favour sets the sisters at variance, and where every\nthing presents us with the idea of peace, chearfulness, harmony, and\ncontentment? On the contrary, how uneasy are we made when we go into a\nhouse in which jarring contention sets one half of those who dwell in it\nagainst the other; where amidst affected smoothness and complaisance,\nsuspicious looks and sudden starts of passion betray the mutual\njealousies which burn within them, and which are every moment ready to\nburst out through all the restraints which the presence of the company\nimposes?\n\nThose amiable passions, even when they are acknowledged to be excessive,\nare never regarded with aversion. There is something agreeable even in\nthe weakness of friendship and humanity. The too tender mother, the too\nindulgent father, the too generous and affectionate friend, may\nsometimes, perhaps, on account of the softness of their natures, be\nlooked upon with a species of pity, in which, however, there is a\nmixture of love, but can never be regarded with hatred and aversion, nor\neven with contempt, unless by the most brutal and worthless of mankind:\nIt is always with concern, with sympathy and kindness, that we blame\nthem for the extravagance of their attachment. There is a helplessness\nin the character of extreme humanity which more than any thing interests\nour pity. There is nothing in itself which renders it either ungraceful\nor disagreeable. We only regret that it is unfit for the world, because\nthe world is unworthy of it, and because it must expose the person who\nis endowed with it as a prey to the perfidy and ingratitude of\ninsinuating falsehood, and to a thousand pains and uneasinesses, which,\nof all men, he the least deserves to feel, and which generally too he\nis, of all men, the least capable of supporting. It is quite otherwise\nwith hatred and resentment. Too violent a propensity to those detestable\npassions, renders a person the object of universal dread and abhorrence,\nwho, like a wild beast, ought, we think, to be hunted out of all civil\nsociety.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. V.\n _Of the selfish passions._\n\n\nBesides those two opposite sets of passions, the social and unsocial,\nthere is another which holds a sort of middle place between them; is\nnever either so graceful as is sometimes the one set, nor is ever so\nodious as is sometimes the other. Grief and joy, when conceived upon\naccount of our own private good or bad fortune, constitute this third\nset of passions. Even when excessive, they are never so disagreeable as\nexcessive resentment, because no opposite sympathy can ever interest us\nagainst them: and when most suitable to their objects they are never so\nagreeable as impartial humanity and just benevolence; because no double\nsympathy can ever interest us for them. There is, however, this\ndifference between grief and joy, that we are generally most disposed to\nsympathize with small joys and great sorrows. The man, who, by some\nsudden revolution of fortune, is lifted up all at once into a condition\nof life, greatly above what he had formerly lived in, may be assured\nthat the congratulations of his best friends are not all of them\nperfectly sincere. An upstart, though of the greatest merit, is\ngenerally disagreeable, and a sentiment of envy commonly prevents us\nfrom heartily sympathizing with his joy. If he has any judgment he is\nsensible of this, and instead of appearing to be elated with his good\nfortune, he endeavours, as much as he can, to smother his joy, and keep\ndown that elevation of mind with which his new circumstances naturally\ninspire him. He affects the same plainness of dress, and the same\nmodesty of behaviour, which became him in his former station. He\nredoubles his attention to his old friends, and endeavours more than\never to be humble, assiduous, and complaisant. And this is the behaviour\nwhich in his situation we most approve of; because we expect, it seems,\nthat he should have more sympathy with our envy and aversion to his\nhappiness, than we have with his happiness. It is seldom that with all\nthis he succeeds. We suspect the sincerity of his humility, and he grows\nweary of this constraint. In a little time, therefore, he generally\nleaves all his old friends behind him, some of the meanest of them\nexcepted, who may, perhaps, condescend to become his dependents: nor\ndoes he always acquire any new ones; the pride of his new connections is\nas much affronted at finding him their equal, as that of his old ones\nhad been by his becoming their superior: and it requires the most\nobstinate and persevering modesty to atone for this mortification to\neither. He generally grows weary too soon, and is provoked, by the\nsullen and suspicious pride of the one, and by the saucy contempt of the\nother, to treat the first with neglect, and the second with petulance,\ntill at last he grows habitually insolent, and forfeits the esteem of\nall. If the chief part of human happiness arises from the consciousness\nof being beloved, as I believe it does, those sudden changes of fortune\nseldom contribute much to happiness. He is happiest who advances more\ngradually to greatness, whom the public destines to every step of his\npreferment long before he arrives at it, in whom, upon that account,\nwhen it comes, it can excite no extravagant joy, and with regard to whom\nit cannot reasonably create either any jealousy in those he overtakes,\nor any envy in those he leaves behind.\n\nMankind, however, more readily sympathize with those smaller joys which\nflow from less important causes. It is decent to be humble amidst great\nprosperity; but we can scarce express too much satisfaction in all the\nlittle occurrences of common life, in the company with which we spent\nthe evening last night, in the entertainment that was set before us, in\nwhat was said and what was done, in all the little incidents of the\npresent conversation, and in all those frivolous nothings which fill up\nthe void of human life. Nothing is more graceful than habitual\nchearfulness, which is always founded upon a peculiar relish for all the\nlittle pleasures which common occurrences afford. We readily sympathize\nwith it: it inspires us with the same joy, and makes every trifle turn\nup to us in the same agreeable aspect in which it presents itself to the\nperson endowed with this happy disposition. Hence it is that youth, the\nseason of gaiety, so easily engages our affections. That propensity to\njoy which seems even to animate the bloom, and to sparkle from the eyes\nof youth and beauty, though in a person of the same sex, exalts, even\nthe aged, to a more joyous mood than ordinary. They forget, for a time,\ntheir infirmities, and abandon themselves to those agreeable ideas and\nemotions to which they have long been strangers, but which, when the\npresence of so much happiness recalls them to their breast, take their\nplace there, like old acquaintance, from whom they are sorry to have\never been parted, and whom they embrace more heartily upon account of\nthis long separation.\n\nIt is quite otherwise with grief. Small vexations excite no sympathy,\nbut deep affliction calls forth the greatest. The man who is made uneasy\nby every little disagreeable incident, who is hurt if either the cook or\nthe butler have failed in the least article of their duty, who feels\nevery defect in the highest ceremonial of politeness, whether it be\nshewn to himself or to any other person, who takes it amiss that his\nintimate friend did not bid him good-morrow when they met in the\nforenoon, and that his brother hummed a tune all the time he himself was\ntelling a story; who is put out of humour by the badness of the weather\nwhen in the country, by the badness of the roads when upon a journey,\nand by the want of company, and dullness of all public diversions when\nin town; such a person, I say, though he should have some reason, will\nseldom meet with much sympathy. Joy is a pleasant emotion, and we gladly\nabandon ourselves to it upon the slightest occasion. We readily,\ntherefore, sympathize with it in others, whenever we are not prejudiced\nby envy. But grief is painful, and the mind, even when it is our own\nmisfortune, naturally resists and recoils from it. We would endeavour\neither not to conceive it at all, or to shake it off as soon as we have\nconceived it. Our aversion to grief will not, indeed, always hinder us\nfrom conceiving it in our own case upon very trifling occasions, but it\nconstantly prevents us from sympathizing with it in others when excited\nby the like frivolous causes: for our sympathetic passions are always\nless irresistible than our original ones. There is, besides, a malice in\nmankind, which not only prevents all sympathy with little uneasinesses,\nbut renders them in some measure diverting. Hence the delight which we\nall take in raillery, and in the small vexation which we observe in our\ncompanion, when he is pushed, and urged, and teased upon all sides. Men\nof the most ordinary good-breeding dissemble the pain which any little\nincident may give them; and those who are more thoroughly formed to\nsociety, turn, of their own accord, all such incidents into raillery, as\nthey know their companions will do for them. The habit which a man, who\nlives in the world, has acquired of considering how every thing that\nconcerns himself will appear to others, makes those frivolous calamities\nturn up in the same ridiculous light to him, in which he knows they will\ncertainly be considered by them.\n\nOur sympathy, on the contrary, with deep distress, is very strong and\nvery sincere. It is unnecessary to give an instance. We weep even at the\nfeigned representation of a tragedy. If you labour, therefore, under any\nsignal calamity, if by some extraordinary misfortune you are fallen into\npoverty, into diseases, into disgrace and disappointment; even though\nyour own fault may have been, in part, the occasion, yet you may\ngenerally depend upon the sincerest sympathy of all your friends, and,\nas far as interest and honour will permit, upon their kindest assistance\ntoo. But if your misfortune is not of this dreadful kind, if you have\nonly been a little baulked in your ambition, if you have only been\njilted by your mistress, or are only hen-pecked by your wife, lay your\naccount with the raillery of all your acquaintance.\n\n\n\n\n SECTION III.\nOf the effects of prosperity and adversity upon the judgment of mankind\n with regard to the propriety of action; and why it is more easy to\n obtain their approbation in the one state than in the other.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. I.\n _That though our sympathy with sorrow is generally a more lively\nsensation than our sympathy with joy, it commonly falls much more short\n of the violence of what is naturally felt by the person principally\n concerned._\n\n\nOur sympathy with sorrow, though not more real, has been more taken\nnotice of than our sympathy with joy. The word sympathy, in its most\nproper and primitive signification, denotes our fellow-feeling with the\nsufferings, not that with the enjoyments, of others. A late ingenious\nand subtile philosopher thought it necessary to prove, by arguments,\nthat we had a real sympathy with joy, and that congratulation was a\nprinciple of human nature. Nobody, I believe, ever thought it necessary\nto prove that compassion was such.\n\nFirst of all, our sympathy with sorrow is, in some sense, more universal\nthan that with joy. Though sorrow is excessive, we may still have some\nfellow-feeling with it. What we feel does not, indeed, in this case,\namount to that complete sympathy, to that perfect harmony and\ncorrespondence of sentiments which constitutes approbation. We do not\nweep, and exclaim, and lament, with the sufferer. We are sensible, on\nthe contrary, of his weakness, and of the extravagance of his passion,\nand yet often feel a very sensible concern upon his account. But if we\ndo not entirely enter into, and go along with, the joy of another, we\nhave no sort of regard or fellow-feeling for it. The man who skips and\ndances about with that intemperate and senseless joy which we cannot\naccompany him in, is the object of our contempt and indignation.\n\nPain besides, whether of mind or body, is a more pungent sensation than\npleasure, and our sympathy with pain, though it falls greatly short of\nwhat is naturally felt by the sufferer, is generally a more lively and\ndistinct perception than our sympathy with pleasure, though this last\noften approaches more nearly, as I shall show immediately, to the\nnatural vivacity of the original passion.\n\nOver and above all this, we often struggle to keep down our sympathy\nwith the sorrow of others. Whenever we are not under the observation of\nthe sufferer, we endeavour, for our own sake, to suppress it as much as\nwe can, and we are not always successful. The opposition which we make\nto it, and the reluctance with which we yield to it, necessarily oblige\nus to take more particular notice of it. But we never have occasion to\nmake this opposition to our sympathy with joy. If there is any envy in\nthe case, we never feel the least propensity towards it; and if there is\nnone, we give way to it without any reluctance. On the contrary, as we\nare always ashamed of our own envy, we often pretend, and sometimes\nreally wish to sympathize with the joy of others, when by that\ndisagreeable sentiment we are disqualified from doing so. We are glad,\nwe say, on account of our neighbour\u2019s good fortune, when in our hearts,\nperhaps, we are really sorry. We often feel a sympathy with sorrow when\nwe wish to be rid of it; and we often miss that with joy when we would\nbe glad to have it. The obvious observation, therefore, which it\nnaturally falls in our way to make, is that our propensity to sympathize\nwith sorrow must be very strong, and our inclination to sympathize with\njoy very weak.\n\nNotwithstanding this prejudice, however, I will venture to affirm, that,\nwhen there is no envy in the case, our propensity to sympathize with joy\nis much stronger than our propensity to sympathize with sorrow; and that\nour fellow-feeling for the agreeable emotion approaches much more nearly\nto the vivacity of what is naturally felt by the persons principally\nconcerned, than that which we conceive for the painful one.\n\nWe have some indulgence for that excessive grief which we cannot\nentirely go along with. We know what a prodigious effort is requisite\nbefore the sufferer can bring down his emotions to compleat harmony and\nconcord with those of the spectator. Though he fails, therefore, we\neasily pardon him. But we have no such indulgence for the intemperance\nof joy; because we are not conscious that any such vast effort is\nrequisite to bring it down to what we can entirely enter into. The man\nwho, under the greatest calamities, can command his sorrow, seems worthy\nof the highest admiration; but he who, in the fulness of prosperity, can\nin the same manner master his joy, seems hardly to deserve any praise.\nWe are sensible that there is a much wider interval in the one case than\nin the other, between what is naturally felt by the person principally\nconcerned, and what the spectator can entirely go along with.\n\nWhat can be added to the happiness of the man who is in health, who is\nout of debt, and has a clear conscience? To one in this situation, all\naccessions of fortune may properly be said to be superfluous; and if he\nis much elevated upon account of them, it must be the effect of the most\nfrivolous levity. This situation, however, may very well be called the\nnatural and ordinary state of mankind. Notwithstanding the present\nmisery and depravity of the world, so justly lamented, this really is\nthe state of the greater part of men. The greater part of men,\ntherefore, cannot find any great difficulty in elevating themselves to\nall the joy which any accession to this situation can well excite in\ntheir companion.\n\nBut though little can be added to this state, much may be taken from it.\nThough between this condition and the highest pitch of human prosperity,\nthe interval is but a trifle; between it and the lowest depth of misery\nthe distance is immense and prodigious. Adversity, on this account,\nnecessarily depresses the mind of the sufferer much more below its\nnatural state, than prosperity can elevate him above it. The spectator,\ntherefore, must find it much more difficult to sympathize entirely, and\nkeep perfect time, with his sorrow, than thoroughly to enter into his\njoy, and must depart much further from his own natural and ordinary\ntemper of mind in the one case than in the other. It is on this account,\nthat, though our sympathy with sorrow is often a more pungent sensation\nthan our sympathy with joy, it always falls much more short of the\nviolence of what is naturally felt by the person principally concerned.\n\nIt is agreeable to sympathize with joy; and wherever envy does not\noppose it, our heart abandons itself with satisfaction to the highest\ntransports of that delightful sentiment. But it is painful to go along\nwith grief, and we always enter into it with reluctance[1]. When we\nattend to the representation of a tragedy, we struggle against that\nsympathetic sorrow which the entertainment inspires as long as we can,\nand we give way to it at last only when we can no longer avoid it: we\neven then endeavour to cover our concern from the company. If we shed\nany tears, we carefully conceal them, and are afraid lest the\nspectators, not entering into this excessive tenderness, should regard\nit as effeminacy and weakness. The wretch whose misfortunes call upon\nour compassion feels with what reluctance we are likely to enter into\nhis sorrow, and therefore proposes his grief to us with fear and\nhesitation: he even smothers the half of it, and is ashamed, upon\naccount of this hard-heartedness of mankind, to give vent to the fulness\nof his affliction. It is otherwise with the man who riots in joy and\nsuccess. Wherever envy does not interest us against him, he expects our\ncompleatest sympathy. He does not fear, therefore, to announce himself\nwith shouts of exultation, in full confidence that we are heartily\ndisposed to go along with him.\n\nFootnote 1:\n\n It has been objected to me that as I found the sentiment of\n approbation, which is always agreeable, upon sympathy, it is\n inconsistent with my system to admit any disagreeable sympathy. I\n answer, that in the sentiment of approbation there are two things to\n be taken notice of; first the sympathetic passion of the spectator;\n and, secondly, the emotion which arises from his observing the perfect\n coincidence between this sympathetic passion in himself, and the\n original passion in the person principally concerned. This last\n emotion, in which the sentiment of approbation properly consists, is\n always agreeable and delightful. The other may either be agreeable or\n disagreeable, according to the nature of the original passion, whose\n feature it must always, in some measure, retain. Two sounds I suppose,\n may, each of them, taken singly, be austere, and yet, if they are\n perfect concords, the perception of their harmony and coincidence may\n be agreeable.\n\nWhy should we be more ashamed to weep than to laugh before company? We\nmay often have as real occasion to do the one as to do the other: But we\nalways feel that the spectators are more likely to go along with us in\nthe agreeable, than in the painful emotion. It is always miserable to\ncomplain, even when we are oppressed by the most dreadful calamities.\nBut the triumph of victory is not always ungraceful. Prudence, indeed,\nwould often advise us to bear prosperity with more moderation; because\nprudence would teach us to avoid that envy which this very triumph is,\nmore than any thing, apt to excite.\n\nHow hearty are the acclamations of the mob, who never bear any envy to\ntheir superiors, at a triumph or a public entry? And how sedate and\nmoderate is commonly their grief at an execution? Our sorrow at a\nfuneral generally amounts to no more than affected gravity; but our\nmirth at a christening or a marriage, is always from the heart, and\nwithout any affectation. Upon these, and all such joyous occasions, our\nsatisfaction, though not so durable, is often as lively as that of the\npersons principally concerned. Whenever we cordially congratulate our\nfriends, which, however, to the disgrace of human nature, we do but\nseldom, their joy literally becomes our joy: we are for the moment, as\nhappy as they are: our heart swells and overflows with real pleasure:\njoy and complacency sparkle from our eyes, and animate every feature of\nour countenance, and every gesture of our body.\n\nBut, on the contrary, when we condole with our friends in their\nafflictions, how little do we feel, in comparison of what they feel? We\nsit down by them, we look at them, and while they relate to us the\ncircumstances of their misfortune, we listen to them with gravity and\nattention. But while their narration is every moment interrupted by\nthose natural bursts of passion which often seem almost to choak them in\nthe midst of it; how far are the languid emotions of our hearts from\nkeeping time to the transports of theirs? We may be sensible, at the\nsame time, that their passion is natural, and no greater than what we\nourselves might feel upon the like occasion. We may even inwardly\nreproach ourselves with our own want of sensibility, and perhaps on that\naccount, work ourselves up into an artificial sympathy, which, however,\nwhen it is raised, is always the slightest and most transitory\nimaginable; and generally, as soon as we have left the room, vanishes,\nand is gone for ever. Nature, it seems, when she has loaded us with our\nown sorrows, thought that they were enough, and therefore did not\ncommand us to take any further share in those of others, than what was\nnecessary to prompt us to relieve them.\n\nIt is on account of this dull sensibility to the afflictions of others,\nthat magnanimity amidst great distress appears always so divinely\ngraceful. His behaviour is genteel and agreeable who can maintain his\nchearfulness amidst a number of frivolous disasters. But he appears to\nbe more than mortal who can support in the same manner the most dreadful\ncalamities. We feel what an immense effort is requisite to silence those\nviolent emotions which naturally agitate and distract those in his\nsituation. We are amazed to find that he can command himself so\nintirely. His firmness, at the same time, perfectly coincides with our\ninsensibility. He makes no demand upon us for that more exquisite degree\nof sensibility which we find, and which we are mortified to find, that\nwe do not possess. There is the most perfect correspondence between his\nsentiments and ours, and on that account the most perfect propriety in\nhis behaviour. It is a propriety too, which, from our experience of the\nusual weakness of human nature, we could not reasonably have expected he\nshould be able to maintain. We wonder with surprise and astonishment at\nthat strength of mind which is capable of so noble and generous an\neffort. The sentiment of compleat sympathy and approbation, mixed and\nanimated with wonder and surprise, constitutes what is properly called\nadmiration, as has already been more than once taken notice of. Cato,\nsurrounded on all sides by his enemies, unable to resist them, and\ndisdaining to submit to them, and reduced by the proud maxims of that\nage, to the necessity of destroying himself; yet never shrinking from\nhis misfortunes, never supplicating with the lamentable voice of\nwretchedness, those miserable sympathetic tears which we are always so\nunwilling to give; but on the contrary, arming himself with manly\nfortitude, and the moment before he executes his fatal resolution,\ngiving, with his usual tranquillity, all necessary orders for the safety\nof his friends; appears to Seneca, that great preacher of insensibility,\na spectacle which even the gods themselves might behold with pleasure\nand admiration.\n\nWhenever we meet, in common life, with any examples of such heroic\nmagnanimity, we are always extremely affected. We are more apt to weep\nand shed tears for such as, in this manner, seem to feel nothing for\nthemselves, than for those who give way to all the weakness of sorrow:\nand in this particular case, the sympathetic grief of the spectator\nappears to go beyond the original passion in the person principally\nconcerned. The friends of Socrates all wept when he drank the last\npotion, while he himself expressed the gayest and most chearful\ntranquillity. Upon all such occasions the spectator makes no effort, and\nhas no occasion to make any, in order to conquer his sympathetic sorrow.\nHe is under no fear that it will transport him to any thing that is\nextravagant and improper; he is rather pleased with the sensibility of\nhis own heart, and gives way to it with complacence and\nself-approbation. He gladly indulges, therefore, the most melancholy\nviews which can naturally occur to him, concerning the calamity of his\nfriend, for whom, perhaps, he never felt so exquisitely before, the\ntender and tearful passion of love. But it is quite otherwise with the\nperson principally concerned. He is obliged as much as possible, to turn\naway his eyes from whatever is either naturally terrible or disagreeable\nin his situation. Too serious an attention to those circumstances, he\nfears, might make so violent an impression upon him, that he could no\nlonger keep within the bounds of moderation, or render himself the\nobject of the complete sympathy and approbation of the spectators. He\nfixes his thoughts, therefore, upon those only which are agreeable; the\napplause and admiration which he is about to deserve by the heroic\nmagnanimity of his behaviour. To feel that he is capable of so noble and\ngenerous an effort, to feel that in this dreadful situation he can still\nact as he would desire to act, animates and transports him with joy, and\nenables him to support that triumphant gaiety which seems to exult in\nthe victory he thus gains over his misfortunes.\n\nOn the contrary, he always appears, in some measure, mean and\ndespicable, who is sunk in sorrow and dejection upon account of any\ncalamity of his own. We cannot bring ourselves to feel for him what he\nfeels for himself, and what, perhaps, we should feel for ourselves if in\nhis situation: we, therefore, despise him; unjustly, perhaps, if any\nsentiment could be regarded as unjust, to which we are by nature\nirresistibly determined. The weakness of sorrow never appears in any\nrespect agreeable, except when it arises from what we feel for others\nmore than from what we feel for ourselves. A son, upon the death of an\nindulgent and respectable father, may give way to it without much blame.\nHis sorrow is chiefly founded upon a sort of sympathy with his departed\nparent; and we readily enter into this humane emotion. But if he should\nindulge the same weakness upon account of any misfortune which affected\nhimself only, he would no longer meet with any such indulgence. If he\nshould be reduced to beggary and ruin, if he should be exposed to the\nmost dreadful dangers, if he should even be led out to a public\nexecution, and there shed one single tear upon the scaffold, he would\ndisgrace himself for ever in the opinion of all the gallant and generous\npart of mankind. Their compassion for him, however, would be very\nstrong, and very sincere; but as it would still fall short of this\nexcessive weakness, they would have no pardon for the man who could thus\nexpose himself in the eyes of the world. His behaviour would affect them\nwith shame rather than with sorrow; and the dishonour which he had thus\nbrought upon himself would appear to them the most lamentable\ncircumstance in his misfortune. How did it disgrace the memory of the\nintrepid Duke of Biron, who had so often braved death in the field, that\nhe wept upon the scaffold, when he beheld the state to which he was\nfallen, and remembered the favour and the glory from which his own\nrashness had so unfortunately thrown him!\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. II.\n _Of the origin of ambition, and of the distinction of ranks._\n\n\nIt is because mankind are disposed to sympathize more entirely with our\njoy than with our sorrow, that we make parade of our riches, and conceal\nour poverty. Nothing is so mortifying as to be obliged to expose our\ndistress to the view of the public, and to feel, that though our\nsituation is open to the eyes of all mankind, no mortal conceives for us\nthe half of what we suffer. Nay, it is chiefly from this regard to the\nsentiments of mankind, that we pursue riches and avoid poverty. For to\nwhat purpose is all the toil and bustle of this world? what is the end\nof avarice and ambition, of the pursuit of wealth, of power, and\npre-eminence? Is it to supply the necessities of nature? The wages of\nthe meanest labourer can supply them. We see that they afford him food\nand clothing, the comfort of a house, and of a family. If we examine his\n\u0153conomy with rigor, we should find that he spends a great part of them\nupon conveniences, which may be regarded as superfluities, and that,\nupon extraordinary occasions, he can give something even to vanity and\ndistinction. What then is the cause of our aversion to his situation,\nand why should those who have been educated in the higher ranks of life,\nregard it as worse than death, to be reduced to live, even without\nlabour, upon the same simple fare with him, to dwell under the same\nlowly roof, and to be clothed in the same humble attire? Do they imagine\nthat their stomach is better, or their sleep sounder in a palace than in\na cottage? the contrary has been so often observed, and, indeed, is so\nvery obvious, though it had never been observed, that there is no body\nignorant of it. From whence, then, arises that emulation which runs\nthrough all the different ranks of men, and what are the advantages\nwhich we propose by that great purpose of human life which we call\nbettering our condition? To be observed, to be attended to, to be taken\nnotice of with sympathy, complacency, and approbation, are all the\nadvantages which we can propose to derive from it. It is the vanity, not\nthe ease, or the pleasure, which interests us. But vanity is always\nfounded upon the belief of our being the object of attention and\napprobation. The rich man glories in his riches, because he feels that\nthey naturally draw upon him the attention of the world, and that\nmankind are disposed to go along with him in all those agreeable\nemotions with which the advantages of his situation so readily inspire\nhim. At the thought of this, his heart seems to swell and dilate itself\nwithin him, and he is fonder of his wealth upon this account, than for\nall the other advantages it procures him. The poor man, on the contrary,\nis ashamed of his poverty. He feels that it either places him out of the\nsight of mankind, or, that, if they take any notice of him, they have,\nhowever, scarce any fellow-feeling with the misery and distress which he\nsuffers. He is mortified upon both accounts; for though to be\noverlooked, and to be disapproved of, are things entirely different, yet\nas obscurity covers us from the daylight of honour and approbation, to\nfeel that we are taken no notice of necessarily damps the most agreeable\nhope, and disappoints the most ardent desire, of human nature. The poor\nman goes out and comes in unheeded, and when in the midst of a croud is\nin the same obscurity as if shut up in his own hovel. Those humble cares\nand painful attentions which occupy those in his situation, afford no\namusement to the dissipated and the gay. They turn away their eyes from\nhim, or if the extremity of his distress forces them to look at him, it\nis only to spurn so disagreeable an object from among them. The\nfortunate and the proud wonder at the insolence of human wretchedness,\nthat it should dare to present itself before them, and with the\nloathsome aspect of its misery, presume to disturb the serenity of their\nhappiness. The man of rank and distinction, on the contrary, is observed\nby all the world. Every body is eager to look at him, and to conceive,\nat least by sympathy, that joy and exultation with which his\ncircumstances naturally inspire him. His actions are the objects of the\npublic care. Scarce a word, scarce a gesture, can fall from him that is\naltogether neglected. In a great assembly he is the person upon whom all\ndirect their eyes; it is upon him that their passions seem all to wait\nwith expectation, in order to receive that movement and direction which\nhe shall impress upon them; and if his behaviour is not altogether\nabsurd, he has, every moment, an opportunity of interesting mankind, and\nof rendering himself the object of the observation and fellow-feeling of\nevery body about him. It is this, which notwithstanding the restraint it\nimposes, notwithstanding the loss of liberty with which it is attended,\nrenders greatness the object of envy, and compensates in the opinion of\nmankind, all that toil, all that anxiety, all those mortifications which\nmust be undergone in the pursuit of it; and what is of yet more\nconsequence, all that leisure, all that ease, all that careless\nsecurity, which are forfeited for ever by the acquisition.\n\nWhen we consider the condition of the great, in those delusive colours\nin which the imagination is apt to paint it, it seems to be almost the\nabstract idea of a perfect and happy state. It is the very state which,\nin all our waking dreams and idle reveries, we had sketched out to\nourselves as the final object of all our desires. We feel, therefore, a\npeculiar sympathy with the satisfaction of those who are in it. We\nfavour all their inclinations, and forward all their wishes. What pity,\nwe think, that any thing should spoil and corrupt so agreeable a\nsituation! We could even wish them immortal; and it seems hard to us,\nthat death should at last put an end to such perfect enjoyment. It is\ncruel, we think, in Nature, to compel them from their exalted stations\nto that humble, but hospitable home, which she has provided for all her\nchildren. Great King, live for ever! is the compliment, which after the\nmanner of eastern adulation, we should readily make them, if experience\ndid not teach us its absurdity. Every calamity that befalls them, every\ninjury that is done them, excites in the breast of the spectator ten\ntimes more compassion and resentment than he would have felt, had the\nsame things happened to other men. It is the misfortunes of Kings only\nwhich afford the proper subjects for tragedy. They resemble, in this\nrespect, the misfortunes of lovers. Those two situations are the chief\nwhich interest us upon the theatre; because, in spite of all that reason\nand experience can tell us to the contrary, the prejudices of the\nimagination attach to these two states a happiness superior to any\nother. To disturb, or to put an end to such perfect enjoyment, seems to\nbe the most atrocious of all injuries. The traitor who conspires against\nthe life of his monarch, is thought a greater monster than any other\nmurderer. All the innocent blood that was shed in the civil wars,\nprovoked less indignation than the death of Charles I. A stranger to\nhuman nature, who saw the indifference of men about the misery of their\ninferiors, and the regret and indignation which they feel for the\nmisfortunes and sufferings of those above them, would be apt to imagine,\nthat pain must be more agonizing, and the convulsions of death more\nterrible to persons of higher rank, than to those of meaner stations.\n\nUpon this disposition of mankind, to go along with all the passions of\nthe rich and the powerful, is founded the distinction of ranks, and the\norder of society. Our obsequiousness to our superiors more frequently\narises from our admiration for the advantages of their situation, than\nfrom any private expectations of benefit from their good-will. Their\nbenefits can extend but to a few; but their fortunes interest almost\nevery body. We are eager to assist them in compleating a system of\nhappiness that approaches so near to perfection; and we desire to serve\nthem for their own sake, without any other recompense but the vanity or\nthe honour of obliging them. Neither is our deference to their\ninclinations founded chiefly, or altogether, upon a regard to the\nutility of such submission, and to the order of society, which is best\nsupported by it. Even when the order of society seems to require that we\nshould oppose them, we can hardly bring ourselves to do it. That kings\nare the servants of the people, to be obeyed, resisted, deposed, or\npunished, as the public conveniency may require, is the doctrine of\nreason and philosophy; but it is not the doctrine of Nature. Nature\nwould teach us to submit to them, for their own sake, to tremble and bow\ndown before their exalted station, to regard their smile as a reward\nsufficient to compensate any services, and to dread their displeasure,\nthough no other evil was to follow from it, as the severest of all\nmortifications. To treat them in any respect as men, to reason and\ndispute with them upon ordinary occasions, requires such resolution,\nthat there are few men whose magnanimity can support them in it, unless\nthey are likewise assisted by familiarity and acquaintance. The\nstrongest motives, the most furious passions, fear, hatred, and\nresentment, are scarce sufficient to balance this natural disposition to\nrespect them: and their conduct must, either justly or unjustly, have\nexcited the highest degree of all those passions, before the bulk of the\npeople can be brought to oppose them with violence, or to desire to see\nthem either punished or deposed. Even when the people have been brought\nthis length, they are apt to relent every moment, and easily relapse\ninto their habitual state of deference to those whom they have been\naccustomed to look upon as their natural superiors. They cannot stand\nthe mortification of their monarch. Compassion soon takes the place of\nresentment, they forget all past provocations, their old principles of\nloyalty revive, and they run to re-establish the ruined authority of\ntheir old master, with the same violence with which they had opposed it.\nThe death of Charles I. brought about the Restoration of the royal\nfamily. Compassion for James II. when he was seized by the populace in\nmaking his escape on ship-board, had almost prevented the Revolution,\nand made it go on more heavily than before.\n\nDo the great seem insensible of the easy price at which they may acquire\nthe public admiration; or do they seem to imagine that to them, as to\nother men, it must be the purchase either of sweat or of blood? By what\nimportant accomplishments is the young nobleman instructed to support\nthe dignity of his rank, and to render himself worthy of that\nsuperiority over his fellow-citizens, to which the virtue of his\nancestors had raised them? Is it by knowledge, by industry, by patience,\nby self-denial, or by virtue of any kind? As all his words, as all his\nmotions are attended to, he learns an habitual regard to every\ncircumstance of ordinary behaviour, and studies to perform all those\nsmall duties with the most exact propriety. As he is conscious how much\nhe is observed, and how much mankind are disposed to favour all his\ninclinations, he acts, upon the most indifferent occasions, with that\nfreedom and elevation which the thought of this naturally inspires. His\nair, his manner, his deportment, all mark that elegant and graceful\nsense of his own superiority, which those who are born to inferior\nstations can hardly ever arrive at: these are the arts by which he\nproposes to make mankind more easily submit to his authority, and to\ngovern their inclinations according to his own pleasure: and in this he\nis seldom disappointed. These arts, supported by rank and pre-eminence,\nare, upon ordinary occasions, sufficient to govern the world. Lewis XIV.\nduring the greater part of his reign, was regarded, not only in France,\nbut over all Europe, as the most perfect model of a great prince. But\nwhat were the talents and virtues by which he acquired this great\nreputation? Was it by the scrupulous and inflexible justice of all his\nundertakings, by the immense dangers and difficulties with which they\nwere attended, or by the unwearied and unrelenting application with\nwhich he pursued them? Was it by his extensive knowledge, by his\nexquisite judgment, or by his heroic valour? It was by none of these\nqualities. But he was, first of all, the most powerful prince in Europe,\nand consequently held the highest rank among kings; and then, says his\nhistorian, \u201che surpassed all his courtiers in the gracefulness of his\nshape, and the majestic beauty of his features. The sound of his voice,\nnoble and affecting, gained those hearts which his presence intimidated.\nHe had a step and deportment which could suit only him and his rank, and\nwhich would have been ridiculous in any other person. The embarrassment\nwhich he occasioned to those who spoke to him, flattered that secret\nsatisfaction with which he felt his own superiority. The old officer,\nwho was confounded and faultered in asking him a favour, and not being\nable to conclude his discourse, said to him, Sir, your majesty, I hope,\nwill believe that I do not tremble thus before your enemies: had no\ndifficulty to obtain what he demanded.\u201d These frivolous accomplishments,\nsupported by his rank, and, no doubt, too, by a degree of other talents\nand virtues, which seems, however, not to have been much above\nmediocrity, established this prince in the esteem of his own age, and\nhave drawn, even from posterity, a good deal of respect for his memory.\nCompared with those of his own times, and in his own presence, no other\nvirtue, it seems, appeared to have any merit. Knowledge, industry,\nvalour, and beneficence, trembled, were abashed, and lost all dignity\nbefore them.\n\nBut it is not by accomplishments of this kind, that the man of inferior\nrank must hope to distinguish himself. Politeness is so much the virtue\nof the great, that it will do little honour to any body but themselves.\nThe coxcomb, who imitates their manner, and affects to be eminent by the\nsuperior propriety of his ordinary behaviour, is rewarded with a double\nshare of contempt for his folly and presumption. Why should the man,\nwhom nobody thinks it worth while to look at, be very anxious about the\nmanner in which he holds up his head, or disposes of his arms while he\nwalks through a room? He is occupied surely with a very superfluous\nattention, and with an attention too that marks a sense of his own\nimportance, which no other mortal can go along with. The most perfect\nmodesty and plainness, joined to as much negligence as is consistent\nwith the respect due to the company, ought to be the chief\ncharacteristics of the behaviour of a private man. If ever he hopes to\ndistinguish himself, it must be by more important virtues. He must\nacquire dependants to balance the dependants of the great, and he has no\nother fund to pay them from, but the labour of his body, and the\nactivity of his mind. He must cultivate these therefore: he must acquire\nsuperior knowledge in his profession, and superior industry in the\nexercise of it. He must be patient in labour, resolute in danger, and\nfirm in distress. These talents he must bring into public view, by the\ndifficulty, importance, and, at the same time, good judgment of his\nundertakings, and by the severe and unrelenting application with which\nhe pursues them. Probity and prudence, generosity and frankness, must\ncharacterize his behaviour upon all ordinary occasions; and he must, at\nthe same time, be forward to engage in all those situations in which it\nrequires the greatest talents and virtues to act with propriety, but in\nwhich the greatest applause is to be acquired by those who can acquit\nthemselves with honour. With what impatience does the man of spirit and\nambition, who is depressed by his situation, look round for some great\nopportunity to distinguish himself? No circumstances, which can afford\nthis, appear to him undesirable. He even looks forward with satisfaction\nto the prospect of foreign war, or civil dissension; and, with secret\ntransport and delight, sees through all the confusion and bloodshed\nwhich attend them, the probability of those wished for occasions\npresenting themselves, in which he may draw upon himself the attention\nand admiration of mankind. The man of rank and distinction, on the\ncontrary, whose whole glory consists in the propriety of his ordinary\nbehaviour, who is contented with the humble renown which this can afford\nhim, and has no talents to acquire any other, is unwilling to embarrass\nhimself with what can be attended either with difficulty or distress. To\nfigure at a ball is his great triumph, and to succeed in an intrigue of\ngallantry, his highest exploit. He has an aversion to all public\nconfusions, not from the love of mankind, for the great never look upon\ntheir inferiors as their fellow-creatures; nor yet from want of courage,\nfor in that he is seldom defective; but from a consciousness that he\npossesses none of the virtues which are required in such situations, and\nthat the public attention will certainly be drawn away from him by\nothers. He may be willing to expose himself to some little danger, and\nto make a campaign when it happens to be the fashion. But he shudders\nwith horror at the thought of any situation which demands the continual\nand long exertion of patience, industry, fortitude, and application of\nthought. These virtues are hardly ever to be met with in men who are\nborn to those high stations. In all governments accordingly, even in\nmonarchies, the highest offices are generally possessed, and the whole\ndetail of the administration conducted by men who were educated in the\nmiddle and inferior ranks of life, who have been carried forward by\ntheir own industry and abilities, though loaded with the jealousy, and\nopposed by the resentment of all those who were born their superiors,\nand to whom the great, after having regarded them first with contempt,\nand afterwards with envy, are at last contented to truckle with the same\nabject meanness with which they desire that the rest of mankind should\nbehave to themselves.\n\nIt is the loss of this easy empire over the affections of mankind which\nrenders the fall from greatness so insupportable. When the family of the\nKing of Macedon was led in triumph by Paulus \u00c6milius, their misfortunes,\nit is said, made them divide with their conqueror the attention of the\nRoman people. The sight of the royal children, whose tender age rendered\nthem insensible of their situation, struck the spectators, amidst the\npublic rejoicings and prosperity, with the tenderest sorrow and\ncompassion. The King appeared next in the procession; and seemed like\none confounded and astonished, and bereft of all sentiment, by the\ngreatness of his calamities. His friends and ministers followed after\nhim. As they moved along, they often cast their eye upon their fallen\nsovereign, and always burst into tears at the sight; their whole\nbehaviour demonstrating that they thought not of their misfortunes, but\nwere occupied entirely by the superior greatness of his. The generous\nRomans, on the contrary, beheld him with disdain and indignation, and\nregarded as unworthy of all compassion the man who could be so\nmean-spirited as to bear to live under such calamities. Yet what did\nthose calamities amount to? According to the greater part of historians,\nhe was to spend the remainder of his days under the protection of a\npowerful and humane people, in a state which in itself should seem\nworthy of envy, a state of plenty, ease, leisure, and security, from\nwhich it was impossible for him even by his own folly to fall. But he\nwas no longer to be surrounded by that admiring mob of fools,\nflatterers, and dependants, who had formerly been accustomed to attend\nupon all his motions. He was no longer to be gazed upon by multitudes,\nnor to have it in his power to render himself the object of their\nrespect, their gratitude, their love, their admiration. The passions of\nnations were no longer to mould themselves upon his inclinations. This\nwas that insupportable calamity which bereaved the King of all\nsentiment; which made his friends forget their own misfortunes; and\nwhich the Roman magnanimity could scarce conceive how any man could be\nso mean-spirited as to bear to survive.\n\n\u201cLove, says my Lord Rochefoucault, is commonly succeeded by ambition;\nbut ambition is hardly ever succeeded by love.\u201d That passion when once\nit has got entire possession of the breast, will admit neither a rival\nnor a successor. To those who have been accustomed to the possession, or\neven to the hope of public admiration, all other pleasures sicken and\ndecay. Of all the discarded statesmen who for their own ease have\nstudied to get the better of ambition, and to despise those honours\nwhich they could no longer arrive at, how few have been able to succeed?\nThe greater part have spent their time in the most listless and insipid\nindolence, chagrined at the thoughts of their own insignificancy,\nincapable of being interested in the occupations of private life,\nwithout enjoyment except when they talked of their former greatness, and\nwithout satisfaction except when they were employed in some vain project\nto recover it. Are you in earnest resolved never to barter your liberty\nfor the lordly servitude of a Court, but to live free, fearless, and\nindependent? There seems to be one way to continue in that virtuous\nresolution; and perhaps but one. Never enter the place from whence so\nfew have been able to return; never come within the circle of ambition;\nnor even bring yourself into comparison with those masters of the earth\nwho have already engrossed the attention of half mankind before you.\n\nOf such mighty importance does it appear to be, in the imaginations of\nmen, to stand in that situation which sets them most in the view of\ngeneral sympathy and attention. And thus, place, that great object which\ndivides the wives of aldermen, is the end of half the labours of life;\nand is the cause of all the tumult and bustle, all the rapine and\ninjustice, which avarice and ambition have introduced into this world.\nPeople of sense, it is said, indeed despise place; that is, they despise\nsitting at the head of the table, and are indifferent who it is that is\npointed out to the company by that frivolous circumstance, which the\nsmallest advantage is capable of overbalancing. But rank, distinction,\npre-eminence, no man despises, unless he is either raised very much\nabove, or sunk very much below, the ordinary standard of human nature;\nunless he is either so confirmed in wisdom and real philosophy, as to be\nsatisfied that, while the propriety of his conduct renders him the just\nobject of approbation, it is of little consequence though he be neither\nattended to, nor approved of; or so habituated to the idea of his own\nmeanness, so sunk in slothful and sottish indifference, as entirely to\nhave forgot the desire, and almost the very wish, for superiority.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. III.\n _Of the stoical philosophy._\n\n\nWhen we examine in this manner into the ground of the different degrees\nof estimation which mankind are apt to bestow upon the different\nconditions of life, we shall find, that the excessive preference, which\nthey generally give to some of them above others, is in a great measure\nwithout any foundation. If to be able to act with propriety, and to\nrender ourselves the proper objects of the approbation of mankind, be,\nas we have been endeavouring to show, what chiefly recommends to us one\ncondition above another, this may equally be attained in them all. The\nnoblest propriety of conduct may be supported in adversity, as well as\nin prosperity; and though it is somewhat more difficult in the first, it\nis upon that very account more admirable. Perils and misfortunes are not\nonly the proper school of heroism, they are the only proper theatre\nwhich can exhibit its virtue to advantage, and draw upon it the full\napplause of the world. The man, whose whole life has been one even and\nuninterrupted course of prosperity, who never braved any danger, who\nnever encountered any difficulty, who never surmounted any distress, can\nexcite but an inferior degree of admiration. When poets and\nromance-writers endeavour to invent a train of adventures, which shall\ngive the greatest lustre to those characters for whom they mean to\ninterest us, they are all of a different kind. They are rapid and sudden\nchanges of fortune, situations the most apt to drive those who are in\nthem to frenzy and distraction, or to abject despair; but in which their\nheroes act with so much propriety, or at least with so much spirit and\nundaunted resolution, as still to command our esteem. Is not the\nunfortunate magnanimity of Cato, Brutus, and Leonidas, as much the\nobject of admiration, as that of the successful C\u00e6sar or Alexander? To a\ngenerous mind, therefore, ought it not to be as much the object of envy?\nIf a more dazzling splendor seems to attend the fortunes of successful\nconquerors, it is because they join together the advantages of both\nsituations, the lustre of prosperity to the high admiration which is\nexcited by dangers encountered, and difficulties surmounted, with\nintrepidity and valour.\n\nIt was upon this account that, according to the stoical philosophy, to a\nwise man all the different conditions of life were equal. Nature, they\nsaid, had recommended some objects to our choice, and others to our\ndisapprobation. Our primary appetites directed us to the pursuit of\nhealth, strength, ease, and perfection, in all the qualities of mind and\nbody; and of whatever could promote or secure these, riches, power,\nauthority: and the same original principle taught us to avoid the\ncontrary. But in chusing or rejecting, in preferring or postponing,\nthose first objects of original appetite and aversion, Nature had\nlikewise taught us, that there was a certain order, propriety, and\ngrace, to be observed, of infinitely greater consequence to happiness\nand perfection, than the attainment of those objects themselves. The\nobjects of our primary appetites or aversions were to be pursued or\navoided, chiefly because a regard to this grace and propriety required\nsuch conduct. In directing all our actions according to these, consisted\nthe happiness and glory of human nature. In departing from those rules\nwhich they prescribed to us, its greatest wretchedness and most complete\ndepravity. The outward appearance of this order and propriety was indeed\nmore easily maintained in some circumstances than in others. To a fool,\nhowever, to one whose passions were subjected to no proper controul, to\nact with real grace and propriety, was equally impossible in every\nsituation. Though the giddy multitude might admire him, though his\nvanity might sometimes be elevated by their ignorant praises into\nsomething that resembled self-approbation, yet still when he turned his\nview to what passed within his own breast, he was secretly conscious to\nhimself of the absurdity and meanness of all his motives, and inwardly\nblushed and trembled at the thoughts of the contempt which he knew he\ndeserved, and which mankind would certainly bestow upon him if they saw\nhis conduct in the light in which in his own heart he was obliged to\nregard it. To a wise man, on the contrary, to one whose passions were\nall brought under perfect subjection to the ruling principles of his\nnature, to reason and the love of propriety, to act so as to deserve\napprobation was equally easy upon all occasions. Was he in prosperity,\nhe returned thanks to Jupiter for having joined him with circumstances\nwhich were easily mastered, and in which there was little temptation to\ndo wrong. Was he in adversity, he equally, returned thanks to the\ndirector of this spectacle of human life, for having opposed to him a\nvigorous athlete, over whom, though the contest was likely to be more\nviolent, the victory was more glorious, and equally certain. Can there\nbe any shame in that distress which is brought upon us without any fault\nof our own, and in which we behave with perfect propriety? There can\ntherefore, be no evil, but, on the contrary, the greatest good and\nadvantage. A brave man exults in those dangers, in which, from no\nrashness of his own, his fortune has involved him. They afford an\nopportunity of exercising that heroic intrepidity, whose exertion gives\nthe exalted delight which flows from the consciousness of superior\npropriety and deserved admiration. One who is master of all his\nexercises has no aversion to measure his strength and activity with the\nstrongest. And in the same manner, one who is master of all his\npassions, does not dread any circumstances in which the superintendant\nof the universe may think proper to place him. The bounty of that Divine\nBeing has provided him with virtues which render him superior to every\nsituation. If it is pleasure, he has temperance to refrain from it; if\nit is pain, he has constancy to bear it; if it is danger or death, he\nhas magnanimity and fortitude to despise it. He never complains of the\ndestiny of providence, nor thinks the universe in confusion when he is\nout of order. He does not look upon himself, according to what self-love\nwould suggest, as a whole, separated and detached from every other part\nof nature, to be taken care of by itself, and for itself. He regards\nhimself in the light in which he imagines the great Genius of human\nnature, and of the world, regards him. He enters, if I may say so, into\nthe sentiments of that Divine Being, and considers himself as an atom, a\nparticle, of an immense and infinite system, which must, and ought to be\ndisposed of, according to the conveniency of the whole. Assured of the\nwisdom which directs all the events of human life, whatever lot befalls\nhim, he accepts it with joy, satisfied that, if he had known all the\nconnexions and dependencies of the different parts of the universe, it\nis the very lot which he himself would have wished for. If it is life,\nhe is contented to live: and if it is death, as Nature must have no\nfurther occasion for his presence here, he willingly goes where he is\nappointed. I accept, said a stoical philosopher, with equal joy and\nsatisfaction, whatever fortune can befal me. Riches or poverty, pleasure\nor pain, health or sickness, all is alike: nor would I desire that the\ngods should in any respect change my destination. If I was to ask of\nthem any thing, beyond what their bounty has already bestowed, it should\nbe that they would inform me beforehand what it was their pleasure\nshould be done with me, that I might of my own accord place myself in\nthis situation, and demonstrate the chearfulness with which I embraced\ntheir allotment. If I am going to fail, says Epictetus, I chuse the best\nship, and the best pilot, and I wait for the fairest weather that my\ncircumstances and duty will allow. Prudence and propriety, the\nprinciples which the gods have given me for the direction of my conduct,\nrequire this of me; but they require no more: and if, notwithstanding, a\nstorm arises, which neither the strength of the vessel, nor the skill of\nthe pilot are likely to withstand, I give myself no trouble about the\nconsequence. All that I had to do, is done already. The directors of my\nconduct never command me to be miserable, to be anxious, desponding, or\nafraid. Whether we are to be drowned, or to come to a harbour, is the\nbusiness of Jupiter, not mine. I leave it entirely to his determination,\nnor ever break my rest with considering which way he is likely to decide\nit, but receive whatever comes with equal indifference and security.\n\nSuch was the philosophy of the stoics, a philosophy which affords the\nnoblest lessons of magnanimity, is the best school of heroes and\npatriots, and to the greater part of whose precepts there can be no\nobjection, except that honourable one, that they teach us to aim at a\nperfection altogether beyond the reach of human nature. I shall not at\npresent stop to examine it. I shall only observe, in confirmation of\nwhat has formerly been said, that the most dreadful calamities are not\nalways those which it is most difficult to support. It is often more\nmortifying to appear in public, under small disasters, than under great\nmisfortunes. The first excite no sympathy; but the second, though they\nmay excite none that approaches to the anguish of the sufferer, call\nforth, however, a very lively compassion. The sentiments of the\nspectators are, in this last case, therefore, less wide of those of the\nsufferer, and their imperfect fellow-feeling lends him some assistance\nin supporting his misery. Before a gay assembly, a gentleman would be\nmore mortified to appear covered with filth and rags than with blood and\nwounds. This last situation would interest their pity; the other would\nprovoke their laughter. The judge who orders a criminal to be set in the\npillory, dishonours him more than if he had condemned him to the\nscaffold. The great prince, who, some years ago, caned a general officer\nat the head of his army, disgraced him irrecoverably. The punishment\nwould have been much less had he shot him through the body. By the laws\nof honour, to strike with a cane dishonours, to strike with a sword does\nnot, for an obvious reason. Those slighter punishments when inflicted on\na gentleman, to whom dishonour is the greatest of all evils, come to be\nregarded among a humane and generous people, as the most dreadful of\nany. With regard to persons of that rank, therefore, they are\nuniversally laid aside, and the law, while it takes their life upon many\noccasions, respects their honour upon almost all. To scourge a person of\nquality, or to set him in the pillory, upon account of any crime\nwhatever, is a brutality of which no European government, except that of\nRussia, is capable.\n\nA brave man is not rendered contemptible by being brought to the\nscaffold; he is, by being set in the pillory. His behaviour in the one\nsituation may gain him universal esteem and admiration. No behaviour in\nthe other can render him agreeable. The sympathy of the spectators\nsupports him in the one case, and saves him from that shame, that\nconsciousness that his misery is felt by himself only, which is of all\nsentiments the most unsupportable. There is no sympathy in the other;\nor, if there is any, it is not with his pain, which is a trifle, but\nwith his consciousness of the want of sympathy with which this pain is\nattended. It is with his shame, not with his sorrow. Those who pity him,\nblush and hang down their heads for him. He droops in the same manner,\nand feels himself irrecoverably degraded by the punishment, though not\nby the crime. The man, on the contrary, who dies with resolution, as he\nis naturally regarded with the erect aspect of esteem and approbation,\nso he wears himself the same undaunted countenance; and, if the crime\ndoes not deprive him of the respect of others, the punishment never\nwill. He has no suspicion that his situation is the object of contempt\nor derision to any body, and he can, with propriety, assume the air, not\nonly of perfect serenity, but of triumph and exaltation.\n\n\u201cGreat dangers,\u201d says the Cardinal de Retz, \u201chave their charms, because\nthere is some glory to be got, even when we miscarry. But moderate\ndangers have nothing but what is horrible, because the loss of\nreputation always attends the want of success.\u201d His maxim has the same\nfoundation with what we have been just now observing with regard to\npunishments.\n\nHuman virtue is superior to pain, to poverty, to danger, and to death;\nnor does it even require its utmost efforts to despise them. But to have\nits misery exposed to insult and derision, to be led in triumph, to be\nset up for the hand of scorn to point at, is a situation in which its\nconstancy is much more apt to fail. Compared with the contempt of\nmankind, all other evils are easily supported.\n\n\n\n\n PART II.\n Of MERIT and DEMERIT; or, of the Objects of REWARD and PUNISHMENT.\n\n CONSISTING OF THREE SECTIONS.\n\n\n\n\n SECTION I.\n Of the sense of merit and demerit.\n\n\n\n\n INTRODUCTION.\n\n\nThere is another set of qualities ascribed to the actions and conduct of\nmankind, distinct from their propriety or impropriety, their decency or\nungracefulness, and which are the objects of a distinct species of\napprobation and disapprobation. These are merit and demerit, the\nqualities of deserving reward, and of deserving punishment.\n\nIt has already been observed, that the sentiment or affection of the\nheart, from which any action proceeds, and upon which its whole virtue\nor vice depends, may be considered under two different aspects, or in\ntwo different relations: first, in relation to the cause or object which\nexcites it; and, secondly, in relation to the end which it proposes, or\nto the effect which it tends to produce: that upon the suitableness or\nunsuitableness, upon the proportion or disproportion, which the\naffection seems to bear to the cause or object which excites it, depends\nthe propriety or impropriety, the decency or ungracefulness of the\nconsequent action; and that upon the beneficial or hurtful effects which\nthe affection proposes or tends to produce, depends the merit or\ndemerit, the good or ill desert of the action to which it gives\noccasion. Wherein consists our sense of the propriety or impropriety of\nactions, has been explained in the former part of this discourse. We\ncome now to consider, wherein consists that of their good or ill desert.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. I.\n_That whatever appears to be the proper object of gratitude, appears to\ndeserve reward; and that, in the same manner, whatever appears to be the\n proper object of resentment, appears to deserve punishment._\n\n\nTo us, therefore, that action must appear to deserve reward, which\nappears to be the proper and approved object of that sentiment, which\nmost immediately and directly prompts us to reward, or to do good to\nanother. And in the same manner, that action must appear to deserve\npunishment, which appears to be the proper and approved object of that\nsentiment which most immediately and directly prompts us to publish, or\ninflict evil upon another.\n\nThe sentiment which most immediately and directly prompts us to reward,\nis gratitude; that which most immediately and directly prompts us to\npunish, is resentment.\n\nTo us, therefore, that action must appear to deserve reward, which\nappears to be the proper and approved object of gratitude; as, on the\nother hand, that action must appear to deserve punishment, which appears\nto be the proper and approved object of resentment.\n\nTo reward, is to recompense, to remunerate, to return good for good\nreceived. To punish, too, is to recompense, to remunerate, though in a\ndifferent manner; it is to return evil for evil that has been done.\n\nThere are some other passions, besides gratitude and resentment, which\ninterest us in the happiness or misery of others; but there are none\nwhich so directly excite us to be the instruments of either. The love\nand esteem which grow upon acquaintance and habitual approbation,\nnecessarily lead us to be pleased with the good fortune of the man who\nis the object of such agreeable emotions, and consequently, to be\nwilling to lend a hand to promote it. Our love, however, is fully\nsatisfied, though his good fortune should be brought about without our\nassistance. All that this passion desires is to see him happy, without\nregarding who was the author of his prosperity. But gratitude is not to\nbe satisfied in this manner. If the person to whom we owe many\nobligations, is made happy without our assistance, though it pleases our\nlove, it does not content our gratitude. Till we have recompensed him,\ntill we ourselves have been instrumental in promoting his happiness, we\nfeel ourselves still loaded with that debt which his past services have\nlaid upon us.\n\nThe hatred and dislike, in the same manner, which grow upon habitual\ndisapprobation, would often lead us to take a malicious pleasure in the\nmisfortune of the man whose conduct and character excite so painful a\npassion. But though dislike and hatred harden us against all sympathy,\nand sometimes dispose us even to rejoice at the distress of another,\nyet, if there is no resentment in the case, if neither we nor our\nfriends have received any great personal provocation, these passions\nwould not naturally lead us to wish to be instrumental in bringing it\nabout. Tho\u2019 we could fear no punishment in consequence of our having had\nsome hand it, we would rather that it should happen by other means. To\none under the dominion of violent hatred it would be agreeable, perhaps,\nto hear, that the person whom he abhorred and detested was killed by\nsome accident. But if he had the least spark of justice, which, though\nthis passion is not very favourable to virtue, he might still have, it\nwould hurt him excessively to have been himself, even without design,\nthe occasion of this misfortune. Much more would the very thought of\nvoluntarily contributing to it shock him beyond all measure. He would\nreject with horror even the imagination of so execrable a design; and if\nhe could imagine himself capable of such an enormity, he would begin to\nregard himself in the same odious light in which he had considered the\nperson who was the object of his dislike. But it is quite otherwise with\nresentment: if the person who had done us some great injury, who had\nmurdered our father or our brother, for example, should soon afterwards\ndie of a fever, or even be brought to the scaffold upon account of some\nother crime, though it might sooth our hatred, it would not fully\ngratify our resentment. Resentment would prompt us to desire, not only\nthat he should be punished, but that he should be punished by our means,\nand upon account of that particular injury which he had done to us.\nResentment cannot be fully gratified, unless the offender is not only\nmade to grieve in his turn, but to grieve for that particular wrong\nwhich we have suffered from him. He must be made to repent and be sorry\nfor this very action, that others, through fear of the like punishment,\nmay be terrified from being guilty of the like offence. The natural\ngratification of this passion tends, of its own accord, to produce all\nthe political ends of punishment; the correction of the criminal, and\nthe example to the public.\n\nGratitude and resentment, therefore, are the sentiments which most\nimmediately and directly prompt to reward and to punish. To us,\ntherefore, he must appear to deserve reward, who appears to be the\nproper and approved object of gratitude; and he to deserve punishment,\nwho appears to be that of resentment.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. II.\n _Of the proper objects of gratitude and resentment._\n\n\nTo be the proper and approved object either of gratitude or resentment,\ncan mean nothing but to be the object of that gratitude, and of that\nresentment, which naturally seems proper, and is approved of.\n\nBut these, as well as all the other passions of human nature, seem\nproper and are approved of, when the heart of every impartial spectator\nentirely sympathizes with them, when every indifferent by-stander\nentirely enters into, and goes along with them.\n\nHe, therefore, appears to deserve reward, who, to some person or\npersons, is the natural object of a gratitude which every human heart is\ndisposed to beat time to, and thereby applaud: and he, on the other\nhand, appears to deserve punishment, who in the same manner is to some\nperson or persons the natural object of a resentment which the breast of\nevery reasonable man is ready to adopt and sympathize with. To us,\nsurely, that action must appear to deserve reward, which every body who\nknows of it would wish to reward, and therefore delights to see\nrewarded: and that action must as surely appear to deserve punishment,\nwhich every body who hears of it is angry with, and upon that account\nrejoices to see punished.\n\n1. As we sympathize with the joy of our companions when in prosperity,\nso we join with them in the complacency and satisfaction with which they\nnaturally regard whatever is the cause of their good fortune. We enter\ninto the love and affection which they conceive for it, and begin to\nlove it too. We should be sorry for their sakes if it was destroyed, or\neven if it was placed at too great a distance from them, and out of the\nreach of their care and protection, though they should lose nothing by\nits absence except the pleasure of seeing it. If it is man who has thus\nbeen the fortunate instrument of the happiness of his brethren, this is\nstill more peculiarly the case. When we see one man assisted, protected,\nrelieved by another, our sympathy with the joy of the person who\nreceives the benefit serves only to animate our fellow-feeling with his\ngratitude towards him who bestows it. When we look upon the person who\nis the cause of his pleasure with the eyes with which we imagine he must\nlook upon him, his benefactor seems to stand before us in the most\nengaging and amiable light. We readily therefore sympathize with the\ngrateful affection which he conceives for a person to whom he has been\nso much obliged; and consequently applaud the returns which he is\ndisposed to make for the good offices conferred upon him. As we entirely\nenter into the affection from which these returns proceed, they\nnecessarily seem every way proper and suitable to their object.\n\n2. In the same manner, as we sympathize with the sorrow of our\nfellow-creature whenever we see his distress, so we likewise enter into\nhis abhorrence and aversion for whatever has given occasion to it. Our\nheart, as it adopts and beats time to his grief, so is it likewise\nanimated with that spirit by which he endeavours to drive away or\ndestroy the cause of it. The indolent and passive fellow-feeling, by\nwhich we accompany him in his sufferings, readily gives way to that more\nvigorous and active sentiment by which we go along with him in the\neffort he makes, either to repel them, or to gratify his aversion to\nwhat has given occasion to them. This is still more peculiarly the case,\nwhen it is man who has caused them. When we see one man oppressed or\ninjured by another, the sympathy which we feel with the distress of the\nsufferer seems to serve only to animate our fellow-feeling with his\nresentment against the offender. We are rejoiced to see him attack his\nadversary in his turn, and are eager and ready to assist him whenever he\nexerts himself for defence, or even for vengeance within a certain\ndegree. If the injured should perish in the quarrel, we not only\nsympathize with the real resentment of his friends and relations, but\nwith the imaginary resentment which in fancy we lend to the dead, who is\nno longer capable of feeling that or any other human sentiment. But as\nwe put ourselves in his situation, as we enter, as it were, into his\nbody, and in our imaginations, in some measure, animate anew the\ndeformed and mangled carcass of the slain, when we bring home in this\nmanner his case to our own bosoms, we feel upon this, as upon many other\noccasions, an emotion which the person principally concerned is\nincapable of feeling, and which yet we feel by an illusive sympathy with\nhim. The sympathetic tears which we shed for that immense and\nirretrievable loss, which in our fancy he appears to have sustained,\nseem to be but a small part of the duty which we owe him. The injury\nwhich he has suffered demands, we think, a principal part of our\nattention. We feel that resentment which we imagine he ought to feel,\nand which he would feel, if in his cold and lifeless body there remained\nany consciousness of what passes upon earth. His blood, we think, calls\naloud for vengeance. The very ashes of the dead seem to be disturbed at\nthe thought that his injuries are to pass unrevenged. The horrors which\nare supposed to haunt the bed of the murderer, the ghosts which,\nsuperstition imagines, rise from their graves to demand vengeance upon\nthose who brought them to an untimely end, all take their origin from\nthis natural sympathy with the imaginary resentment of the slain. And\nwith regard, at least, to this most dreadful of all crimes, Nature,\nantecedent to all reflections upon the utility of punishment, has in\nthis manner stamped upon the human heart, in the strongest and most\nindelible characters, an immediate and instinctive approbation of the\nsacred and necessary law of retaliation.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. III.\n _That where there is no approbation of the conduct of the person who\nconfers the benefit, there is little sympathy with the gratitude of him\n who receives it: and that, on the contrary, where there is no\ndisapprobation of the motives of the person who does the mischief, there\n is no sort of sympathy with the resentment of him who suffers it._\n\n\nIt is to be observed, however, that, how beneficial soever on the one\nhand, or how hurtful soever on the other, the actions or intentions of\nthe person who acts may have been to the person who is, if I may say so,\nacted upon, yet if in the one case there appears to have been no\npropriety in the motives of the agent, if we cannot enter into the\naffections which influenced his conduct, we have little sympathy with\nthe gratitude of the person who receives the benefit: or if, in the\nother case, there appears to have been no impropriety in the motives of\nthe agent, if, on the contrary, the affections which influenced his\nconduct are such as we must necessarily enter into, we can have no sort\nof sympathy with the resentment of the person who suffers. Little\ngratitude seems due in the one case, and all sort of resentment seems\nunjust in the other. The one action seems to merit little reward, the\nother to deserve no punishment.\n\n1. First, I say, that wherever we cannot sympathize with the affections\nof the agent, wherever there seems to be no propriety in the motives\nwhich influenced his conduct, we are less disposed to enter into the\ngratitude of the person who received the benefit of his actions. A very\nsmall return seems due to that foolish and profuse generosity which\nconfers the greatest benefits from the most trivial motives, and gives\nan estate to a man merely because his name and surname happen to be the\nsame with those of the giver. Such services do not seem to demand any\nproportionable recompense. Our contempt for the folly of the agent\nhinders us from thoroughly entering into the gratitude of the person to\nwhom the good office has been done. His benefactor seems unworthy of it.\nAs when we place ourselves in the situation of the person obliged, we\nfeel that we could conceive no great reverence for such a benefactor, we\neasily absolve him from a great deal of that submissive veneration and\nesteem which we should think due to a more respectable character; and\nprovided he always treats his weak friend with kindness and humanity, we\nare willing to excuse him from many attentions and regards which we\nshould demand to a worthier patron. Those Princes, who have heaped, with\nthe greatest profusion, wealth, power, and honours, upon their\nfavourites, have seldom excited that degree of attachment to their\npersons which has often been experienced by those who were more frugal\nof their favours. The well-natured, but injudicious prodigality of James\nthe First of Great Britain seems to have attached no body to his person;\nand that Prince, notwithstanding his social and harmless disposition,\nappears to have lived and died without a friend. The whole gentry and\nnobility of England exposed their lives and fortunes in the cause of his\nmore frugal and distinguishing son, notwithstanding the coldness and\ndistant severity of his ordinary deportment.\n\n2. Secondly, I say, That wherever the conduct of the agent appears to\nhave been entirely directed by motives and affections which we\nthoroughly enter into and approve of, we can have no sort of sympathy\nwith the resentment of the sufferer, how great soever the mischief which\nmay have been done to him. When two people quarrel, if we take part\nwith, and entirely adopt the resentment of one of them, it is impossible\nthat we should enter into that of the other. Our sympathy with the\nperson whose motives we go along with, and whom therefore we look upon\nas in the right, cannot but harden us against all fellow-feeling with\nthe other, whom we necessarily regard as in the wrong. Whatever this\nlast, therefore, may have suffered, while it is no more than what we\nourselves should have wished him to suffer, while it is no more than\nwhat our own sympathetic indignation would have prompted us to inflict\nupon him, it cannot either displease or provoke us. When an inhuman\nmurderer is brought to the scaffold, though we have some compassion for\nhis misery, we can have no sort of fellow-feeling with his resentment,\nif he should be so absurd as to express any against either his\nprosecutor or his judge. The natural tendency of their just indignation\nagainst so vile a criminal is indeed the most fatal and ruinous to him.\nBut it is impossible that we should be displeased with the tendency of a\nsentiment, which, when we bring the case home to ourselves, we feel that\nwe cannot avoid adopting.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. IV.\n _Recapitulation of the foregoing Chapters._\n\n\nWe do not, therefore, thoroughly and heartily sympathize with the\ngratitude of one man towards another, merely because this other has been\nthe cause of his good fortune, unless he has been the cause of it from\nmotives which we entirely go along with. Our heart must adopt the\nprinciples of the agent, and go along with all the affections which\ninfluenced his conduct, before it can entirely sympathize with, and beat\ntime to, the gratitude of the person who has been benefited by his\nactions. If in the conduct of the benefactor there appears to have been\nno propriety, how beneficial soever its effects, it does not seem to\ndemand, or necessarily to require, any proportionable recompense.\n\nBut when to the beneficent tendency of the action is joined the\npropriety of the affection from which it proceeds, when we entirely\nsympathize and go along with the motives of the agent, the love which we\nconceive for him upon his own account, enhances and enlivens our\nfellow-feeling with the gratitude of those who owe their prosperity to\nhis good conduct. His actions seem then to demand, and, if I may say so,\nto call aloud for a proportionable recompense. We then entirely enter\ninto that gratitude which prompts to bestow it. The benefactor seems\nthen to be the proper object of reward, when we thus entirely sympathize\nwith, and approve of, that sentiment which prompts to reward him. When\nwe approve of, and go along with, the affection from which the action\nproceeds, we must necessarily approve of the action, and regard the\nperson towards whom it is directed as its proper and suitable object.\n\n2. In the same manner, we cannot at all sympathize with the resentment\nof one man against another, merely because this other has been the cause\nof his misfortune, unless he has been the cause of it from motives which\nwe cannot enter into. Before we can adopt the resentment of the\nsufferer, we must disapprove of the motives of the agent, and feel that\nour heart renounces all sympathy with the affections which influenced\nhis conduct. If there appears to have been no impropriety in these, how\nfatal soever the tendency of the action which proceeds from them to\nthose against whom it is directed, it does not seem to deserve any\npunishment, or to be the proper object of any resentment.\n\nBut when to the hurtfulness of the action is joined the impropriety of\nthe affection from whence it proceeds, when our heart rejects with\nabhorrence all fellow-feeling with the motives of the agent, we then\nheartily and entirely sympathize with the resentment of the sufferer.\nSuch actions seem then to deserve, and, if I may say so, to call aloud\nfor, a proportionable punishment; and we entirely enter into, and\nthereby approve of, that resentment which prompts to inflict it. The\noffender necessarily seems then to be the proper object of punishment,\nwhen we thus entirely sympathize with, and thereby approve of, that\nsentiment which prompts to punish. In this case too, when we approve,\nand go along with, the affection from which the action proceeds, we must\nnecessarily approve of the action, and regard the person against whom it\nis directed, as its proper and suitable object.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. V.\n _The analysis of the sense of merit and demerit._\n\n\n1. As our sense, therefore, of the propriety of conduct arises from what\nI shall call a direct sympathy with the affections and motives of the\nperson who acts, so our sense of its merit arises from what I shall call\nan indirect sympathy with the gratitude of the person who is, if I may\nsay so, acted upon.\n\nAs we cannot indeed enter thoroughly into the gratitude of the person\nwho receives the benefit, unless we beforehand approve of the motives of\nthe benefactor, so, upon this account, the sense of merit seems to be a\ncompounded sentiment, and to be made up of two distinct emotions; a\ndirect sympathy with the sentiments of the agent, and an indirect\nsympathy with the gratitude of those who receive the benefit of his\nactions.\n\nWe may, upon many different occasions, plainly distinguish those two\ndifferent emotions combining and uniting together in our sense of the\ngood desert of a particular character or action. When we read in history\nconcerning actions of proper and beneficent greatness of mind, how\neagerly do we enter into such designs? How much are we animated by that\nhigh-spirited generosity which directs them? How keen are we for their\nsuccess? How grieved at their disappointment? In imagination we become\nthe very person whose actions are represented to us: we transport\nourselves in fancy to the scenes of those distant and forgotten\nadventures, and imagine ourselves acting the part of a Scipio or a\nCamillus, a Timoleon or an Aristides. So far our sentiments are founded\nupon the direct sympathy with the person who acts. Nor is the indirect\nsympathy with those who receive the benefit of such actions less\nsensibly felt. Whenever we place ourselves in the situation of these\nlast, with what warm and affectionate fellow-feeling do we enter into\ntheir gratitude towards those who served them so essentially? We\nembrace, as it were, their benefactor along with them. Our heart readily\nsympathizes with the highest transports of their grateful affection. No\nhonours, no rewards, we think, can be too great for them to bestow upon\nhim. When they make this proper return for his services, we heartily\napplaud and go along with them; but are shocked beyond all measure, if\nby their conduct they appear to have little sense of the obligations\nconferred upon them. Our whole sense, in short, of the merit and good\ndesert of such actions, of the propriety and fitness of recompensing\nthem, and making the person who performed them rejoice in his turn,\narises from the sympathetic emotions of gratitude and love, with which,\nwhen we bring home to our own breast the situation of those principally\nconcerned, we feel ourselves naturally transported towards the man who\ncould act with such proper and noble beneficence.\n\n2. In the same manner as our sense of the impropriety of conduct arises\nfrom a want of sympathy, or from a direct antipathy to the affections\nand motives of the agent, so our sense of its demerit arises from what I\nshall here too call an indirect sympathy with the resentment of the\nsufferer.\n\nAs we cannot indeed enter into the resentment of the sufferer, unless\nour heart beforehand disapproves the motives of the agent, and renounces\nall fellow-feeling with them; so upon this account the sense of demerit,\nas well as that of merit, seems to be a compounded sentiment, and to be\nmade up of two distinct emotions; a direct antipathy to the sentiments\nof the agent, and an indirect sympathy with the resentment of the\nsufferer.\n\nWe may here too, upon many different occasions, plainly distinguish\nthose two different emotions combining and uniting together in our sense\nof the ill desert of a particular character or action. When we read in\nhistory concerning the perfidy and cruelty of a Borgia or a Nero, our\nheart rises up against the detestable sentiments which influenced their\nconduct, and renounces with horror and abomination all fellow-feeling\nwith such execrable motives. So far our sentiments are founded upon the\ndirect antipathy to the affections of the agent: and the indirect\nsympathy with the resentment of the sufferers is still more sensibly\nfelt. When we bring home to ourselves the situation of the persons whom\nthose scourges of mankind insulted, murdered, or betrayed, what\nindignation do we not feel against such insolent and inhuman oppressors\nof the earth? Our sympathy with the unavoidable distress of the innocent\nsufferers is not more real nor more lively, than our fellow-feeling with\ntheir just and natural resentment. The former sentiment only heightens\nthe latter, and the idea of their distress serves only to inflame and\nblow up our animosity against those who occasioned it. When we think of\nthe anguish of the sufferers, we take part with them more earnestly\nagainst their oppressors; we enter with more eagerness into all their\nschemes of vengeance, and feel ourselves every moment wreaking, in\nimagination, upon such violators of the laws of society, that punishment\nwhich our sympathetic indignation tells us is due to their crimes. Our\nsense of the horror and dreadful atrocity of such conduct, the delight\nwhich we take in hearing that it was properly punished, the indignation\nwhich we feel when it escapes this due retaliation, our whole sense and\nfeeling, in short, of its ill desert, of the propriety and fitness of\ninflicting evil upon the person who is guilty of it, and of making him\ngrieve in his turn, arises from the sympathetic indignation which\nnaturally boils up in the breast of the spectator, whenever he\nthoroughly brings home to himself the case of the sufferer[2].\n\nFootnote 2:\n\n To ascribe in this manner our natural sense of the ill desert of human\n actions to a sympathy with the resentment of the sufferer, may seem,\n to the greater part of people, to be a degradation of that sentiment.\n Resentment is commonly regarded as so odious a passion, that they will\n be apt to think it impossible that so laudable a principle, as the\n sense of the ill desert of vice, should in any respect be founded upon\n it. They will be more willing, perhaps, to admit that our sense of the\n merit of good actions is founded upon a sympathy with the gratitude of\n the persons who receive the benefit of them; because gratitude, as\n well as all the other benevolent passions, is regarded as an amiable\n principle, which can take nothing from the worth of whatever is\n founded upon it. Gratitude and resentment, however, are in every\n respect, it is evident, counterparts to one another; and if our sense\n of merit arises from a sympathy with the one, our sense of demerit can\n scarce miss to proceed from a fellow-feeling with the other.\n\n Let it be considered too that resentment, though, in the degrees in\n which we too often see it, the most odious, perhaps, of all the\n passions, is not disapproved of when properly humbled and entirely\n brought down to the level of the sympathetic indignation of the\n spectator. When we, who are the bystanders, feel that our own\n animosity entirely corresponds with that of the sufferer, when the\n resentment of this last does not in any respect go beyond our own,\n when no word, no gesture, escapes him that denotes an emotion more\n violent than what we can keep time to, and when he never aims at\n inflicting any punishment beyond what we should rejoice to see\n inflicted, or what we ourselves would upon this account even desire to\n be the instruments of inflicting, it is impossible that we should not\n entirely approve of his sentiments. Our own emotion in this case must,\n in our eyes, undoubtedly justify his. And as experience teaches us how\n much the greater part of mankind are incapable of this moderation, and\n how great an effort must be made in order to bring down the rude and\n undisciplined impulse of resentment to this suitable temper, we cannot\n avoid conceiving a considerable degree of esteem and admiration for\n one who appears capable of exerting so much self-command over one of\n the most ungovernable passions of his nature. When indeed the\n animosity of the sufferer exceeds, as it almost always does, what we\n can go along with, as we cannot enter into it, we necessarily\n disapprove of it. We even disapprove of it more than we should of an\n equal excess of almost any other passion derived from the imagination.\n And this too violent resentment, instead of carrying us along with it,\n becomes itself the object of our resentment and indignation. We enter\n into the opposite resentment of the person who is the object of this\n unjust emotion, and who is in danger of suffering from it. Revenge,\n therefore, the excess of resentment, appears to be the most detestable\n of all the passions, and is the object of the horror and indignation\n of every body. And as in the way in which this passion commonly\n discovers itself among mankind, it is excessive a hundred times for\n once that it is moderate, we are very apt to consider it as altogether\n odious and detestable, because in its most ordinary appearances it is\n so. Nature, however, even in the present depraved state of mankind,\n does not seem to have dealt so unkindly with us, as to have endowed us\n with any principle which is wholly in every respect evil, or which, in\n no degree and in no direction, can be the proper object of praise and\n approbation. Upon some occasions we are sensible that this passion,\n which is generally too strong, may likewise be too weak. We sometimes\n complain that a particular person shows too little spirit, and has too\n little sense of the injuries that have been done to him; and we are as\n ready to despise him for the defect, as to hate him for the excess of\n this passion.\n\n The inspired writers would not surely have talked so frequently or so\n strongly of the wrath and anger of God, if they had regarded every\n degree of those passions as vicious and evil, even in so weak and\n imperfect a creature as man.\n\n Let it be considered too, that the present inquiry is not concerning a\n matter of right, if I may say so, but concerning a matter of fact. We\n are not at present examining upon what principles a perfect being\n would approve of the punishment of bad actions; but upon what\n principles so weak and imperfect a creature as man actually and in\n fact approves of it. The principles which I have just now mentioned,\n it is evident, have a very great effect upon his sentiments; and it\n seems wisely ordered that it should be so. The very existence of\n society requires that unmerited and unprovoked malice should be\n restrained by proper punishments; and consequently, that to inflict\n those punishments should be regarded as a proper and laudable action.\n Though man, therefore, be naturally endowed with a desire of the\n welfare and preservation of society, yet the Author of nature has not\n entrusted it to his reason to find out that a certain application of\n punishments is the proper means of attaining this end; but has endowed\n him with an immediate and instinctive approbation of that very\n application which is most proper to attain it. The \u0153conomy of nature\n is in this respect exactly of a piece with what it is upon many other\n occasions. With regard to all those ends which, upon account of their\n peculiar importance, may be regarded, if such an expression is\n allowable, as the favourite ends of nature, she has constantly in this\n manner not only endowed mankind with an appetite for the end which she\n proposes, but likewise with an appetite for the means by which alone\n this end can be brought about, for their own sakes, and independent of\n their tendency to produce it. Thus self-preservation, and the\n propagation of the species, are the great ends which Nature seems to\n have proposed in the formation of all animals. Mankind are endowed\n with a desire of those ends, and an aversion to the contrary; with a\n love of life, and a dread of dissolution; with a desire of the\n continuance and perpetuity of the species, and with an aversion to the\n thoughts of its entire extinction. But though we are in this manner\n endowed with a very strong desire of those ends, it has not been\n entrusted to the slow and uncertain determinations of our reason, to\n find out the proper means of bringing them about. Nature has directed\n us to the greater part of these by original and immediate instincts.\n Hunger, thirst, the passion which unites the two sexes, the love of\n pleasure, and the dread of pain, prompt us to apply those means for\n their own sakes, and without any consideration of their tendency to\n those beneficent ends which the great Director of nature intended to\n produce by them.\n\n Before I conclude this note, I must take notice of a difference\n between the approbation of propriety and that of merit or beneficence.\n Before we approve of the sentiments of any person as proper and\n suitable to their objects, we must not only be affected in the same\n manner as he is, but we must perceive this harmony and correspondence\n of sentiments between him and ourselves. Thus, though upon hearing of\n a misfortune that had befallen my friend, I should conceive precisely\n that degree of concern which he gives way to; yet till I am informed\n of the manner in which he behaves, till I perceive the harmony between\n his emotions and mine, I cannot be said to approve of the sentiments\n which influence his behaviour. The approbation of propriety therefore\n requires, not only that we should intirely sympathize with the person\n who acts, but that we should perceive this perfect concord between his\n sentiments and our own. On the contrary, when I hear of a benefit that\n has been bestowed upon another person, let him who has received it be\n affected in what manner he pleases, if, by bringing his case home to\n myself, I feel gratitude arise in my own breast, I necessarily approve\n of the conduct of his benefactor, and regard it as meritorious, and\n the proper object of reward. Whether the person who has received the\n benefit conceives gratitude or not, cannot, it is evident, in any\n degree alter our sentiments with regard to the merit of him who has\n bestowed it. No actual correspondence of sentiments, therefore, is\n here required. It is sufficient that if he was grateful, they would\n correspond; and our sense of merit is often founded upon one of those\n illusive sympathies, by which, when we bring home to ourselves the\n case of another, we are often affected in a manner in which the person\n principally concerned is incapable of being affected. There is a\n similar difference between our disapprobation of demerit, and that of\n impropriety.\n\n\n\n\n SECTION II.\n Of justice and beneficence.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. I.\n _Comparison of those two virtues._\n\n\nActions of a beneficent tendency, which proceed from proper motives,\nseem alone to require reward; because such alone are the approved\nobjects of gratitude, or excite the sympathetic gratitude of the\nspectator.\n\nActions of a hurtful tendency, which proceed from improper motives, seem\nalone to deserve punishment; because such alone are the approved objects\nof resentment, or excite the sympathetic resentment of the spectator.\n\nBeneficence is always free, it cannot be extorted by force, the mere\nwant of it exposes to no punishment; because the mere want of\nbeneficence tends to do no real positive evil. It may disappoint of the\ngood which might reasonably have been expected, and upon that account it\nmay justly excite dislike and disapprobation: it cannot, however,\nprovoke any resentment which mankind will go along with. The man who\ndoes not recompense his benefactor, when he has it in his power, and\nwhen his benefactor needs his assistance, is, no doubt, guilty of the\nblackest ingratitude. The heart of every impartial spectator rejects all\nfellow-feeling with the selfishness of his motives, and he is the proper\nobject of the highest disapprobation. But still he does no positive hurt\nto any body. He only does not do that good which in propriety he ought\nto have done. He is the object of hatred, a passion which is naturally\nexcited by impropriety of sentiment and behaviour; not of resentment, a\npassion which is never properly called forth but by actions which tend\nto do real and positive hurt to some particular persons. His want of\ngratitude, therefore, cannot be punished. To oblige him by force to\nperform what in gratitude he ought to perform, and what every impartial\nspectator would approve of him for performing, would if possible, be\nstill more improper than his neglecting to perform it. His benefactor\nwould dishonour himself if he attempted by violence to constrain him to\ngratitude, and it would be impertinent for any third person, who was not\nthe superior of either, to intermeddle. But of all the duties of\nbeneficence, those which gratitude recommends to us approach nearest to\nwhat is called a perfect and complete obligation. What friendship, what\ngenerosity, what charity, would prompt us to do with universal\napprobation, is still more free, and can still less be extorted by force\nthan the duties of gratitude. We talk of the debt of gratitude, not of\ncharity, or generosity, nor even of friendship, when friendship is mere\nesteem, and has not been enhanced and complicated with gratitude for\ngood offices.\n\nResentment seems to have been given us by nature for defence, and for\ndefence only. It is the safeguard of justice and the security of\ninnocence. It prompts us to beat off the mischief which is attempted to\nbe done to us, and to retaliate that which is already done; that the\noffender may be made to repent of his injustice, and that others,\nthrough fear of the like punishment, may be terrified from being guilty\nof the like offence. It must be reserved therefore for these purposes,\nnor can the spectator ever go along with it when it is exerted for any\nother. But the mere want of the beneficent virtues, though it may\ndisappoint us of the good which might reasonably be expected, neither\ndoes, nor attempts to do, any mischief from which we can have occasion\nto defend ourselves.\n\nThere is however another virtue, of which the observance is not left to\nthe freedom of our own wills, which may be extorted by force, and of\nwhich the violation exposes to resentment, and consequently to\npunishment. This virtue is justice: the violation of justice is injury:\nit does real and positive hurt to some particular persons, from motives\nwhich are naturally disapproved of. It is, therefore, the proper object\nof resentment, and of punishment, which is the natural consequence of\nresentment. As mankind go along with, and approve of, the violence\nemployed to avenge the hurt which is done by injustice, so they much\nmore go along with, and approve of, that which is employed to prevent\nand beat off the injury, and to restrain the offender from hurting his\nneighbours. The person himself who meditates an injustice is sensible of\nthis, and feels that force may, with the utmost propriety, be made use\nof, both by the person whom he is about to injure, and by others, either\nto obstruct the execution of his crime, or to punish him when he has\nexecuted it. And upon this is founded that remarkable distinction\nbetween justice and all the other social virtues, which has of late been\nparticularly insisted upon by an author of very great and original\ngenius, that we feel ourselves to be under a stricter obligation to act\naccording to justice, than agreeably to friendship, charity, or\ngenerosity; that the practice of these last mentioned virtues seems to\nbe left in some measure to our own choice, but that, somehow or other,\nwe feel ourselves to be in a peculiar manner tied, bound, and obliged to\nthe observation of justice. We feel, that is to say, that force may,\nwith the utmost propriety and with the approbation of all mankind, be\nmade use of to constrain us to observe the rules of the one, but not to\nfollow the precepts of the other.\n\nWe must always, however, carefully distinguish what is only blamable, or\nthe proper object of disapprobation, from what force may be employed\neither to punish or to prevent. That seems blamable which falls short of\nthat ordinary degree of proper beneficence which experience teaches us\nto expect of every body; and on the contrary, that seems praise-worthy\nwhich goes beyond it. The ordinary degree itself, seems neither blamable\nnor praise-worthy. A father, a son, a brother, who behaves to the\ncorrespondent relation, neither better nor worse than the greater part\nof men commonly do, seems properly to deserve neither praise nor blame.\nHe who surprises us by extraordinary and unexpected, though still proper\nand suitable kindness, or on the contrary, by extraordinary and\nunexpected, as well as unsuitable unkindness, seems praise-worthy in the\none case, and blamable in the other.\n\nEven the most ordinary degree of kindness or beneficence, however,\ncannot, among equals, be extorted by force. Among equals each individual\nis naturally, and antecedent to the institution of civil government,\nregarded as having a right both to defend himself from injuries, and to\nexact a certain degree of punishment for those which have been done to\nhim. Every generous spectator not only approves of his conduct when he\ndoes this, but enters so far into his sentiments as often to be willing\nto assist him. When one man attacks, or robs, or attempts to murder\nanother, all the neighbours take the alarm, and think that they do right\nwhen they run, either to revenge the person who has been injured, or to\ndefend him who is in danger of being so. But when a father fails in the\nordinary degree of parental affection towards a son, when a son seems to\nwant that filial reverence which might be expected to his father; when\nbrothers are without the usual degree of brotherly affection; when a man\nshuts his breast against compassion, and refuses to relieve the misery\nof his fellow-creatures, when he can with the greatest ease; in all\nthese cases, though every body blames the conduct, nobody imagines that\nthose who might have reason, perhaps, to expect more kindness, have any\nright to extort it by force. The sufferer can only complain, and the\nspectator can intermeddle no other way than by advice and persuasion.\nUpon all such occasions, for equals to use force against one another,\nwould be thought the highest degree of insolence and presumption.\n\nA superior may, indeed, sometimes, with universal approbation, oblige\nthose under his jurisdiction to behave, in this respect, with a certain\ndegree of propriety to one another. The laws of all civilized nations\noblige parents to maintain their children, and children to maintain\ntheir parents, and impose upon men many other duties of beneficence. The\ncivil magistrate is entrusted with the power not only of preserving the\npublic peace by retraining injustice, but of promoting the prosperity of\nthe commonwealth, by establishing good discipline, and by discouraging\nevery sort of vice and impropriety; he may prescribe rules, therefore,\nwhich not only prohibit mutual injuries among fellow-citizens, but\ncommand mutual good offices to a certain degree. When the sovereign\ncommands what is merely indifferent, and what, antecedent to his orders,\nmight have been omitted without any blame, it becomes not only blamable\nbut punishable to disobey him. When he commands, therefore, what,\nantecedent to any such order, could not have been omitted without the\ngreatest blame, it surely becomes much more punishable to be wanting in\nobedience. Of all the duties of a law-giver, however, this, perhaps, is\nthat which it requires the greatest delicacy and reserve to execute with\npropriety and judgment. To neglect it altogether exposes the\ncommonwealth to many gross disorders and shocking enormities, and to\npush it too far is destructive of all liberty, security, and justice.\n\nThough the mere want of beneficence seems to merit no punishment from\nequals, the greater exertions of that virtue appear to deserve the\nhighest reward. By being productive of the greatest good, they are the\nnatural and approved objects of the liveliest gratitude. Though the\nbreach of justice, on the contrary, exposes to punishment, the\nobservance of the rules of that virtue seems scarce to deserve any\nreward. There is, no doubt, a propriety in the practice of justice, and\nit merits, upon that account, all the approbation which is due to\npropriety. But as it does no real positive good, it is entitled to very\nlittle gratitude. Mere justice is, upon most occasions, but a negative\nvirtue, and only hinders us from hurting our neighbour. The man who\nbarely abstains from violating either the person, or the estate, or the\nreputation of his neighbours, has surely very little positive merit. He\nfulfils, however, all the rules of what is peculiarly called justice,\nand does everything which his equals can with propriety force him to do,\nor which they can punish him for not doing. We may often fulfil all the\nrules of justice by sitting still and doing nothing.\n\nAs every man doth, so shall it be done to him, and retaliation seems to\nbe the great law which is dictated to us by Nature. Beneficence and\ngenerosity we think due to the generous and beneficent. Those whose\nhearts never open to the feelings of humanity, should, we think, be shut\nout in the same manner, from the affections of all their\nfellow-creatures, and be allowed to live in the midst of society, as in\na great desert where there is nobody to care for them, or to inquire\nafter them. The violator of the laws of justice ought to be made to feel\nhimself that evil which he has done to another; and since no regard to\nthe sufferings of his brethren are capable of restraining him, he ought\nto be over-awed by the fear of his own. The man who is barely innocent,\nwho only observes the law of justice with regard to others, and merely\nabstains from hurting his neighbours, can merit only that his neighbours\nin their turn should respect his innocence, and that the same laws\nshould be religiously observed with regard to him.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. II.\n _Of the sense of justice, of remorse, and of the consciousness of\n merit._\n\n\nThere can be no proper motive for hurting our neighbour, there can be no\nincitement to do evil to another, which mankind will go along with,\nexcept just indignation for evil which that other has done to us. To\ndisturb his happiness merely because it stands in the way of our own, to\ntake from him what is of real use to him merely because it may be of\nequal or more use to us, or to indulge, in this manner, at the expence\nof other people, the natural preference which every man has for his own\nhappiness above that of other people, is what no impartial spectator can\ngo along with. Every man is, no doubt, by nature, first and principally\nrecommended to his own care; and as he is fitter to take care of himself\nthan of any other person, it is fit and right that it should be so.\nEvery man, therefore, is much more deeply interested in whatever\nimmediately concerns himself, than in what concerns any other man: and\nto hear, perhaps, of the death of another person, with whom we have no\nparticular connexion, will give us less concern, will spoil our stomach,\nor break our rest much less than a very insignificant disaster which has\nbefallen ourselves. But though the ruin of our neighbour may affect us\nmuch less than a very small misfortune of our own, we must not ruin him\nto prevent that small misfortune, nor even to prevent our own ruin. We\nmust, here, as in all other cases, view ourselves not so much according\nto that light in which we may naturally appear to ourselves, as\naccording to that in which we naturally appear to others. Though every\nman may, according to the proverb, be the whole world to himself, to the\nrest of mankind he is a most insignificant part of it. Though his own\nhappiness may be of more importance to him than that of all the world\nbesides, to every other person it is of no more consequence than that of\nany other man. Though it may be true, therefore, that every individual,\nin his own breast, naturally prefers himself to all mankind, yet he\ndares not look mankind in the face, and avow that he acts according to\nthis principle. He feels that in this preference they can never go along\nwith him, and that how natural soever it may be to him, it must always\nappear excessive and extravagant to them. When he views himself in the\nlight in which he is conscious that others will view him, he sees that\nto them he is but one of the multitude in no respect better than any\nother in it. If he would act so as that the impartial spectator may\nenter into the principles of his conduct, which is what of all things he\nhas the greatest desire to do, he must, upon this, as upon all other\noccasions, humble the arrogance of his self-love, and bring it down to\nsomething which other men can go along with. They will indulge it so far\nas to allow him to be more anxious about, and to pursue with more\nearnest assiduity, his own happiness than that of any other person. Thus\nfar, whenever they place themselves in his situation, they will readily\ngo along with him. In the race for wealth and honours, and preferments,\nhe may run as hard as he can, and strain every nerve and every muscle,\nin order to outstrip all his competitors. But if he should justle, or\nthrow down any of them, the indulgence of the spectators is entirely at\nan end. It is a violation of fair play, which they cannot admit of. This\nman is to them, in every respect, as good as he: they do not enter into\nthat self-love by which he prefers himself so much to this other, and\ncannot go along with the motive from which he hurt him. They readily,\ntherefore, sympathize with the natural resentment of the injured, and\nthe offender becomes the object of their hatred and indignation. He is\nsensible that he becomes so, and feels that those sentiments are ready\nto burst out from all sides against him.\n\nAs the greater and more irreparable the evil that is done, the\nresentment of the sufferer runs naturally the higher, so does likewise\nthe sympathetic indignation of the spectator, as well as the sense of\nguilt in the agent. Death is the greatest evil which one man can inflict\nupon another, and excites the highest degree of resentment in those who\nare immediately connected with the slain. Murder, therefore, is the most\natrocious of all crimes which affect individuals only, in the sight both\nof mankind, and of the person who has committed it. To be deprived of\nthat which we are possessed of, is a greater evil than to be\ndisappointed of what we have only the expectation. Breach of property,\ntherefore, theft and robbery, which take from us what we are possessed\nof, are greater crimes than breach of contract, which only disappoints\nus of what we expected. The most sacred laws of justice, therefore,\nthose whose violation seems to call the loudest for vengeance and\npunishment, are the laws which guard the life and person of our\nneighbour; the next are those which guard his property and possessions;\nand last of all come those which guard what are called his personal\nrights, or what is due to him from the promises of others.\n\nThe violator of the more sacred laws of justice can never reflect on the\nsentiments which mankind must entertain with regard to him, without\nfeeling all the agonies of shame, and horror, and consternation. When\nhis passion is gratified, and he begins coolly to reflect upon his\nconduct, he can enter into none of the motives which influenced it. They\nappear now as detestable to him as they did always to other people. By\nsympathizing with the hatred and abhorrence which other men must\nentertain for him, he becomes in some measure the object of his own\nhatred and abhorrence. The situation of the person, who suffered by his\ninjustice, now calls upon his pity. He is grieved at the thought of it;\nregrets the unhappy effects of his own conduct, and feels at the same\ntime that they have rendered him the proper object of the resentment and\nindignation of mankind, and of what is the natural consequence of\nresentment, vengeance and punishment. The thought of this perpetually\nhaunts him, and fills him with terror and amazement. He dares no longer\nlook society in the face, but imagines himself as it were rejected, and\nthrown out from the affections of all mankind. He cannot hope for the\nconsolation of sympathy in this his greatest, and most dreadful\ndistress. The remembrance of his crimes has shut out all fellow-feelings\nwith him from the hearts of his fellow-creatures. The sentiments which\nthey entertain with regard to him, are the very thing which he is most\nafraid of. Every thing seems hostile, and he would be glad to fly to\nsome inhospitable desert, where he might never more behold the face of a\nhuman creature, nor read in the countenance of mankind the condemnation\nof his crimes. But solitude is still more dreadful than society. His own\nthoughts can present him with nothing but what is black, unfortunate,\nand disastrous, the melancholy forebodings of incomprehensible misery\nand ruin. The horror of solitude drives him back into society, and he\ncomes again into the presence of mankind, astonished to appear before\nthem, loaded with shame and distracted with fear, in order to supplicate\nsome little protection from the countenance of those very judges, who he\nknows have already all unanimously condemned him. Such is the nature of\nthat sentiment, which is properly called remorse; of all the sentiments\nwhich can enter the human breast the most dreadful. It is made up of\nshame from the sense of the impropriety of past conduct; of grief for\nthe effects of it; of pity for those who suffer by it; and of the dread\nand terror of punishment from the consciousness of the justly provoked\nresentment of all rational creatures.\n\nThe opposite behaviour naturally inspires the opposite sentiment. The\nman who, not from frivolous fancy, but from proper motives, has\nperformed a generous action, when he looks forward to those whom he has\nserved, feels himself to be the natural object of their love and\ngratitude, and, by sympathy with them, of the esteem and approbation of\nall mankind. And when he looks backward to the motive from which he\nacted, and surveys it in the light in which the indifferent spectator\nwill survey it, he still continues to enter into it, and applauds\nhimself by sympathy with the approbation of this supposed impartial\njudge. In both these points of view his own conduct appears to him every\nway agreeable. His mind, at the thought of it, is filled with\nchearfulness, serenity, and composure. He is in friendship and harmony\nwith all mankind, and looks upon his fellow-creatures with confidence\nand benevolent satisfaction, secure that he has rendered himself worthy\nof their most favourable regards. In the combination of all these\nsentiments consists the consciousness of merit, or of deserved reward.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. III.\n _Of the utility of this constitution of nature._\n\n\nIt is thus that man, who can subsist only in society, was fitted by\nnature to that situation for which he was made. All the members of human\nsociety stand in need of each others assistance, and are likewise\nexposed to mutual injuries. Where the necessary assistance is\nreciprocally afforded from love, from gratitude, from friendship and\nesteem, the society flourishes and is happy. All the different members\nof it are bound together by the agreeable bands of love and affection,\nand are, as it were, drawn to one common centre of mutual good offices.\n\nBut though the necessary assistance should not be afforded from such\ngenerous and disinterested motives, though among the different members\nof the society there should be no mutual love and affection, the\nsociety, though less happy and agreeable, will not necessarily be\ndissolved. Society may subsist among different men, as among different\nmerchants, from a sense of its utility, without any mutual love or\naffection; and though no man in it should owe any obligation, or be\nbound in gratitude to any other, it may still be upheld by a mercenary\nexchange of good offices according to an agreed valuation.\n\nSociety, however, cannot subsist among those who are at all times ready\nto hurt and injure one another. The moment that injury begins, the\nmoment that mutual resentment and animosity take place, all the bands of\nit are broke asunder, and the different members of which it consisted\nare, as it were, dissipated and scattered abroad by the violence and\nopposition of their discordant affections. If there is any society among\nrobbers and murderers, they must at least, according to the trite\nobservation, abstain from robbing and murdering one another.\nBeneficence, therefore, is less essential to the exigence of society\nthan justice. Society may subsist, though not in the most comfortable\nstate, without beneficence; but the prevalence of injustice must utterly\ndestroy it.\n\nThough Nature, therefore, exhorts mankind to acts of beneficence, by the\npleasing consciousness of deserved reward, she has not thought it\nnecessary to guard and enforce the practice of it by the terrors of\nmerited punishment in case it should be neglected. It is the ornament\nwhich embellishes, not the foundation which supports the building, and\nwhich it was, therefore, sufficient to recommend, but by no means\nnecessary to impose. Justice, on the contrary, is the main pillar that\nupholds the whole edifice. If it is removed, the great, the immense\nfabric of human society, that fabric which to raise and support seems in\nthis world, if I may say so, to have been the peculiar and darling care\nof Nature, must in a moment crumble into atoms. In order to enforce the\nobservation of justice, therefore, Nature has implanted in the human\nbreast that consciousness of ill desert, those terrors of merited\npunishment which attend upon its violation, as the great safe-guards of\nthe association of mankind, to protect the weak, to curb the violent,\nand to chastise the guilty. Men, though naturally sympathetic, feel so\nlittle for another, with whom they have no particular connexion, in\ncomparison for what they feel for themselves; the misery of one, who is\nmerely their fellow-creature, is of so little importance to them in\ncomparison even of a small conveniency of their own; they have it so\nmuch in their power to hurt him, and may have so many temptations to do\nso, that if this principle did not stand up within them in his defence,\nand overawe them into a respect for his innocence, they would, like wild\nbeasts, be at all times ready to fly upon him; and a man would enter an\nassembly of men as he enters a den of lions.\n\nIn every part of the universe we observe means adjusted with the nicest\nartifice to the ends which they are intended to produce; and in the\nmechanism of a plant, or animal body, admire how every thing is\ncontrived for advancing the two great purposes of nature, the support of\nthe individual, and the propagation of the species. But in these, and in\nall such objects, we still distinguish the efficient from the final\ncause of their several motions and organizations. The digestion of the\nfood, the circulation of the blood, and the secretion of the several\njuices which are drawn from it, are operations all of them necessary for\nthe great purposes of animal life. Yet we never endeavour to account for\nthem from those purposes as from their efficient causes, nor imagine\nthat the blood circulates, or that the food digests of its own accord,\nand with a view or intention to the purposes of circulation or\ndigestion. The wheels of the watch are all admirably adjusted to the end\nfor which it was made, the pointing of the hour. All their various\nmotions conspire in the nicest manner to produce this effect. If they\nwere endowed with a desire and intention to produce it, they could not\ndo it better. Yet we never ascribe any such desire or intention to them,\nbut to the watch-maker, and we know that they are put in motion by a\nspring, which intends the effect it produces as little as they do. But\nthough, in accounting for the operations of bodies, we never fail to\ndistinguish in this manner the efficient from the final cause, in\naccounting for those of the mind, we are very apt to confound those two\ndifferent things with one another. When by natural principles we are led\nto advance those ends, which a refined and enlightened reason should\nrecommend to us, we are very apt to impute to that reason, as to their\nefficient cause, the sentiments and actions by which we advance those\nends, and to imagine that to be the wisdom of man, which in reality is\nthe wisdom of God. Upon a superficial view this cause seems sufficient\nto produce the effects which are ascribed to it; and the system of human\nnature seems to be more simple and agreeable when all its different\noperations are in this manner deduced from a single principle.\n\nAs society cannot subsist unless the laws of justice are totally\nobserved, as no social intercourse can take place among men who do not\ngenerally abstain from injuring one another; the consideration of this\nnecessity, it has been thought, was the ground upon which we approved of\nthe enforcement of the laws of justice by the punishment of those who\nviolated them. Man, it has been said, has a natural love for society,\nand desires that the union of mankind should be preserved for its own\nsake, and though he himself was to derive no benefit from it. The\norderly and flourishing state of society is agreeable to him, and he\ntakes delight in contemplating it. Its disorder and confusion, on the\ncontrary, is the object of his aversion, and he is chagrined at whatever\ntends to produce it. He is sensible too that his own interest is\nconnected with the prosperity of society, and that the happiness,\nperhaps the preservation of his existence, depends upon its\npreservation. Upon every account, therefore, he has an abhorrence at\nwhatever can tend to destroy society, and is willing to make use of\nevery means, which can hinder so hated and so dreadful an event.\nInjustice necessarily tends to destroy it. Every appearance of\ninjustice, therefore, alarms him, and he runs, if I may say so, to stop\nthe progress of what, if allowed to go on, would quickly put an end to\nevery thing that is dear to him. If he cannot restrain it by gentle and\nfair means, he must bear it down by force and violence, and at any rate\nmust put a stop to its further progress. Hence it is, they say, that he\noften approves of the enforcement of the law of justice even by the\ncapital punishment of those who violate them. The disturber of the\npublic peace is hereby removed out of the world, and others are\nterrified by his fate from imitating his example.\n\nSuch is the account commonly given of our approbation of the punishment\nof injustice. And so far this account is undoubtedly true, that we\nfrequently have occasion to confirm our natural sense of the propriety\nand fitness of punishment, by reflecting how necessary it is for\npreserving the order of society. When the guilty is about to suffer that\njust retaliation, which the natural indignation of mankind tells them is\ndue to his crimes; when the insolence of his injustice is broken and\nhumbled by the terror of his approaching punishment; when he ceases to\nbe an object of fear, with the generous and humane he begins to be an\nobject of pity. The thought of what he is about to suffer extinguishes\ntheir resentment for the sufferings of others to which he has given\noccasion. They are disposed to pardon and forgive him, and to save him\nfrom that punishment, which in all their cool hours they had considered\nas the retribution due to such crimes. Here, therefore, they have\noccasion to call to their assistance the consideration of the general\ninterest of society. They counterbalance the impulse of this weak and\npartial humanity by the dictates of a humanity that is more generous and\ncomprehensive. They reflect that mercy to the guilty is cruelty to the\ninnocent, and oppose to the emotions of compassion which they feel for a\nparticular person, a more enlarged compassion which they feel for\nmankind.\n\nSometimes too we have occasion to defend the propriety of observing the\ngeneral rules of justice by the consideration of their necessity to the\nsupport of society. We frequently hear the young and the licentious\nridiculing the most sacred rules of morality, and professing, sometimes\nfrom the corruption, but more frequently from the vanity of their\nhearts, the most abominable maxims of conduct. Our indignation rouses,\nand we are eager to refute and expose such detestable principles. But\nthough it is their intrinsic hatefulness and detestableness, which\noriginally inflames us against them, we are unwilling to assign this as\nthe sole reason why we condemn them, or to pretend that it is merely\nbecause we ourselves hate and detest them. The reason, we think, would\nnot appear to be conclusive. Yet why should it not; if we hate and\ndetest them because they are the natural and proper objects of hatred\nand detestation? But when we are asked why we should not act in such or\nsuch a manner, the very question seems to suppose that, to those who ask\nit, this manner of acting does not appear to be for its own sake the\nnatural and proper object of those sentiments. We must show them,\ntherefore, that it ought to be so for the sake of something else. Upon\nthis account we generally cast about for other arguments, and the\nconsideration which first occurs to us is the disorder and confusion of\nsociety which would result from the universal prevalence of such\npractices. We seldom fail, therefore, to insist upon this topic.\n\nBut though it commonly requires no great discernment to see the\ndestructive tendency of all licentious practices to the welfare of\nsociety, it is seldom this consideration which first animates us against\nthem. All men, even the most stupid and unthinking, abhor fraud,\nperfidy, and injustice, and delight to see them punished. But few men\nhave reflected upon the necessity of justice to the existence of\nsociety, how obvious soever that necessity may appear to be.\n\nThat it is not a regard to the preservation of society, which originally\ninterests us in the punishment of crimes committed against individuals,\nmay be demonstrated by many obvious considerations. The concern which we\ntake in the fortune and happiness of individuals does not, in common\ncases, arise from that which we take in the fortune and happiness of\nsociety. We are no more concerned for the destruction or loss of a\nsingle man, because this man is a member or part of society, and because\nwe should be concerned for the destruction of society, than we are\nconcerned for the loss of a single guinea, because this guinea is a part\nof a thousand guineas, and because we should be concerned for the loss\nof the whole sum. In neither case does our regard for the individuals\narise from our regard for the multitude: but in both cases our regard\nfor the multitude is compounded and made up of the particular regards\nwhich we feel for the different individuals of which it is composed. As\nwhen a small sum is unjustly taken from us we do not so much prosecute\nthe injury from a regard to the preservation of our whole fortune, as\nfrom a regard to that particular sum which we have lost; so when a\nsingle man is injured or destroyed, we demand the punishment of the\nwrong that has been done to him, not so much from a concern for the\ngeneral interest of society, as from a concern for that very individual\nwho has been injured. It is to be observed, however, that this concern\ndoes not necessarily include in it any degree of those exquisite\nsentiments which are commonly called love, esteem, and affection, and by\nwhich we distinguish our particular friends and acquaintance. The\nconcern which is requisite for this is no more than the general\nfellow-feeling which we have with every man merely because he is our\nfellow-creature. We enter into the resentment even of an odious person,\nwhen he is injured by those to whom he has given no provocation. Our\ndisapprobation of his ordinary character and conduct, does not in this\ncase altogether prevent our fellow-feeling with his natural indignation;\nthough with those who are not either extremely candid, or who have not\nbeen accustomed to correct and regulate their natural sentiments by\ngeneral rules, it is very apt to damp it.\n\nUpon some occasions, indeed, we both punish and approve of punishment,\nmerely from a view to the general interest of society, which, we\nimagine, cannot otherwise be secured. Of this kind are all the\npunishments inflicted for breaches of what is called either civil\npolice, or military discipline. Such crimes do not immediately or\ndirectly hurt any particular person; but their remote consequences, it\nis supposed, do produce, or might produce, either a considerable\ninconveniency, or a great disorder in the society. A centinel, for\nexample, who falls asleep upon his watch, suffers death by the law of\nwar, because such carelessness might endanger the whole army. This\nseverity may, upon many occasions, appear necessary, and, for that\nreason, just and proper. When the preservation of an individual is\ninconsistent with the safety of a multitude, nothing can be more just\nthan that the many should be preferred to the one. Yet this punishment,\nhow necessary soever, always appears to be excessively severe. The\nnatural atrocity of the crime seems to be so little, and the punishment\nso great, that it is with great difficulty that our hearts can reconcile\nitself to it. Though such carelessness appears very blamable, yet the\nthought of this crime does not naturally excite any such resentment, as\nwould prompt us to take such dreadful revenge. A man of humanity must\nrecollect himself, must make an effort, and exert his whole firmness and\nresolution, before he can bring himself either to inflict it, or to go\nalong with it when it is inflicted by others. It is not, however, in\nthis manner, that he looks upon the just punishment of an ungrateful\nmurderer or parricide. His heart, in this case, applauds with ardour,\nand even with transport, the just retaliation which seems due to such\ndetestable crimes, and which, if, by any accident, they should happen to\nescape, he would be highly enraged and disappointed. The very different\nsentiment with which the spectator views those different punishments, is\na proof that his approbation of the one is far from being founded upon\nthe same principles with that of the other. He looks upon the centinel\nas an unfortunate victim, who, indeed, must, and ought to be, devoted to\nthe safety of numbers, but whom still, in his heart, he would be glad to\nsave; and he is only sorry, that the interest of the many should oppose\nit. But if the murderer should escape from punishment, it would excite\nhis highest indignation, and he would call upon God to avenge, in\nanother world, that crime which the injustice of mankind had neglected\nto chastise upon earth.\n\nFor it well deserves to be taken notice of, that we are so far from\nimagining that injustice ought to be punished in this life, merely on\naccount of the order of society, which cannot otherwise be maintained,\nthat Nature teaches us to hope, and religion, we suppose, authorizes us\nto expect, that it will be punished, even in a life to come. Our sense\nof its ill desert pursues it, if I may say so, even beyond the grave,\nthough the example of its punishment there cannot serve to deter the\nrest of mankind, who see it not, who know it not, from being guilty of\nthe like practices here. The justice of God, however, we think, still\nrequires, that he should hereafter avenge the injuries of the widow and\nthe fatherless, who are here so often insulted with impunity.\n\nThat the Deity loves virtue and hates vice, as a voluptuous man loves\nriches and hates poverty, not for their own sakes, but for the effects\nwhich they tend to produce; that he loves the one, only because it\npromotes the happiness of society, which his benevolence prompts him to\ndesire; and that he hates the other, only because it occasions the\nmisery of mankind, which the same divine quality renders the object of\nhis aversion; is not the doctrine of untaught nature, but of an\nartificial refinement of reason and philosophy. Our untaught, natural\nsentiments, all prompt us to believe, that as perfect virtue is supposed\nnecessarily to appear to the Deity, as it does to us, for its own sake,\nand without any further view, the natural and proper object of love and\nreward, so must vice, of hatred and punishment. That the gods neither\nresent nor hurt, was the general maxim of all the different sects of the\nancient philosophy: and if, by resenting, be understood, that violent\nand disorderly perturbation, which often distracts and confounds the\nhuman breast; or if, by hurting, be understood, the doing mischief\nwantonly, and without regard to propriety or justice, such weakness is\nundoubtedly unworthy of the divine perfection. But if it be meant, that\nvice does not appear to the Deity to be, for its own sake, the object of\nabhorrence and aversion, and what, for its own sake, it is fit and right\nshould be punished, the truth of this maxim seems repugnant to some very\nnatural feelings. If we consult our natural sentiments, we are even apt\nto fear, lest, before the holiness of God, vice should appear to be more\nworthy of punishment than the weakness and imperfection of human virtue\ncan ever seem to be of reward. Man, when about to appear before a Being\nof infinite perfection, can feel but little confidence in his own merit,\nor in the imperfect propriety of his own conduct. In the presence of his\nfellow-creatures, he may even justly elevate himself, and may often have\nreason to think highly of his own character and conduct, compared to the\nstill greater imperfection of theirs. But the case is quite different\nwhen about to appear before his infinite Creator. To such a Being, he\nfears, that his littleness and weakness can scarce ever appear the\nproper object, either of esteem or of reward. But he can easily\nconceive, how the numberless violations of duty, of which he has been\nguilty, should render him the proper object of aversion and punishment;\nand he thinks he can see no reason why the divine indignation should not\nbe let loose without any restraint, upon so vile an insect, as he\nimagines that he himself must appear to be. If he would still hope for\nhappiness, he suspects that he cannot demand it from the justice, but\nthat he must entreat it from the mercy of God. Repentance, sorrow,\nhumility, contrition at the thought of his past conduct, seem, upon this\naccount, the sentiments which become him, and to be the only means which\nhe has left for appeasing that wrath which, he knows, he has justly\nprovoked. He even distrusts the efficacy of all these, and naturally\nfears, lest the wisdom of God should not, like the weakness of man, be\nprevailed upon to spare the crime by the most importunate lamentations\nof the criminal. Some other intercession, some other sacrifice, some\nother atonement, he imagines must be made for him, beyond what he\nhimself is capable of making, before the purity of the divine justice\ncan be reconciled to his manifold offences. The doctrines of revelation\ncoincide, in every respect, with those original anticipations of nature;\nand as they teach us how little we can depend upon the imperfection of\nour own virtue, so they show us, at the same time, that the most\npowerful intercession has been made, and that the most dreadful\natonement has been paid for our manifold transgressions and iniquities.\n\n\n\n\n SECTION III.\nOf the influence of fortune upon the sentiments of mankind, with regard\n to the merit or demerit of actions.\n\n\n INTRODUCTION.\n\nWhatever praise or blame can be due to any action, must belong either,\nfirst, to the intention or affection of the heart, from which it\nproceeds; or, secondly, to the external action or movement of the body,\nwhich this affection gives occasion to; or, last, to all the good or bad\nconsequences, which actually, and in fact, proceed from it. These three\ndifferent things constitute the whole nature and circumstances of the\naction, and must be the foundation of whatever quality can belong to it.\n\nThat the two last of these three circumstances cannot be the foundation\nof any praise or blame, is abundantly evident; nor has the contrary ever\nbeen asserted by any body. The external action or movement of the body\nis often the same in the most innocent and in the most blamable actions.\nHe who shoots a bird, and he who shoots a man, both of them perform the\nsame external movement: each of them draws the tricker of a gun. The\nconsequences which actually, and in fact, happen to proceed from any\naction, are, if possible, still more indifferent either to praise or\nblame, than even the external movement of the body. As they depend, not\nupon the agent, but upon fortune, they cannot be the proper foundation\nfor any sentiment, of which his character and conduct are the objects.\n\nThe only consequences for which he can be answerable, or by which he can\ndeserve either approbation or disapprobation of any kind, are those\nwhich were some way or other intended, or those which, at least, show\nsome agreeable or disagreeable quality in the intention of the heart,\nfrom which he acted. To the intention or affection of the heart,\ntherefore, to the propriety or impropriety, to the beneficence or\nhurtfulness of the design, all praise or blame, all approbation or\ndisapprobation, of any kind, which can justly be bestowed upon any\naction, must ultimately belong.\n\nWhen this maxim is thus proposed in abstract and general terms, there is\nno body who does not agree to it. Its self-evident justice is\nacknowledged by all the world, and there is not a dissenting voice among\nall mankind. Every body allows, that how different soever the\naccidental, the unintended and unforeseen consequences of different\nactions, yet, if the intentions or affections from which they arose\nwere, on the one hand, equally proper and equally beneficent, or, on the\nother, equally improper and equally malevolent, the merit or demerit of\nthe actions is still the same, and the agent is equally the suitable\nobject either of gratitude or of resentment.\n\nBut how well soever we may seem to be persuaded of the truth of this\nequitable maxim, when we consider it after this manner, in abstract, yet\nwhen we come to particular cases, the actual consequences which happen\nto proceed from any action, have a very great effect upon our sentiments\nconcerning its merit or demerit, and almost always either enhance or\ndiminish our sense of both. Scarce, in any one instance, perhaps, will\nour sentiments be found, after examination, to be entirely regulated by\nthis rule, which we all acknowledge ought entirely to regulate them.\n\nThis irregularity of sentiment, which every body feels, which scarce any\nbody is sufficiently aware of, and which no body is willing to\nacknowledge, I proceed now to explain; and I shall consider, first, the\ncause which gives occasion to it, or the mechanism by which nature\nproduces it; secondly, the extent of its influence; and, last of all,\nthe end which it answers, or the purpose which the Author of nature\nseems to have intended by it.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. I.\n _Of the causes of this influence of fortune._\n\n\nThe causes of pain and pleasure, whatever they are, or however they\noperate, seem to be the objects, which, in all animals, immediately\nexcite those two passions of gratitude and resentment. They are excited\nby inanimated, as well as by animated objects. We are angry, for a\nmoment, even at the stone that hurts us. A child beats it, a dog barks\nat it, a choleric man is apt to curse it. The least reflection, indeed,\ncorrects this sentiment, and we soon become sensible, that what has no\nfeeling is a very improper object of revenge. When the mischief,\nhowever, is very great, the object which caused it becomes disagreeable\nto us ever after, and we take pleasure to burn or destroy it. We should\ntreat, in this manner, the instrument which had accidentally been the\ncause of the death of a friend, and we should often think ourselves\nguilty of a sort of inhumanity, if we neglected to vent this absurd sort\nof vengeance upon it.\n\nWe conceive, in the same manner, a sort of gratitude for those\ninanimated objects, which have been the causes of great, or frequent\npleasure to us. The sailor, who, as soon as he got ashore, should mend\nhis fire with the plank upon which he had just escaped from a shipwreck,\nwould seem to be guilty of an unnatural action. We should expect that he\nwould rather preserve it with care and affection, as a monument that\nwas, in some measure, dear to him. A man grows fond of a snuff-box, of a\npen-knife, of a staff which he has long made use of, and conceives\nsomething like a real love and affection for them. If he breaks or loses\nthem, he is vexed out of all proportion to the value of the damage. The\nhouse which we have long lived in, the tree, whose verdure and shade we\nhave long enjoyed, are both looked upon with a sort of respect that\nseems due to such benefactors. The decay of the one, or the ruin of the\nother, affects us with a kind of melancholy, though we should sustain no\nloss by it. The Dryads and the Lares of the ancients, a sort of genii of\ntrees and houses, were probably first suggested by this sort of\naffection, which the authors of those superstitions felt for such\nobjects, and which seemed unreasonable, if there was nothing animated\nabout them.\n\nBut, before any thing can be the proper object of gratitude or\nresentment, it must not only be the cause of pleasure or pain, it must\nlikewise be capable of feeling them. Without this other quality, those\npassions cannot vent themselves with any sort of satisfaction upon it.\nAs they are excited by the causes of pleasure and pain, so their\ngratification consists in retaliating those sensations upon what gave\noccasion to them; which it is to no purpose to attempt upon what has no\nsensibility. Animals, therefore, are less improper objects of gratitude\nand resentment than inanimated objects. The dog that bites, the ox that\ngores, are both of them punished. If they have been the causes of the\ndeath of any person, neither the public, nor the relations of the slain,\ncan be satisfied, unless they are put to death in their turn: nor is\nthis merely for the security of the living, but in some measure, to\nrevenge the injury of the dead. Those animals, on the contrary, that\nhave been remarkably serviceable to their masters, become the objects of\na very lively gratitude. We are shocked at the brutality of that\nofficer, mentioned in the Turkish Spy, who stabbed the horse that had\ncarried him a-cross an arm of the sea, lest that animal should\nafterwards distinguish some other person by a similar adventure.\n\nBut, though animals are not only the causes of pleasure and pain, but\nare also capable of feeling those sensations, they are still far from\nbeing complete and perfect objects, either of gratitude or resentment;\nand those passions still feel, that there is something wanting to their\nentire gratification. What gratitude chiefly desires, is not only to\nmake the benefactor feel pleasure in his turn, but to make him conscious\nthat he meets with this reward on account of his past conduct, to make\nhim pleased with that conduct, and to satisfy him that the person upon\nwhom he bestowed his good offices was not unworthy of them. What most of\nall charms us in our benefactor, is the concord between his sentiments\nand our own, with regard to what interests us so nearly as the worth of\nour own character, and the esteem that is due to us. We are delighted to\nfind a person who values us as well as we value ourselves, and\ndistinguishes us from the rest of mankind, with an attention not unlike\nthat with which we distinguish ourselves. To maintain in him these\nagreeable and flattering sentiments, is one of the chief ends proposed\nby the returns we are disposed to make to him. A generous mind often\ndisdains the interested thought of extorting new favours from its\nbenefactor, by what may be called the importunities of its gratitude.\nBut to preserve and to increase his esteem, is an interest which the\ngreatest mind does not think unworthy of its attention. And this is the\nfoundation of what I formerly observed, that when we cannot enter into\nthe motives of our benefactor, when his conduct and character appear\nunworthy of our approbation, let his services have been ever so great,\nour gratitude is always sensibly diminished. We are less flattered by\nthe distinction; and to preserve the esteem of so weak, or so worthless\na patron, seems to be an object which does not deserve to be pursued for\nits own sake.\n\nThe object, on the contrary, which resentment is chiefly intent upon, is\nnot so much to make our enemy feel pain in his turn, as to make him\nconscious that he feels it upon account of his past conduct, to make him\nrepent of that conduct, and to make him sensible, that the person whom\nhe injured did not deserve to be treated in that manner. What chiefly\nenrages us against the man who injures or insults us, is the little\naccount which he seems to make of us, the unreasonable preference which\nhe gives to himself above us, and that absurd self-love, by which he\nseems to imagine, that other people may be sacrificed at any time, to\nhis conveniency or his humour. The glaring impropriety of this conduct,\nthe gross insolence and injustice which it seems to involve in it, often\nshock and exasperate us more than all the mischief which we have\nsuffered. To bring him back to a more just sense of what is due to other\npeople, to make him sensible of what he owes us, and of the wrong that\nhe has done to us, is frequently the principal end proposed in our\nrevenge, which is always imperfect when it cannot accomplish this. When\nour enemy appears to have done us no injury, when we are sensible that\nhe acted quite properly, that, in his situation, we should have done the\nsame thing, and that we deserved from him all the mischief we met with;\nin that case, if we have the least spark either of candour or justice,\nwe can entertain no sort of resentment.\n\nBefore any thing, therefore, can be the complete and proper object,\neither of gratitude or resentment, it must possess three different\nqualifications. First, it must be the cause of pleasure in the one case,\nand of pain in the other. Secondly, it must be capable of feeling those\nsensations. And, thirdly, it must not only have produced those\nsensations, but it must have produced them from design, and from a\ndesign that is approved of in the one case, and disapproved of in the\nother. It is by the first qualification, that any object is capable of\nexciting those passions: it is by the second, that it is in any respect\ncapable of gratifying them: the third qualification is both necessary\nfor their complete satisfaction, and as it gives a pleasure or pain that\nis both exquisite and peculiar, it is likewise an additional exciting\ncause of those passions.\n\nAs what gives pleasure or pain, therefore, either in one way or another,\nis the sole exciting cause of gratitude and resentment; though the\nintentions of any person should be ever so proper and beneficent, on the\none hand, or ever so improper and malevolent on the other; yet, if he\nhas failed in producing either the good or evil which he intended, as\none of the exciting causes is wanting in both cases, less gratitude\nseems due to him in the one, and less resentment in the other. And, on\nthe contrary, though in the intentions of any person, there was either\nno laudable degree of benevolence on the one hand, or no blamable degree\nof malice on the other; yet, if his actions should produce either great\ngood or great evil, as one of the exciting causes takes place upon both\nthese occasions, some gratitude is apt to arise towards him in the one,\nand some resentment in the other. A shadow of merit seems to fall upon\nhim in the first, a shadow of demerit in the second. And, as the\nconsequences of actions are altogether under the empire of Fortune,\nhence arises her influence upon the sentiments of mankind, with regard\nto merit and demerit.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. II.\n _Of the extent of this influence of fortune._\n\n\nThe effect of this influence of fortune is, first, to diminish our sense\nof the merit or demerit of those actions which arose from the most\nlaudable or blamable intentions, when they fail of producing their\nproposed effects: and, secondly, to increase our sense of the merit or\ndemerit of actions, beyond what is due to the motives or affections from\nwhich they proceed, when they accidentally give occasion either to\nextraordinary pleasure or pain.\n\n1. First, I say, though the intentions of any person should be ever so\nproper and beneficent, on the one hand, or ever so improper and\nmalevolent, on the other, yet, if they fail in producing their effects,\nhis merit seems imperfect in the one case, and his demerit incomplete in\nthe other. Nor is this irregularity of sentiment felt only by those who\nare immediately affected by the consequences of any action. It is felt,\nin some measure, even by the impartial spectator. The man who solicits\nan office for another, without obtaining it, is regarded as his friend,\nand seems to deserve his love and affection. But the man who not only\nsolicits, but procures it, is more peculiarly considered as his patron\nand benefactor, and is entitled to his respect and gratitude. The person\nobliged, we are apt to think, may with some justice, imagine himself on\na level with the first: but we cannot enter into his sentiments, if he\ndoes not feel himself inferior to the second. It is common indeed to\nsay, that we are equally obliged to the man who has endeavoured to serve\nus, as to him who actually did so. It is the speech which we constantly\nmake upon every unsuccessful attempt of this kind; but which, like all\nother fine speeches, must be understood with a grain of allowance. The\nsentiments which a man of generosity entertains for the friend who\nfails, may often indeed be nearly the same with those which he conceives\nfor him who succeeds: and the more generous he is, the more nearly will\nthose sentiments approach to an exact level. With the truly generous, to\nbe beloved, to be esteemed by those whom they themselves think worthy of\nesteem, gives more pleasure, and thereby excites more gratitude, than\nall the advantages which they can ever expect from those sentiments.\nWhen they lose those advantages therefore, they seem to lose but a\ntrifle, which is scarce worth regarding. They still however lose\nsomething. Their pleasure therefore, and consequently their gratitude,\nis not perfectly complete: and accordingly if, between the friend who\nfails and the friend who succeeds, all other circumstances are equal,\nthere will, even in the noblest and the best mind, be some little\ndifference of affection in favour of him who succeeds. Nay, so unjust\nare mankind in this respect, that though the intended benefit should be\nprocured, yet if it is not procured by the means of a particular\nbenefactor, they are apt to think that less gratitude is due to the man,\nwho with the best intentions in the world could do no more than help it\na little forward. As their gratitude is in this case divided among the\ndifferent persons who contributed to their pleasure, a smaller share of\nit seems due to any one. Such a person, we hear men commonly say,\nintended no doubt to serve us; and we really believe exerted himself to\nthe utmost of his abilities for that purpose. We are not, however,\nobliged to him for this benefit; since had it not been for the\nconcurrence of others, all that he could have done would never have\nbrought it about. This consideration, they imagine, should, even in the\neyes of the impartial spectator, diminish the debt which they owe to\nhim. The person himself who has unsuccessfully endeavoured to confer a\nbenefit, has by no means the same dependency upon the gratitude of the\nman whom he meant to oblige, nor the same sense of his own merit towards\nhim, which he would have had in the case of success.\n\nEven the merit of talents and abilities which some accident has hindered\nfrom producing their effects, seems in some measure imperfect, even to\nthose who are fully convinced of their capacity to produce them. The\ngeneral who has been hindered by the envy of ministers from gaining some\ngreat advantage over the enemies of his country, regrets the loss of the\nopportunity for ever after. Nor is it only upon account of the public\nthat he regrets it. He laments that he was hindered from performing an\naction which would have added a new lustre to his character in his own\neyes, as well as in those of every other person. It satisfies neither\nhimself nor others to reflect that the plan or design was all that\ndepended on him, that no greater capacity was required to execute it\nthan what was necessary to concert it: that he was allowed to be every\nway capable of executing it, and that had he been permitted to go on,\nsuccess was infallible. He still did not execute it; and though he might\ndeserve all the approbation which is due to a magnanimous and great\ndesign, he still wanted the actual merit of having performed a great\naction. To take the management of any affair of public concern from the\nman who has almost brought it to a conclusion, is regarded as the most\ninvidious injustice. As he had done so much, he should, we think, have\nbeen allowed to acquire the complete merit of putting an end to it. It\nwas objected to Pompey, that he came in upon the victories of Lucullus,\nand gathered those laurels which were due to the fortune and valour of\nanother. The glory of Lucullus, it seems, was less complete even in the\nopinion of his own friends, when he was not permitted to finish that\nconquest which his conduct and courage had put in the power of almost\nany man to finish. It mortifies an architect when his plans are either\nnot executed at all, or when they are so far altered as to spoil the\neffect of the building. The plan, however, is all that depends upon the\narchitect. The whole of his genius is, to good judges, as completely\ndiscovered in that as in the actual execution. But a plan does not, even\nto the most intelligent, give the same pleasure as a noble and\nmagnificent building. They may discover as much both of taste and genius\nin the one as in the other. But their effects are still vastly\ndifferent, and the amusement derived from the first, never approaches to\nthe wonder and admiration which are sometimes excited by the second. We\nmay believe of many men, that their talents are superior to those of\nC\u00e6sar and Alexander; and that in the same situations they would perform\nstill greater actions. In the mean time, however, we do not behold them\nwith that astonishment and admiration with which those two heroes have\nbeen regarded in all ages and nations. The calm judgments of the mind\nmay approve of them more, but they want the splendor of great actions to\ndazzle and transport it. The superiority of virtues and talents have\nnot, even upon those who acknowledge that superiority, the same effect\nwith the superiority of atchievements.\n\nAs the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to do good seems thus, in the\neyes of ungrateful mankind, to be diminished by the miscarriage, so does\nlikewise the demerit of an unsuccessful attempt to do evil. The design\nto commit a crime, how clearly soever it may be proved, is scarce ever\npunished with the same severity as the actual commission of it. The case\nof treason is perhaps the only exception. That crime immediately\naffecting the being of the government itself, the government is\nnaturally more jealous of it than of any other. In the punishment of\ntreason, the sovereign resents the injuries which are immediately done\nto himself: in the punishment of other crimes, he resents those which\nare done to other men. It is his own resentment which he indulges in the\none case: it is that of his subjects which by sympathy he enters into it\nin the other. In the first case, therefore, as he judges in his own\ncause, he is very apt to be more violent and sanguinary in his\npunishments than the impartial spectator can approve of. His resentment\ntoo rises here upon smaller occasions, and does not always, as in other\ncases, wait for the perpetration of the crime, or even for the attempt\nto commit it. A treasonable concert, though nothing has been done, or\neven attempted in consequence of it, nay, a treasonable conversation, is\nin many countries punished in the same manner as the actual commission\nof treason. With regard to all other crimes, the mere design, upon which\nno attempt has followed, is seldom punished at all, and is never\npunished severely. A criminal design, and a criminal action, it may be\nsaid indeed, do not necessarily suppose the same degree of depravity,\nand ought not therefore to be subjected to the same punishment. We are\ncapable, it may be said, of resolving, and even of taking measures to\nexecute, many things which, when it comes to the point, we feel\nourselves altogether incapable of executing. But this reason can have no\nplace when the design has been carried the length of the last attempt.\nThe man, however, who fires a pistol at his enemy, but misses him, is\npunished with death by the laws of scarce any country. By the old law of\nScotland, though he should wound him, yet, unless death ensues within a\ncertain time, the assassin is not liable to the last punishment. The\nresentment of mankind, however, runs so high against this crime, their\nterror for the man who shows himself capable of committing it, is so\ngreat, that the mere attempt to commit it ought in all countries to be\ncapital. The attempt to commit smaller crimes is almost always punished\nvery lightly, and sometimes is not punished at all. The thief, whose\nhand has been caught in his neighbour\u2019s pocket before he had taken any\nthing out of it, is punished with ignominy only. If he had got time to\ntake away an handkerchief, he would have been put to death. The\nhouse-breaker, who has been found setting a ladder to his neighbour\u2019s\nwindow, but had not got into it, is not exposed to the capital\npunishment. The attempt to ravish is not punished as a rape. The attempt\nto seduce a married woman is not punished at all, though seduction is\npunished severely. Our resentment against the person who only attempted\nto do a mischief, is seldom so strong as to bear us out in inflicting\nthe same punishment upon him, which we should have thought due if he had\nactually done it. In the one case, the joy of our deliverance alleviates\nour sense of the atrocity of his conduct; in the other, the grief of our\nmisfortune increases it. His real demerit, however, is undoubtedly the\nsame in both cases, since his intentions were equally criminal: and\nthere is in this respect, therefore, an irregularity in the sentiments\nof all men, and a consequent relaxation of discipline in the laws of, I\nbelieve, all nations, of the most civilized, as well as of the most\nbarbarous. The humanity of a civilized people disposes them either to\ndispense with, or to mitigate punishments wherever their natural\nindignation is not goaded on by the consequences of the crime.\nBarbarians, on the other hand, when no actual consequence has happened\nfrom any action, are not apt to be very delicate or inquisitive about\nthe motives.\n\nThe person himself who either from passion, or from the influence of bad\ncompany, has resolved, and perhaps taken measures to perpetrate some\ncrime, but who has fortunately been prevented by an accident which put\nit out of his power, is sure, if he has any remains of conscience, to\nregard this event all his life after as a great and signal deliverance.\nHe can never think of it without returning thanks to Heaven for having\nbeen thus graciously pleased to save him from the guilt in which he was\njust ready to plunge himself, and to hinder him from rendering all the\nrest of his life a scene of horror, remorse, and repentance. But though\nhis hands are innocent, he is conscious that his heart is equally guilty\nas if he had actually executed what he was so fully resolved upon. It\ngives great ease to his conscience, however, to consider that the crime\nwas not executed, though he knows that the failure arose from no virtue\nin him. He still considers himself as less deserving of punishment and\nresentment; and this good fortune either diminishes, or takes away\naltogether, all sense of guilt. To remember how much he was resolved\nupon it, has no other effect than to make him regard his escape as the\ngreater and more miraculous: for he still fancies that he has escaped,\nand he looks back upon the danger to which his peace of mind was\nexposed, with that terror, with which one who is in safety may sometimes\nremember the hazard he was in of falling over a precipice, and shudder\nwith horror at the thought.\n\n2. The second effect of this influence of fortune, is to increase our\nsense of the merit or demerit of actions beyond what is due to the\nmotives or affection from which they proceed, when they happen to give\noccasion to extraordinary pleasure or pain. The agreeable or\ndisagreeable effects of the action often throw a shadow of merit or\ndemerit upon the agent, though in his intention there was nothing that\ndeserved either praise or blame, or at least that deserved them in the\ndegree in which we are apt to bestow them. Thus, even the messenger of\nbad news is disagreeable to us, and, on the contrary, we feel a sort of\ngratitude for the man who brings us good tidings. For a moment we look\nupon them both as the authors, the one of our good, the other of our bad\nfortune, and regard them in some measure as if they had really brought\nabout the events which they only give an account of. The first author of\nour joy is naturally the object of a transitory gratitude: we embrace\nhim with warmth and affection, and should be glad, during the instant of\nour prosperity, to reward him as for some signal service. By the custom\nof all courts, the officer who brings the news of a victory, is entitled\nto considerable preferments, and the general always chuses one of his\nprincipal favourites to go upon so agreeable an errand. The first author\nof our sorrow is, on the contrary, just as naturally the object of a\ntransitory resentment. We can scarce avoid looking upon him with chagrin\nand uneasiness; and the rude and brutal are apt to vent upon him that\nspleen which his intelligence gives occasion to. Tigranes, King of\nArmenia, struck off the head of the man who brought him the first\naccount of the approach of a formidable enemy. To punish in this manner\nthe author of bad tidings, seems barbarous and inhuman: yet, to reward\nthe messenger of good news, is not disagreeable to us; we think it\nsuitable to the bounty of kings. But why do we make this difference,\nsince, if there is no fault in the one, neither is there any merit in\nthe other? It is because any sort of reason seems sufficient to\nauthorize the exertion of the social and benevolent affections; but it\nrequires the most solid and substantial to make us enter into that of\nthe unsocial and malevolent.\n\nBut though in general we are averse to enter into the unsocial and\nmalevolent affections, though we lay it down for a rule that we ought\nnever to approve of their gratification, unless so far as the malicious\nand unjust intention of the person, against whom they are directed\nrenders him their proper object; yet, upon some occasions, we relax of\nthis severity. When the negligence of one man has occasioned some\nunintended damage to another, we generally enter so far into the\nresentment of the sufferer, as to approve of his inflicting a punishment\nupon the offender much beyond what the offence will have appeared to\ndeserve, had no such unlucky consequence followed from it.\n\nThere is a degree of negligence, which would appear to deserve some\nchastisement though it should occasion no damage to any body. Thus, if a\nperson should throw a large stone over a wall into a public street\nwithout giving warning to those who might be passing by, and without\nregarding where it was likely to fall, he would undoubtedly deserve some\nchastisement. A very accurate police would punish so absurd an action,\neven though it had done no mischief. The person who has been guilty of\nit, shows an insolent contempt of the happiness and safety of others.\nThere is real injustice in his conduct. He wantonly exposes his\nneighbour to what no man in his senses would chuse to expose himself,\nand evidently wants that sense of what is due to his fellow-creatures\nwhich is the basis of justice and of society. Gross negligence therefore\nis, in the law, said to be almost equal to malicious design[3]. When any\nunlucky consequences happen from such carelessness, the person who has\nbeen guilty of it is often punished as if he had really intended those\nconsequences; and his conduct, which was only thoughtless and insolent,\nand what deserved some chastisement, is considered as atrocious, and as\nliable to the severest punishment. Thus if, by the imprudent action\nabove-mentioned, he should accidentally kill a man, he is, by the laws\nof many countries, particularly by the old law of Scotland, liable to\nthe last punishment. And though this is no doubt excessively severe, it\nis not altogether inconsistent with our natural sentiments. Our just\nindignation against the folly and inhumanity of his conduct is\nexasperated by our sympathy with the unfortunate sufferer. Nothing\nhowever would appear more shocking to our natural sense of equity, than\nto bring a man to the scaffold merely for having thrown a stone\ncarelessly into the street without hurting any body. The folly and\ninhumanity of his conduct, however, would in this case be the same; but\nstill our sentiments would be very different. The consideration of this\ndifference may satisfy us how much the indignation, even of the\nspectator, is apt to be animated by the actual consequences of the\naction. In cases of this kind there will, if I am not mistaken, be found\na great degree of severity in the laws of almost all nations; as I have\nalready observed that in those of an opposite kind there was a very\ngeneral relaxation of discipline.\n\nFootnote 3:\n\n Lata culpa prope dolum est.\n\nThere is another degree of negligence which does not involve in it any\nsort of injustice. The person who is guilty of it treats his neighbour\nas he treats himself, means no harm to any body, and is far from\nentertaining any insolent contempt for the safety and happiness of\nothers. He is not, however, so careful and circumspect in his conduct as\nhe ought to be, and deserves upon this account some degree of blame and\ncensure, but no sort of punishment. Yet if by a negligence[4] of this\nkind he should occasion some damage to another person, he is by the laws\nof, I believe, all countries, obliged to compensate it. And though this\nis no doubt a real punishment, and what no mortal would have thought of\ninflicting upon him, had it not been for the unlucky accident which his\nconduct gave occasion to; yet this decision of the law is approved of by\nthe natural sentiments of all mankind. Nothing, we think, can be more\njust than that one man should not suffer by the carelessness of another;\nand that the damage occasioned by blamable negligence should be made up\nby the person who was guilty of it.\n\nFootnote 4:\n\n Culpa levis.\n\nThere is another species of negligence[5], which consists merely in a\nwant of the most anxious timidity and circumspection, with regard to all\nthe possible consequences of our actions. The want of this painful\nattention, when no bad consequences follow from it, is so far from being\nregarded as blamable, that the contrary quality is rather considered as\nsuch. That timid circumspection which is afraid of every thing, is never\nregarded as a virtue, but as a quality which more than any other\nincapacitates for action and business. Yet when, from a want of this\nexcessive care, a person happens to occasion some damage to another, he\nis often by the law obliged to compensate it. Thus, by the Aquilian law,\nthe man, who not being able to manage a horse that had accidentally\ntaken fright, should happen to ride down his neighbour\u2019s slave, is\nobliged to compensate the damage. When an accident of this kind happens,\nwe are apt to think that he ought not to have rode such a horse, and to\nregard his attempting it as an unpardonable levity; though without this\naccident we should not only have made no such reflection, but should\nhave regarded his refusing it as the effect of timid weakness, and of an\nanxiety about merely possible events, which it is to no purpose to be\naware of. The person himself, who by an accident even of this kind has\ninvoluntarily hurt another, seems to have some sense of his own ill\ndesert, with regard to him. He naturally runs up to the sufferer to\nexpress his concern for what has happened, and to make every\nacknowledgment in his power. If he has any sensibility, he necessarily\ndesires to compensate the damage, and to do every thing he can to\nappease that animal resentment, which he is sensible will be apt to\narise in the breast of the sufferer. To make no apology, to offer no\natonement, is regarded as the highest brutality. Yet why should he make\nan apology more than any other person? Why should he, since he was\nequally innocent with any other by-stander, be thus singled out from\namong all mankind, to make up for the bad fortune of another? This task\nwould surely never be imposed upon him, did not even the impartial\nspectator feel some indulgence for what may be regarded as the unjust\nresentment of that other.\n\nFootnote 5:\n\n Culpa levissima.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. III.\n _Of the final cause of this irregularity of sentiments._\n\n\nSuch is the effect of the good or bad consequence of actions upon the\nsentiments both of the person who performs them, and of others; and\nthus, Fortune, which governs the world, has some influence where we\nshould be least willing to allow her any, and directs in some measure\nthe sentiments of mankind, with regard to the character and conduct both\nof themselves and others. That the world judges by the event, and not by\nthe design, has been in all ages the complaint, and is the great\ndiscouragement of virtue. Every body agrees to the general maxim, that\nas the event does not depend on the agent, it ought to have no influence\nupon your sentiments, with regard to the merit or propriety of his\nconduct. But when we come to particulars, we find that our sentiments\nare scarce in any one instance exactly conformable to what this\nequitable maxim would direct. The happy or unprosperous event of any\naction, is not only apt to give us a good or bad opinion of the prudence\nwith which it was conducted, but almost always too animates our\ngratitude or resentment, our sense of the merit or demerit of the\ndesign.\n\nNature, however, when the implanted the seeds of this irregularity in\nthe human breast, seems, as upon all other occasions, to have intended\nthe happiness and perfection of the species. If the hurtfulness of the\ndesign, if the malevolence of the affection, were alone the causes which\nexcited our resentment, we should feel all the furies of that passion\nagainst any person in whose breast we suspected or believed such designs\nor affections were harboured, though they had never broke out into any\nactions. Sentiments, thoughts, intentions, would become the objects of\npunishment; and if the indignation of mankind ran as high against them\nas against actions; if the baseness of the thought which had given birth\nto no action, seemed in the eyes of the world as much to call aloud for\nvengeance as the baseness of the action, every court of judicature would\nbecome a real inquisition. There would be no safety for the most\ninnocent and circumspect conduct. Bad wishes, bad views, bad designs,\nmight still be suspected; and while these excited the same indignation\nwith bad conduct, while bad intentions were as much resented as bad\nactions, they would equally expose the person to punishment and\nresentment. Actions therefore which either produce actual evil, or\nattempt to produce it, and thereby put us in the immediate fear of it,\nare by the Author of nature rendered the only proper and approved\nobjects of human punishment and resentment. Sentiments, designs,\naffections, though it is from these that according to cool reason human\nactions derive their whole merit or demerit, are placed by the great\nJudge of hearts beyond the limits of every human jurisdiction, and are\nreserved for the cognizance of his own unerring tribunal. That necessary\nrule of justice, therefore, that men in this life are liable to\npunishment for their actions only, not for their designs and intentions,\nis founded upon this salutary and useful irregularity in human\nsentiments concerning merit or demerit, which at first sight appears so\nabsurd and unaccountable. But every part of nature, when attentively\nsurveyed, equally demonstrates the providential care of its Author, and\nwe may admire the wisdom and goodness of God even in the weakness and\nfolly of men.\n\nNor is that irregularity of sentiments altogether without its utility,\nby which the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to serve, and much more\nthat of mere good inclinations and kind wishes, appears to be imperfect.\nMan was made for action, and to promote by the exertion of his faculties\nsuch changes in the external circumstances both of himself and others,\nas may seem most favourable to the happiness of all. He must not be\nsatisfied with indolent benevolence, nor fancy himself the friend of\nmankind, because in his heart he wishes well to the prosperity of the\nworld. That he may call forth the whole vigour of his soul, and strain\nevery nerve, in order to produce those ends which it is the purpose of\nhis being to advance, Nature has taught him, that neither himself nor\nmankind can be fully satisfied with his conduct, nor bestow upon it the\nfull measure of applause, unless he has actually produced them. He is\nmade to know, that the praise of good intentions, without the merit of\ngood offices, will be but of little avail to excite either the loudest\nacclamations of the world, or even the highest degree of self-applause.\nThe man who has performed no single action of importance, but whose\nwhole conversation and deportment express the justest, the noblest, and\nmost generous sentiments, can be entitled to demand no very high reward,\neven though his inutility should be owing to nothing but the want of an\nopportunity to serve. We can still refuse it him without blame. We can\nstill ask him, what have you done? What actual service can you produce,\nto entitle you to so great a recompense? We esteem you, and love you;\nbut we owe you nothing. To reward indeed that latent virtue which has\nbeen useless only for want of an opportunity to serve, to bestow upon it\nthose honours and preferments, which, though in some measure it may be\nsaid to deserve them, it could not with propriety have insisted upon, is\nthe effect of the most divine benevolence. To punish, on the contrary,\nfor the affections of the heart only, where no crime has been committed,\nis the most insolent and barbarous tyranny. The benevolent affections\nseem to deserve most praise, when they do not wait till it becomes\nalmost a crime for them not to exert themselves. The malevolent, on the\ncontrary, can scarce be too tardy, too slow, or deliberate.\n\nIt is even of use that the evil which is done without design should be\nregarded as a misfortune to the doer as well as to the sufferer. Man is\nthereby taught to reverence the happiness of his brethren, to tremble\nlest he should, even unknowingly, do any thing that can hurt them, and\nto dread that animal resentment which he feels is ready to burst out\nagainst him, if he should without design be the unhappy instrument of\ntheir calamity.\n\nNotwithstanding, however, all these seeming irregularities of sentiment,\nif man should unfortunately either give occasion to those evils which he\ndid not intend, or fail in producing that good which he intended, nature\nhas not left his innocence altogether without consolation, nor his\nvirtue altogether without reward. He then calls to his assistance that\njust and equitable maxim, that those events which did not depend upon\nour conduct ought not to diminish the esteem that is due to us. He\nsummons up his whole magnanimity and firmness of soul, and strives to\nregard himself, not in the light in which he at present appears, but in\nthat in which he ought to appear, in which he would have appeared had\nhis generous designs been crowned with success, and in which he would\nstill appear, notwithstanding their miscarriage, if the sentiments of\nmankind were either altogether candid and equitable, or even perfectly\nconsistent with themselves. The more candid and humane part of mankind\nentirely go along with the efforts which he thus makes to support\nhimself in his own opinion. They exert their whole generosity and\ngreatness of mind, to correct in themselves this irregularity of human\nnature, and endeavour to regard his unfortunate magnanimity in the same\nlight in which, had it been successful, they would, without any such\ngenerous exertion, have naturally been disposed to consider it.\n\n\n\n\n PART III.\n Of the foundation of our judgments concerning our own sentiments and\n conduct, and of the sense of duty.\n\n CONSISTING OF ONE SECTION.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. I.\n _Of the consciousness of merited praise or blame._\n\n\nIn the two foregoing parts of this discourse, I have chiefly considered\nthe origin and foundation of our judgments concerning the sentiments and\nconduct of others. I come now to consider the origin of those concerning\nour own.\n\nThe desire of the approbation and esteem of those we live with, which is\nof such importance to our happiness, cannot be fully and entirely\ncontented but by rendering ourselves the just and proper objects of\nthose sentiments, and by adjusting our own character and conduct\naccording to those measures and rules by which esteem and approbation\nare naturally bestowed. It is not sufficient, that from ignorance or\nmistake, esteem and approbation should some way or other be bestowed\nupon us. If we are conscious that we do not deserve to be so favourably\nthought of, and that if the truth was known, we should be regarded with\nvery opposite sentiments, our satisfaction is far from being complete.\nThe man who applauds us either for actions which we did not perform, or\nfor motives which had no sort of influence upon our conduct, applauds\nnot us, but another person. We can derive no sort of satisfaction from\nhis praises. To us they should be more mortifying than any censure, and\nshould perpetually call to our minds, the most humbling of all\nreflections, the reflection upon what we ought to be, but what we are\nnot. A woman who paints to conceal her ugliness, could derive, one\nshould imagine, but little vanity from the compliments that are paid to\nher beauty. These, we should expect, ought rather to put her in mind of\nthe sentiments which her real complexion would excite, and mortify her\nmore by the contrast. To be pleased with such groundless applause is a\nproof of the most superficial levity and weakness. It is what is\nproperly called vanity, and is the foundation of the most ridiculous and\ncontemptible vices, the vices of affectation and common lying; follies\nwhich, if experience did not teach us how common they are, one should\nimagine the least spark of common sense would save us from. The foolish\nliar, who endeavours to excite the admiration of the company by the\nrelation of adventures which never had any existence, the important\ncoxcomb who gives himself airs of rank and distinction which he well\nknows he has no just pretensions to, are both of them, no doubt, pleased\nwith the applause which they fancy they meet with. But their vanity\narises from so gross an illusion of the imagination, that it is\ndifficult to conceive how any rational creature should be imposed upon\nby it. When they place themselves in the situation of those whom they\nfancy they have deceived, they are struck with the highest admiration\nfor their own persons. They look upon themselves, not in that light in\nwhich, they know, they ought to appear to their companions, but in that\nin which they believe their companions actually look upon them. Their\nsuperficial weakness and trivial folly hinder them from ever turning\ntheir eyes inwards, or from seeing themselves in that despicable point\nof view in which their own consciences should tell them that they would\nappear to every body, if the real truth should ever come to be known.\n\nAs ignorant and groundless praise can give no solid joy, no satisfaction\nthat will bear any serious examination, so, on the contrary, it often\ngives real comfort to reflect, that though no praise should actually be\nbestowed upon us, our conduct, however, has been such as to deserve it,\nand has been in every respect suitable to those measures and rules by\nwhich praise and approbation are naturally and commonly bestowed. We are\npleased not only with praise, but with having done what is\npraise-worthy. We are pleased to think that we have rendered ourselves\nthe natural objects of approbation, though no approbation, should ever\nactually be bestowed upon us: and we are mortified to reflect that we\nhave justly incurred the blame of those we live with, though that\nsentiment should never actually be exerted against us. The man who is\nconscious to himself that he has exactly observed those measures of\nconduct which experience informs him are generally agreeable, reflects\nwith satisfaction on the propriety of his own behaviour; when he views\nit in the light in which the impartial spectator would view it, he\nthoroughly enters into all the motives which influenced it; he looks\nback upon every part of it with pleasure and approbation, and though\nmankind should never be acquainted with what he has done, he regards\nhimself not so much according to the light in which they actually regard\nhim, as according to that, in which they would regard him if they were\nbetter informed. He anticipates the applause and admiration which in\nthis case would be bestowed upon him, and he applauds and admires\nhimself by sympathy with sentiments which do not indeed actually take\nplace, but which the ignorance of the public alone hinders from taking\nplace, which he knows are the natural and ordinary effects of such\nconduct, which his imagination strongly connects with it, and which he\nhas acquired a habit of conceiving as something that naturally and in\npropriety ought to flow from it. Men have often voluntarily thrown away\nlife to acquire after death a renown which they could no longer enjoy.\nTheir imagination, in the mean time, anticipated that fame which was\nthereafter to be bestowed upon them. Those applauses which they were\nnever to hear rung in their ears; the thoughts of that admiration, whose\neffects they were never to feel, played about their hearts, banished\nfrom their breasts the strongest of all natural fears, and transported\nthem to perform actions which seem aimed beyond the reach of human\nnature. But in point of reality there is surely no great difference\nbetween that approbation which is not to be bestowed till we can no\nlonger enjoy it, and that which indeed is never to be bestowed, but\nwhich would be bestowed if the world was ever made to understand\nproperly the real circumstances of our behaviour. If the one often\nproduces such violent effects, we cannot wonder that the other should\nalways be highly regarded.\n\nOn the contrary, the man who has broke through all those measures of\nconduct, which can alone render him agreeable to mankind, tho\u2019 he should\nhave the most perfect assurance that what he had done was for ever to be\nconcealed from every human eye, it is all to no purpose. When he looks\nback upon it, and views it in the light in which the impartial spectator\nwould view it, he finds that he can enter into none of the motives which\ninfluenced it. He is abashed and confounded at the thoughts of it, and\nnecessarily feels a very high degree of that shame which he would be\nexposed to, if his actions should ever come to be generally known. His\nimagination, in this case too, anticipates the contempt and derision\nfrom which nothing saves him but the ignorance of those he lives with.\nHe still feels that he is the natural object of these sentiments, and\nstill trembles at the thought of what he would suffer if they were ever\nactually exerted against him. But if what he had been guilty of was not\nmerely one of those improprieties which are the objects of simple\ndisapprobation, but one of those enormous crimes which excite\ndetestation and resentment, he could never think of it, as long as he\nhad any sensibility left, without feeling all the agony of horror and\nremorse; and though he could be assured that no man was ever to know it,\nand could even bring himself to believe that there was no God to revenge\nit, he would still feel enough of both these sentiments to embitter the\nwhole of his life: He would still regard himself as the natural object\nof the hatred and indignation of all his fellow-creatures; and if his\nheart was not grown callous by the habit of crimes, he could not think\nwithout terror and astonishment even of the manner in which mankind\nwould look upon him, of what would be the expression of their\ncountenance and of their eyes, if the dreadful truth should ever come to\nbe known. These natural pangs of an affrighted conscience are the\nd\u00e6mons, the avenging furies which in this life haunt the guilty, which\nallow them neither quiet nor repose, which often drive them to despair\nand distraction, from which no assurance of secrecy can protect them,\nfrom which no principles of irreligion can entirely deliver them, and\nfrom which nothing can free them but the vilest and most abject of all\nstates, a complete insensibility of honour and infamy, to vice and\nvirtue. Men of the most detestable characters, who, in the execution of\nthe most dreadful crimes, had taken their measures so coolly as to avoid\neven the suspicion of guilt, have sometimes been driven, by the horror\nof their situation, to discover of their own accord, what no human\nsagacity could ever have investigated. By acknowledging their guilt, by\nsubmitting themselves to the resentment of their offended citizens, and\nby thus satiating that vengeance of which they were sensible that they\nwere become the proper objects, they hoped by their death to reconcile\nthemselves, at least in their own imagination, to the natural sentiments\nof mankind, to be able to consider themselves as less worthy of hatred\nand resentment, to atone in some measure for their crimes, and, if\npossible, to die in peace and with the forgiveness of all their\nfellow-creatures. Compared to what they felt before the discovery, even\nthe thought of this, it seems, was happiness.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. II.\n _In what manner our own judgments refer to what ought to be the\n judgments of others: and of the origin of general rules._\n\n\nA great part, perhaps the greatest part, of human happiness and misery\narises from the view of our past conduct, and from the degree of\napprobation or disapprobation which we feel from the consideration of\nit. But in whatever manner it may affect us, our sentiments of this kind\nhave always some secret reference either to what are, or to what upon a\ncertain condition would be, or to what we imagine ought to be the\nsentiments of others. We examine it as we imagine an impartial spectator\nwould examine it. If upon placing ourselves in his situation we\nthoroughly enter into all the passions and motives which influenced it,\nwe approve of it by sympathy with the approbation of this supposed\nequitable judge. If otherwise, we enter into his disapprobation and\ncondemn it.\n\nWas it possible that a human creature could grow up to manhood in some\nsolitary place without any communication with his own species, he could\nno more think of his own character, of the propriety or demerit of his\nown sentiments and conduct, of the beauty or deformity of his own mind,\nthan of the beauty or deformity of his own face. All these are objects\nwhich he cannot easily see, which naturally he does not look at; and\nwith regard to which he is provided with no mirror which can present\nthem to his view. Bring him into society, and he is immediately provided\nwith the mirror which he wanted before. It is placed in the countenance\nand behaviour of those he lives with, which always mark when they enter\ninto, and when they disapprove of his sentiments; and it is here that he\nfirst views the propriety and impropriety of his own passions, the\nbeauty and deformity of his own mind. To a man who from his birth was a\nstranger to society, the objects of his passions, the external bodies\nwhich either pleased or hurt him, would occupy his whole attention. The\npassions themselves, the desires or aversions, the joys or sorrows,\nwhich those objects excited, though of all things the most immediately\npresent to him, could scarce ever be the objects of his thoughts. The\nidea of them could never interest him so much as to call upon his\nattentive consideration. The consideration of his joy could in him\nexcite no new joy, nor that of his sorrow any new sorrow, though the\nconsideration of the causes of those passions might often excite both.\nBring him into society, and all his own passions will immediately become\nthe causes of new passions. He will observe that mankind approve of some\nof them, and are disgusted by others. He will be elevated in the one\ncase, and cast down in the other; his desires and aversions, his joys\nand sorrows will now often become the causes of new desires and new\naversions, new joys and new sorrows: they will now therefore interest\nhim deeply, and often call upon his most attentive consideration.\n\nOur first ideas of personal beauty and deformity, are drawn from the\nshape and appearance of others, not from our own. We soon become\nsensible, however, that others exercise the same criticism upon us. We\nare pleased when they approve of our figure, and are disobliged when\nthey seem to be disgusted. We become anxious to know how far our\nappearance deserves either their blame or approbation. We examine our\nown persons limb by limb, and by placing ourselves before a\nlooking-glass, or by some such expedient, endeavour, as much as\npossible, to view ourselves at the distance and with the eyes of other\npeople. If after this examination we are satisfied with our own\nappearance, we can more easily support the most disadvantageous\njudgments of others: if, on the contrary, we are sensible that we are\nthe natural objects of distaste, every appearance of their\ndisapprobation mortifies us beyond all measure. A man who is tolerably\nhandsome, will allow you to laugh at any little irregularity in his\nperson; but all such jokes are commonly insupportable to one who is\nreally deformed. It is evident, however, that we are anxious about our\nown beauty and deformity only on account of its effect upon others. If\nwe had no connexion with society, we should be altogether indifferent\nabout either.\n\nIn the same manner our first moral criticisms are exercised upon the\ncharacters and conduct of other people; and we are all very forward to\nobserve how each of these affects us. But we soon learn, that others are\nequally frank with regard to our own. We become anxious to know how far\nwe deserve their censure or applause, and whether to them we must\nnecessarily appear those agreeable or disagreeable creatures which they\nrepresent us. We begin upon this account to examine our own passions and\nconduct, and to consider how these must appear to them, by considering\nhow they would appear to us if in their situation. We suppose ourselves\nthe spectators of our own behaviour, and endeavour to imagine what\neffect it would, in this light, produce upon us. This is the only\nlooking-glass by which we can, in some measure, with the eyes of others,\nscrutinize the propriety of our own conduct. If in this view it pleases\nus, we are tolerably satisfied. We can be more indifferent about the\napplause, and, in some measure, despise the censure of others; secure\nthat, however misunderstood or misrepresented, we are the natural and\nproper objects of approbation. On the contrary, if we are displeased\nwith it, we are often upon that very account more anxious to gain their\napprobation, and, provided we have not already, as they say, shaken\nhands with infamy, we are altogether distracted at the thoughts of their\ncensure, which then strikes us with double severity.\n\nWhen I endeavour to examine my own conduct, when I endeavour to pass\nsentence upon it, and either to approve or condemn it, it is evident\nthat, in all such cases, I divide myself, as it were, into two persons,\nand that I, the examiner and judge, represent a different character from\nthat other I, the person whose conduct is examined into and judged of.\nThe first is the spectator, whose sentiments with regard to my own\nconduct I endeavour to enter into, by placing myself in his situation,\nand by considering how it would appear to me when seen from that\nparticular point of view. The second is the agent, the person whom I\nproperly call myself, and of whose conduct, under the character of a\nspectator, I was endeavouring to form some opinion. The first is the\njudge; the second the pannel. But that the judge should, in every\nrespect, be the same with the pannel, is as impossible, as that the\ncause should, in every respect, be the same with the effect.\n\nTo be amiable and to be meritorious, that is, to deserve love and to\ndeserve reward, are the great characters of virtue, and to be odious and\npunishable, of vice. But all these characters have an immediate\nreference to the sentiments of others. Virtue is not said to be amiable\nor to be meritorious, because it is the object of its own love, or of\nits own gratitude; but because it excites those sentiments in other men.\nThe consciousness that it is the object of such favourable regards is\nthe source of that inward tranquillity and self-satisfaction with which\nit is naturally attended, as the suspicion of the contrary gives\noccasion to the torments of vice. What so great happiness as to be\nbeloved, and to know that we deserve to be beloved? What so great misery\nas to be hated, and to know that we deserve to be hated?\n\nMan is considered as a moral, because he is regarded as an accountable\nbeing. But an accountable being, as the word expresses, is a being that\nmust give an account of its actions to some other, and that consequently\nmust regulate them according to the good liking of this other. Man is\naccountable to God and his fellow-creatures. But though he is, no doubt,\nprincipally accountable to God; in the order of time, he must\nnecessarily conceive himself as accountable to his fellow-creatures,\nbefore he can form any idea of the Deity, or of the rules by which that\ndivine being will judge of his conduct. A child surely conceives itself\nas accountable to its parents, and is elevated or cast down by the\nthought of their merited approbation or disapprobation, long before it\nforms any idea of its accountableness to the Deity, or of the rules by\nwhich that divine being will judge of its conduct.\n\nThe great judge of the world, has, for the wisest reasons, thought\nproper to interpose, between the weak eye of human reason, and the\nthrone of his eternal justice, a degree of obscurity and darkness, which\nthough it does not entirely cover that great tribunal from the view of\nmankind, yet renders the impression of it faint and feeble in comparison\nof what might be expected from the grandeur and importance of so mighty\nan object. If those infinite rewards and punishments which the Almighty\nhas prepared for those who obey or transgress his will, were perceived\nas distinctly as we foresee the frivolous and temporary retaliations\nwhich we may expect from one another, the weakness of human nature,\nastonished at the immensity of objects so little fitted to its\ncomprehension, could no longer attend to the little affairs of this\nworld; and it is absolutely impossible that the business of society\ncould have been carried on, if, in this respect, there had been a fuller\nrevelation of the intentions of Providence than that which has already\nbeen made. That men, however, might never be without a rule to direct\ntheir conduct by, nor without a judge whose authority should enforce its\nobservation, the Author of nature has made man the immediate judge of\nmankind, and has, in this respect, as in many others, created him after\nhis own image, and appointed him his vicegerent upon earth, to\nsuperintend the behaviour of his brethren. They are taught by nature to\nacknowledge that power and jurisdiction which has thus been conferred\nupon him, and to tremble and exult according as they imagine that they\nhave either merited his censure, or deserved his applause.\n\nBut whatever may be the authority of this inferior tribunal which is\ncontinually before their eyes, if at any time it should decide contrary\nto those principles and rules, which Nature has established for\nregulating its judgments, men feel that they may appeal from this unjust\ndecision, and call upon a superior tribunal, the tribunal established in\ntheir own breasts, to redress the injustice of this weak or partial\njudgment.\n\nThere are certain principles established by Nature for governing our\njudgment concerning the conduct of those we live with. As long as we\ndecide according to those principles, and neither applaud nor condemn\nany thing which Nature has not rendered the proper object of applause or\ncondemnation, nor any further than she has rendered it such, as our\nsentence is, in this case, if I may say so, quite agreeable to law, it\nis liable neither to repeal nor to correction of any kind. The person\nconcerning whom we form these judgments, must himself necessarily\napprove of them. When he puts himself into our situation, he cannot\navoid viewing his own conduct in the very same light in which we appear\nto view it. He is sensible, that to us, and to every impartial\nspectator, he must necessarily appear the natural and proper object of\nthose sentiments which we express with regard to him. Those sentiments,\ntherefore, must necessarily produce their full effect upon him, and he\ncannot fail to conceive all the triumph of self-approbation from, what\nappears to him, such merited applause, as well as all the horrors of\nshame from, what, he is sensible, is such deserved condemnation.\n\nBut it is otherwise, if we have either applauded or condemned him,\ncontrary to those principles and rules which Nature has established for\nthe direction of our judgments concerning every thing of this kind. If\nwe have either applauded or condemned him for what, when he put himself\ninto our situation, does not appear to him to be the object either of\napplause or condemnation; as in this case he cannot enter into our\nsentiments, provided he has any constancy or firmness, he is but little\naffected by them, and can neither be much elevated by the favourable,\nnor greatly mortified by the unfavourable decision. The applause of the\nwhole world will avail but little, if our own conscience condemn us; and\nthe disapprobation of all mankind is not capable of oppressing us, when\nwe are absolved by the tribunal within our own breast, and when our own\nmind tells us that mankind are in the wrong.\n\nBut though this tribunal within the breast be thus the supreme arbiter\nof all our actions, though it can reverse the decisions of all mankind\nwith regard to our character and conduct, and mortify us amidst the\napplause, or support us under the censure of the world; yet, if we\ninquire into the origin of its institution, its jurisdiction we shall\nfind is in a great measure derived from the authority of that very\ntribunal, whose decisions it so often and so justly reverses.\n\nWhen we first come into the world, from the natural desire to please, we\naccustom ourselves to consider what behaviour is likely to be agreeable\nto every person we converse with, to our parents, to our masters, to our\ncompanions. We address ourselves to individuals, and for some time\nfondly pursue the impossible and absurd project of gaining the good-will\nand approbation of every body. We are soon taught by experience,\nhowever, that this universal approbation is altogether unattainable. As\nsoon as we come to have more important interests to manage, we find,\nthat by pleasing one man, we almost certainly disoblige another, and\nthat by humouring an individual, we may often irritate a whole people.\nThe fairest and most equitable conduct must frequently obstruct the\ninterests, or thwart the inclinations of particular persons, who will\nseldom have candour enough to enter into the propriety of our motives,\nor to see that this conduct, how disagreeable soever to them, is\nperfectly suitable to our situation. In order to defend ourselves from\nsuch partial judgments, we soon learn to set up in our own minds a judge\nbetween ourselves and those we live with. We conceive ourselves as\nacting in the presence of a person quite candid and equitable, of one\nwho has no particular relation either to ourselves, or to those whose\ninterests are affected by our conduct, who is neither father, nor\nbrother, nor friend either to them or to us, but is merely a man in\ngeneral, an impartial spectator who considers our conduct with the same\nindifference with which we regard that of other people. If, when we\nplace ourselves in the situation of such a person, our own actions\nappear to us under an agreeable aspect, if we feel that such a spectator\ncannot avoid entering into all the motives which influenced us, whatever\nmay be the judgments of the world, we must still be pleased with our own\nbehaviour, and regard ourselves, in spite of the censure of our\ncompanions, as the just and proper objects of approbation.\n\nOn the contrary, if the man within condemns us, the loudest acclamations\nof mankind appear but as the noise of ignorance and folly, and whenever\nwe assume the character of this impartial judge, we cannot avoid viewing\nour own actions with this distaste and dissatisfaction. The weak, the\nvain, and the frivolous, indeed, may be mortified by the most groundless\ncensure, or elated by the most absurd applause. Such persons are not\naccustomed to consult the judge within concerning the opinion which they\nought to form of their own conduct. This inmate of the breast, this\nabstract man, the representative of mankind, and substitute of the\nDeity, whom Nature has constituted the supreme judge of all their\nactions, is seldom appealed to by them. They are contented with the\ndecision of the inferior tribunal. The approbation of their companions,\nof the particular persons whom they have lived and conversed with, has\ngenerally been the ultimate object of all their wishes. If they obtain\nthis, their joy is complete; and if they fail, they are entirely\ndisappointed. They never think of appealing to the superior court. They\nhave seldom inquired after its decisions, and are altogether\nunacquainted with the rules and forms of its procedure. When the world\ninjures them, therefore, they are incapable of doing themselves justice,\nand are, in consequence, necessarily the slaves of the world. But it is\notherwise with the man who has, upon all occasions, been accustomed to\nhave recourse to the judge within, and to consider, not what the world\napproves or disapproves of, but what appears to this impartial\nspectator, the natural and proper object of approbation or\ndisapprobation. The judgment of this supreme arbiter of his conduct, is\nthe applause, which he has been accustomed principally to court, is the\ncensure which he has been accustomed principally to fear. Compared with\nthis final decision, the sentiments of all mankind, though not\naltogether indifferent, appear to be but of small moment; and he is\nincapable of being either much elevated by their favourable, or greatly\ndepressed by their most disadvantageous judgment.\n\nIt is only by consulting this judge within, that we can see whatever\nrelates to ourselves in its proper shape and dimensions, or that we can\nmake any proper comparison between our own interests and those of other\nmen.\n\nAs to the eye of the body, objects appear great or small, not so much\naccording to their real dimensions, as according to the nearness or\ndistance of their situation; so do they likewise to what may be called\nthe natural eye of the mind: and we remedy the defects of both these\norgans pretty much in the same manner. In my present situation an\nimmense landscape of lawns, and woods, and distant mountains, seems to\ndo no more than cover the little window which I write by, and to be out\nof all proportion less than the chamber in which I am sitting. I can\nform a just comparison between those great objects and the little\nobjects around me, in no other way, than by transporting myself, at\nleast in fancy, to a different station, from whence I can survey both at\nnearly equal distances, and thereby form some judgment of their real\nproportions. Habit and experience have taught me to do this so easily\nand so readily, that I am scarce sensible that I do it; and a man must\nbe, in some measure, acquainted with the philosophy of vision, before he\ncan be thoroughly convinced, how little those distant objects would\nappear to the eye, if the imagination, from a knowledge of their real\nmagnitudes, did not swell and dilate them.\n\nIn the same manner, to the selfish and original passions of human\nnature, the loss or gain of a very small interest of our own, appears to\nbe of vastly more importance, excites a much more passionate joy or\nsorrow, a much more ardent desire or aversion, than the greatest concern\nof another with whom we have no particular connexion. His interests, as\nlong as they are surveyed from this station, can never be put into the\nbalance with our own, can never restrain us from doing whatever may tend\nto promote our own, how ruinous soever to him. Before we can make any\nproper comparison of those opposite interests, we must change our\nposition. We must view them, neither from our own place, nor yet from\nhis, neither with our own eyes nor yet with his, but from the place, and\nwith the eyes of a third person, who has no particular connexion with\neither, and who judges with impartiality between us. Here too, habit and\nexperience have taught us to do this so easily and so readily, that we\nare scarce sensible that we do it; and it requires, in this case too,\nsome degree of reflection, and even of philosophy to convince us, how\nlittle interest we should take in the greatest concerns of our\nneighbour, how little we should be affected by whatever relates to him,\nif the sense of propriety and justice did not correct the otherwise\nnatural inequality of our sentiments.\n\nLet us suppose that the great empire of China, with all its myriads of\ninhabitants, was suddenly swallowed up by an earthquake, and let us\nconsider how a man of humanity in Europe, who had no sort of connexion\nwith that part of the world, would be affected upon receiving\nintelligence of this dreadful calamity. He would, I imagine, first of\nall, express very strongly his sorrow for the misfortune of that unhappy\npeople, he would make many melancholy reflections upon the\nprecariousness of human life, and the vanity of all the labours of man,\nwhich could thus be annihilated in a moment. He would too, perhaps, if\nhe was a man of speculation, enter into many reasonings concerning the\neffects which this disaster might produce upon the commerce of Europe,\nand the trade and business of the world in general. And when all this\nfine philosophy was over, when all these humane sentiments had been once\nfairly expressed, he would pursue his business or his pleasure, take his\nrepose or his diversion, with the same ease and tranquility, as if no\nsuch accident had happened. The most frivolous disaster which could\nbefal himself would occasion a more real disturbance. If he was to lose\nhis little finger to-morrow, he would not sleep to-night; but provided\nhe never saw them, he will snore with the most profound security over\nthe ruin of a hundred millions of his brethren, and the destruction of\nthat immense multitude seems plainly an object less interesting to him,\nthan this paultry misfortune of his own. To prevent therefore, this\npaultry misfortune to himself would a man of humanity be willing to\nsacrifice the lives of a hundred millions of his brethren, provided he\nhad never seen them? Human nature startles with horror at the thought,\nand the world, in its greatest depravity and corruption, never produced\nsuch a villain as could be capable of entertaining it. But what makes\nthis difference? When our passive feelings are almost always so sordid\nand so selfish, how comes it that our active principles should often be\nso generous and so noble? When we are always so much more deeply\naffected by whatever concerns ourselves, than by whatever concerns other\nmen; what is it which prompts the generous, upon all occasions, and the\nmean upon many, to sacrifice their own interests to the greater\ninterests of others? It is not the soft power of humanity, it is not\nthat feeble spark of benevolence which Nature has lighted up in the\nhuman heart, that is thus capable of counteracting the strongest\nimpulses of self-love. It is a stronger power, a more forcible motive,\nwhich exerts itself upon such occasions. It is reason, principle,\nconscience, the inhabitant of the breast, the man within, the great\njudge and arbiter of our conduct. It is he, who, whenever we are about\nto act so as to affect the happiness of others, calls to us with a voice\ncapable of astonishing the most presumptuous of our passions, that we\nare but one of the multitude, in no respect better than any other in it;\nand that when we prefer ourselves so shamefully and so blindly to\nothers, we become the proper objects of resentment, abhorrence, and\nexecration. It is from him only that we learn the real littleness of\nourselves, and of whatever relates to ourselves, and the natural\nmisrepresentations of self-love can be corrected only by the eye of this\nimpartial spectator. It is he who shows us the propriety of generality\nand the deformity of injustice; the propriety of resigning the greatest\ninterests of our own, for the yet greater interests of others, and the\ndeformity of doing the smallest injury to another, in order to obtain\nthe greatest benefit to ourselves. It is not the love of our neighbour,\nit is not the love of mankind, which upon many occasions prompts us to\nthe practice of those divine virtues. It is a stronger love, a more\npowerful affection which generally takes place upon such occasions, the\nlove of what is honourable and noble, of the grandeur, and dignity, and\nsuperiority of our own characters.\n\nWhen the happiness or misery of others depends in any respect upon our\nconduct, we dare not, as self-love would suggest to us, prefer any\nlittle interest of our own, to the yet greater interest of our\nneighbour. We feel that we should become the proper objects of the\nresentment and indignation of our brethren, and the sense of the\nimpropriety of this affection is supported and enlivened by the yet\nstronger sense of the demerit of the action, which it would in this case\ngive occasion to. But when the happiness or misery of others in no\nrespect depends upon our conduct, when our own interests are altogether\nseparated and detached from theirs, so that there is neither connexion\nnor competition between them, as the sense of demerit does not in this\ncase interpose, the mere sense of impropriety is seldom able to restrain\nus from abandoning ourselves to our natural anxiety about our own\naffairs, and to our natural indifference about those of other men. The\nmost vulgar education teaches us to act, upon all important occasions,\nwith some sort of impartiality between ourselves and others, and even\nthe ordinary commerce of the world is capable of adjusting our active\nprinciples to some degree of propriety. But it is the most artificial\nand refined education only, which pretends to correct the inequalities\nof our passive feelings, and we must for this purpose have recourse to\nthe severest, as well as to the profoundest philosophy.\n\nTwo different sets of philosophers have attempted to teach us this\nhardest of all the lessons of morality. One set have laboured to\nincrease our sensibility to the interests of others; another to diminish\nthat to our own. The first would have us feel for others as we naturally\nfeel for ourselves. The second would have us feel for ourselves, as we\nnaturally feel for others.\n\nThe first are those melancholy moralists, who are perpetually\nreproaching us with our happiness, while so many of our brethren are in\nmisery,[6] who regard as impious the natural joy of prosperity, which\ndoes not think of the many wretches that are at every instant labouring\nunder all sorts of calamities, in the languor of poverty, in the agony\nof disease, in the horrors of death, under the insults and oppression of\ntheir enemies. Commiseration for those miseries which we never saw,\nwhich we never heard of, but which we may be assured are at all times\ninfecting such numbers of our fellow-creatures, ought, they think, to\ndamp the pleasures of the fortunate, and to render a certain melancholy\ndejection habitual to all men. But first of all, this extreme sympathy\nwith misfortunes, which we know nothing about, seems altogether absurd\nand unreasonable. Take the whole earth at an average, for one man who\nsuffers pain or misery, you will find twenty in prosperity and joy, or\nat least in tolerable circumstances. No reason, surely, can be assigned\nwhy we should rather weep with the one than rejoice with the twenty.\nThis artificial commiseration, besides, is not only absurd, but seems\naltogether unattainable; and those who affect this character have\ncommonly nothing but a certain hypocritical sadness, which, without\nreaching the heart, serves only to render the countenance and\nconvocation impertinently dismal and disagreeable. And last of all, this\ndisposition of mind, though it could be attained, would be perfectly\nuseless, and could serve no other purpose than to render miserable the\nperson who was possessed of it. Whatever interest we take in the fortune\nof those with whom we have no acquaintance or connexion, and who are\nplaced altogether out of the sphere of our activity, can produce only\nanxiety to ourselves, without any manner of advantage to them. To what\npurpose should we trouble ourselves about the world in the moon? All\nmen, even those at the greatest distance, are no doubt entitled to our\ngood wishes, and our good wishes we naturally give them. But if,\nnotwithstanding, they should be unfortunate, to give ourselves any\nanxiety upon that account, seems to be no part of our duty. That we\nshould be but little interested, therefore, in the fortune of those whom\nwe can neither serve nor hurt, and who are in every respect so very\nremote from us, seems wisely ordered by nature; and if it were possible\nto alter in this respect the original constitution of our frame, we\ncould yet gain nothing by the change.\n\nFootnote 6:\n\n See Thomson\u2019s Seasons, Winter:\n\n \u201cAh! little think the gay licentious proud,\u201d &c.\n\n See also Pascal.\n\nAmong the moralists who endeavour to correct the natural inequality of\nour passive feelings by diminishing our sensibility to what peculiarly\nconcerns ourselves, we may count all the ancient sects of philosophers,\nbut particularly the ancient stoics. Man, according to the stoics, ought\nto regard himself, not as something separated and detached, but as a\ncitizen of the world, a member of the vast commonwealth of nature. To\nthe interest of this great community, he ought at all times to be\nwilling that his own little interest should be sacrificed. Whatever\nconcerns himself, ought to affect him no more than whatever concerns any\nother equally important part of this immense system. We should view\nourselves, not in the light in which our own selfish passions are apt to\nplace us, but in the light in which any other citizen of the world would\nview us. What befalls ourselves we should regard as what befalls our\nneighbour, or, what comes to the same thing, as our neighbour regards\nwhat befalls us. \u201cWhen our neighbour,\u201d says Epictetus, \u201closes his wife\nor his son, there is nobody who is not sensible that this is a human\ncalamity, a natural event altogether, according to the ordinary course\nof things: but when the same thing happens to ourselves, then we cry\nout, as if we had suffered the most dreadful misfortune. We ought,\nhowever, to remember how we were affected when this accident happened to\nanother, and such as we were in his case, such ought we to be in our\nown.\u201d How difficult soever it may be to attain this supreme degree of\nmagnanimity and firmness, it is by no means either absurd or useless to\nattempt it. Though few men have the stoical idea of what this perfect\npropriety requires, yet all men endeavour in some measure to command\nthemselves, and to bring down their selfish passions to something which\ntheir neighbour can go along with. But this can never be done so\neffectually as by viewing whatever befalls themselves in the light in\nwhich their neighbours are apt to view it. The stoical philosophy, in\nthis respect, does little more than unfold our natural ideas of\nperfection. There is nothing absurd or improper, therefore, in aiming at\nthis perfect self-command. Neither would the attainment of it be\nuseless, but, on the contrary, the most advantageous of all things, as\nestablishing our happiness upon the most solid and secure foundation, a\nfirm confidence in that wisdom and justice which governs the world, and\nan entire resignation of ourselves, and of whatever relates to ourselves\nto the all-wise disposal of this ruling principle in nature.\n\nIt scarce ever happens, however, that we are capable of adjusting our\npassive feelings to this perfect propriety. We indulge ourselves, and\neven the world indulges us, in some degree of irregularity in this\nrespect. Though we should be too much affected by what concerns\nourselves, and too little by what concerns other men, yet, if we always\nact with impartiality between ourselves and others, if we never actually\nsacrifice any great interest of others, to any little interest of our\nown, we are easily pardoned: and it were well, if, upon all occasions,\nthose who desire to do their duty were capable of maintaining even this\ndegree of impartiality between themselves and others. But this is very\nfar from being the case. Even in good men, the judge within is often in\ndanger of being corrupted by the violence and injustice of their selfish\npassions, and is often induced to make a report very different from what\nthe real circumstances of the case are capable of authorizing.\n\nThere are two different occasions, upon which we examine our own\nconduct, and endeavour to view it in the light in which the impartial\nspectator would view it. First, when we are about to act; and, secondly,\nafter we have acted. Our views are very partial in both cases, but they\nare most so, when it is of most importance that they should be\notherwise.\n\nWhen we are about to act, the eagerness of passion will seldom allow us\nto consider what we are doing with the candour of an indifferent person.\nThe violent emotions which at that time agitate us, discolour our views\nof things, even when we are endeavouring to place ourselves in the\nsituation of another, and to regard the objects that interest us, in the\nlight in which they will naturally appear to him. The fury of our own\npassions constantly calls us back to our own place, where every thing\nappears magnified and misrepresented by self-love. Of the manner in\nwhich those objects would appear to another, of the view which he would\ntake of them, we can obtain, if I may say so, but instantaneous\nglimpses, which vanish in a moment, and which even while they last are\nnot altogether just. We cannot even for that moment divest ourselves\nentirely of the heat and keenness with which our peculiar situation\ninspires us, nor consider what we are about to do with the complete\nimpartiality of an equitable judge. The passions, upon this account, as\nfather Malebranche says, all justify themselves, and seem reasonable,\nand proportioned to their objects, as long as we continue to feel them.\n\nWhen the action is over, indeed, and the passions which prompted it have\nsubsided, we can enter more coolly into sentiments of the indifferent\nspectator. What before interested us, is now become almost as\nindifferent to us as it always was to him, and we can now examine our\nown conduct with his candour and impartiality. But our judgments now are\nof little importance, compared to what they were before; and when they\nare most severely impartial, can commonly produce nothing but vain\nregret, and unavailing repentance, without securing us from the like\nerrors for the future. It is seldom, however, that they are quite candid\neven in this case. The opinion which we entertain of our own character,\ndepends entirely on our judgment concerning our past conduct. It is so\ndisagreeable to think ill of ourselves, that we often purposely turn\naway our view from those circumstances which might render that judgment\nunfavourable. He is a bold surgeon, they say, whose hand does not\ntremble when he performs an operation upon his own person; and he is\noften equally bold who does not hesitate to pull off the mysterious veil\nof self-delusion, which covers from his view the deformities of his own\nconduct. Rather than see our own behaviour under so disagreeable an\naspect, we too often, foolishly and weakly, endeavour to exasperate anew\nthose unjust passions which had formerly misled us; we endeavour by\nartifice to awaken our old hatreds, and irritate afresh our almost\nforgotten resentments: we even exert ourselves for this miserable\npurpose, and thus persevere in injustice, merely because we once were\nunjust, and because we are ashamed and afraid to see that we were so.\n\nSo partial are the views of mankind with regard to the propriety of\ntheir own conduct, both at the time of action and after it; and so\ndifficult is it for them to view it in the light in which any\nindifferent spectator would consider it. But if it was by a peculiar\nfaculty, such as the moral sense is supposed to be, that they judged of\ntheir own conduct, if they were endued with a particular power of\nperception, which distinguished the beauty or deformity of passions and\naffections; as their own passions would be more immediately exposed to\nthe view of this faculty, it would judge with more accuracy concerning\nthem, than concerning those of other men, of which it had only a more\ndistant prospect.\n\nThis self-deceit, this fatal weakness of mankind, is the source of half\nthe disorders of human life. If we saw ourselves in the light in which\nothers see us, or in which they would see us if they knew all, a\nreformation would generally be unavoidable. We could not otherwise\nendure the sight.\n\nNature, however, has not left this weakness, which is of so much\nimportance, altogether without a remedy; nor has she abandoned us\nentirely to the delusions of self-love. Our continual observations upon\nthe conduct of others, insensibly lead us to form to ourselves certain\ngeneral rules concerning what is fit and proper either to be done or to\nbe avoided. Some of their actions shock all our natural sentiments. We\nhear every body about us express the like detestation against them. This\nstill further confirms, and even exasperates our natural sense of their\ndeformity. It satisfies us that we view them in the proper light, when\nwe see other people view them in the same light. We resolve never to be\nguilty of the like, nor ever, upon any account, to render ourselves in\nthis manner the objects of universal disapprobation. We thus naturally\nlay down to ourselves a general rule, that all such actions are to be\navoided, as tending to render us odious, contemptible, or punishable,\nthe objects of all those sentiments for which we have the greatest dread\nand aversion. Other actions, on the contrary, call forth our\napprobation, and we hear every body around us express the same\nfavourable opinion concerning them. Every body is eager to honour and\nreward them. They excite all those sentiments for which we have by\nnature the strongest desire; the love, the gratitude, the admiration of\nmankind. We become ambitious of performing the like; and thus naturally\nlay down to ourselves a rule of another kind, that every opportunity of\nacting in this manner is carefully to be sought after.\n\nIt is thus that the general rules of morality are formed. They are\nultimately founded upon experience of what, in particular instances, our\nmoral faculties, our natural sense of merit and propriety, approve, or\ndisapprove of. We do not originally approve or condemn particular\nactions; because, upon examination, they appear to be agreeable or\ninconsistent with a certain general rule. The general rule, on the\ncontrary, is formed by finding from experience, that all actions of a\ncertain kind, or circumstanced in a certain manner, are approved or\ndisapproved of. To the man who first saw an inhuman murder, committed\nfrom avarice, envy, or unjust resentment, and upon one too that loved\nand trusted the murderer, who beheld the last agonies of the dying\nperson, who heard him, with his expiring breath, complain more of the\nperfidy and ingratitude of his false friend, than of the violence which\nhad been done to him, there could be no occasion, in order to conceive\nhow horrible such an action was, that he should reflect, that one of the\nmost sacred rules of conduct was what prohibited the taking away the\nlife of an innocent person, that this was a plain violation of that\nrule, and consequently a very blamable action. His detestation of this\ncrime, it is evident, would arise instantaneously and antecedent to his\nhaving formed to himself any such general rule. The general rule, on the\ncontrary, which he might afterwards form, would be founded upon the\ndetestation which he felt necessarily arise in his own breast, at the\nthought of this, and every other particular action of the same kind.\n\nWhen we read in history or romance, the account of actions either of\ngenerosity or of baseness, the admiration which we conceive for the one,\nand the contempt which we feel for the other, neither of them arise from\nreflecting that there are certain general rules which declare all\nactions of the one kind admirable, and all actions of the other\ncontemptible. Those general rules, on the contrary, are all formed from\nthe experience we have had of the effects which actions of all different\nkinds naturally produce upon us.\n\nAn amiable action, a respectable action, an horrid action, are all of\nthem actions which naturally excite the love, the respect, or the horror\nof the spectator, for the person who performs them. The general rules\nwhich determine what actions are, and what are not, the objects of each\nof those sentiments, can be formed no other way than by observing what\nactions actually and in fact excite them.\n\nWhen these general rules, indeed, have been formed, when they are\nuniversally acknowledged and established, by the concurring sentiments\nof mankind, we frequently appeal to them as to the standards of\njudgment, in debating concerning the degree of praise or blame that is\ndue to certain actions of a complicated and dubious nature. They are\nupon these occasions commonly cited as the ultimate foundations of what\nis just and unjust in human conduct; and this circumstance seems to have\nmisled several very eminent authors, to draw up their systems in such a\nmanner, as if they had supposed that the original judgments of mankind\nwith regard to right and wrong, were formed like the decisions of a\ncourt of judicatory, by considering first the general rule, and then,\nsecondly, whether the particular action under consideration fell\nproperly within its comprehension.\n\nThose general rules of conduct, when they have been fixed in our mind by\nhabitual reflection, are of great use in correcting misrepresentations\nof self-love concerning what is fit and proper to be done in our\nparticular situation. The man of furious resentment, if he was to listen\nto the dictates of that passion, would perhaps regard the death of his\nenemy, as but a small compensation for the wrong, he imagines, he has\nreceived; which, however, may be no more than a very slight provocation.\nBut his observations upon the conduct of others, have taught him how\nhorrible all such sanguinary revenges appear. Unless his education has\nbeen very singular, he has laid it down to himself as an inviolable\nrule, to abstain from them upon all occasions. This rule preserves its\nauthority with him, and renders him incapable of being guilty of such a\nviolence. Yet the fury of his own temper may be such, that had this been\nthe first time in which he considered such an action, he would\nundoubtedly have determined it to be quite just and proper, and what\nevery impartial spectator would approve of. But that reverence for the\nrule which past experience has impressed upon him, checks the\nimpetuosity of his passion, and helps him to correct the too partial\nviews which self-love might otherwise suggest, of what was proper to be\ndone in his situation. If he should allow himself to be so far\ntransported by passion as to violate this rule, yet even in this case,\nhe cannot throw off altogether the awe and respect with which he has\nbeen accustomed to regard it. At the very time of acting, at the moment\nin which passion mounts the highest, he hesitates and trembles at the\nthought of what he is about to do: he is secretly conscious to himself\nthat he is breaking through those measures of conduct, which, in all his\ncool hours, he had resolved never to infringe, which he had never seen\ninfringed by others without the highest disapprobation, and of which the\ninfringement, his own mind forebodes, must soon render him the object of\nthe same disagreeable sentiments. Before he can take the last fatal\nresolution, he is tormented with all the agonies of doubt and\nuncertainty; he is terrified at the thought of violating so sacred a\nrule, and at the same time is urged and goaded on by the fury of his\ndesires to violate it. He changes his purpose every moment; sometimes he\nresolves to adhere to his principle, and not indulge a passion which may\ncorrupt the remaining part of his life with the horrors of shame and\nrepentance; and a momentary calm takes possession of his breast, from\nthe prospect of that security and tranquillity which he will enjoy when\nhe thus determines not to expose himself to the hazard of a contrary\nconduct. But immediately the passion rouses anew, and with fresh fury\ndrives him on to commit what he had the instant before resolved to\nabstain from. Wearied and distracted with those continual irresolutions,\nhe at length, from a sort of despair, makes the last fatal and\nirrecoverable step; but with that terror and amazement with which one\nflying from an enemy, throws himself over a precipice, where he is sure\nof meeting with more certain destruction than from any thing that\npursues him from behind. Such are his sentiments even at the time of\nacting; though he is then, no doubt, less sensible of the impropriety of\nhis own conduct than afterwards, when his passion being gratified and\npalled, he begins to view what he has done in the light in which others\nare apt to view it; and actually feels, what he had only foreseen very\nimperfectly before, the stings of remorse and repentance begin to\nagitate and torment him.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. III.\n _Of the influence and authority of the general rules of morality, and\n that they are justly regarded as the laws of the Deity._\n\n\nThe regard to those general rules of conduct, is what is properly called\na sense of duty, a principle of the greatest consequence in human life,\nand the only principle by which the bulk of mankind are capable of\ndirecting their actions. Many men behave very decently, and through the\nwhole of their lives avoid any considerable degree of blame, who yet,\nperhaps, never felt the sentiment upon the propriety of which we found\nour approbation of their conduct, but acted merely from a regard to what\nthey saw were the established rules of behaviour. The man who has\nreceived great benefits from another person, may, by the natural\ncoldness of his temper, feel but a very small degree of the sentiment of\ngratitude. If he has been virtuously educated, however, he will often\nhave been made to observe how odious those actions appear which denote a\nwant of this sentiment, and how amiable the contrary. Tho\u2019 his heart\ntherefore is not warmed with any grateful affection, he will strive to\nact as if it was, and will endeavour to pay all those regards and\nattentions to his patron which the liveliest gratitude could suggest. He\nwill visit him regularly; he will behave to him respectfully; he will\nnever talk of him but with expressions of the highest esteem, and of the\nmany obligations which he owes to him. And what is more, he will\ncarefully embrace every opportunity of making a proper return for past\nservices. He may do all this too without any hypocrisy or blamable\ndissimulation, without any selfish intention of obtaining new favours,\nand without any design of imposing either upon his benefactor or the\npublic. The motive of his actions may be no other than a reverence for\nthe established rule of duty, a serious and earnest desire of acting, in\nevery respect, according to the law of gratitude. A wife, in the same\nmanner, may sometimes not feel that tender regard for her husband which\nis suitable to the relation that subsists between them. If she has been\nvirtuously educated, however, she will endeavour to act as if she felt\nit, to be careful, officious, faithful, and sincere, and to be deficient\nin none of those attentions which the sentiment of conjugal affection\ncould have prompted her to perform. Such a friend, and such a wife, are\nneither of them, undoubtedly, the very best of their kinds; and though\nboth of them may have the most serious and earnest desire to fulfil\nevery part of their duty, yet they will fail in many nice and delicate\nregards, they will miss many opportunities of obliging, which they could\nnever have overlooked if they had possessed the sentiment that is proper\nto their situation. Though not the very first of their kinds, however,\nthey are perhaps the second; and if the regard to the general rules of\nconduct has been very strongly impressed upon them, neither of them will\nfail in any essential part of their duty. None but those of the happiest\nmould are capable of suiting, with exact justness, their sentiments and\nbehaviour to the smallest difference of situation, and of acting upon\nall occasions with the most delicate and accurate propriety. The coarse\nclay of which the bulk of mankind are formed, cannot be wrought up to\nsuch perfection. There is scarce any man, however, who by discipline,\neducation, and example, may not be impressed with a regard to general\nrules, as to act upon almost every occasion with tolerable decency, and\nthrough the whole of his life avoid any considerable degree of blame.\n\nWithout this sacred regard to general rules, there is no man whose\nconduct can be much depended upon. It is this which constitutes the most\nessential difference between a man of principle and honour and a\nworthless fellow. The one adheres, on all occasions, steadily and\nresolutely to his maxims, and preserves through the whole of his life\none even tenour of conduct. The other, acts variously and accidentally,\nas humour, inclination, or interest chance to be uppermost. Nay, such\nare the inequalities of humour to which all men are subject, that\nwithout this principle, the man who, in his cool hours, had the most\ndelicate sensibility to the propriety of conduct, might often be led to\nact absurdly upon the most frivolous occasions, and when it was scarce\npossible to assign any serious motive for his behaviour in this manner.\nYour friend makes you a visit when you happen to be in a humour which\nmakes it disagreeable to receive him: in your present mood this civility\nis very apt to appear an impertinent intrusion; and if you were to give\nway to the views of things which at this time occur, though civil in\nyour temper, you would behave to him with coldness and contempt. What\nrenders you incapable of such a rudeness, is nothing but a regard to the\ngeneral rules of civility and hospitality, which prohibit it. That\nhabitual reverence which your former experience has taught you for\nthese, enables you to act, upon all such occasions, with nearly equal\npropriety, and hinders those inequalities of temper, to which all men\nare subject, from influencing your conduct in any very sensible degree.\nBut if without regard to these general rules, even the duties of\npoliteness, which are so easily observed, and which can scarce have any\nserious motive to violate, would yet be so frequently violated, what\nwould become of the duties of justice, of truth, of chastity, of\nfidelity, which it is often so difficult to observe, and which there may\nbe so many strong motives to violate? But upon the tolerable observance\nof these duties, depends the very existence of human society, which\nwould crumble into nothing if mankind were not generally impressed with\na reverence for those important rules of conduct.\n\nThis reverence is still further enhanced by an opinion which is first\nimpressed by nature, and afterwards confirmed by reasoning and\nphilosophy, that those important rules of morality, are the commands and\nlaws of the Deity, who will finally reward the obedient, and punish the\ntransgressors of their duty.\n\nThis opinion or apprehension, I say, seems first to be impressed by\nnature. Men are naturally led to ascribe to those mysterious beings,\nwhatever they are, which happen, in any country, to be the objects of\nreligious fear, all their own sentiments and passions. They have no\nother, they can conceive no other to ascribe to them. Those unknown\nintelligences which they imagine but see not, must necessarily be formed\nwith some sort of resemblance to those intelligences of which they have\nexperience. During the ignorance and darkness of pagan superstition,\nmankind seem to have formed the ideas of their divinities with so little\ndelicacy, that they ascribed to them, indiscriminately, all the passions\nof human nature, those not excepted which do the least honour to our\nspecies, such as lust, hunger, avarice, envy, revenge. They could not\nfail therefore, to ascribe to those beings, for the excellence of whose\nnature they still conceived the highest admiration, those sentiments and\nqualities which are the great ornaments of humanity, and which seem to\nraise it to a resemblance of divine perfection, the love of virtue and\nbeneficence, and the abhorrence of vice and injustice. The man who was\ninjured, called upon Jupiter to be witness of the wrong that was done to\nhim, and could not doubt, but that divine being would behold it with the\nsame indignation which would animate the meanest of mankind, who looked\non when injustice was committed. The man who did the injury, felt\nhimself to be the proper object of detestation and resentment of\nmankind; and his natural fears led him to impute the same sentiments to\nthose awful beings, whose presence he could not avoid, and whose power\nhe could not resist. These natural hopes and fears, and suspicions, were\npropagated by sympathy, and confirmed by education; and the gods were\nuniversally represented and believed to be the rewarders of humanity and\nmercy, and the avengers of perfidy and injustice. And thus religion,\neven in its rudest form, gave a sanction to the rules of morality, long\nbefore the age of artificial reasoning and philosophy. That the terrors\nof religion should thus enforce the natural sense of duty, was of too\nmuch importance to the happiness of mankind, for nature to leave it\ndependent upon the slowness and uncertainty of philosophical researches.\n\nThese researches, however, when they came to take place, confirmed those\noriginal anticipations of nature. Upon whatever we suppose that our\nmoral faculties are founded, whether upon a certain modification of\nreason, upon an original instinct, called a moral sense, or upon some\nother principle of our nature, it cannot be doubted, that they were\ngiven us for the direction of our conduct in this life. They carry along\nwith them the most evident badges of this authority, which denote that\nthey were set up within us to be the supreme arbiters of all our\nactions, to superintend all our senses, passions, and appetites, and to\njudge how far each of them was either to be indulged or restrained. Our\nmoral faculties are by no means, as some have pretended, upon a level in\nthis respect with the other faculties and appetites of our nature,\nendowed with no more right to restrain these last, than these last are\nto restrain them. No other faculty or principle of action judges of any\nother. Love does not judge of resentment, nor resentment of love. Those\ntwo passions may be opposite to one another, but cannot, with any\npropriety, be said to approve or disapprove of one another. But it is\nthe peculiar office of those faculties now under our consideration to\njudge, to bestow censure or applause upon all the other principles of\nour nature. They may be considered as a sort of senses of which those\nprinciples are the objects. Every sense is supreme over its own objects.\nThere is no appeal from the eye with regard to the beauty of colours,\nnor from the ear with regard to the harmony of sounds, nor from the\ntaste with regard to the agreeableness of flavours. Each of those senses\njudges in the last resort of its own objects. Whatever gratifies the\ntaste is sweet, whatever pleases the eye is beautiful, whatever sooths\nthe ear is harmonious. The very essence of each of those qualities\nconsists in being fitted to please the sense to which it is addressed.\nIt belongs to our moral faculties, in the same manner to determine when\nthe ear ought to be soothed, when the eye ought to be indulged, when the\ntaste ought to be gratified, when and how far every other principle of\nour nature ought to be indulged or restrained. What is agreeable to our\nmoral faculties, is fit, and right, and proper to be done; the contrary\nwrong, unfit, and improper. The sentiments which they approve of, are\ngraceful and unbecoming. The very words, right, wrong, fit, improper,\ngraceful, unbecoming, mean only what pleases or displeases those\nfaculties.\n\nSince these, therefore, were plainly intended to be the governing\nprinciples of human nature, the rules which they prescribe, are to be\nregarded as the commands and laws of the Deity, promulgated by those\nvicegerents which he has thus set up within us. All general rules are\ncommonly denominated laws: thus the general rules which bodies observe\nin the communication of motion, are called the laws of motion. But those\ngeneral rules which our moral faculties observe in approving or\ncondemning whatever sentiment or action is subjected to their\nexamination, may much more justly be denominated such. They have a much\ngreater resemblance to what are properly called laws, those general\nrules which the sovereign lays down to direct the conduct of his\nsubjects. Like them they are rules to direct the free actions of men:\nthey are prescribed most surely by a lawful superior, and are attended\nto in the sanction of rewards and punishments. Those vicegerents of God\nwithin us, never fail to punish the violation of them, by the torments\nof inward shame, and self-condemnation; and on the contrary, always\nreward obedience with tranquillity of mind, with contentment, and\nself-satisfaction.\n\nThere are innumerable other considerations which serve to confirm the\nsame conclusion. The happiness of mankind, as well as of all other\nrational creatures, seems to have been the original purpose intended by\nthe Author of nature, when he brought them into existence. No other end\nseems worthy of that supreme wisdom and divine benignity which we\nnecessarily ascribe to him; and this opinion, which we are led to by the\nabstract consideration of his infinite perfections, is still more\nconfirmed by the examination of the works of nature, which seem all\nintended to promote happiness, and to guard against misery. But by\nacting according to the dictates of our moral faculties, we necessarily\npursue the most effectual means for promoting the happiness of mankind,\nand may therefore be said, in some sense, to co-operate with the Deity,\nand to advance as far as in our power the plan of Providence. By acting\notherways, on the contrary, we seem to obstruct, in some measure, the\nscheme which the Author of nature has established for the happiness and\nperfection of the world, and to declare ourselves, if I may say so, in\nsome measure the enemies of God. Hence we are naturally encouraged to\nhope for his extraordinary favour and reward in the one case, and to\ndread his vengeance and punishment in the other.\n\nThere are besides many other reasons, and many other natural principles,\nwhich all tend to confirm and inculcate the same salutary doctrine. If\nwe consider the general rules by which external prosperity and adversity\nare commonly distributed in this life, we shall find, that\nnotwithstanding the disorder in which all things appear to be in this\nworld, yet even here every virtue naturally meets with its proper\nreward, with the recompense which is most fit to encourage and promote\nit; and this too so surely, that it requires a very extraordinary\nconcurrence of circumstances entirely to disappoint it. What is the\nreward most proper for encouraging industry, prudence, and\ncircumspection? Success in every sort of business. And is it possible\nthat in the whole of life these virtues should fail of attaining it?\nWealth and external honours are their proper recompense, and the\nrecompense which they can seldom fail of acquiring. What reward is most\nproper for promoting the practice of truth, justice, and humanity? The\nconfidence, the esteem, and love of those we live with. Humanity does\nnot desire to be great, but to be beloved. It is not in being rich that\ntruth and justice would rejoice, but in being trusted and believed,\nrecompenses which those virtues must almost always acquire. By some very\nextraordinary and unlucky circumstance, a good man may come to be\nsuspected of a crime of which he was altogether incapable, and upon that\naccount be most unjustly exposed for the remaining part of his life to\nthe horror and aversion of mankind. By an accident of this kind he may\nbe said to lose his all, notwithstanding his integrity and justice; in\nthe same manner as a cautious man, notwithstanding his utmost\ncircumspection, may be ruined by an earthquake or an inundation.\nAccidents of the first kind, however, are perhaps still more rare, and\nstill more contrary to the common course of things than those of the\nsecond; and still it remains true, that the practice of truth, justice,\nand humanity, is a certain and almost infallible method of acquiring\nwhat those virtues chiefly aim at, the confidence and love of those we\nlive with. A person may be very easily misrepresented with regard to a\nparticular action; but it is scarce possible that he should be so with\nregard to the general tenor of his conduct. An innocent man may be\nbelieved to have done wrong: this, however, will rarely happen. On the\ncontrary, the established opinion of the innocence of his manners, will\noften lead us to absolve him where he has really been in the fault,\nnotwithstanding very strong presumptions. A knave, in the same manner\nmay escape censure, or even meet applause, for a particular knavery, in\nwhich his conduct is not understood. But no man was ever habitually\nsuch, without being almost universally known to be so, and without being\neven frequently suspected of guilt, when he was in reality perfectly\ninnocent. And so far as vice and virtue can be either punished or\nrewarded by the sentiments and opinions of mankind, they both, according\nto the common course of things, meet even here with something more than\nexact and impartial justice.\n\nBut though the general rules by which prosperity and adversity are\ncommonly distributed, when considered in this cool and philosophical\nlight, appear to be perfectly suited to the situation of mankind in this\nlife, yet they are by no means suited to some of our natural sentiments.\nOur natural love and admiration for some virtues is such, that we should\nwish to bestow on them all sorts of honours and rewards, even those\nwhich we must acknowledge to be the proper recompenses of other\nqualities with which those virtues are not always accompanied. Our\ndetestation, on the contrary, for some vices is such, that we should\ndesire to heap upon them every sort of disgrace and disaster, those not\nexcepted which are the natural consequences of very different qualities.\nMagnanimity, generosity, and justice command so high a degree of\nadmiration, that we desire to see them crowned with wealth, and power,\nand honours of every kind, the natural consequences of prudence,\nindustry, and application; qualities with which those virtues are not\ninseparably connected. Fraud, falsehood, brutality, and violence, on the\nother hand, excite in every human breast such scorn and abhorrence, that\nour indignation rouses to see them possess those advantages which they\nmay in some sense be said to have merited, by the diligence and industry\nwith which they are sometimes attended. The industrious knave cultivates\nthe soil; the indolent good man leaves it uncultivated. Who ought to\nreap the harvest? Who starve, and who live in plenty? The natural course\nof things decides it in favour of the knave: the natural sentiments of\nmankind in favour of the man of virtue. Man judges, that the good\nqualities of the one are greatly over-recompensed by those advantages\nwhich they tend to procure him, and that the omissions of the other are\nby far too severely punished by the distress which they naturally bring\nupon him; and human laws, the consequences of human sentiments, forfeit\nthe life and the estate of the industrious and cautious traitor, and\nreward, by extraordinary recompenses, the fidelity and public spirit of\nthe improvident and careless good citizen. Thus man is by Nature\ndirected to correct, in some measure, that distribution of things which\nshe herself would otherwise have made. The rules which for this purpose\nshe prompts him to follow, are different from those which she herself\nobserves. She bestows upon every virtue, and upon every vice, that\nprecise reward or punishment which is best fitted to encourage the one,\nor to restrain the other. She is directed by this sole consideration,\nand pays little regard to the different degrees of merit and demerit,\nwhich they may seem to possess in the sentiments and passions of man.\nMan, on the contrary, pays regard to this only, and would endeavour to\nrender the state of every virtue precisely proportioned to that degree\nof love and esteem, and of every vice to that degree of contempt and\nabhorrence, which he himself conceives for it. The rules which she\nfollows are fit for her, those which he follows for him: but both are\ncalculated to promote the same great end, the order of the world, and\nthe perfection and happiness of human nature.\n\nBut though man is thus employed to alter that distribution of things\nwhich natural events would make, if left to themselves; though, like the\ngods of the poets, he is perpetually interposing, by extraordinary\nmeans, in favour of virtue, and in opposition to vice, and like them,\nendeavours to turn away the arrow that is aimed at the head of the\nrighteous, but accelerates the sword of destruction that is lifted up\nagainst the wicked; yet he is by no means able to render the fortune of\neither quite suitable to his own sentiments and wishes. The natural\ncourse of things cannot be entirely controuled by the impotent\nendeavours of man: the current is too rapid and too strong for him to\nstop it; and though the rules which direct it appear to have been\nestablished for the wisest and best purposes, they sometimes produce\neffects which shock all his natural sentiments. That a great combination\nof men, should prevail over a small one; that those who engage in an\nenterprise with fore-thought and all necessary preparation, should\nprevail over such as oppose them without any; and that every end should\nbe acquired by those means only which Nature has established for\nacquiring it, seems to be a rule not only necessary and unavoidable in\nitself, but even useful and proper for rousing the industry and\nattention of mankind. Yet, when, in consequence of this rule, violence\nand artifice prevail over sincerity and justice, what indignation does\nit not excite in the breast of every humane spectator? What sorrow and\ncompassion for the sufferings of the innocent, and what furious\nresentment against the success of the oppressor? We are equally grieved\nand enraged, at the wrong that is done, but often find it altogether out\nof our power to redress it. When we thus despair of finding any force\nupon earth which can check the triumph of injustice, we naturally appeal\nto Heaven, and hope, that the great Author of our nature will himself\nexecute hereafter, what all the principles which he has given us for the\ndirection of our conduct, prompt us to attempt even here; that he will\ncomplete the plan which he himself has thus taught us to begin; and\nwill, in a life to come, render to every one according to the works\nwhich he has performed in this world. And thus we are led to the belief\nof a future state, not only by the weaknesses, by the hopes and fears of\nhuman nature, but by the noblest and best principles which belong to it,\nby the love of virtue, and by the abhorrence of vice and injustice.\n\n\u201cDoes it suit the greatness of God,\u201d says the eloquent and philosophical\nbishop of Clermont, with that passionate and exaggerating force of\nimagination, which seems sometimes to exceed the bounds of decorum;\n\u201cdoes it suit the greatness of God, to leave the world which he has\ncreated in so universal a disorder? To see the wicked prevail almost\nalways over the just; the innocent dethroned by the usurper; the father\nbecome the victim of the ambition of an unnatural son; the husband\nexpiring under the stroke of a barbarous and faithless wife? From the\nheight of his greatness ought God to behold those melancholy events as a\nfantastical amusement, without taking any share in them? Because he is\ngreat, should he be weak, or unjust, or barbarous? Because men are\nlittle, ought they to be allowed either to be dissolute without\npunishment, or virtuous without reward? O God! if this is the character\nof your Supreme Being; if it is you whom we adore under such dreadful\nideas; I can no longer acknowledge you for my father, for my protector,\nfor the comforter of my sorrow, the support of my weakness, the rewarder\nof my fidelity. You would then be no more than an indolent and\nfantastical tyrant, who sacrifices mankind to his insolent vanity, and\nwho has brought them out of nothing, only to make them serve for the\nsport of his leisure, and of his caprice.\u201d\n\nWhen the general rules which determine the merit and demerit of actions,\ncome thus to be regarded, as the laws of an All-powerful Being, who\nwatches over our conduct, and who, in a life to come, will reward the\nobservance, and punish the breach of them; they necessarily acquire a\nnew sacredness from this consideration. That our regard to the will of\nthe Deity, ought to be the supreme rule of our conduct, can be doubted\nof by no body who believes his existence. The very thought of\ndisobedience appears to involve in it the most shocking impropriety. How\nvain, how absurd would it be for man, either to oppose or to neglect the\ncommands that were laid upon him by Infinite Wisdom, and Infinite Power!\nHow unnatural, how impiously ungrateful not to reverence the precepts\nthat were prescribed to him by the infinite goodness of his Creator,\neven though no punishment was to follow their violation. The sense of\npropriety too is here well supported by the strongest motives of\nself-interest. The idea that, however we may escape the observation of\nman, or be placed above the reach of human punishment, yet we are always\nacting under the eye, and exposed to the punishment of God, the great\navenger of injustice, is a motive capable of restraining the most\nheadstrong passions, with those at least who, by constant reflection,\nhave rendered it familiar to them.\n\nIt is in this manner that religion enforces the natural sense of duty:\nand hence it is, that mankind are generally disposed to place great\nconfidence in the probity of those who seem deeply impressed with\nreligious sentiments. Such persons, they imagine, act under an\nadditional tye, besides those which regulate the conduct of other men.\nThe regard to the propriety of action as well as to reputation, the\nregard to the applause of his own breast, as well as that of others, are\nmotives which they suppose have the same influence over the religious\nman, as over the man of the world. But the former lies under another\nrestraint, and never acts deliberately but as in the presence of that\nGreat Superior who is finally to recompense him according to his deeds.\nA greater trust is reposed, upon this account, in the regularity and\nexactness of his conduct. And wherever the natural principles of\nreligion are not corrupted by the factious and party zeal of some\nworthless cabal; wherever the first duty which it requires, is to fulfil\nall the obligations of morality; wherever men are not taught to regard\nfrivolous observances, as more immediate duties of religion, than acts\nof justice and beneficence; and to imagine, that by sacrifices, and\nceremonies, and vain supplications, they can bargain with the Deity for\nfraud, and perfidy, and violence, the world undoubtedly judges right in\nthis respect, and justly places a double confidence in the rectitude of\nthe religious man\u2019s behaviour.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. IV.\n _In what cases the sense of duty ought to be the sole principle of our\n conduct; and in what cases it ought to concur with other motives._\n\n\nReligion affords such strong motives to the practice of virtue, and\nguards us by such powerful restraints from the temptations of vice, that\nmany have been led to suppose, that religious principles were the sole\nlaudable motives of action. We ought neither, they said, to reward from\ngratitude, nor punish from resentment; we ought neither to protect the\nhelplessness of our children, nor afford support to the infirmities of\nour parents, from natural affection. All affections for particular\nobjects, ought to be extinguished in our breast, and one great affection\ntake the place of all others, the love of the Deity, the desire of\nrendering ourselves agreeable to him, and of directing our conduct in\nevery respect according to his will. We ought not to be grateful from\ngratitude, we ought not to be charitable from humanity, we ought not to\nbe public-spirited from the love of our country, nor generous and just\nfrom the love of mankind. The sole principle and motive of our conduct\nin the performance of all those different duties, ought to be a sense\nthat God has commanded us to perform them. I shall not at present take\ntime to examine this opinion particularly; I shall only observe, that we\nshould not have expected to have found it entertained by any sect, who\nprofessed themselves of a religion in which, as it is the first precept\nto love the Lord our God with all our heart, with all our soul, and with\nall our strength, so it is the second to love our neighbour as we love\nourselves; and we love ourselves surely for our own sakes, and not\nmerely because we are commanded to do so. That the sense of duty should\nbe the sole principle of our conduct, is no where the precept of\nChristianity; but that it should be the ruling and governing one, as\nphilosophy, and as, indeed, common sense directs. It may be a question\nhowever, in what cases our actions ought to arise chiefly or entirely\nfrom a sense of duty, or from a regard to general rules; and in what\ncases some other sentiment or affection ought to concur, and have a\nprincipal influence.\n\nThe decision of this question, which cannot, perhaps, be given with any\nvery great accuracy, will depend upon two different circumstances;\nfirst, upon the natural agreeableness or deformity of the sentiment or\naffection which would prompt us to any action independent of all regard\nto general rules; and secondly, upon the precision and exactness, or the\nlooseness and inaccuracy of the general rules themselves.\n\nI. First, I say, it will depend upon the natural agreeableness or\ndeformity of the affection itself, how far our actions ought to arise\nfrom it, or entirely proceed from a regard to the general rule.\n\nAll those graceful and admired actions, to which the benevolent\naffections would prompt us, ought to proceed as much from the passions\nthemselves, as from any regard to the general rules of conduct. A\nbenefactor thinks himself but ill requited, if the person upon whom he\nhas bestowed his good offices, repays them merely from a cold sense of\nduty, and without any affection to his person. A husband is dissatisfied\nwith the most obedient wife, when he imagines her conduct is animated by\nno other principle besides her regard to what the relation she stands in\nrequires. Though a son should fail in none of the offices of filial\nduty, yet if he wants that affectionate reverence which it so well\nbecomes him to feel, the parent may justly complain of his indifference.\nNor could a son be quite satisfied with a parent who, though he\nperformed all the duties of his situation, had nothing of that fatherly\nfondness which might have been expected from him. With regard to all\nsuch benevolent and social affections, it is agreeable to see the sense\nof duty employed rather to restrain than to enliven them, rather to\nhinder us from doing too much, than to prompt us to do what we ought. It\ngives us pleasure to see a father obliged to check his own fondness, a\nfriend obliged to set bounds to his natural generosity, a person who has\nreceived a benefit, obliged to restrain the too sanguine gratitude of\nhis own temper.\n\nThe contrary maxim takes place with regard to the malevolent and\nunsocial passions. We ought to reward from the gratitude and generosity\nof our own hearts, without any reluctance, and without being obliged to\nreflect how great the propriety of rewarding: but we ought always to\npunish with reluctance, and more from a sense of the propriety of\npunishing than from any savage disposition to revenge. Nothing is more\ngraceful than the behaviour of the man who appears to resent the\ngreatest injuries, more from a sense that they deserve, and are the\nproper objects of resentment, than from feeling himself the furies of\nthat disagreeable passion; who, like a judge, considers only the general\nrule, which determines what vengeance is due for each particular\noffence; who, in executing that rule, feels less for what himself has\nsuffered, than what the offender is about to suffer; who, though in\nwrath remembers mercy, and is disposed to interpret the rule in the most\ngentle and favourable manner, and to allow all the alleviations which\nthe most candid humanity could, consistently with good sense, admit of.\n\nAs the selfish passions, according to what has formerly been observed,\nhold in other respects a sort of middle place, between the social and\nunsocial affections, so do they likewise in this. The pursuit of the\nobjects of private interest, in all common, little, and ordinary cases,\nought to flow rather from a regard to the general rules which prescribe\nsuch conduct, than from any passion for the objects themselves; but upon\nmore important and extraordinary occasions, we should be awkward,\ninsipid, and ungraceful, if the objects themselves did not appear to\nanimate us with a considerable degree of passion. To be anxious, or to\nbe laying a plot either to gain or to save a single shilling, would\ndegrade the most vulgar tradesman in the opinion of all his neighbours.\nLet his circumstances be ever so mean, no attention to any such small\nmatters, for the sake of the things themselves, must appear in his\nconduct. His situation may require the most severe \u0153conomy, and the most\nexact assiduity: but each particular exertion of that \u0153conomy and\nassiduity must proceed not so much from a regard for that particular\nsaving or gain, as for the general rule which to him prescribes, with\nthe utmost rigour, such a tenour of conduct. His parsimony to-day must\nnot arise from a desire of the particular three-pence which he will save\nby it, nor his attendance in his shop from a passion for the particular\nten-pence which he will acquire by it: both the one and the other ought\nto proceed solely from a regard to the general rule, which prescribes,\nwith the most unrelenting severity, this plan of conduct to all persons\nin his way of life. In this consists the difference between the\ncharacter of a miser, and that of a person of exact \u0153conomy and\nassiduity. The one is anxious about small matters for their own sake;\nthe other attends to them only in consequence of the scheme of life\nwhich he has laid down to himself.\n\nIt is quite otherwise with regard to the more extraordinary and\nimportant objects of self-interest. A person appears mean-spirited, who\ndoes not pursue these with some degree of earnestness for their own\nsake. We should despise a prince who was not anxious about conquering or\ndefending a province. We should have little respect for a private\ngentleman who did not exert himself to gain an estate, or even a\nconsiderable office, when he could acquire them without either meanness\nor injustice. A member of parliament who shews no keenness about his own\nelection, is abandoned by his friends, as altogether unworthy of their\nattachment. Even a tradesman is thought a poor-spirited fellow among his\nneighbours, who does not bestir himself to get what they call an\nextraordinary job, or some uncommon advantage. This spirit and keenness\nconstitutes the difference between the man of enterprise and the man of\ndull regularity. Those great objects of self-interest, of which the loss\nor acquisition quite changes the rank of the person, are the objects of\nthe passion properly called ambition; a passion, which when it keeps\nwithin the bounds of prudence and justice, is always admired in the\nworld, and has even sometimes a certain irregular greatness, which\ndazzles the imagination, when it passes the limits of both these\nvirtues, and is not only unjust but extravagant. Hence the general\nadmiration for Heroes and Conquerors, and even for Statesmen, whose\nprojects have been very daring and extensive, though altogether devoid\nof justice; such as those of the Cardinals of Richlieu and of Retz. The\nobjects of avarice and ambition differ only in their greatness. A miser\nis as furious about a halfpenny, as a man of ambition about the conquest\nof a kingdom.\n\nII. Secondly, I say, it will depend partly upon the precision and\nexactness, or the looseness and inaccuracy of the general rules\nthemselves, how far our conduct ought to proceed entirely from a regard\nto them.\n\nThe general rules of almost all the virtues, the general rules which\ndetermine what are the offices of prudence, of charity, of generosity,\nof gratitude, of friendship, are in many respects loose and inaccurate,\nadmit of many exceptions, and require so many modifications, that it is\nscarce possible to regulate our conduct entirely by a regard to them.\nThe common proverbial maxims of prudence, being founded in universal\nexperience, are perhaps the best general rules which can be given about\nit. To affect, however, a very strict and literal adherence to them\nwould evidently be the most absurd and ridiculous pedantry. Of all the\nvirtues I have just now mentioned, gratitude is that, perhaps, of which\nthe rules are the most precise, and admit of the fewest exceptions. That\nas soon as we can we should make a return of equal, and if possible of\nsuperior value to the services we have received, would seem to be a\npretty plain rule, and one which admitted of scarce any exceptions. Upon\nthe most superficial examination, however, this rule will appear to be\nin the highest degree loose and inaccurate, and to admit of ten thousand\nexceptions. If your benefactor attended you in your sickness, ought you\nto attend him in his? or can you fulfil the obligation of gratitude, by\nmaking a return of a different kind? If you ought to attend him, how\nlong ought you to attend him? The same time which he attended you, or\nlonger, and how much longer? If your friend lent you money in your\ndistress, ought you to lend him money in his? How much ought you to lend\nhim? When ought you to lend him? Now, or to-morrow, or next month? And\nfor how long a time? It is evident, that no general rule can be laid\ndown, by which a precise answer can, in all cases, be given to any of\nthese questions. The difference between his character and yours, between\nhis circumstances and yours, may be such, that you may be perfectly\ngrateful, and justly refuse to lend him a halfpenny: and, on the\ncontrary, you may be willing to lend, or even to give him ten times the\nsum which he lent you, and yet justly be accused of the blackest\ningratitude, and of not having fulfilled the hundredth part of the\nobligation you lie under. As the duties of gratitude, however, are\nperhaps the most sacred of all those which the beneficent virtues\nprescribe to us, so the general rules which determine them are, as I\nsaid before, the most accurate. Those which ascertain the actions\nrequired by friendship, humanity, hospitality, generosity, are still\nmore vague and indeterminate.\n\nThere is, however, one virtue of which the general rules determine with\nthe greatest exactness every external action which it requires. This\nvirtue is justice. The rules of justice are accurate in the highest\ndegree, and admit of no exceptions or modifications, but such as may be\nascertained as accurately as the rules themselves, and which generally,\nindeed, flow from the very same principles with them. If I owe a man ten\npounds, justice requires that I should precisely pay him ten pounds,\neither at the time agreed upon, or when he demands it. What I ought to\nperform, how much I ought to perform, when and where I ought to perform\nit, the whole nature and circumstances of the action prescribed, are all\nof them precisely fixt and determined. Though it may be awkward and\npedantic, therefore, to affect too strict an adherence to the common\nrules of prudence or generosity, there is no pedantry in sticking fast\nby the rules of justice. On the contrary, the most sacred regard is due\nto them; and the actions which this virtue requires are never so\nproperly performed, as when the chief motive for performing them is a\nreverential and religious regard to those general rules which require\nthem. In the practice of the other virtues, our conduct should rather be\ndirected by a certain idea of propriety, by a certain taste for a\nparticular tenour of conduct, than by any regard to a precise maxim or\nrule; and we should consider the end and foundation of the rule, more\nthan the rule itself. But it is otherwise with regard to justice: the\nman who in that refines the least, and adheres with the most obstinate\nstedfastness, to the general rules themselves, is the most commendable,\nand the most to be depended upon. Though the end of the rules of justice\nbe, to hinder us from hurting our neighbour, it may frequently be a\ncrime to violate them, though we could pretend, with some pretext of\nreason, that this particular violation could do no hurt. A man often\nbecomes a villain the moment he begins even in his own heart, to chicane\nin this manner. The moment he thinks of departing from the most staunch\nand positive adherence to what those inviolable precepts prescribe to\nhim, he is no longer to be trusted, and no man can say what degree of\nguilt he may not arrive at. The thief imagines he does no evil, when he\nsteals from the rich, what he supposes they may easily want, and what\npossibly they may never even know has been stolen from them. The\nadulterer imagines he does no evil, when he corrupts the wife of his\nfriend, provided he covers his intrigue from the suspicion of the\nhusband, and does not disturb the peace of the family. When once we\nbegin to give way to such refinements, there is no enormity so gross of\nwhich we may not be capable.\n\nThe rules of justice may be compared to the rules of grammar; the rules\nof the other virtues to the rules which critics lay down for the\nattainment of what is sublime and elegant in composition. The one, are\nprecise, accurate, and indispensable. The other, are loose, vague, and\nindeterminate, and present us rather with a general idea of the\nperfection we ought to aim at, than afford us any certain and infallible\ndirections for acquiring it. A man may learn to write grammatically by\nrule, with the most absolute infallibility; and so, perhaps, he may be\ntaught to act justly. But there are no rules whose observance will\ninfallibly lead us to the attainment of elegance or sublimity in\nwriting, though there are some which may help us, in some measure, to\ncorrect and ascertain the vague ideas which we might otherwise have\nentertained of those perfections: and there are no rules by the\nknowledge of which we can infallibly be taught to act upon all occasions\nwith prudence, with just magnanimity, or proper beneficence. Though\nthere are some which may enable us to correct and ascertain in several\nrespects, the imperfect ideas which we might otherwise have entertained\nof those virtues.\n\nIt may sometimes happen, that with the most serious and earnest desire\nof acting so as to deserve approbation, we may mistake the proper rules\nof conduct, and thus be misled by that very principle which ought to\ndirect us. It is in vain to expect, that in this case mankind should\nentirely approve of our behaviour. They cannot enter into that absurd\nidea of duty which influenced us, nor go along with any of the actions\nwhich follow from it. There is still, however, something respectable in\nthe character and behaviour of one who is thus betrayed into vice, by a\nwrong sense of duty, or by what is called an erroneous conscience. How\nfatally soever he may be misled by it, he is still, with the generous\nand humane, more the object of commiseration than of hatred or\nresentment. They lament the weakness of human nature, which exposes us\nto such unhappy delusions, even while we are most sincerely labouring\nafter perfection, and endeavouring to act according to the best\nprinciple which can possibly direct us. False notions of religion are\nalmost the only causes which can occasion any very gross perversion of\nour natural sentiments in this way; and that principle which gives the\ngreatest authority to the rules of duty, is alone capable of distorting\nour ideas of them in any considerable degree. In all other cases common\nsense is sufficient to direct us, if not to the most exquisite propriety\nof conduct, yet to something which is not very far from it; and provided\nwe are in earnest desirous to do well, our behaviour will always, upon\nthe whole, be praise-worthy. That to obey the will of the Deity, is the\nfirst rule of duty, all men are agreed. But concerning the particular\ncommandments which that will may impose upon us, they differ widely from\none another. In this, therefore, the greatest mutual forbearance and\ntoleration is due; and though the defence of society requires that\ncrimes should be punished, from whatever motives they proceed, yet a\ngood man will always punish them with reluctance, when they evidently\nproceed from false notions of religious duty. He will never feel against\nthose who commit them that indignation which he feels against other\ncriminals, but will rather regret, and sometimes even admire their\nunfortunate firmness and magnanimity, at the very time that he punishes\ntheir crime. In the tragedy of Mahomet, one of the finest of Mr.\nVoltaire\u2019s, it is well represented, what ought to be our sentiments for\ncrimes which proceed from such motives. In that tragedy, two young\npeople of different sexes, of the most innocent and virtuous\ndispositions, and without any other weakness except what endears them\nthe more to us, a mutual fondness for one another, are instigated by the\nstrongest motives of a false religion, to commit a horrid murder, that\nshocks all the principles of human nature: a venerable old man, who had\nexpressed the most tender affection for them both, for whom,\nnotwithstanding he was the avowed enemy of their religion, they had both\nconceived the highest reverence and esteem, and who was in reality their\nfather, though they did not know him to be such, is pointed out to them\nas a sacrifice which God had expressly required at their hands, and they\nare commanded to kill him. While they are about executing this crime,\nthey are tortured with all the agonies which can arise from the struggle\nbetween the idea of the indispensableness of religious duty on the one\nside, and compassion, gratitude, reverence for the age, and love for the\nhumanity and virtue of the person whom they are going to destroy, on the\nother. The representation of this exhibits one of the most interesting,\nand perhaps the most instructive spectacle that was ever introduced upon\nany theatre. The sense of duty, however, at last prevails over all the\namiable weaknesses of human nature. They execute the crime imposed upon\nthem; but immediately discover their error, and the fraud which had\ndeceived them, and are distracted with horror, remorse, and resentment.\nSuch as are our sentiments for the unhappy Seid and Palmira, such ought\nwe to feel for every person who is in this manner misled by religion,\nwhen we are sure that it is really religion which misleads him, and not\nthe pretence of it, which is made a cover to some of the worst of human\npassions.\n\nAs a person may act wrong by following a wrong sense of duty, so nature\nmay sometimes prevail, and lead him to act right in opposition to it. We\ncannot in this case be displeased to see that motive prevail, which we\nthink ought to prevail, though the person himself is so weak as to think\notherwise. As his conduct, however, is the effect of weakness, not\nprinciple, we are far from bestowing upon it any thing that approaches\nto complete approbation. A bigotted Roman Catholic, who, during the\nmassacre of St. Bartholomew, had been so overcome by compassion, as to\nsave some unhappy protestants, whom he thought it his duty to destroy,\nwould not seem to be entitled to that high applause which we should have\nbestowed upon him, had he exerted the same generosity with complete\nself-approbation. We might be pleased with the humanity of his temper,\nbut we should still regard him with a sort of pity which is altogether\ninconsistent with the admiration that is due to perfect virtue. It is\nthe same case with all the other passions. We do not dislike to see them\nexert themselves properly, even when a false notion of duty would direct\nthe person to restrain them. A very devout Quaker, who upon being struck\nupon one cheek, instead of turning up the other, should so far forget\nhis literal interpretation of our Saviour\u2019s precept, as to bestow some\ngood discipline upon the brute that insulted him, would not be\ndisagreeable to us. We should laugh and be diverted with his spirit, and\nrather like him the better for it. But we should by no means regard him\nwith that respect and esteem which would seem due to one who, upon a\nlike occasion, had acted properly from a just sense of what was proper\nto be done. No action can properly be called virtuous, which is not\naccompanied with the sentiment of self-approbation.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n PART IV.\n Of the EFFECT of UTILITY upon the sentiment of approbation.\n\n CONSISTING OF ONE SECTION.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. I.\n _Of the beauty which the appearance of_ UTILITY _bestows upon all the\n productions of art, and of the extensive influence of this species of\n beauty_.\n\n\nThat utility is one of the principal sources of beauty has been observed\nby every body, who has considered with any attention what constitutes\nthe nature of beauty. The conveniency of a house gives pleasure to the\nspectator as well as its regularity, and he is as much hurt when he\nobserves the contrary defect, as when he sees the correspondent windows\nof different forms, or the door not placed exactly in the middle of the\nbuilding. That the fitness of any system or machine to produce the end\nfor which it was intended, bestows a certain propriety and beauty upon\nthe whole, and renders the very thought and contemplation of it\nagreeable, is so very obvious that nobody has overlooked it.\n\nThe cause too, why utility pleases, has of late been assigned by an\ningenious and agreeable philosopher, who joins the greatest depth of\nthought to the greatest elegance of expression, and possesses the\nsingular and happy talent of treating the abstrusest subjects not only\nwith the most perfect perspicuity, but with the most lively eloquence.\nThe utility of any object, according to him, pleases the master by\nperpetually suggesting to him the pleasure or conveniency which it is\nfitted to promote. Every time he looks at it, he is put in mind of this\npleasure; and the object in this manner becomes a source of perpetual\nsatisfaction and enjoyment. The spectator enters by sympathy into the\nsentiments of the master, and necessarily views the object under the\nsame agreeable aspect. When we visit the palaces of the great, we cannot\nhelp conceiving the satisfaction we should enjoy if we ourselves were\nthe masters, and were possessed of so much artful and ingeniously\ncontrived accommodation. A similar account is given why the appearance\nof inconveniency should render any object disagreeable both to the owner\nand to the spectator.\n\nBut that this fitness, this happy contrivance of any production of art,\nshould often be more valued, than the very end for which it was\nintended; and that the exact adjustment of the means for attaining any\nconveniency or pleasure, should frequently be more regarded, than that\nvery conveniency or pleasure, in the attainment of which their whole\nmerit would seem to consist, has not, so far as I know, been yet taken\nnotice of by any body. That this however is very frequently the case,\nmay be observed in a thousand instances, both in the most frivolous and\nin the most important concerns of human life.\n\nWhen a person comes into his chamber, and finds the chairs all standing\nin the middle of the room, he is angry with his servant, and rather than\nsee them continue in that disorder, perhaps takes the trouble himself to\nset them all in their places with their backs to the wall. The whole\npropriety of this new situation arises from its superior conveniency in\nleaving the floor free and disengaged. To attain this conveniency he\nvoluntarily puts himself to more trouble than all he could have suffered\nfrom the want of it; since nothing was more easy, than to have set\nhimself down upon one of them, which is probably what he does when his\nlabour is over. What he wanted therefore, it seems, was not so much this\nconveniency, as that arrangement of things which promotes it. Yet it is\nthis conveniency which ultimately recommends that arrangement, and\nbestows upon it the whole of its propriety and beauty.\n\nA watch, in the same manner, that falls behind above two minutes in a\nday, is despised by one curious in watches. He sells it perhaps for a\ncouple of guineas, and purchases another at fifty, which will not lose\nabove a minute in a fortnight. The sole use of watches however, is to\ntell us what o\u2019clock it is, and to hinder us from breaking any\nengagement, or suffering any other inconveniency by our ignorance in\nthat particular point. But the person so nice with regard to this\nmachine, will not always be found either more scrupulously punctual than\nother men, or more anxiously concerned upon any other account, to know\nprecisely what time of day it is. What interests him is not so much the\nattainment of this piece of knowledge, as the perfection of the machine\nwhich serves to attain it.\n\nHow many people ruin themselves by laying out money on trinkets of\nfrivolous utility? What pleases these lovers of toys is not so much the\nutility, as the aptness of the machines which are fitted to promote it.\nAll their pockets are fluffed with little conveniencies. They contrive\nnew pockets, unknown in the clothes of other people, in order to carry a\ngreater number. They walk about loaded with a multitude of baubles, in\nweight and sometimes in value not inferior to an ordinary Jew\u2019s-box,\nsome of which may sometimes be of some little use, but all of which\nmight at all times be very well spared, and of which the whole utility\nis certainly not worth the fatigue of bearing the burden.\n\nNor is it only with regard to such frivolous objects that our conduct is\ninfluenced by this principle; it is often the secret motive of the most\nserious and important pursuits of both private and public life.\n\nThe poor man\u2019s son, whom Heaven in its anger has visited with ambition,\nwhen he begins to look around him admires the condition of the rich. He\nfinds the cottage of his father too small for his accommodation, and\nfancies he should be lodged more at his ease in a palace. He is\ndispleased with being obliged to walk a-foot, or to endure the fatigue\nof riding on horseback. He sees his superiors carried about in machines,\nand imagines that in one of these he could travel with less\ninconveniency. He feels himself naturally indolent, and willing to serve\nhimself with his own hands as little as possible; and judges, that a\nnumerous retinue of servants would save him from a great deal of\ntrouble. He thinks if he had attained all these, he would sit still\ncontentedly, and be quiet, enjoying himself in the thought of the\nhappiness and tranquillity of his situation. He is enchanted with the\ndistant idea of this felicity. It appears in his fancy like the life of\nsome superior rank of beings, and in order to arrive at it, he devotes\nhimself for ever to the pursuit of wealth and greatness. To obtain the\nconveniencies which these afford, he submits in the first year, nay in\nthe first month of his application, to more fatigue of body and more\nuneasiness of mind than he could have suffered through the whole of his\nlife from the want of them. He studies to distinguish himself in some\nlaborious profession. With the most unrelenting industry he labours\nnight and day to acquire talents superior to all his competitors. He\nendeavours next to bring those talents into public view, and with equal\nassiduity solicits every opportunity of employment. For this purpose he\nmakes his court to all mankind, he serves those whom he hates, and is\nobsequious to those whom he despises. Through the whole of his life he\npursues the idea of a certain artificial and elegant repose which he may\nnever arrive at, for which he sacrifices a real tranquillity that is at\nall times in his power, and which, if in the extremity of old age he\nshould at last attain to it, he will find to be in no respect preferable\nto that humble security and contentment which he had abandoned for it.\nIt is then, in the last dregs of life, his body wailed with toil and\ndiseases, his mind galled and ruffled by the memory of a thousand\ninjuries and disappointments which he imagines he has met with from the\ninjustice of his enemies, or from the perfidy and ingratitude of his\nfriends, that he begins at last to find that wealth and greatness are\nmere trinkets of frivolous utility, no more adapted for procuring ease\nof body or tranquillity of mind than the tweezer-cases of the lover of\ntoys; and like them too, more troublesome to the person who carries them\nabout with him than all the advantages they can afford him are\ncommodious. There is no other real difference between them, except that\nthe conveniencies of the one are somewhat more observable than those of\nthe other. The palaces, the gardens, the equipage, the retinue of the\ngreat are objects of which the obvious conveniency strikes every body.\nThey do not require that their masters should point out to us wherein\nconsists their utility. Of our own accord we readily enter into it, and\nby sympathy enjoy and thereby applaud the satisfaction which they are\nfitted to afford him. But the curiosity of a tooth-pick, of an\near-picker, of a machine for cutting the nails, or of any other trinket\nof the same kind, is not so obvious. Their convenience may perhaps be\nequally great, but it is not so striking, and we do not so readily enter\ninto the satisfaction of the man who possesses them. They are therefore\nless reasonable subjects of vanity than the magnificence of wealth and\ngreatness; and in this consists the sole advantage of these last. They\nmore effectually gratify that love of distinction so natural to man. To\none who was to live alone in a desolate island it might be a matter of\ndoubt, perhaps, whether a palace, or a collection of such small\nconveniencies as are commonly contained in a tweezer-case, would\ncontribute most to his happiness and enjoyment. If he is to live in\nsociety, indeed, there can be no comparison, because in this, as in all\nother cases, we constantly pay more regard to the sentiments of the\nspectator, than to those of the person principally concerned, and\nconsider rather how his situation will appear to other people, than how\nit will appear to himself. If we examine, however, why the spectator\ndistinguishes with such admiration the condition of the rich and the\ngreat, we shall find that it is not so much upon account of the superior\nease or pleasure which they are supposed to enjoy, as of the numberless\nartificial and elegant contrivances for promoting this ease or pleasure.\nHe does not even imagine that they are really happier than other people:\nbut he imagines that they possess more means of happiness. And it is the\ningenious and artful adjustment of those means to the end for which they\nwere intended, that is the principal source of his admiration. But in\nthe languor of disease, and the weariness of old age, the pleasures of\nthe vain and empty distinctions of greatness disappear. To one, in this\nsituation, they are no longer capable of recommending those toilsome\npursuits in which they had formerly engaged him. In his heart he curses\nambition, and vainly regrets the ease and the indolence of youth,\npleasures which are fled for ever, and which he has foolishly sacrificed\nfor what, when he has got it, can afford him no real satisfaction. In\nthis miserable aspect does greatness appear to every man when reduced\neither by spleen or disease to observe with attention his own situation,\nand to consider what it is that is really wanting to his happiness.\nPower and riches appear then to be what they are, enormous and operose\nmachines contrived to produce a few trifling conveniencies to the body,\nconsisting of springs the most nice and delicate, which must be kept in\norder with the most anxious attention, and which in spite of all our\ncare are ready every moment to burst into pieces, and to crush in their\nruins their unfortunate possessor. They are immense fabrics, which it\nrequires the labour of a life to raise, which threaten every moment to\noverwhelm the person that dwells in them, and which while they stand,\nthough they may save him from some smaller inconveniencies, can protect\nhim from none of the severer inclemencies of the season. They keep off\nthe summer shower, not the winter storm, but leave him always as much,\nand sometimes more exposed than before, to anxiety, to fear, and to\nsorrow; to diseases, to danger, and to death.\n\nBut though this splenetic philosophy, which in time of sickness or low\nspirits is familiar to every man, thus entirely depreciates those great\nobjects of human desire, when in better health and in better humour, we\nnever fail to regard them under a more agreeable aspect. Our\nimagination, which in pain and sorrow seems to be confined and cooped up\nwithin our own persons, in times of ease and prosperity expands itself\nto every thing around us. We are then charmed with the beauty of that\naccommodation which reigns in the palaces and \u0153conomy of the great; and\nadmire how every thing is adapted to promote their ease, to prevent\ntheir wants, to gratify their wishes, and to amuse and entertain their\nmost frivolous desires. If we consider the real satisfaction which all\nthese things are capable of affording, by itself and separated from the\nbeauty of that arrangement which is fitted to promote it, it will always\nappear in the highest degree contemptible and trifling. But we rarely\nview it in this abstract and philosophical light. We naturally confound\nit in our imagination with the order, the regular and harmonious\nmovement of the system, the machine or \u0153conomy by means of which it is\nproduced. The pleasures of wealth and greatness, when considered in this\ncomplex view, strike the imagination as something grand and beautiful\nand noble, of which the attainment is well worth all the toil and\nanxiety which we are so apt to bestow upon it.\n\nAnd it is well that nature imposes upon us in this manner. It is this\ndeception which rouses and keeps in continual motion the industry of\nmankind. It is this which first prompted them to cultivate the ground,\nto build houses, to found cities and commonwealths, and to invent and\nimprove all the sciences and arts, which ennoble and embellish human\nlife; which have entirely changed the whole face of the globe, have\nturned the rude forests of nature into agreeable and fertile plains, and\nmade the trackless and barren ocean a new fund of subsistence, and the\ngreat high road of communication to the different nations of the earth.\nThe earth by these labours of mankind has been obliged to redouble her\nnatural fertility, and to maintain a greater multitude of inhabitants.\nIt is to no purpose, that the proud and unfeeling landlord views his\nextensive fields, and without a thought for the wants of his brethren,\nin imagination consumes himself the whole harvest that grows upon them.\nThe homely and vulgar proverb, that the eye is larger than the belly,\nnever was more fully verified than with regard to him. The capacity of\nhis stomach bears no proportion to the immensity of his desires, and\nwill receive no more than that of the meanest peasant. The rest he is\nobliged to distribute among those, who prepare, in the nicest manner,\nthat little which he himself makes use of, among those who sit up the\npalace in which this little is to be consumed, among those who provide\nand keep in order all the different baubles and trinkets, which are\nemployed in the \u0153conomy of greatness; all of whom thus derive from his\nluxury and caprice, that share of the necessaries of life, which they\nwould in vain have expected from his humanity or his justice. The\nproduce of the soil maintains at all times nearly that number of\ninhabitants, which it is capable of maintaining. The rich only select\nfrom the heap what is most precious and agreeable. They consume little\nmore than the poor, and in spite of their natural selfishness and\nrapacity, though they mean only their own conveniency, though the sole\nend which they propose from the labours of all the thousands whom they\nemploy, be the gratification of their own vain and insatiable desires,\nthey divide with the poor the produce of all their improvements. They\nare led by an invisible hand to make nearly the same distribution of the\nnecessaries of life, which would have been made, had the earth been\ndivided into equal portions among all its inhabitants, and thus without\nintending it, without knowing it, advance the interest of the society,\nand afford means to the multiplication of the species. When Providence\ndivided the earth among a few lordly masters, it neither forgot nor\nabandoned those who seemed to have been left out in the partition. These\nlast too enjoy their share of all that it produces. In what constitutes\nthe real happiness of human life, they are in no respect inferior to\nthose who would seem so much above them. In ease of body and peace of\nmind, all the different ranks of life are nearly upon a level, and the\nbeggar, who suns himself by the side of the highway, possesses that\nsecurity which kings are fighting for.\n\nThe same principle, the same love of system, the same regard to the\nbeauty of order, of art and contrivance, frequently serves to recommend\nthose institutions, which tend to promote the public welfare. When a\npatriot exerts himself for the improvement of any part of the public\npolice, his conduct does not always arise from pure sympathy with the\nhappiness of those who are to reap the benefit of it. It is not commonly\nfrom a fellow-feeling with carriers and waggoners that a public-spirited\nman encourages the mending of high roads. When the legislature\nestablishes premiums and other encouragements to advance the linen or\nwoollen manufactures, its conduct seldom proceeds from pure sympathy\nwith the wearer of cheap or fine cloth, and much less from that with the\nmanufacturer, or merchant. The perfection of police, the extension of\ntrade and manufactures, are noble and magnificent objects. The\ncontemplation of them pleases us, and we are interested in whatever can\ntend to advance them. They make part of the great system of government,\nand the wheels of the political machine seem to move with more harmony\nand ease by means of them. We take pleasure in beholding the perfection\nof so beautiful and grand a system, and we are uneasy till we remove any\nobstruction that can in the least disturb or encumber the regularity of\nits motions. All constitutions of government, however, are valued only\nin proportion, as they tend to promote the happiness of those who live\nunder them. This is their sole use and end. From a certain spirit of\nsystem, however, from a certain love of art and contrivance, we\nsometimes seem to value the means more than the end, and to be eager to\npromote the happiness of our fellow-creatures, rather from a view to\nperfect and improve a certain beautiful and orderly system, than from\nany immediate sense or feeling of what they either suffer or enjoy.\nThere have been men of the greatest public spirit, who have shewn\nthemselves in other respects not very sensible to the feelings of\nhumanity. And on the contrary, there have been men of the greatest\nhumanity, who seem to have been entirely devoid of public spirit. Every\nman may find in the circle of his acquaintance instances both of the one\nkind and the other. Who had ever less humanity, or more public spirit,\nthan the celebrated legislator of Muscovy? The social and well natured\nJames the First of Great Britain seems, on the contrary, to have had\nscarce any passion, either for the glory, or the interest of his\ncountry. Would you awaken the industry of the man, who seems almost dead\nto ambition, it will often be to no purpose to describe to him the\nhappiness of the rich and the great; to tell him that they are generally\nsheltered from the sun and the rain, that they are seldom hungry, that\nthey are seldom cold, and that they are rarely exposed to weariness, or\nto want of any kind. The most eloquent exhortation of this kind will\nhave little effect upon him. If you would hope to succeed, you must\ndescribe to him the conveniency and arrangement of the different\napartments in their palaces, you must explain to him the propriety of\ntheir equipages, and point out to him the number, the order, and the\ndifferent offices of all their attendants. If any thing is capable of\nmaking impression upon him, this will. Yet all these things tend only to\nkeep off the sun and the rain, to save them from hunger and cold, from\nwant and weariness. In the same manner, if you would implant public\nvirtue in the breast of him, who seems heedless of the interest of his\ncountry, it will often be to no purpose to tell him, what superior\nadvantages the subjects of a well-governed state enjoy; that they are\nbetter lodged, that they are better clothed, that they are better fed.\nThese considerations will commonly make no great impression. You will be\nmore likely to persuade, if you describe the great system of public\npolice which procures these advantages, if you explain the connexions\nand dependencies of its several parts, their mutual subordination to one\nanother, and their general subserviency to the happiness of the society;\nif you show how this system might be introduced into his own country,\nwhat it is that hinders it from taking place there at present, how those\nobstructions might be removed, and all the several wheels of the machine\nof government be made to move with more harmony and smoothness, without\ngrating upon one another, or mutually retarding one another\u2019s motions.\nIt is scarce possible that a man should listen to a discourse of this\nkind, and not feel himself animated to some degree of public spirit. He\nwill, at least for the moment, feel some desire to remove those\nobstructions, and to put into motion so beautiful and so orderly a\nmachine. Nothing tends so much to promote public spirit as the study of\npolitics, of the several systems of civil government, their advantages\nand disadvantages, of the constitution of our own country, its\nsituation, and interest with regard to foreign nations, its commerce,\nits defence, the disadvantages it labours under, the dangers to which it\nmay be exposed, how to remove the one, and how to guard against the\nother. Upon this account political disquisitions, if just and\nreasonable, and practicable, are of all the works of speculation the\nmost useful. Even the weakest and the worst of them are not altogether\nwithout their utility. They serve at least to animate the public\npassions of men, and rouse them to seek out the means of promoting the\nhappiness of the society.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. II.\n _Of the beauty which the appearance of utility bestows upon the\ncharacters and actions of men; and how far the perception of this beauty\n may be regarded as one of the original principles of approbation._\n\n\nThe characters of men, as well as the contrivances of art, or the\ninstitutions of civil government, may be fitted either to promote or to\ndisturb the happiness both of the individual and of the society. The\nprudent, the equitable, the active, resolute, and sober character\npromises prosperity and satisfaction, both to the person himself and to\nevery one connected with him. The rash, the insolent, the slothful,\neffeminate, and voluptuous, on the contrary, forebodes ruin to the\nindividual, and misfortune to all who have any thing to do with him. The\nfirst turn of mind has at least all the beauty which can belong to the\nmost perfect machine that was ever invented for promoting the most\nagreeable purpose: and the second all the deformity of the most awkward\nand clumsy contrivance. What institution of government could tend so\nmuch to promote the happiness of mankind as the general prevalence of\nwisdom and virtue? All government is but an imperfect remedy for the\ndeficiency of these. Whatever beauty, therefore, can belong to civil\ngovernment upon account of its utility, must in a far superior degree\nbelong to these. On the contrary, what civil policy can be so ruinous\nand destructive as the vices of men? The fatal effects of bad government\narise from nothing, but that it does not sufficiently guard against the\nmischiefs which human wickedness gives occasion to.\n\nThis beauty and deformity which characters appear to derive from their\nusefulness or inconveniency, are apt to strike, in a peculiar manner,\nthose who consider, in an abstract and philosophical light, the actions\nand conduct of mankind. When a philosopher goes to examine why humanity\nis approved of, or cruelty condemned, he does not always form to\nhimself, in a very clear and distinct manner, the conception of any one\nparticular action either of cruelty or of humanity, but is commonly\ncontented with the vague and indeterminate idea which the general names\nof those qualities suggest to him. But it is in particular instances\nonly that the propriety or impropriety, the merit or demerit of actions\nis very obvious and discernible. It is only when particular examples are\ngiven that we perceive distinctly either the concord or disagreement\nbetween our own affections and those of the agent, or feel a social\ngratitude arise towards him in the one case, or a sympathetic resentment\nin the other. When we consider virtue and vice in an abstract and\ngeneral manner, the qualities by which they excite these several\nsentiments seem in a great measure to disappear, and the sentiments\nthemselves become less obvious and discernible. On the contrary, the\nhappy effects of the one and the fatal consequences of the other seem\nthen to rise up to the view, and as it were to stand out and distinguish\nthemselves from all the other qualities of either.\n\nThe same ingenious and agreeable author who first explained why utility\npleases, has been so struck with this view of things, as to resolve our\nwhole approbation of virtue into a perception of this species of beauty\nwhich results from the appearance of utility. No qualities of the mind,\nhe observes, are approved of as virtuous, but such as are useful or\nagreeable either to the person himself or to others; and no qualities\nare disapproved of as vicious but such as have a contrary tendency. And\nNature, indeed, seems to have so happily adjusted our sentiments of\napprobation and disapprobation, to the conveniency both of the\nindividual and of the society, that after the strictest examination it\nwill be found, I believe, that this is universally the case. But still I\naffirm, that it is not the view of this utility or hurtfulness which is\neither the first or principal source of our approbation and\ndisapprobation. These sentiments are no doubt enhanced and enlivened by\nthe perception of the beauty or deformity which results from this\nutility or hurtfulness. But still, I say, they are originally and\nessentially different from this perception.\n\nFor first of all, it seems impossible that the approbation of virtue\nshould be a sentiment of the same kind with that by which we approve of\na convenient and well contrived building, or that we should have no\nother reason for praising a man than that for which we commend a chest\nof drawers.\n\nAnd secondly, it will be found, upon examination, that the usefulness of\nany disposition of mind is seldom the first ground of our approbation;\nand that the sentiment of approbation always involves in it a sense of\npropriety quite distinct from the perception of utility. We may observe\nthis with regard to all the qualities which are approved of as virtuous,\nboth those which, according to this system, are originally valued as\nuseful to ourselves, as well as those which are esteemed on account of\ntheir usefulness to others.\n\nThe qualities most useful to ourselves are, first of all, superior\nreason and understanding, by which we are capable of discerning the\nremote consequences of all our actions, and of foreseeing the advantage\nor detriment which is likely to result from them: and secondly,\nself-command, by which we are enabled to abstain from present pleasure\nor to endure present pain, in order to obtain a greater pleasure or to\navoid a greater pain in some future time. In the union of those two\nqualities consists the virtue of prudence, of all the virtues that which\nis most useful to the individual.\n\nWith regard to the first of those qualities, it has been observed on a\nformer occasion, that superior reason and understanding are originally\napproved of as just and right and accurate, and not merely as useful or\nadvantageous. It is in the abstruser sciences, particularly in the\nhigher parts of mathematics, that the greatest and most admired\nexertions of human reason have been displayed. But the utility of those\nsciences, either to the individual or to the public, is not very\nobvious, and to prove it requires a discussion which is not always very\neasily comprehended. It was not, therefore, their utility which first\nrecommended them to the public admiration. This quality was but little\ninsisted upon, till it became necessary to make some reply to the\nreproaches of those, who, having themselves no taste for such sublime\ndiscoveries, endeavoured to depreciate them as useless.\n\nThat self-command, in the same manner, by which we restrain our present\nappetites, in order to gratify them more fully upon another occasion, is\napproved of, as much under the aspect of propriety, as under that of\nutility. When we act in this manner, the sentiments which influence our\nconduct seem exactly to coincide with those of the spectator. The\nspectator does not feel the felicitations of our present appetites. To\nhim the pleasure which we are to enjoy a week hence, or a year hence, is\njust as interesting as that which we are to enjoy this moment. When for\nthe sake of the present, therefore, we sacrifice the future, our conduct\nappears to him absurd and extravagant in the highest degree, and he\ncannot enter into the principles which influence it. On the contrary,\nwhen we abstain from present pleasure, in order to secure greater\npleasure to come, when we act as if the remote object interests us as\nmuch as that which immediately presses upon the senses, as our\naffections exactly correspond with his own, he cannot fail to approve of\nour behaviour: and as he knows from experience, how few are capable of\nthis self-command, he looks upon our conduct with a considerable degree\nof wonder and admiration. Hence arises that eminent esteem with which\nall men naturally regard a steady perseverance in the practice of\nfrugality, industry, and application, though directed to no other\npurpose than the acquisition of fortune. The resolute firmness of the\nperson who acts in this manner, and in order to obtain a great though\nremote advantage, not only gives up all present pleasures, but endures\nthe greatest labour both of mind and body, necessarily commands our\napprobation. That view of his interest and happiness which appears to\nregulate his conduct, exactly tallies with the idea which we naturally\nform of it. There is the most perfect correspondence between his\nsentiments and our own, and at the same time, from our experience of the\ncommon weakness of human nature, it is a correspondence which we could\nnot reasonably have expected. We not only approve, therefore, but in\nsome measure admire his conduct, and think it worthy of a considerable\ndegree of applause. It is the consciousness of this merited approbation\nand esteem which is alone capable of supporting the agent in this tenour\nof conduct. The pleasure which we are to enjoy ten years hence interests\nus so little in comparison with that which we may enjoy to-day, the\npassion which the first excites, is naturally so weak in comparison with\nthat violent emotion which the second is apt to give occasion to, that\none could never be any balance to the other, unless it was supported by\nthe sense of propriety, by the consciousness that we merited the esteem\nand approbation of every body, by acting in the one way, and that we\nbecame the proper objects of their contempt and derision by behaving in\nthe other.\n\nHumanity, justice, generosity, and public spirit, are the qualities most\nuseful to others. Wherein consists the propriety of humanity and justice\nhas been explained upon a former occasion, where it was shewn how much\nour esteem and approbation of those qualities depended upon the concord\nbetween the affections of the agent and those of the spectators.\n\nThe propriety of generosity and public spirit is founded upon the same\nprinciple with that of justice. Generosity is different from humanity.\nThose two qualities, which at first sight seem so nearly allied, do not\nalways belong to the same person. Humanity is the virtue of a woman,\ngenerosity of a man. The fair sex, who have commonly much more\ntenderness than ours, have seldom so much generosity. That women rarely\nmake considerable donations is an observation of the civil law[7].\nHumanity consists merely in the exquisite fellow-feeling which the\nspectator entertains with the sentiments of the persons principally\nconcerned, so as to grieve for their sufferings, to resent their\ninjuries, and to rejoice at their good fortune. The most humane actions\nrequire no self-denial, no self-command, no great exertion of the sense\nof propriety. They consist only in doing what this exquisite sympathy\nwould of its own accord prompt us to do. But it is otherwise with\ngenerosity. We never are generous except when in some respect we prefer\nsome other person to ourselves, and sacrifice some great and important\ninterest of our own to an equal interest of a friend or of a superior.\nThe man who gives up his pretensions to an office that was the great\nobject of his ambition, because he imagines that the services of another\nare better entitled to it, the man who exposes his life to defend that\nof his friend, which he judges to be of more importance, neither of them\nact from humanity, or because they feel more exquisitely what concerns\nthat other person than what concerns themselves. They both consider\nthose opposite interests not in the light in which they naturally appear\nto themselves, but in that in which they appear to others. To every\nby-stander, the success or preservation of this other person may justly\nbe more interesting than their own; but it cannot be so to themselves.\nWhen to the interest of this other person, therefore, they sacrifice\ntheir own, they accommodate themselves to the sentiments of the\nspectator, and by an effort of magnanimity act according to those views\nof things which they feel, must naturally occur to any third person. The\nsoldier who throws away his life in order to defend that of his officer,\nwould perhaps be but little affected by the death of that officer, if it\nshould happen without any fault of his own; and a very small disaster\nwhich had befallen himself might excite a much more lively sorrow. But\nwhen he endeavours to act so as to deserve applause, and to make the\nimpartial spectator enter into the principles of his conduct, he feels,\nthat to every body but himself, his own life is a trifle compared with\nthat of his officer, and that when he sacrifices the one to the other,\nhe acts quite properly and agreeably to what would be the natural\napprehensions of every impartial by-stander.\n\nFootnote 7:\n\n Raro mulieres donare solent.\n\nIt is the same case with the greater exertions of public spirit. When a\nyoung officer exposes his life to acquire some inconsiderable addition\nto the dominions of his sovereign, it is not, because the acquisition of\nthe new territory is, to himself, an object more desireable than the\npreservation of his own life. To him his own life is of infinitely more\nvalue than the conquest of a whole kingdom for the state which he\nserves. But when he compares those two objects with one another, he does\nnot view them in the light in which they naturally appear to himself,\nbut in that in which they appear to the nation he fights for. To them\nthe success of the war is of the highest importance; the life of a\nprivate person of scarce any consequence. When he puts himself in their\nsituation, he immediately feels that he cannot be too prodigal of his\nblood, if by shedding it, he can promote so valuable a purpose. In thus\nthwarting, from a sense of duty and propriety, the strongest of all\nnatural propensities, consists the heroism of his conduct. There is many\nan honest Englishman, who, in his private station, would be more\nseriously disturbed by the loss of a guinea, than by the national loss\nof Minorca, who yet, had it been in his power to defend that fortress,\nwould have sacrificed his life a thousand times rather than, through his\nfault, have let it fall into the hands of the enemy. When the first\nBrutus led forth his own sons to a capital punishment, because they had\nconspired against the rising liberty of Rome, he sacrificed what, if he\nhad consulted his own breast only, would appear to be the stronger to\nthe weaker affection. Brutus ought naturally to have felt much more for\nthe death of his own sons, than for all that probably Rome could have\nsuffered from the want of so great an example. But he viewed them, not\nwith the eyes of a father, but with those of a Roman citizen. He entered\nso thoroughly into the sentiments of this last character, that he paid\nno regard to that tye, by which he himself was connected with them; and\nto a Roman citizen, the sons even of Brutus seemed contemptible, when\nput into the balance with the smallest interest of Rome. In these and in\nall other cases of this kind, our admiration is not so much founded upon\nthe utility, as upon the unexpected, and on that account the great, the\nnoble, and exalted propriety of such actions. This utility, when we come\nto view it, bestows upon them, undoubtedly, a new beauty, and upon that\naccount still further recommends them, to our approbation. This beauty,\nhowever, is chiefly perceived by men of reflection and speculation, and\nis by no means the quality which first recommends such actions to the\nnatural sentiments of the bulk of mankind.\n\nIt is to be observed, that so far as the sentiment of approbation arises\nfrom the perception of this beauty of utility, it has no reference of\nany kind to the sentiments of others. If it was possible, therefore,\nthat a person should grow up to manhood without any communication with\nsociety, his own actions might, notwithstanding, be agreeable or\ndisagreeable to him on account of their tendency to his happiness or\ndisadvantage. He might perceive a beauty of this kind in prudence,\ntemperance, and good conduct, and a deformity in the opposite behaviour:\nHe might view his own temper and character with that sort of\nsatisfaction with which we consider a well contrived machine, in the one\ncase; or with that sort of distaste and dissatisfaction with which we\nregard a very awkward and clumsy contrivance, in the other. As these\nperceptions, however, are merely a matter of taste, and have all the\nfeebleness and delicacy of that species of perceptions, upon the\njustness of which what is properly called taste is founded, they\nprobably would not be much attended to by one in his solitary and\nmiserable condition. Even though they should occur to him, they would by\nno means have the same effect upon him, antecedent to his connexion with\nsociety, which they would have in consequence of that connexion. He\nwould not be cast down with inward shame at the thought of this\ndeformity; nor would he be elevated with secret triumph of mind from the\nconsciousness of the contrary beauty. He would not exult from the notion\nof deserving reward in the one case, nor tremble from the suspicion of\nmeriting punishment in the other. All such sentiments suppose the idea\nof some other being, who is the natural judge of the person that feels\nthem; and it is only by sympathy with the decisions of this arbiter of\nhis conduct, that he can conceive, either the triumph of self-applause,\nor the shame of self-condemnation.\n\n\n\n\n PART V.\n Of the INFLUENCE of CUSTOM and FASHION upon the sentiments of moral\n approbation and disapprobation.\n\n CONSISTING OF ONE SECTION.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. I.\n _Of the influence of custom and fashion upon our notions of beauty and\n deformity._\n\n\nThere are other principles besides those already enumerated, which have\na considerable influence upon the moral sentiments of mankind, and are\nthe chief causes of the many irregular and discordant opinions which\nprevail in different ages and nations concerning what is blameable or\npraise-worthy. These principles are custom and faction, principles which\nextend their dominion over our judgments concerning beauty of every\nkind.\n\nWhen two objects have frequently been seen together, the imagination\nacquires a habit of passing easily from the one to the other. If the\nfirst appear, we lay our account that the second is to follow. Of their\nown accord they put us in mind of one another, and the attention glides\neasily along them. Though, independent of custom, there should be no\nreal beauty in their union, yet when custom has thus connected them\ntogether, we feel an impropriety in their reparation. The one we think\nis awkward when it appears without its usual companion. We miss\nsomething which we expected to find, and the habitual arrangement of our\nideas is disturbed by the disappointment. A suit of clothes, for\nexample, seems to want something if they are without the most\ninsignificant ornament which usually accompanies them, and we find a\nmeanness or awkwardness in the absence even of a haunch button. When\nthere is any natural propriety in the union, custom increases our sense\nof it, and makes a different arrangement appear still more disagreeable\nthan it would otherwise seem to be. Those who have been accustomed to\nsee things in a good taste, are more disgusted by whatever is clumsy or\nawkward. Where the conjunction is improper, custom either diminishes, or\ntakes away altogether, our sense of the impropriety. Those who have been\naccustomed to slovenly disorder lose all sense of neatness or elegance.\nThe modes of furniture or dress which seem ridiculous to strangers, give\nno offence to the people who are used to them.\n\nFashion is different from custom, or rather is a particular species of\nit. That is not the fashion which every body wears, but which those wear\nwho are of a high rank, or character. The graceful, the easy, and\ncommanding manners of the great, joined to the usual richness and\nmagnificence of their dress, give a grace to the very form which they\nhappen to bestow upon it. As long as they continue to use this form, it\nis connected in our imaginations with the idea of something that is\ngenteel and magnificent, and though in itself it should be indifferent,\nit seems, on account of this relation, to have something about it that\nis genteel and magnificent too. As soon as they drop it, it loses all\nthe grace, which it had appeared to possess before, and being now used\nonly by the inferior ranks of people, seems to have something of their\nmeanness and awkwardness.\n\nDress and furniture are allowed by all the world to be entirely under\nthe dominion of custom and fashion. The influence of those principles,\nhowever, is by no means confined to so narrow a sphere, but extends\nitself to whatever is in any respect the object of taste, to music, to\npoetry, to architecture. The modes of dress and furniture are\ncontinually changing, and that fashion appearing ridiculous to-day which\nwas admired five years ago, we are experimentally convinced that it owed\nits vogue chiefly or entirely to custom and fashion. Clothes and\nfurniture are not made of very durable materials. A well fancied coat is\ndone in a twelve-month, and cannot continue longer to propagate, as the\nfashion, that form according to which it was made. The modes of\nfurniture change less rapidly than those of dress; because furniture is\ncommonly more durable. In five or six years, however, it generally\nundergoes an entire revolution, and every man in his own time sees the\nfashion in this respect change many different ways. The productions of\nthe other arts are much more lasting, and, when happily imagined, may\ncontinue to propagate the fashion of their make for a much longer time.\nA well contrived building may endure many centuries: a beautiful air may\nbe delivered down by a sort of tradition, through many successive\ngenerations: a well written poem may last as long as the world; and all\nof them continue for ages together, to give the vogue to that particular\nstyle, to that particular taste or manner, according to which each of\nthem was composed. Few men have an opportunity of seeing in their own\ntimes the fashion in any of these arts change very considerably. Few men\nhave so much experience and acquaintance with the different modes which\nhave obtained in remote ages and nations, as to be thoroughly reconciled\nto them, or to judge with impartiality between them, and what takes\nplace in their own age and country. Few men therefore are willing to\nallow that custom or fashion have much influence upon their judgments\nconcerning what is beautiful, or otherwise, in the productions of any of\nthose arts; but imagine, that all the rules, which they think ought to\nbe observed in each of them, are founded upon reason and nature, not\nupon habit or prejudice. A very little attention, however, may convince\nthem of the contrary, and satisfy them, that the influence of custom and\nfashion over dress and furniture, is not more absolute than over\narchitecture, poetry, and music.\n\nCan any reason, for example, be assigned why the Doric capital should be\nappropriated to a pillar, whose height is equal to eight diameters; the\nIonic volute to one of nine; and the Corinthian foliage to one of ten?\nThe propriety of each of those appropriations can be founded upon\nnothing but habit and custom. The eye having been used to see a\nparticular proportion connected with a particular ornament, would be\noffended if they were not joined together. Each of the five orders has\nits peculiar ornaments, which cannot be changed for any other, without\ngiving offence to all those who know any thing of the rules of\narchitecture. According to some architects, indeed, such is the\nexquisite judgment with which the ancients have assigned to each order\nits proper ornaments, that no others can be found which are equally\nsuitable. It seems, however, a little difficult to be conceived that\nthese forms, though, no doubt, extremely agreeable, should be the only\nforms which can suit those proportions, or that there should not be five\nhundred others which, antecedent to established custom, would have\nfitted them equally well. When custom, however, has established\nparticular rules of building, provided they are not absolutely\nunreasonable, it is absurd to think of altering them for others which\nare only equally good, or even for others which, in point of elegance\nand beauty, have naturally some little advantage over them. A man would\nbe ridiculous who should appear in public with a suit of clothes quite\ndifferent from those which are commonly worn, though the new dress\nshould in itself be ever so graceful or convenient. And there seems to\nbe an absurdity of the same kind in ornamenting a house after a quite\ndifferent manner from that which custom and fashion have prescribed;\nthough the new ornaments should in themselves be somewhat superior to\nthe common ones.\n\nAccording to the ancient rhetoricians, a certain measure or verse was by\nnature appropriated to each particular species of writing, as being\nnaturally expressive of that character, sentiment, or passion, which\nought to predominate in it. One verse, they said, was fit for grave and\nanother for gay works, which could not, they thought, be interchanged\nwithout the greatest impropriety. The experience of modern times,\nhowever, seems to contradict this principle, though in itself it would\nappear to be extremely probable. What is the burlesque verse in English\nis the heroic verse in French. The tragedies of Racine and the Henriad\nof Voltaire, are in the same verse with,\n\n _Thus said to my lady the knight full of care._\n\nThe burlesque verse in French, on the contrary, is pretty much the same\nwith the heroic verse of ten syllables in English. Custom has made the\none nation associate the ideas of gravity, sublimity, and seriousness,\nto that measure which the other has connected with whatever is gay,\nflippant, and ludicrous. Nothing would appear more absurd in English\nthan a tragedy written in the Alexandrine verses of the French, or in\nFrench, than a work of the same kind in verses of ten syllables.\n\nAn eminent artist will bring about a considerable change in the\nestablished modes of each of those arts, and introduce a new fashion of\nwriting, music, or architecture. As the dress of an agreeable man of\nhigh rank recommends itself, and how peculiar and fantastical soever,\ncomes soon to be admired and imitated; so the excellencies of an eminent\nmatter recommend his peculiarities, and his manner becomes the\nfashionable style in the art which he practises. The taste of the\nItalians in music and architecture, has, within these fifty years,\nundergone a considerable change, from imitating the peculiarities of\nsome eminent masters in each of those arts. Seneca is accused by\nQuintilian of having corrupted the taste of the Romans, and of having\nintroduced a frivolous prettiness in the room of majestic reason and\nmasculine eloquence. Sallust and Tacitus have by others been charged\nwith the same accusation, tho\u2019 in a different manner. They gave\nreputation, it is pretended, to a style, which though in the highest\ndegree concise, elegant, expressive, and even poetical, wanted, however,\nease, simplicity, and nature, and was evidently the production of the\nmost laboured and studied affectation. How many great qualities must\nthat writer possess who can thus render his very faults agreeable? After\nthe praise of refining the taste of a nation, the highest eulogy,\nperhaps, which can be bestowed upon any author is to say, that he\ncorrupted it. In our own language, Mr. Pope and Dr. Swift have each of\nthem introduced a manner different from what was practised before, into\nall works that are written in rhyme, the one in long verses, the other\nin short. The quaintness of Butler has given place to the plainness of\nSwift. The rambling freedom of Dryden, and the correct but often tedious\nand prosaic languor of Addison, are no longer the objects of imitation,\nbut all long verses are now written after the manner of the nervous\nprecision of Mr. Pope.\n\nNeither is it only over the productions of the arts, that custom and\nfashion exert their dominion. They influence our judgments, in the same\nmanner, with regard to the beauty of natural objects. What various and\nopposite forms are deemed beautiful in different species of things? The\nproportions which are admired in one animal, are altogether different\nfrom those which are esteemed in another. Every class of things has its\nown peculiar conformation, which is approved of, and has a beauty of its\nown, distinct from that of every other species. It is upon this account\nthat a learned Jesuit, father Buffier, has determined that the beauty of\nevery object consists in that form and colour, which is most usual among\nthings of that particular sort to which it belongs. Thus, in the human\nform, the beauty of each feature lies in a certain middle equally\nremoved from a variety of other forms that are ugly. A beautiful nose,\nfor example, is one that is neither very long, nor very short, neither\nvery straight, nor very crooked, but a sort of middle among all these\nextremes, and less different from any one of them, than all of them are\nfrom one another. It is the form which Nature seems to have aimed at in\nthem all, which, however, she deviates from in a great variety of ways,\nand very seldom hits exactly; but to which all those deviations still\nbear a very strong resemblance. When a number of drawings are made after\none pattern, though they may all miss it in some respects, yet they will\nall resemble it more than they resemble one another; the general\ncharacter of the pattern will run through them all; the most singular\nand odd will be those which are most wide of it; and though very few\nwill copy it exactly, yet the most accurate delineations will bear a\ngreater resemblance to the most careless, than the careless ones will\nbear to one another. In the same manner, in each species of creatures,\nwhat is most beautiful bears the strongest characters of the general\nfabric of the species, and has the strongest resemblance to the greater\npart of the individuals with which it is classed. Monsters, on the\ncontrary, or what is perfectly deformed, are always most singular and\nodd, and have the least resemblance to the generality of that species to\nwhich they belong. And thus the beauty of each species, though in one\nsense the rarest of all things, because few individuals hit this middle\nform exactly, yet in another, is the most common, because all the\ndeviations from it resemble it more than they resemble one another. The\nmost customary form, therefore, is in each species of things, according\nto him, the most beautiful. And hence it is that a certain practice and\nexperience in contemplating each species of objects is requisite, before\nwe can judge of its beauty, or know wherein the middle and most usual\nform consists. The nicest judgment concerning the beauty of the human\nspecies, will not help us to judge of that of flowers, or horses, or any\nother species of things. It is for the same reason that in different\nclimates and where different customs and ways of living take place, as\nthe generality of any species receives a different conformation from\nthose circumstances, so different ideas of its beauty prevail. The\nbeauty of a Moorish is not exactly the same with that of an English\nhorse. What different ideas are formed in different nations concerning\nthe beauty of the human shape and countenance? A fair complexion is a\nshocking deformity upon the coast of Guinea. Thick lips and a flat nose\nare a beauty. In some nations long ears that hang down upon the\nshoulders are the objects of universal admiration. In China if a lady\u2019s\nfoot is so large as to be fit to walk upon, she is regarded as a monster\nof ugliness. Some of the savage nations in North America tie four boards\nround the heads of their children, and thus squeeze them, while the\nbones are tender and gristly, into a form that is almost perfectly\nsquare. Europeans are astonished at the absurd barbarity of this\npractice, to which some missionaries have imputed the singular stupidity\nof those nations among whom it prevails. But, when they condemn those\nsavages, they do not reflect that the ladies in Europe had, till within\nthese very few years, been endeavouring, for near a century past, to\nsqueeze the beautiful roundness of their natural shape into a square\nform of the same kind. And that notwithstanding the many distortions and\ndiseases which this practice was known to occasion, custom had rendered\nit agreeable among some of the most civilized nations, which, perhaps,\nthe world ever beheld.\n\nSuch is the system of this learned and ingenious father, concerning the\nnature of beauty; of which the whole charm, according to him, would thus\nseem to arise from its falling in with the habits which custom had\nimpressed upon the imagination, with regard to things of each particular\nkind. I cannot, however, be induced to believe that our sense even of\nexternal beauty is founded altogether on custom. The utility of any\nform, its fitness for the useful purposes for which it was intended,\nevidently recommends it, and renders it agreeable to us independent of\ncustom. Certain colours are more agreeable than others, and give more\ndelight to the eye the first time it ever beholds them. A smooth surface\nis more agreeable than a rough one. Variety is more pleasing than a\ntedious undiversified uniformity. Connected variety, in which each new\nappearance seems to be introduced by what went before it, and in which\nall the adjoining parts seem to have some natural relation to one\nanother, is more agreeable than a disjointed and disorderly assemblage\nof unconnected objects. But though I cannot admit that custom is the\nsole principle of beauty, yet I can so far allow the truth of this\ningenious system as to grant, that there is scarce any one external form\nso beautiful as to please, if quite contrary to custom and unlike\nwhatever we have been used to in that particular species of things: or\nso deformed as not to be agreeable, if custom uniformly supports it, and\nhabituates us to see it in every single individual of the kind.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. II.\n _Of the influence of custom and fashion upon moral sentiments._\n\n\nSince our sentiments concerning beauty of every kind are so much\ninfluenced by custom and fashion, it cannot be expected, that those,\nconcerning the beauty, of conduct, should be entirely exempted from the\ndominion of those principles. Their influence here, however, seems to be\nmuch less than it is every where else. There is, perhaps, no form of\nexternal objects, how absurd and fantastical soever, to which custom\nwill not reconcile us, or which fashion will not render even agreeable.\nBut the characters and conduct of a Nero, or a Claudius, are what no\ncustom will ever reconcile us to, what no fashion will ever render\nagreeable; but the one will always be the object of dread and hatred;\nthe other of scorn and derision. The principles of the imagination, upon\nwhich our sense of beauty depends, are of a very nice and delicate\nnature, and may easily be altered by habit and education: but the\nsentiments of moral approbation and disapprobation, are founded on the\nstrongest and most vigorous passions of human nature; and though they\nmay be somewhat warpt, cannot be entirely perverted.\n\nBut though the influence of custom and fashion, upon moral sentiments,\nis not altogether so great, it is however perfectly similar to what it\nis every where else. When custom and fashion coincide with the natural\nprinciples of right and wrong, they heighten the delicacy of our\nsentiments, and increase our abhorrence for every thing which approaches\nto evil. Those who have been educated in what is really good company,\nnot in what is commonly called such, who have been accustomed to see\nnothing in the persons whom they esteemed and lived with, but justice,\nmodesty, humanity, and good order, are more shocked with whatever seems\nto be inconsistent with the rules which those virtues prescribe. Those,\non the contrary, who have had the misfortune to be brought up amidst\nviolence, licentiousness, falsehood, and injustice, lose, though not all\nsense of the impropriety of such conduct, yet all sense of its dreadful\nenormity, or of the vengeance and punishment due to it. They have been\nfamiliarized with it from their infancy, custom has rendered it habitual\nto them, and they are very apt to regard it as, what is called the way\nof the world, something which either may, or must be practised, to\nhinder us from being the dupes of our own integrity.\n\nFashion too will sometimes give reputation to a certain degree of\ndisorder, and on the contrary discountenance qualities which deserve\nesteem. In the reign of Charles II. a degree of licentiousness was\ndeemed the characteristic of a liberal education. It was connected,\naccording to the notions of those times, with generosity, sincerity,\nmagnanimity, loyalty, and proved that the person who acted in this\nmanner, was a gentleman, and not a puritan; severity of manners, and\nregularity of conduct, on the other hand, were altogether unfashionable,\nand were connected, in the imagination of that age, with cant, cunning,\nhypocrisy, and low manners. To superficial minds, the vices of the great\nseem at all times agreeable. They connect them, not only with the\nsplendour of fortune, but with many superiour virtues, which they\nascribe to their superiors; with the spirit of freedom and independency,\nwith frankness, generosity, humanity, and politeness. The virtues of the\ninferior ranks of people, on the contrary, their parsimonious frugality,\ntheir painful industry, and rigid adherence to rules, seem to them mean\nand disagreeable. They connect them, both with the meanness of the\nstation to which those qualities commonly belong, and with many great\nvices, which, they suppose, usually accompany them; such as an abject,\ncowardly, ill-natured, lying, pilfering disposition.\n\nThe objects with which men in the different professions and states of\nlife are conversant, being very different, and habituating them to very\ndifferent passions, naturally form in them very different characters and\nmanners. We expect in each rank and procession, a degree of those\nmanners, which, experience has taught us, belong to it. But as in each\nspecies of things, we are particularly pleased with the middle\nconformation, which in every part and feature agrees most exactly with\nthe general standard which nature seems to have established for things\nof that kind; so in each rank, or, if I may say so, in each species of\nmen, we are particularly pleased, if they have neither too much, nor too\nlittle of the character which usually accompanies their particular\ncondition and situation. A man, we say, should look like his trade and\nprofession; yet the pedantry of every profession is disagreeable. The\ndifferent periods of life have, for the same reason, different manners\nassigned to them. We expect in old age, that gravity and sedateness\nwhich its infirmities, its long experience, and its worn-out sensibility\nseem to render both natural and respectable; and we lay our account to\nfind in youth that sensibility, that gaiety and sprightly vivacity which\nexperience teaches us to expect from the lively impressions that all\ninteresting objects are apt to make upon the tender and unpractised\nsenses of that early period of life. Each of those two ages, however,\nmay easily have too much of these peculiarities which belong to it. The\nflirting levity of youth, and the immoveable insensibility of old age,\nare equally disagreeable. The young, according to the common saying, are\nmost agreeable when in their behaviour there is something of the manners\nof the old, and the old, when they retain something of the gaiety of the\nyoung. Either of them, however, may easily have too much of the manners\nof the other. The extreme coldness, and dull formality, which are\npardoned in old age, make youth ridiculous. The levity, the\ncarelessness, and the vanity, which are indulged in youth, render old\nage contemptible.\n\nThe peculiar character and manners which we are led by custom to\nappropriate to each rank and profession, have sometimes perhaps a\npropriety independent of custom; and are what we should approve of for\ntheir own sakes, if we took into consideration all the different\ncircumstances which naturally affect those in each different state of\nlife. The propriety of a person\u2019s behaviour, depends not upon its\nsuitableness to any one circumstance of his situation, but to all the\ncircumstances, which, when we bring his case home to ourselves we feel,\nshould naturally call upon his attention. If he appears to be so much\noccupied by any one of them, as entirely to neglect the rest, we\ndisapprove of his conduct, as something which we cannot entirely go\nalong with, because not properly adjusted to all the circumstances of\nhis situation: yet, perhaps, the emotion he expresses for the object\nwhich principally interests him, does not exceed what we should entirely\nsympathize with, and approve of, in one whose attention was not required\nby any other thing. A parent in private life might, upon the loss of an\nonly son, express without blame, a degree of grief and tenderness, which\nwould be unpardonable in a general at the head of an army, when glory,\nand the public safety demanded so great a part of his attention. As\ndifferent objects ought, upon common occasions, to occupy the attention\nof men of different professions, so different passions ought, naturally\nto become habitual to them; and when we bring home to ourselves their\nsituation in this particular respect, we must be sensible, that every\noccurrence should naturally affect them more or less, according as the\nemotion which it excites, coincides or disagrees with the fixt habit and\ntemper of their minds. We cannot expect the same sensibility to the gay\npleasures and amusements of life in a clergyman which we lay our account\nwith in an officer. The man whose peculiar occupation it is to keep the\nworld in mind of that awful futurity which awaits them, who is to\nannounce what may be the fatal consequences of every deviation from the\nrules of duty, and who is himself to set the example of the most exact\nconformity, seems to be the messenger of tidings, which cannot, in\npropriety, be delivered either with levity or indifference. His mind is\nsupposed to be continually occupied with what is too grand and solemn,\nto leave any room for the impressions of those frivolous objects, which\nfill up the attention of the dissipated and the gay. We readily feel\ntherefore, that, independent of custom, there is a propriety in the\nmanners which custom has allotted to this profession; and that nothing\ncan be more suitable to the character of a clergyman, than that grave,\nthat austere and abstracted severity, which we are habituated to expect\nin his behaviour. These reflections are so very obvious, that there is\nscarce any man so inconsiderate, as not, at some time, to have made\nthem, and to have accounted to himself in this manner for his\napprobation of the usual character of this order.\n\nThe foundation of the customary character of some other professions is\nnot so obvious, and our approbation of it is founded entirely in habit,\nwithout being either confirmed, or enlivened by any reflections of this\nkind. We are led by custom, for example, to annex the character of\ngaiety, levity, and sprightly freedom, as well as of some degree of\ndissipation, to the military profession: yet, if we were to consider\nwhat mood or tone of temper would be most suitable to this situation, we\nshould be apt to determine, perhaps, that the most serious and\nthoughtful turn of mind, would best become those whose lives are\ncontinually exposed to uncommon danger; and who should therefore be more\nconstantly occupied with the thoughts of death and its consequences than\nother men. It is this very circumstance, however, which is not\nimprobably the occasion why the contrary turn of mind prevails so much\namong men of this profession. It requires so great an effort to conquer\nthe fear of death, when we survey it with steadiness and attention, that\nthose who are constantly exposed to it, find it easier to turn away\ntheir thoughts from it altogether, to wrap themselves up in careless\nsecurity and indifference, and to plunge themselves, for this purpose,\ninto every sort of amusement and dissipation. A camp is not the element\nof a thoughtful or a melancholy man: persons of that cast, indeed, are\noften abundantly determined, and are capable, by a great effort, of\ngoing on with inflexible resolution to the most unavoidable death. But\nto be exposed to continual, though less imminent danger, to be obliged\nto exert, for a long time, a degree of this effort, exhausts and\ndepresses the mind, and renders it incapable of all happiness and\nenjoyment. The gay and careless, who have occasion to make no effort at\nall, who fairly resolve never to look before them, but to lose in\ncontinual pleasures and amusements, all anxiety about their situation,\nmore easily support such circumstances. Whenever, by any peculiar\ncircumstances, an officer has no reason to lay his account with being\nexposed to any uncommon danger, he is very apt to lose the gaiety and\ndissipated thoughtlessness of his character. The captain of a city guard\nis commonly as sober, careful, and penurious an animal as the rest of\nhis fellow-citizens. A long peace is, for the same reason, very apt to\ndiminish the difference between the civil and the military character.\nThe ordinary situation, however, of men of this profession, renders\ngaiety, and a degree of dissipation, so much their usual character; and\ncustom has, in our imagination, so strongly connected this character\nwith this state of life, that we are very apt to despise any man, whose\npeculiar humour or situation, renders him incapable of acquiring it. We\nlaugh at the grave and careful faces of a city guard, which, so little\nresemble those of their profession. They themselves seem often to be\nashamed of the regularity of their own manners, and, not to be out of\nthe fashion of their trade, are fond of affecting that levity, which is\nby no means natural to them. Whatever is the deportment which we have\nbeen accustomed to see in a respectable order of men, it comes to be so\nassociated in our imagination with that order, that whenever we see the\none, we lay our account that we are to meet with the other, and when\ndisappointed, miss something which we expected to find. We are\nembarrassed, and put to a stand, and know not how to address ourselves\nto a character, which plainly affects to be of a different species from\nthose with which we should have been disposed to class it.\n\nThe different situations of different ages and countries, are apt, in\nthe same manner, to give different characters to the generality of those\nwho live in them, and their sentiments concerning the particular degree\nof each quality, that is either blameable, or praise-worthy, vary\naccording to that degree, which is usual in their own country, and in\ntheir own times. That degree of politeness, which would be highly\nesteemed, perhaps, would be thought effeminate adulation, in Russia,\nwould be regarded as rudeness and barbarism at the court of France. That\ndegree of order and frugality, which, in a Polish nobleman, would be\nconsidered as excessive parsimony, would be regarded as extravagance in\na citizen of Amsterdam. Every age and country look upon that degree of\neach quality, which is commonly to be met with in those who are esteemed\namong themselves, as the golden mean of that particular talent or\nvirtue. And as this varies, according as their different circumstances\nrender different qualities more or less habitual to them, their\nsentiments concerning the exact propriety of character and behaviour\nvary accordingly.\n\nAmong civilized nations, the virtues which are founded upon humanity,\nare more cultivated than those which are founded upon self-denial and\nthe command of the passions. Among rude and barbarous nations, it is\nquite otherwise, the virtues of self-denial are more cultivated than\nthose of humanity. The general security and happiness which prevail in\nages of civility and politeness afford little exercise to the contempt\nof danger, to patience in enduring labour, hunger, and pain. Poverty may\neasily be avoided, and the contempt of it therefore, almost ceases to be\na virtue. The abstinence from pleasure, becomes less necessary, and the\nmind is more at liberty to unbend itself, and to indulge its natural\ninclinations in all those particular respects.\n\nAmong savages and barbarians it is quite otherwise. Every savage\nundergoes a sort of Spartan discipline, and by the necessity of his\nsituation is inured to every sort of hardship. He is in continual\ndanger: He is often exposed to the greatest extremities of hunger, and\nfrequently dies of pure want. His circumstances not only habituate him\nto every sort of distress, but teach him to give way to none of the\npassions which that distress is apt to excite. He can expect from his\ncountrymen no sympathy or indulgence for such weakness. Before we can\nfeel much for others, we must in some measure be at ease ourselves. If\nour own misery pinches us very severely, we have no leisure to attend to\nthat of our neighbour: And all savages are too much occupied with their\nown wants and necessities, to give much attention to those of another\nperson. A savage, therefore, whatever be the nature of his distress,\nexpects no sympathy from those about him, and disdains, upon that\naccount, to expose himself, by allowing the least weakness to escape\nhim. His passions, how furious and violent soever, are never permitted\nto disturb the serenity of his countenance or the composure of his\nconduct and behaviour. The savages in North America, we are told, assume\nupon all occasions the greatest indifference, and would think themselves\ndegraded if they should ever appear in any respect to be overcome,\neither by love, or grief, or resentment. Their magnanimity and\nself-command, in this respect, are almost beyond the conception of\nEuropeans. In a country in which all men are upon a level, with regard\nto rank and fortune, it might be expected that the mutual inclinations\nof the two parties should be the only thing considered in marriages, and\nshould be indulged without any sort of controul. This, however, is the\ncountry in which all marriages, without exception, are made up by the\nparents, and in which a young man would think himself disgraced for\never, if he shewed the least preference of one woman above another, or\ndid not express the most complete indifference, both about the time\nwhen, and the person to whom he was to be married. The weakness of love,\nwhich is so much indulged in ages of humanity and politeness, is\nregarded among savages as the most unpardonable effeminacy. Even after\nthe marriage the two parties seem to be ashamed of a connexion which is\nfounded upon so sordid a necessity. They do not live together. They see\none another by stealth only. They both continue to dwell in the houses\nof their respective fathers, and the open cohabitation of the two sexes,\nwhich is permitted without blame in all other countries, is here\nconsidered as the most indecent and unmanly sensuality. Nor is it only\nover this agreeable passion that they exert this absolute self-command.\nThey often bear in the sight of all their countrymen with injuries,\nreproach, and the grossest insults with the appearance of the greatest\ninsensibility, and without expressing the smallest resentment. When a\nsavage is made prisoner of war, and receives, as is usual, the sentence\nof death from his conquerors, he hears it without expressing any\nemotion, and afterwards submits to the most dreadful torments, without\never bemoaning himself, or discovering any other passion but contempt of\nhis enemies. While he is hung by the shoulders over a slow fire, he\nderides his tormentors, and tells them with how much more ingenuity, he\nhimself had tormented such of their countrymen as had fallen into his\nhands. After he has been scorched and burnt, and lacerated in all the\nmost tender and sensible parts of his body for several hours together,\nhe is often allowed, in order to prolong his misery, a short respite,\nand is taken down from the stake: he employs this interval in talking\nupon all indifferent subjects, inquires after the news of the country,\nand seems indifferent about nothing but his own situation. The\nspectators express the same insensibility; the sight of so horrible an\nobject seems to make no impression upon them; they scarce look at the\nprisoner, except when they lend a hand to torment him. At other times\nthey smoke tobacco, and amuse themselves with any common object, as if\nno such matter was going on. Every savage is said to prepare himself\nfrom his earliest youth for this dreadful end. He composes, for this\npurpose, what they call the song of death, a song which he is to sing\nwhen he has fallen into the hands of his enemies, and is expiring under\nthe tortures which they inflict upon him. It consists of insults upon\nhis tormentors, and expresses the highest contempt of death and pain. He\nsings this song upon all extraordinary occasions, when he goes out to\nwar, when he meets his enemies in the field, or whenever he has a mind\nto show that he has familiarised his imagination to the most dreadful\nmisfortunes, and that no human event can daunt his resolution, or alter\nhis purpose. The same contempt of death and torture prevails among all\nother savage nations. There is not a negro from the coast of Africa who\ndoes not, in this respect, possess a degree of magnanimity which the\nsoul of his sordid master is too often scarce capable of conceiving.\nFortune never exerted more cruelly her empire over mankind, than when\nshe subjected those nations of heroes to the refuse of the jails of\nEurope, to wretches who possess the virtues neither of the countries\nwhich they come from, nor of those which they go to, and whose levity,\nbrutality, and baseness, so justly expose them to the contempt of the\nvanquished.\n\nThis heroic and unconquerable firmness, which the custom and education\nof his country demand of every savage, is not required of those who are\nbrought up to live in civilized societies. If these last complain when\nthey are in pain, if they grieve when they are in distress, if they\nallow themselves either to be overcome by love, or to be discomposed by\nanger, they are easily pardoned. Such weaknesses are not apprehended to\naffect the essential parts of their character. As long as they do not\nallow themselves to be transported to do any thing contrary to justice\nor humanity, they lose but little reputation, though the serenity of\ntheir countenance or the composure of their discourse and behaviour\nshould be somewhat ruffled and disturbed. A humane and polished people,\nwho have more sensibility to the passions of others, can more readily\nenter into an animated and passionate behaviour, and can more easily\npardon some little excess. The person principally concerned is sensible\nof this; and being assured of the equity of his judges, indulges himself\nin stronger expressions of passion, and is less afraid of exposing\nhimself to their contempt by the violence of his emotions. We can\nventure to express more emotion in the presence of a friend than in that\nof a stranger, because we expect more indulgence from the one than from\nthe other. And in the same manner the rules of decorum among civilized\nnations, admit of a more animated behaviour, than is approved of among\nbarbarians. The first converse together with the openness of friends;\nthe second with the reserve of strangers. The emotion and vivacity with\nwhich the French and the Italians, the two most polished nations upon\nthe continent, express themselves on occasions that are at all\ninteresting, surprise at first those strangers who happen to be\ntravelling among them, and who, having been educated among a people of\nduller sensibility, cannot enter into this passionate behaviour, of\nwhich they have never seen any example in their own country. A young\nFrench nobleman will weep in the presence of the whole court upon being\nrefused a regiment. An Italian, says the abbot D\u00fb Bos, expresses more\nemotion on being condemned in a fine of twenty shillings, than an\nEnglishman on receiving the sentence of death. Cicero, in the times of\nthe highest Roman politeness, could, without degrading himself, weep\nwith all the bitterness of sorrow in the sight of the whole senate and\nthe whole people; as it is evident he must have done in the end of\nalmost every oration. The orators of the earlier and ruder ages of Rome\ncould not probably, consistent with the manners of the times, have\nexpressed themselves with so much emotion. It would have been regarded,\nI suppose, as a violation of nature and propriety in the Scipios, in the\nLeliuses, and in the elder Cato, to have exposed so much tenderness to\nthe view of the public. Those ancient warriors could express themselves,\nwith order, gravity, and good judgment; but are said to have been\nstrangers to that sublime and passionate eloquence which was first\nintroduced into Rome, not many years before the birth of Cicero, by the\ntwo Gracchi, by Crassus, and by Sulpitius. This animated eloquence,\nwhich has been long practiced, with or without success, both in France\nand Italy, is but just beginning to be introduced into England. So wide\nis the difference between the degrees of self-command which are required\nin civilized and in barbarous nations, and by such different standards\ndo they judge of the propriety of behaviour.\n\nThis difference gives occasion to many others that are not less\nessential. A polished people being accustomed to give way, in some\nmeasure, to the movements of nature, become frank, open, and sincere.\nBarbarians, on the contrary, being obliged to smother and conceal the\nappearance of every passion, necessarily acquire the habits of falsehood\nand dissimulation. It is observed by all those who have been conversant\nwith savage nations, whether in Asia, Africa, or America, that they are\nall equally impenetrable, and that, when they have a mind to conceal the\ntruth, no examination is capable of drawing it from them. They cannot be\ntrepanned by the most artful questions. The torture itself is incapable\nof making them confess any thing which they have no mind to tell. The\npassions of a savage too, though they never express themselves by any\noutward emotion, but lie concealed in the breast of the sufferer, are,\nnotwithstanding, all mounted to the highest pitch of fury. Though he\nseldom shows any symptoms of anger, yet his vengeance, when he comes to\ngive way to it, is always sanguinary and dreadful. The least affront\ndrives him to despair. His countenance and discourse indeed are still\nsober and composed, and express nothing but the most perfect\ntranquillity of mind: But his actions are often the most furious and\nviolent. Among the North-Americans it is not uncommon for persons of the\ntenderest age and more fearful sex to drown themselves upon receiving\nonly a slight reprimand from their mothers, and this too without\nexpressing any passions or saying any thing, except, _you shall no\nlonger have a daughter_. In civilized nations the passions of men are\nnot commonly so furious or so desperate. They are often clamorous and\nnoisy, but are seldom very hurtful; and seem frequently to aim at no\nother satisfaction, but that of convincing the spectator, that they are\nin the right to be so much moved, and of procuring his sympathy and\napprobation.\n\nAll these effects of custom and fashion, however, upon the moral\nsentiments of mankind, are inconsiderable in comparison of those which\nthey give occasion to in some other cases; and it is not concerning the\ngeneral style of character and behaviour, that those principles produce\nthe greatest perversion of judgment, but concerning the propriety or\nimpropriety of particular usages.\n\nThe different manners which custom teaches us to approve of in the\ndifferent professions and states of life, do not concern things of the\ngreatest importance. We expect truth and justice from an old man as well\nas from a young, from a clergyman as well as from an officer; and it is\nin matters of small moment only that we look for the distinguishing\nmarks of their respective characters. With regard to these too, there is\noften some unobserved circumstance which, if it was attended to, would\nshow us, that, independent of custom, there was a propriety in the\ncharacter which custom had taught us to allot to each profession. We\ncannot complain, therefore, in this case, that the perversion of natural\nsentiment is very great. Though the manners of different nations require\ndifferent degrees of the same quality, in the character which they think\nworthy of esteem, yet the worst that can be said to happen even here, is\nthat the duties of one virtue are sometimes extended so as to encroach a\nlittle upon the precincts of some other. The rustic hospitality that is\nin fashion among the Poles encroaches, perhaps, a little upon \u0153conomy\nand good order; and the frugality that is esteemed in Holland, upon\ngenerosity and good-fellowship. The hardiness demanded of savages\ndiminishes their humanity; and, perhaps, the delicate sensibility\nrequired in civilized nations sometimes destroys the masculine firmness\nof the character. In general, the style of manners which takes place in\nany nation, may commonly upon the whole be said to be that which is most\nsuitable to its situation. Hardiness is the character most suitable to\nthe circumstances of a savage; sensibility to those of one who lives in\na very civilized society. Even here, therefore, we cannot complain that\nthe moral sentiments of men are very grossly perverted.\n\nIt is not therefore in the general style of conduct or behaviour that\ncustom authorizes the widest departure from what is the natural\npropriety of action. With regard to particular usages its influence is\noften much more destructive of good morals, and it is capable of\nestablishing, as lawful and blameless, particular actions, which shock\nthe plainest principles of right and wrong.\n\nCan there be greater barbarity, for example, than to hurt an infant? Its\nhelplessness, its innocence, its amiableness, call forth the compassion\neven of an enemy, and not to spare that tender age is regarded as the\nmost furious effort of an enraged and cruel conqueror. What then should\nwe imagine must be the heart of a parent who could injure that weakness\nwhich even a furious enemy is afraid to violate? Yet the exposition,\nthat is, the murder of newborn infants, was a practice allowed of in\nalmost all the states of Greece, even among the polite and civilized\nAthenians; and whenever the circumstances of the parent rendered it\ninconvenient to bring up the child, to abandon it to hunger, or to wild\nbeasts, was regarded without blame or censure. This practice had\nprobably begun in times of the most savage barbarity. The imaginations\nof men had been first made familiar with it in that earliest period of\nsociety, and the uniform continuance of the custom had hindered them\nafterwards from perceiving its enormity. We find, at this day, that this\npractice prevails among all savage nations; and in that rudest and\nlowest state of society it is undoubtedly more pardonable than in any\nother. The extreme indigence of a savage is often such that he himself\nis frequently exposed to the greatest extremity of hunger, he often dies\nof pure want, and it is frequently impossible for him to support both\nhimself and his child. We cannot wonder, therefore, that in this case he\nshould abandon it. One who in flying from an enemy, whom it was\nimpossible to resist, should throw down his infant, because it retarded\nhis flight, would surely be excusable; since, by attempting to save it,\nhe could only hope for the consolation of dying with it. That in this\nstate of society, therefore, a parent should be allowed to judge whether\nhe can bring up his child, ought not to surprise us so greatly. In the\nlatter ages of Greece, however, the same thing was permitted from views\nof remote interest or conveniency, which could by no means excuse it.\nUninterrupted custom had by this time so thoroughly authorized the\npractice, that not only the loose maxims of the world tolerated this\nbarbarous prerogative, but even the doctrine of philosophers, which\nought to have been more just and accurate, was led away by the\nestablished custom, and upon this, as upon many other occasions, instead\nof censuring, supported the horrible abuse, by far-fetched\nconsiderations of public utility. Aristotle talks of it as of what the\nmagistrate ought upon many occasions to encourage. The humane Plato is\nof the same opinion, and, with all that love of mankind which seems to\nanimate all his writings, no where marks this practice with\ndisapprobation. When custom can give sanction to so dreadful a violation\nof humanity, we may well imagine that there is scarce any particular\npractice so gross which it cannot authorize. Such a thing, we hear men\nevery day saying, is commonly done, and they seem to think this a\nsufficient apology for what, in itself, is the most unjust and\nunreasonable conduct.\n\nThere is an obvious reason why custom should never pervert our\nsentiments with regard to the general style and character of conduct and\nbehaviour, in the same degree as with regard to the propriety or\nunlawfulness of particular usages. There never can be any such custom.\nNo society could subsist a moment, in which the usual strain of mens\nconduct and behaviour was of a piece with the horrible practice I just\nnow mentioned.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n PART VI.\n Of Systems of MORAL PHILOSOPHY.\n\n CONSISTING OF FOUR SECTIONS.\n\n\n\n\n SECTION I.\n Of the questions which ought to be examined in a theory of moral\n sentiments.\n\n\nIf we examine the most celebrated and remarkable of the different\ntheories which have been given concerning the nature and origin of our\nmoral sentiments, we shall find that almost all of them coincide with\nsome part or other of that which I have been endeavouring to give an\naccount of; and that if every thing which has already been said be fully\nconsidered, we shall be at no loss to explain what was the view or\naspect of nature which led each particular author to form his particular\nsystem. From some one or other of those principles which I have been\nendeavouring to unfold, every system of morality that ever had any\nreputation in the world has, perhaps, ultimately been derived. As they\nare all of them, in this respect, founded upon natural principles, they\nare all of them in some measure in the right. But as many of them are\nderived from a partial and imperfect view of nature, there are many of\nthem too in some respects in the wrong.\n\nIn treating of the principles of morals there are two questions to be\nconsidered. First, wherein does virtue consist? Or what is the tone of\ntemper, and tenour of conduct, which constitutes the excellent and\npraise-worthy character, the character which is the natural object of\nesteem, honour, and approbation? and secondly, by what power or faculty\nin the mind is it, that this character, whatever it be, is recommended\nto us? Or in other words, how and by what means does it come to pass,\nthat the mind prefers one tenour of conduct to another, denominates the\none right and the other wrong; considers the one as the object of\napprobation, honour, and reward, and the other of blame, censure, and\npunishment?\n\nWe examine the first question when we consider whether virtue consists\nin benevolence, as Dr. Hutcheson imagines; or in acting suitably to the\ndifferent relations we stand in, as Dr. Clarke supposes; or in the wise\nand prudent pursuit of our own real and solid happiness, as has been the\nopinion of others.\n\nWe examine the second question, when we consider, whether the virtuous\ncharacter, whatever it consists in, be recommended to us by self-love,\nwhich makes us perceive that this character, both in ourselves and\nothers, tends most to promote our own private interest or by reason,\nwhich points out to us the difference between one character and another,\nin the same manner as it does that between truth and falsehood; or by a\npeculiar power of perception, called a moral sense, which this virtuous\ncharacter gratifies and pleases, as the contrary disgusts and displeases\nit; or last of all, by some other principle in human nature, such as a\nmodification of sympathy, or the like.\n\nI shall begin with considering the systems which have been formed\nconcerning the first of these questions, and shall proceed afterwards to\nexamine those concerning the second.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n SECTION II.\nOf the different accounts which have been given of the nature of virtue.\n\n\n INTRODUCTION.\n\nThe different accounts which have been given of the nature of virtue, or\nof the temper of mind which constitutes the excellent and praise-worthy\ncharacter, may be reduced to three different classes. According to some,\nthe virtuous temper of mind does not consist in any one species of\naffections, but in the proper government and direction of all our\naffections, which may be either virtuous or vicious according to the\nobjects which they pursue, and the degree of vehemence with which they\npursue them. According to these authors, therefore, virtue consists in\npropriety.\n\nAccording to others, virtue consists in the judicious pursuit of our own\nprivate interest and happiness, or in the proper government and\ndirection of those selfish affections which aim solely at this end. In\nthe opinion of these authors, therefore, virtue consists in prudence.\n\nAnother set of authors make virtue consist in those affections only\nwhich aim at the happiness of others, not in those which aim at our own.\nAccording to them, therefore, disinterested benevolence is the only\nmotive which can stamp upon any action the character of virtue.\n\nThe character of virtue, it is evident, must either be ascribed\nindifferently to all our affections, when under proper government and\ndirection; or it must be confined to some one class or division of them.\nThe great division of our affections is into the selfish and the\nbenevolent. If the character of virtue, therefore, cannot be ascribed\nindifferently to all our affections, when under proper government and\ndirection, it must be confined either to those which aim directly at our\nown private happiness, or to those which aim directly at that of others.\nIf virtue, therefore, does not consist in propriety, it must consist\neither in prudence or in benevolence. Besides these three, it is scarce\npossible to imagine that any other account can be given of the nature of\nvirtue. I shall endeavour to shew hereafter how all the other accounts,\nwhich are seemingly different from any of these, coincide at bottom with\nsome one or other of them.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. I.\n _Of those systems which make virtue consist in propriety._\n\n\nAccording to Plato, to Aristotle, and to Zeno, virtue consists in the\npropriety of conduct, or in the suitableness of the affection from which\nwe act to the object which excites it.\n\nI. In the system of Plato[8] the soul is considered as something like a\nlittle state or republic, composed of three different faculties or\norders.\n\nFootnote 8:\n\n See Plato de Rep. lib. iv.\n\nThe first is the judging faculty, the faculty which determines not only\nwhat are the proper means for attaining any end, but also what ends are\nfit to be pursued, and what degree of relative value we ought to put\nupon each. This faculty Plato called, as it is very properly called\nreason, and considered it as what had a right to be the governing\nprinciple of the whole. Under this appellation, it is evident, he\ncomprehended not only that faculty by which we judge of truth and\nfalsehood, but that by which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of\ndesires and affections.\n\nThe different passions and appetites, the natural subject of this ruling\nprinciple, but which are so apt to rebel against their master, he\nreduced to two different classes or orders. The first consisted of those\npassions, which are founded in pride and resentment, or in what the\nschoolmen called the irascible part of the soul; ambition, animosity,\nthe love of honour, and the dread of shame, the desire of victory,\nsuperiority, and revenge; all those passions, in short, which are\nsupposed either to rise from, or to denote what, by a metaphor in our\nlanguage, we commonly call spirit or natural fire. The second consisted\nof those passions which are founded in the love of pleasure, or in what\nthe schoolmen called the concupiscible part of the soul. It comprehended\nall the appetites of the body, the love of ease and security, and of all\nsensual gratifications.\n\nIt rarely happens that we break in upon that plan of conduct, which the\ngoverning principle prescribes, and which in all our cool hours we had\nlaid down to ourselves as what was most proper for us to pursue, but\nwhen prompted by one or other of those two different sets of passions;\neither by ungovernable ambition and resentment, or by the importunate\nsolicitations of present ease and pleasure. But though these two orders\nof passions are so apt to mislead us, they are still considered as\nnecessary parts of human nature: the first having been given to defend\nus against injuries, to assert our rank and dignity in the world, to\nmake us aim at what is noble and honourable, and to make us distinguish\nthose who act in the same manner; the second to provide for the support\nand necessities of the body.\n\nIn the strength, acuteness, and perfection of the governing principle\nwas placed the essential virtue of prudence, which, according to Plato,\nconsisted in a just and clear discernment, founded upon general and\nscientific ideas, of the ends which were proper to be pursued, and of\nthe means which were proper for attaining them.\n\nWhen the first set of passions, those of the irascible part of the soul,\nhad that degree of strength and firmness, which enabled them, under the\ndirection of reason, to despise all dangers in the pursuit of what was\nhonourable and noble; it constituted the virtue of fortitude and\nmagnanimity. This order of passions, according to this system, was of a\nmore generous and noble nature than the other. They were considered upon\nmany occasions as the auxiliaries of reason, to check and restrain the\ninferior and brutal appetites. We are often angry at ourselves, it was\nobserved, we often become the objects of our own resentment and\nindignation, when the love of pleasure prompts to do what we disapprove\nof; and the irascible part of our nature is in this manner called in to\nassist the rational against the concupiscible.\n\nWhen all those three different parts of our nature were in perfect\nconcord with one another, when neither the irascible nor concupiscible\npassions ever aimed at any gratification which reason did not approve\nof, and when reason never commanded any thing, but what these of their\nown accord were willing to perform; this happy composure, this perfect\nand complete harmony of soul, constituted that virtue which in their\nlanguage is expressed by a word which we commonly translate temperance,\nbut which might more properly be translated good temper, or sobriety and\nmoderation of mind.\n\nJustice, the last and greatest of the four cardinal virtues, took place,\naccording to this system, when each of those three faculties of the mind\nconfined itself to its proper office, without attempting to encroach\nupon that of any other; when reason directed and passion obeyed, and\nwhen each passion performed its proper duty, and exerted itself towards\nits proper object easily and without reluctance, and with that degree of\nforce and energy, which was suitable to the value of what it pursued. In\nthis consisted that complete virtue, that perfect propriety of conduct,\nwhich Plato, after some of the ancient Pythagoreans, denominated\nJustice.\n\nThe word, it is to be observed, which expresses justice in the Greek\nlanguage, has several different meanings; and as the correspondent word\nin all other languages, so far as I know, has the same, there must be\nsome natural affinity among those various significations. In one sense\nwe are said to do justice to our neighbour when we abstain from doing\nhim any positive harm, and do not directly hurt him, either in his\nperson, or in his estate, or in his reputation. This is that justice\nwhich I have treated of above, the observance of which may be extorted\nby force, and the violation of which exposes to punishment. In another\nsense we are said not to do justice to our neighbour unless we conceive\nfor him all that love, respect and esteem, which his character, his\nsituation, and his connexion with ourselves, render suitable and proper\nfor us to feel, and unless we act accordingly. It is in this sense that\nwe are said to do injustice to a man of merit who is connected with us,\ntho\u2019 we abstain from hurting him in every respect, if we do not exert\nourselves to serve him and to place him in that situation in which the\nimpartial spectator would be pleased to see him. The first sense of the\nword coincides with what Aristotle and the Schoolmen call commutative\njustice, and with what Grotius calls the _justitia expletrix_, which\nconsists in abstaining from what is another\u2019s, and in doing voluntarily\nwhatever we can with propriety be forced to do. The second sense of the\nword coincides with what some have called distributive justice[9], and\nwith the _justitia attributrix_ of Grotius, which consists in proper\nbeneficence, in the becoming use of what is our own, and in the applying\nit to those purposes either of charity or generosity, to which it is\nmost suitable, in our situation, that it should be applied. In this\nsense justice comprehends all the social virtues. There is yet another\nsense in which the word justice is sometimes taken, still more extensive\nthan either of the former, though very much akin to the last; and which\nruns too, so far as I know, through all languages. It is in this last\nsense that we are said to be unjust, when we do not seem to value any\nparticular object with that degree of esteem, or to pursue it with that\ndegree of ardour which to the impartial spectator it may appear to\ndeserve or to be naturally fitted for exciting. Thus we are said to do\ninjustice to a poem or a picture, when we do not admire them enough, and\nwe are said to do them more than justice when we admire them too much.\nIn the same manner we are said to do injustice to ourselves when we\nappear not to give sufficient attention to any particular object of\nself-interest. In this last sense, what is called justice means the same\nthing with exact and perfect propriety of conduct and behaviour, and\ncomprehends in it, not only the offices of both commutative and\ndistributive justice, but of every other virtue, of prudence, of\nfortitude, of temperance. It is in this last sense that Plato evidently\nunderstands what he calls justice, and which, therefore, according to\nhim, comprehends in it the perfection of every sort of virtue.\n\nFootnote 9:\n\n The distributive justice of Aristotle is somewhat different. It\n consists in the proper distribution of rewards from the public stock\n of a community. See Aristotle Ethic. Nic. l. 5. c. 2.\n\nSuch is the account given by Plato of the nature of virtue, or of that\ntemper of mind which is the proper object of praise and approbation. It\nconsists, according to him, in that state of mind in which every faculty\nconfines itself within its proper sphere without encroaching upon that\nof any other, and performs its proper office with that precise degree of\nstrength and vigour which belongs to it. His account, it is evident,\ncoincides in every respect with what we have said above concerning the\npropriety of conduct.\n\nII. Virtue, according to Aristotle[10], consists in the habit of\nmediocrity according to right reason. Every particular virtue, according\nto him, lies in a kind of middle between two opposite vices, of which\nthe one offends from being too much, the other from being too little\naffected by a particular species of objects. Thus the virtue of\nfortitude or courage lies in the middle between the opposite vices of\ncowardice and of presumptuous rashness, of which the one offends from\nbeing too much, and the other from being too little affected by the\nobjects of fear. Thus too the virtue of frugality lies in a middle\nbetween avarice and profusion, of which the one consists in an excess,\nthe other in a defect of the proper attention to the objects of self\ninterest. Magnanimity, in the same manner, lies in a middle between the\nexcess of arrogance and the defect of pusillanimity, of which the one\nconsists in too extravagant, the other in too weak a sentiment of our\nown worth and dignity. It is unnecessary to observe that this account of\nvirtue corresponds too pretty exactly with what has been said above\nconcerning the propriety and impropriety of conduct.\n\nFootnote 10:\n\n See Aristotle Ethic. Nic. l. 2. c. 5. et seq. et l. 3. c. 5. et seq.\n\nAccording to Aristotle[11], indeed, virtue did not so much consist in\nthose moderate and right affections, as in the habit of this moderation.\nIn order to understand this, it is to be observed, that virtue may be\nconsidered either as the quality of an action, or as the quality of a\nperson. Considered as the quality of an action, it consists, even\naccording to Aristotle, in the reasonable moderation of the affection\nfrom which the action proceeds, whether this disposition be habitual to\nthe person or not. Considered as the quality of a person, it consists in\nthe habit of this reasonable moderation, in its having become the\ncustomary and usual disposition of the mind. Thus the action which\nproceeds from an occasional fit of generosity is undoubtedly a generous\naction, but the man who performs it, is not necessarily a generous\nperson, because it may be the single action of the kind which he ever\nperformed. The motive and disposition of heart, from which this action\nwas performed, may have been quite just and proper: but as this happy\nmood seems to have been the effect rather of accidental humour than of\nany thing steady or permanent in the character, it can reflect no great\nhonour on the performer. When we denominate a character generous or\ncharitable, or virtuous in any respect, we mean to signify that the\ndisposition expressed by each of those appellations is the usual and\ncustomary disposition of the person. But single actions of any kind, how\nproper and suitable soever, are of little consequence to show that this\nis the case. If a single action was sufficient to stamp the character of\nany virtue upon the person who performed it, the most worthless of\nmankind might lay claim to all the virtues; since there is no man who\nhas not, upon some occasions, acted with prudence, justice, temperance,\nand fortitude. But though single actions, how laudable soever, reflect\nvery little praise upon the person who performs them, a single vicious\naction performed by one whose conduct is usually very regular, greatly\ndiminishes and sometimes destroys altogether our opinion of his virtue.\nA single action of this kind sufficiently shows that his habits are not\nperfect, and that he is less to be depended upon, than, from the usual\ntrain of his behaviour, we might have been apt to imagine.\n\nFootnote 11:\n\n See Aristotle Ethic. Nic. lib. ii. ch. 1., 2., 3. and 4.\n\nAristotle too[12], when he made virtue to consist in practical habits,\nhad it probably in his view to oppose the doctrine of Plato, who seems\nto have been of opinion that just sentiments and reasonable judgments\nconcerning what was fit to be done or to be avoided, were alone\nsufficient to constitute the most perfect virtue. Virtue, according to\nPlato, might be considered as a species of science, and no man, he\nthought, could see clearly and demonstratively what was right and what\nwas wrong, and not act accordingly. Passion might make us act contrary\nto doubtful and uncertain opinions, not to plain and evident judgments.\nAristotle, on the contrary, was of opinion, that no conviction of the\nunderstanding was capable of getting the better of inveterate habits,\nand that good morals arose not from knowledge but from action.\n\nFootnote 12:\n\n See Aristotle Mag. Mor. lib. i. ch. 1.\n\nIII. According to Zeno[13], the founder of the stoical doctrine, every\nanimal was by nature recommended to its own care, and was endowed with\nthe principle of self-love, that it might endeavour to preserve, not\nonly its existence, but all the different parts of its nature, in the\nbest and most perfect state of which they were capable.\n\nFootnote 13:\n\n See Cicero de finibus, lib. iii. also Diogenes Laertius in Zenone,\n lib. vii. segment 84.\n\nThe self-love of man embraced, if I may say so, his body and all its\ndifferent members, his mind and all its different faculties and powers,\nand desired the preservation and maintenance of them all in their best\nand most perfect condition. Whatever tended to support this state of\nexistence was, therefore, by nature pointed out to him as fit to be\nchosen; and whatever tended to destroy it, as fit to be rejected. Thus\nhealth, strength, agility, and ease of body, as well as the external\nconveniencies which could promote these, wealth, power, honours, the\nrespect and esteem of those we live with, were naturally pointed out to\nus as things eligible, and of which the possession was preferable to the\ncontrary. On the other hand, sickness, infirmity, unwieldiness, pain of\nbody, as well as all the external inconveniencies which tended to\noccasion or bring on any of them, poverty, the want of authority, the\ncontempt or hatred of those we live with; were, in the same manner,\npointed out to us as things to be shunned and avoided. In each of those\ntwo different classes of objects there were some which appeared to be\nmore the objects either of choice or rejection than others in the same\nclass. Thus, in the first class, health appeared evidently preferable to\nstrength, and strength to agility; reputation to power, and power to\nriches. And thus too, in the second class, sickness was more to be\navoided than unwieldiness of body, ignominy than poverty, and poverty\nthan the want of authority. Virtue and the propriety of conduct\nconsisted in choosing and rejecting all different objects and\ncircumstances according as they were by nature rendered more or less the\nobjects of choice or rejection; in selecting always from among the\nseveral objects of choice presented to us, that which was most to be\nchosen, when we could not obtain them all: and in selecting too out of\nthe several objects of rejection offered to us, that which was least to\nbe avoided, when it was not in our power to avoid them all. By choosing\nand rejecting with this just and accurate discernment, by thus bestowing\nupon every object the precise degree of attention it deserved, according\nto the place which it held in this natural scale of things, we\nmaintained, according to the Stoics, that perfect rectitude of conduct\nwhich constituted the essence of virtue. This was what they called to\nlive consistently, to live according to nature, and to obey those laws\nand directions which nature, or the Author of nature, had prescribed for\nour conduct.\n\nSo far the Stoical idea of propriety and virtue is not very different\nfrom that of Aristotle and the ancient peripatetics. What chiefly\ndistinguished those two systems from one another was the different\ndegrees of self-command which they required. The peripatetics allowed of\nsome degree of perturbation as suitable to the weakness of human nature,\nand as useful to so imperfect a creature as man. If his own misfortunes\nexcited no passionate grief, if his own injuries called forth no lively\nresentment, reason, or a regard to the general rules which determined\nwhat was right and fit to be done, would commonly, they thought, be too\nweak to prompt him to avoid the one or to beat off the other. The\nStoics, on the contrary, demanded the most perfect apathy, and regarded\nevery emotion which could in the smallest degree disturb the\ntranquillity of the mind, as the effect of levity and folly. The\nPeripatetics seem to have thought that no passion exceeded the bounds of\npropriety as long as the spectator, by the utmost effort of humanity,\ncould sympathize with it. The Stoics, on the contrary, appear to have\nregarded every passion as improper, which made any demand upon the\nsympathy of the spectator, or required him to alter in any respect the\nnatural and ordinary state of his mind, in order to keep time with the\nvehemence of its emotions. A man of virtue, they seem to have thought,\nought not to depend upon the generosity of those he lives with for\npardon or approbation.\n\nAccording to the Stoics, every event should, to a wise man, appear\nindifferent, and what for its own sake could be the object neither of\ndesire, nor aversion, neither of joy, nor sorrow. If he preferred some\nevents to others, if some situations were the objects of his choice, and\nothers of his rejection,[14] it was not, because he regarded the one as,\nin themselves, in any respect better than the other, or thought that his\nown happiness would be more complete in, what is called, the fortunate,\nthan in what is commonly regarded as the distressful situation; but\nbecause the propriety of action, the rule which the gods had given him\nfor the direction of his conduct, required him to choose and reject in\nthis manner. Among the primary objects of natural inclination, or among\nthose things which nature had originally recommended to us as eligible,\nwas the prosperity, of our family, of our relations, of our friends, of\nour country, of mankind, and of the universe in general. Nature too had\ntaught us that as the prosperity of two was preferable to that of one,\nthat of many or of all must be infinitely more so. That we ourselves\nwere but one, and that consequently wherever our prosperity was\ninconsistent with that, either of the whole, or of any considerable part\nof the whole, it ought, even in our own choice, to yield to what was so\nvastly preferable. As all the events in this world were conducted by the\nprovidence of a wise, powerful and good God, we might be assured that\nwhatever happened, tended to the prosperity and perfection of the whole,\nif we ourselves, therefore, were in poverty, in sickness, or in any\nother calamity, we ought, first of all, to use our utmost endeavours, so\nfar as justice and our duty to others would allow, to rescue ourselves\nfrom this disagreeable circumstance. But if after all we could do, we\nfound this impossible, we ought to rest satisfied that the order and\nperfection of the universe required that we should in the mean time\ncontinue in this situation. And as the prosperity of the whole should,\neven to us, appear preferable to so insignificant a part as ourselves,\nour situation, whatever it was, ought from that moment to become the\nobject of our choice, and even of our desire, if we would maintain that\ncomplete propriety and rectitude of sentiment and conduct in which the\nperfection of our nature consists. If, indeed, any opportunity of\nextricating ourselves should offer, it became our duty to embrace it.\nThe order of the universe, it was evident, no longer required our\ncontinuance in this situation, and the great director of the world\nplainly called upon us to leave it, by so clearly pointing out the road\nwhich we were to follow. It was the same case with the adversity of our\nrelations, our friends, our country. If without violating any more\nsacred obligation, it was in our power to prevent or to put an end to\ntheir calamity, it undoubtedly was our duty to do so. The propriety of\naction, the rule which Jupiter had given us for the direction of our\nconduct, evidently required this of us. But if it was altogether out of\nour power to do either, we ought then to consider this event as the most\nfortunate which could possibly have happened: Because we might be\nassured that it tended most to the prosperity and order of the whole:\nwhich was what we ourselves, if we were wise and equitable, ought most\nof all to desire. \u201cIn what sense, says Epictetus, are some things said\nto be according to our nature, and others contrary to it? It is in that\nsense in which we consider ourselves as separated and detached from all\nother things. For thus it may be said to be according to the nature of\nthe foot to be always clean. But if you consider it as a foot, and not\nas something detached from the rest of the body, it must behove it\nsometimes to trample in the dirt, and sometimes to tread upon thorns,\nand sometimes too to be cut off for the sake of the whole body; and if\nit refuses this, it is no longer a foot. Thus too ought we to conceive\nwith regard to ourselves. What are you? A man. If you consider yourself\nas something separated and detached, it is agreeable to your nature to\nlive to old age, to be rich, to be in health. But if you consider\nyourself as a man, and as a part of a whole, upon account of that whole\nit will behoove you sometimes to be in sickness, sometimes to be exposed\nto the inconveniency of a sea voyage, sometimes to be in want; and at\nlast, perhaps, to die before your time. Why then do you complain? Don\u2019t\nyou know that by doing so, as the foot ceases to be a foot, so you cease\nto be a man?\u201d[15]\n\nFootnote 14:\n\n Some of these expressions sound a little awkward in the English\n language: they are literal translations of the technical terms of the\n Stoics.\n\nFootnote 15:\n\n Arrian. lib. II. c. 5.\n\nThis submission to the order of the universe, this entire indifference\nwith regard to whatever concerns ourselves, when put into the balance\nwith the interest of the whole, could derive its propriety, it is\nevident, from no other principle besides that, upon which I have\nendeavoured to show, the propriety of justice was founded. As long as we\nview our own interests with our own eyes, it is scarce possible that we\nshould willingly acquiesce in their being thus sacrificed to the\ninterests of the whole. It is only when we view those opposite interests\nwith the eyes of others, that what concerns ourselves can appear to be\nso contemptible in the comparison, as to be resigned without any\nreluctance. To every body but the person principally concerned, nothing\ncan appear more agreeable to reason and propriety than that the part\nshould give place to the whole. But what is agreeable to the reason of\nall other men, ought not to appear contrary to his. He himself therefore\nought to approve of this sacrifice, and acknowledge its conformity to\nreason. But all the affections of a wise man, according to the stoics,\nare perfectly agreeable to reason and propriety, and of their own accord\ncoincide with whatever these ruling principles prescribe. A wise man,\ntherefore, could never feel any reluctance to comply with this\ndisposition of things.\n\nIV. Besides these ancient, there are some modern systems, according to\nwhich virtue consists in propriety; or in the suitableness of the\naffection from which we act, to the cause or object which excites it.\nThe system of Dr. Clarke, which places virtue in acting according to the\nrelations of things, in regulating our conduct according to the fitness\nor incongruity which there may be in the application of certain actions\nto certain things, or to certain relations: That of Mr. Woolaston, which\nplaces it in acting according to the truth of things, according to their\nproper nature and essence, or in treating them as what they really are,\nand not as what they are not: that of my lord Shaftesbury, which places\nit in maintaining a proper balance of the affections, and in allowing no\npassion to go beyond its proper sphere; are all of them more or less\ninaccurate descriptions of the same fundamental idea.\n\nThe description of virtue which is either given, or at least meant and\nintended to be given in each of those systems, for some of the modern\nauthors are not very fortunate in their manner of expressing themselves,\nis no doubt quite just, so far as it goes. There is no virtue without\npropriety, and wherever there is propriety, some degree of approbation\nis due. But still this description is imperfect. For though propriety is\nan essential ingredient in every virtuous action, it is not always the\nsole ingredient. Beneficent actions have in them another quality by\nwhich they appear not only to deserve approbation but recompense. None\nof those systems account either easily or sufficiently for that superior\ndegree of esteem which seems due to such actions, or for that diversity\nof sentiment which they naturally excite. Neither is the description of\nvice more complete. For in the same manner, though impropriety is a\nnecessary ingredient in every vicious action, it is not always the sole\ningredient, and there is often the highest degree of absurdity and\nimpropriety in very harmless and insignificant actions. Deliberate\nactions, of a pernicious tendency to those we live with, have, besides\ntheir impropriety, a peculiar quality of their own by which they appear\nto deserve, not only disapprobation, but punishment; and to be the\nobjects, not of dislike merely, but of resentment and revenge: and none\nof those systems easily and sufficiently account for that superior\ndegree of detestation which we feel for such actions.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. II.\n _Of those systems which make virtue consist in prudence._\n\n\nThe most ancient of those systems which make virtue consist in prudence,\nand of which any considerable remains have come down to us, is that of\nEpicurus, who is said, however, to have borrowed all the leading\nprinciples of his philosophy, from some of those who had gone before\nhim, particularly From Aristippus; though it is very probable,\nnotwithstanding this allegation of his enemies, that at least his manner\nof applying those principles was altogether his own.\n\nAccording to Epicurus,[16] bodily pleasure and pain were the sole\nultimate objects of natural desire and aversion. That they were always\nthe natural objects of those passions, he thought required no proof.\nPleasure might, indeed, appear sometimes to be avoided; not, however,\nbecause it was pleasure, but because, by the enjoyment of it, we should\neither forfeit some greater pleasure, or expose ourselves to some pain\nthat was more to be avoided than this pleasure was to be desired. Pain,\nin the same manner, might appear sometimes to be eligible; not, however,\nbecause it was pain, but because by enduring it we might either avoid a\nstill greater pain, or acquire some pleasure of much more importance.\nThat bodily pain and pleasure, therefore, were always the natural\nobjects of desire and aversion, was, he thought, abundantly evident. Nor\nwas it less so, he imagined, that they were the sole ultimate objects of\nthose passions. Whatever else was either desired or avoided was so,\naccording to him, upon account of its tendency to produce one or other\nof those sensations. The tendency to procure pleasure rendered power and\nriches desirable, as the contrary tendency to produce pain made poverty\nand insignificancy the objects of aversion. Honour and reputation were\nvalued, because the esteem and love of those we live with were of the\ngreatest consequence both to procure pleasure and to defend us from\npain. Ignominy and bad fame, on the contrary, were to be avoided,\nbecause the hatred, contempt, and resentment of those we lived with\ndestroyed all security, and necessarily exposed us to the greatest\nbodily evils.\n\nFootnote 16:\n\n See Cicero de finibus, lib. i. Diogenes Laert. 1. x.\n\nAll the pleasures and pains of the mind were, according to Epicurus,\nultimately derived from those of the body. The mind was happy when it\nthought of the past pleasures of the body, and hoped for others to come:\nand it was miserable when it thought of the pains which the body had\nformerly endured, and dreaded the same or greater thereafter.\n\nBut the pleasures and pains of the mind, though ultimately derived from\nthose of the body, were vastly greater than their originals. The body\nfelt only the sensation of the present instant, whereas the mind felt\nalso the past and the future, the one by remembrance, the other by\nanticipation, and consequently both suffered and enjoyed much more. When\nwe are under the greatest bodily pain, he observed, we shall always\nfind, if we attend to it, that it is not the suffering of the present\ninstant which chiefly torments us, but either the agonizing remembrance\nof the past, or the yet more horrible dread of the future. The pain of\neach instant, considered by itself, and cut off from all that goes\nbefore and all that comes after it, is a trifle not worth the regarding.\nYet this is all which the body can ever be said to suffer. In the same\nmanner, when we enjoy the greatest pleasure, we shall always find that\nthe bodily sensation, the sensation of the present instant makes but a\nsmall part of our happiness, that our enjoyment chiefly arises either\nfrom the chearful recollection of the past, or the still more joyous\nanticipation of the future, and that the mind always contributes by much\nthe largest share of the entertainment.\n\nSince our happiness and misery, therefore, depended chiefly on the mind,\nif this part of our nature was well disposed, if our thoughts and\nopinions were as they should be, it was of little importance in what\nmanner our body was affected. Though under great bodily pain, we might\nstill enjoy a considerable share of happiness, if our reason and\njudgment maintained their superiority. We might entertain ourselves with\nthe remembrance of past, and with the hopes of future pleasure; we might\nsoften the rigour of our pains, by recollecting what it was which, even\nin this situation, we were under any necessity of suffering. That this\nwas merely the bodily sensation, the pain of the present instant, which\nby itself could never be very great. That whatever agony we suffered\nfrom the dread of its continuance was the effect of an opinion of the\nmind, which might be corrected by juster sentiments; by considering\nthat, if our pains were violent, they would probably be of short\nduration; and that if they were of long continuance, they would probably\nbe moderate, and admit of many intervals of ease; and that, at any rate,\ndeath was always at hand and within call to deliver us, which as,\naccording to him, it put an end to all sensation, either of pain or\npleasure, could not be regarded as an evil. When we are, said he, death\nis not; and when death is, we are not; death therefore can be nothing to\nus.\n\nIf the actual sensation of positive pain was in itself so little to be\nfeared, that of pleasure was still less to be desired. Naturally the\nsensation of pleasure was much less pungent than that of pain. If,\ntherefore, this last could take so very little from the happiness of a\nwell-disposed mind, the other could add scarce any thing to it. When the\nbody was free from pain and the mind from fear and anxiety, the\nsuperadded sensation of bodily pleasure could be of very little\nimportance; and though it might diversify, could not be properly be said\nto increase the happiness of this situation.\n\nIn ease of body, therefore, and in security or tranquillity of mind,\nconsisted, according to Epicurus, the most perfect state of human\nnature, the most complete happiness which man was capable of enjoying.\nTo obtain this great end of natural desire was the sole object of all\nthe virtues, which, according to him, were not desirable upon their own\naccount, but upon account of their tendency to bring about this\nsituation.\n\nPrudence, for example, though according to this philosophy, the source\nand principle of all the virtues, was not desirable upon its own\naccount. That careful and laborious and circumspect state of mind, ever\nwatchful and ever attentive to the most distant consequences of every\naction, could not be a thing pleasant or agreeable for its own sake, but\nupon account of its tendency to procure the greatest goods and to keep\noff the greatest evils.\n\nTo abstain from pleasure too, to curb and restrain our natural passions\nfor enjoyment, which was the office of temperance, could never be\ndesirable for its own sake. The whole value of this virtue arose from\nits utility, from its enabling us to postpone the present enjoyment for\nthe sake of a greater to come, or to avoid a greater pain that might\nensue from it. Temperance, in short, was nothing but prudence with\nregard to pleasure.\n\nTo support labour, to endure pain, to be exposed to danger or to death,\nthe situations which fortitude would often lead us into, were surely\nstill less the objects of natural desire. They were chosen only to avoid\ngreater evils. We submitted to labour, in order to avoid the greater\nshame and pain of poverty, and we exposed ourselves to danger and to\ndeath in defence of our liberty and property, the means and instruments\nof pleasure and happiness; or in defence of our country, in the safety\nof which our own was necessarily comprehended. Fortitude enabled us to\ndo all this chearfully, as the best which, in our present situation,\ncould possibly be done, and was in reality no more than prudence, good\njudgment, and presence of mind in properly appreciating pain, labour,\nand danger, always choosing the less in order to avoid the greater.\n\nIt is the same case with justice. To abstain from what is anothers was\nnot desirable on its own account, and it could not surely be better for\nyou, that I should possess what is my own, than that you should possess\nit. You ought however, to abstain from whatever belongs to me, because\nby doing otherwise you will provoke the resentment and indignation of\nmankind. The security and tranquillity of your mind will be entirely\ndestroyed. You will be filled with fear and consternation at the thought\nof that punishment which you will imagine that men are at all times\nready to inflict upon you, and from which no power, no art, no\nconcealment, will ever, in your own fancy, be sufficient to protect you.\nThat other species of justice which consists in doing proper good\noffices to different persons, according to the various relations of\nneighbours, kinsmen, friends, benefactors, superiors, or equals, which\nthey may stand in to us, is recommended by the same reasons. To act\nproperly in all these different relations procures us the esteem and\nlove of those we live with; as to do otherwise excites their contempt\nand hatred. By the one we naturally secure, by the other we necessarily\nendanger our own ease and tranquillity, the great and ultimate objects\nof all our desires. The whole virtue of justice, therefore, the most\nimportant of all the virtues, is no more than discreet and prudent\nconduct with regard to our neighbours.\n\nSuch is the doctrine of Epicurus concerning the nature of virtue. It may\nseem extraordinary that this philosopher, who is described as a person\nof the most amiable manners, should never have observed, that, whatever\nmay be the tendency of those virtues, or of the contrary vices, with\nregard to our bodily ease and security, the sentiments which they\nnaturally excite in others are the objects of a much more passionate\ndesire or aversion than all their other consequences; That to be\namiable, to be respectable, to be the proper object of esteem, is by\nevery well-disposed mind more valued than all the ease and security\nwhich love, respect, and esteem can procure us; That, on the contrary,\nto be odious, to be contemptible, to be the proper object of\nindignation, is more dreadful than all that we can suffer in our body\nfrom hatred, contempt, or indignation; and that consequently our desire\nof the one character, and our aversion to the other, cannot arise from\nany regard to the effects which either of them is likely to produce upon\nthe body.\n\nThis system is, no doubt, altogether inconsistent with that which I have\nbeen endeavouring to establish. It is not difficult, however, to\ndiscover from what phasis, if I may say so, from what particular view or\naspect of nature, this account of things derives its probability. By the\nwise contrivance of the Author of nature, virtue is upon all ordinary\noccasions, even with regard to this life, real wisdom, and the surest\nand readiest means of obtaining both safety and advantage. Our success\nor disappointment in our undertakings must very much depend upon the\ngood or bad opinion which is commonly entertained of us, and upon the\ngeneral disposition of those we live with, either to assist or to oppose\nus. But the best, the surest, the easiest, and the readiest way of\nobtaining the advantageous and of avoiding the unfavourable judgments of\nothers, is undoubtedly to render ourselves the proper objects of the\nformer and not of the latter. \u201cDo you desire, said Socrates, the\nreputation of a good musician? The only sure way of obtaining it, is to\nbecome a good musician. Would you desire in the same manner to be\nthought capable of serving your country either as a general or as a\nstatesman? The best way in this case too is really to acquire the art\nand experience of war and government, and to become really fit to be a\ngeneral or a statesman. And in the same manner if you would be reckoned\nsober, temperate, just, and equitable, the best way of acquiring this\nreputation is to become sober, temperate, just, and equitable. If you\ncan really render yourself amiable, respectable, and the proper object\nof esteem, there is no fear of your not soon acquiring the love, the\nrespect, and esteem of those you live with.\u201d Since the practice of\nvirtue, therefore, is in general so advantageous, and that of vice so\ncontrary to our interest, the consideration of those opposite tendencies\nundoubtedly stamps an additional beauty and propriety upon the one, and\na new deformity and impropriety upon the other. Temperance, magnanimity,\njustice, and beneficence, come thus to be approved of, not only under\ntheir proper characters, but under the additional character of the\nhighest wisdom and most real prudence. And in the same manner the\ncontrary vices of intemperance, pusillanimity, injustice, and either\nmalevolence or sordid selfishness, come to be disapproved of, not only\nunder their proper characters, but under the additional character of the\nmost short-sighted folly and weakness. Epicurus appears in every virtue\nto have attended to this species of propriety only. It is that which is\nmost apt to occur to those who are endeavouring to persuade others to\nregularity of conduct. When men by their practice, and perhaps too by\ntheir maxims, manifestly show that the natural beauty of virtue is not\nlike to have much effect upon them, how is it possible to move them but\nby representing the folly of their conduct, and how much they themselves\nare in the end likely to suffer by it?\n\nBy running up all the different virtues too to this one species of\npropriety, Epicurus indulged a propensity, which is natural to all men,\nbut which philosophers in particular are apt to cultivate with a\npeculiar fondness, as the great means of displaying their ingenuity, the\npropensity to account for all appearances from as few principles as\npossible. And he, no doubt, indulged this propensity still further, when\nhe referred all the primary objects of natural desire and aversion to\nthe pleasures and pains of the body. The great patron of the atomical\nphilosophy, who took so much pleasure in deducing all the powers and\nqualities of bodies from the most obvious and familiar, the figure,\nmotion, and arrangement of the small parts of matter, felt no doubt a\nsimilar satisfaction, when he accounted, in the same manner, for all the\nsentiments and passions of the mind from those which are most obvious\nand familiar.\n\nThe system of Epicurus agreed with those of Plato, Aristotle, and Zeno,\nin making virtue consist in acting in the most suitable manner to obtain\nthe [17]primary objects of natural desire. It differed from all of them\nin two other respects; first, in the account which it gave of those\nprimary objects of natural desire; and secondly, in the account which it\ngave of the excellence of virtue, or of the reason why that quality\nought to be esteemed.\n\nFootnote 17:\n\n Prima natur\u00e6.\n\nThe primary objects of natural desire consisted, according to Epicurus,\nin bodily pleasure and pain, and in nothing else whereas, according to\nthe other three philosophers, there were many other objects, such as\nknowledge, such as the happiness of our relations, of our friends, of\nour country, which were ultimately desirable for their own sakes.\n\nVirtue too, according to Epicurus, did not deserve to be pursued for its\nown sake, nor was itself one of the ultimate objects of natural\nappetite, but was eligible only upon account of its tendency to prevent\npain and to procure ease and pleasure. In the opinion of the other\nthree, on the contrary, it was desirable, not merely as the means of\nprocuring the other primary objects of natural desire, but as something\nwhich was in itself more valuable than them all. Man, they thought,\nbeing born for action, his happiness must consist, not merely in the\nagreeableness of his passive sensations, but also in the propriety of\nhis active exertions.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. III.\n _Of those systems which make virtue consist in benevolence._\n\n\nThe system which makes virtue consist in benevolence, though I think not\nso ancient as all of those which I have already given an account of, is,\nhowever, of very great antiquity. It seems to have been the doctrine of\nthe greater part of those philosophers who, about and after the age of\nAugustus, called themselves Eclectics, who pretended to follow chiefly\nthe opinions of Plato and Pythagoras, and who upon that account are\ncommonly known by the name of the later Platonists.\n\nIn the divine nature, according to these authors, benevolence or love\nwas the sole principle of action, and directed the exertion of all the\nother attributes. The wisdom of the Deity was employed in finding out\nthe means for bringing about those ends which his goodness suggested, as\nhis infinite power was exerted to execute them. Benevolence, however,\nwas still the supreme and governing attribute, to which the others were\nsubservient, and from which the whole excellency, or the whole morality,\nif I may be allowed such an expression, of the divine operations, was\nultimately derived. The whole perfection and virtue of the human mind\nconsisted in some resemblance or participation of the divine\nperfections, and, consequently, in being filled with the same principle\nof benevolence and love which influenced all the actions of the deity.\nThe actions of men which flowed from this motive were alone truly\npraise-worthy, or could claim any merit in the sight of the deity. It\nwas by actions of charity and love only that we could imitate, as became\nus, the conduct of God, that we could express our humble and devout\nadmiration of his infinite perfections, that by fostering in our own\nminds the same divine principle, we could bring our own affections to a\ngreater resemblance with his holy attributes, and thereby become more\nproper objects of his love and esteem; till at last we arrived at that\nimmediate converse and communication with the deity to which it was the\ngreat object of this philosophy to raise us.\n\nThis system, as it was much esteemed by many ancient fathers of the\nchristian church, so after the reformation it was adopted by several\ndivines of the most eminent piety and learning, and of the most amiable\nmanners; particularly, by Dr. Ralph Cudworth, by Dr. Henry More, and by\nMr. John Smith of Cambridge. But of all the patrons of this system,\nancient or modern, the late Dr. Hutcheson, was undoubtedly beyond all\ncomparison, the most acute, the most distinct, the most philosophical,\nand what is of the greatest consequence of all, the soberest and most\njudicious.\n\nThat virtue consists in benevolence is a notion supported by many\nappearances in human nature. It has been observed already that proper\nbenevolence is the most graceful and agreeable of all the affections,\nthat it is recommended to us by a double sympathy, that as its tendency\nis necessarily beneficent, it is the proper object of gratitude and\nreward, and that upon all these accounts it appears to our natural\nsentiments to possess a merit superior to any other. It has been\nobserved too that even the weakness of benevolence are not very\ndisagreeable to us, whereas those of every other passion are always\nextremely disgusting. Who does not abhor excessive malice, excessive\nselfishness, or excessive resentment? But the most excessive indulgence\neven of partial friendship is not so offensive. It is the benevolent\npassions only which can exert themselves without any regard or attention\nto propriety, and yet retain something about them which is engaging.\nThere is something pleasing even in mere instinctive good-will which\ngoes on to do good offices without once reflecting whether by this\nconduct it is the proper object either of blame or approbation. It is\nnot so with the other passions. The moment they are deserted, the moment\nthey are unaccompanied by the sense of propriety, they cease to be\nagreeable.\n\nAs benevolence bestows upon those actions which proceed from it, a\nbeauty superior to all others, so the want of it, and much more the\ncontrary inclination, communicates a peculiar deformity to whatever\nevidences such a disposition. Pernicious actions are often punishable\nfor no other reason than because they show a want of sufficient\nattention to the happiness of our neighbour.\n\nBesides all this, Dr. Hutcheson[18] observed, that whenever in any\naction, supposed to proceed from benevolent affections, some other\nmotive had been discovered, our sense of the merit of this action was\njust so far diminished as this motive was believed to have influenced\nit. If an action, supposed to proceed, from gratitude, should be\ndiscovered to have arisen from an expectation of some new favour, or if\nwhat was apprehended to proceed from public spirit, should be found out\nto have taken its origin from the hope of a pecuniary reward, such a\ndiscovery would entirely destroy all notion of merit or\npraise-worthiness in either of these actions. Since, therefore, the\nmixture of any selfish motive, like that of a base alloy, diminished or\ntook away altogether the merit which would otherwise have belonged to\nany action, it was evident, he imagined, that virtue must consist in\npure and disinterested benevolence alone.\n\nFootnote 18:\n\n See Inquiry concerning virtue, sect. 1. and 2.\n\nWhen those actions, on the contrary, which are commonly supposed to\nproceed from a selfish motive, are discovered to have arisen from a\nbenevolent one, it greatly enhances our sense of their merit. If we\nbelieved of any person that he endeavoured to advance his fortune from\nno other view but that of doing friendly offices, and of making proper\nreturns to his benefactors, we should only love and esteem him the more.\nAnd this observation seemed still more to confirm the conclusion, that\nit was benevolence only which could stamp upon any action the character\nof virtue.\n\nLast of all, what, he imagined, was an evident proof of the justness of\nthis account of virtue, in all the disputes of casuists concerning the\nrectitude of conduct, the public good, he observed, was the standard to\nwhich they constantly referred; thereby universally acknowledging that\nwhatever tended to promote the happiness of mankind was right and\nlaudable and virtuous, and the contrary, wrong, blameable, and vicious.\nIn the late debates about passive obedience and the right of resistance,\nthe sole point in controversy among men of sense was, whether universal\nsubmission would probably be attended with greater evils than temporary\ninsurrections when privileges were invaded. Whether what, upon the\nwhole, tended most to the happiness of mankind, was not also morally\ngood, was never once, he said, made a question.\n\nSince benevolence, therefore, was the only motive which could bestow\nupon any action the character of virtue, the greater the benevolence\nwhich was evidenced by any action, the greater the praise which must\nbelong to it.\n\nThose actions which aimed at the happiness of a great community, as they\ndemonstrated a more enlarged benevolence than those which aimed only at\nthat of a smaller system, so were they, likewise, proportionally the\nmore virtuous. The most virtuous of all affections, therefore, was that\nwhich embraced as its object the happiness of all intelligent beings.\nThe lead virtuous, on the contrary, of those to which the character of\nvirtue could in any respect belong, was that which aimed no further than\nat the happiness of an individual, such as a son, a brother, a friend.\n\nIn directing all our actions to promote the greatest possible good, in\nsubmitting all inferior affections to the desire of the general\nhappiness of mankind, in regarding ones self but as one of the many,\nwhose prosperity was to be pursued no further than it was consistent\nwith, or conducive to that of the whole, consisted the perfection of\nvirtue.\n\nSelf-love was a principle which could never be virtuous in any degree or\nin any direction. It was vicious whenever it obstructed the general\ngood. When it had no other effect than to make the individual take care\nof his own happiness, it was merely innocent, and tho\u2019 it deserved no\npraise, neither ought it to incur any blame. Those benevolent actions\nwhich were performed, notwithstanding some strong motive from\nself-interest, were the more virtuous upon that account. They\ndemonstrated the strength and vigour of the benevolent principle.\n\nDr. Hutcheson[19] was so far from allowing self-love to be in any case a\nmotive of virtuous actions, that even a regard to the pleasure of\nself-approbation, to the comfortable applause of our own consciences,\naccording to him, diminished the merit of a benevolent action. This was\na selfish motive, he thought, which, so far as it contributed to any\naction, demonstrated the weakness of that pure and disinterested\nbenevolence which could alone stamp upon the conduct of man the\ncharacter of virtue. In the common judgments of mankind, however, this\nregard to the approbation of our own minds is so far from being\nconsidered as what can in any respect diminish the virtue of any action,\nthat it is rather looked upon as the sole motive which deserves the\nappellation of virtuous.\n\nFootnote 19:\n\n Inquiry concerning virtue, sect 2. art. 4. also illustrations on the\n moral sense, sect. 5. last paragraph.\n\nSuch is the account given of the nature of virtue in this amiable\nsystem, a system which has a peculiar tendency to nourish and support in\nthe human heart the noblest and the most agreeable of all affections,\nand not only to check the injustice of self-love, but in some measure to\ndiscourage that principle altogether, by representing it as what could\nnever reflect any honour upon those who were influenced by it.\n\nAs some of the other systems which I have already given an account of,\ndo not sufficiently explain from whence arises the peculiar excellency\nof the supreme virtue of beneficence, so this system seems to have the\ncontrary defect, of not sufficiently explaining from whence arises our\napprobation of the inferior virtues of prudence, vigilance,\ncircumspection, temperance, constancy, firmness. The view and aim of our\naffections, the beneficent and hurtful effects which they tend to\nproduce, are the only qualities at all attended to in this system. Their\npropriety and impropriety, their suitableness and unsuitableness, to the\ncause which excites them, are disregarded altogether.\n\nRegard to our own private happiness and interest too, appear upon many\noccasions very laudable principles of action. The habits of \u0153conomy,\nindustry, discretion, attention, and application of thought, are\ngenerally supposed to be cultivated from self-interested motives, and at\nthe same time are apprehended to be very praise-worthy qualities, which\ndeserve the esteem and approbation of every body. The mixture of a\nselfish motive, it is true, seems often to sully the beauty of those\nactions which ought to arise from a benevolent affection. The cause of\nthis, however, is not that self-love can never be the motive of a\nvirtuous action, but that the benevolent principle appears in this\nparticular case to want its due degree of strength, and to be altogether\nunsuitable to its object. The character, therefore, seems evidently\nimperfect, and upon the whole to deserve blame rather than praise. The\nmixture of a benevolent motive in an action to which self-love alone\nought to be sufficient to prompt us, is not so apt indeed to diminish\nour sense of its propriety, or of the virtue of the person who performs\nit. We are not ready to suspect any person of being defective in\nselfishness. This is by no means the weak side of human nature, or the\nfailing of which we are apt to be suspicious. If we could really\nbelieve, however, of any man, that, was it not from a regard to his\nfamily and friends, he would not take that proper care of his health,\nhis life, or his fortune, to which self-preservation alone ought to be\nsufficient to prompt him, it would undoubtedly be a failing, tho\u2019 one of\nthose amiable failings, which render a person rather the object of pity\nthan of contempt or hatred. It would still, however, somewhat diminish\nthe dignity and respectableness of his character. Carelessness and want\nof \u0153conomy are universally disapproved of, not, however as proceeding\nfrom a want of benevolence, but from a want of the proper attention to\nthe objects of self-interest.\n\nThough the standard by which casuists frequently determine what is right\nor wrong in human conduct, be its tendency to the welfare or disorder of\nsociety, it does not follow that a regard to the welfare of society\nshould be the sole virtuous motive of action, but only that, in any\ncompetition, it ought to cast the balance against all other motives.\n\nBenevolence may, perhaps, be the sole principle of action in the Deity,\nand there are several, not improbable, arguments which tend to persuade\nus that it is so. It is not easy to conceive what other motive an\nindependent and all perfect being, who stands in need of nothing\nexternal, and whose happiness is complete in himself, can act from. But\nwhatever may be the case with the Deity, so imperfect a creature as man,\nthe support of whose existence requires so many things external to him,\nmust often act from many other motives. The condition of human nature\nwere peculiarly hard, if those affections, which, by the very nature of\nour being, ought frequently to influence our conduct, could upon no\noccasion appear virtuous, or deserve esteem and commendation from any\nbody.\n\nThose three systems, that which places virtue in propriety, that which\nplaces it in prudence, and that which makes it consist in benevolence,\nare the principal accounts which have been given of the nature of\nvirtue. To one or other of them, all the other descriptions of virtue,\nhow different soever they may appear, are easily reducible.\n\nThat system which places virtue in obedience to the will of the Deity,\nmay be counted either among those which make it consist in prudence, or\namong those which make it consist in propriety. When it is asked, why we\nought to obey the will of the Deity, this question, which would be\nimpious and absurd in the highest degree, if asked from any doubt that\nwe ought to obey him, can admit but of two different answers. It must\neither be said that we ought to obey the will of the Deity because he is\na being of infinite power, who will reward us eternally if we do so, and\npunish us eternally if we do otherwise: Or it must be said, that\nindependent of any regard to our own happiness, or to rewards and\npunishments of any kind, there is a congruity and fitness that a\ncreature should obey its creator, that a limited and imperfect being\nshould submit to one of infinite and incomprehensible perfections.\nBesides one or other of these two it is impossible to conceive that any\nother answer can be given to this question. If the first answer be the\nproper one, virtue consists in prudence, or in the proper pursuit of our\nown final interest and happiness; since it is upon this account that we\nare obliged to obey the will of the Deity. If the second answer be the\nproper one, virtue must consist in propriety, since the ground of our\nobligation to obedience is the suitableness or congruity of the\nsentiments of humility and submission to the superiority of the object\nwhich excites them.\n\nThat system which places virtue in utility coincides too with that which\nmakes it consist in propriety. According to this system all those\nqualities of the mind which are agreeable or advantageous, either to the\nperson himself or to others, are approved of as virtuous, and the\ncontrary disapproved of as vicious. But the agreeableness or utility of\nany affection depends upon the degree which it is allowed to subsist in.\nEvery affection is useful when it is confined to a certain degree of\nmoderation, and every affection is disadvantageous when it exceeds the\nproper bounds. According to this system therefore, virtue consists, not\nin any one affection, but in the proper degree of all the affections,\nThe only difference between it and that which I have been endeavouring\nto establish, is, that it makes utility, and not sympathy, or the\ncorrespondent affection of the spectator, the natural and original\nmeasure of this proper degree.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. IV.\n _Of licentious systems._\n\n\nAll those systems, which I have hitherto given an account of, suppose\nthat there is a real and essential distinction between vice and virtue,\nwhatever these qualities may consist in. There is a real and essential\ndifference between the propriety and impropriety of any affection,\nbetween benevolence and any other principle of action, between real\nprudence and short-sighted folly or precipitate rashness. In the main\ntoo all of them contribute to encourage the praise-worthy, and to\ndiscourage the blameable disposition.\n\nIt may be true perhaps, of some of them, that they tend, in some\nmeasure, to break the balance of the affections, and to give the mind a\nparticular bias to some principles of action, beyond the proportion that\nis due to them. The ancient systems which place virtue in propriety,\nseem chiefly to recommend the great, the awful, and the respectable\nvirtues, the virtues of self-government and self-command; fortitude,\nmagnanimity, independency upon fortune, the contempt of all outward\naccidents, of pain, poverty, exile, and death. It is in these great\nexertions that the noblest propriety of conduct is displayed. The soft,\nthe amiable, the gentle virtues, all the virtues of indulgent humanity\nare, in comparison, but little insisted upon, and seem, on the contrary,\nby the Stoics in particular, to have been often regarded as mere\nweaknesses which it behoved a wise man not to harbour in his breast.\n\nThe benevolent system, on the other hand, while it fosters and\nencourages all those milder virtues in the highest degree, seems\nentirely to neglect the more awful and respectable qualities of the\nmind. It even denies them the appellation of virtues. It calls them\nmoral abilities, and treats them as qualities which do not deserve the\nsame sort of esteem and approbation, that is due to what is properly\ndenominated virtue. All those principles of action which aim only at our\nown interest, it treats, if that be possible, still worse. So far from\nhaving any merit of their own, they diminish, it pretends, the merit of\nbenevolence, when they co-operate with it: and prudence, it is asserted,\nwhen employed only in promoting private interest, can never even be\nimagined a virtue.\n\nThat system, again, which makes virtue consist in prudence only, while\nit gives the highest encouragement to the habits of caution, vigilance,\nsobriety, and judicious moderation, seems to degrade equally both the\namiable and respectable virtues, and to strip the former of all their\nbeauty, and the latter of all their grandeur.\n\nBut notwithstanding these defects, the general tendency of each of those\nthree systems is to encourage the best and most laudable habits of the\nhuman mind: and it were well for society, if, either mankind in general,\nor even those few who pretend to live according to any philosophical\nrule, were to regulate their conduct by the precepts of any one of them.\nWe may learn from each of them something that is both valuable and\npeculiar. If it was possible, by precept and exhortation, to inspire the\nmind with fortitude and magnanimity, the ancient systems of propriety\nwould seem sufficient to do this. Or if it was possible, by the same\nmeans, to soften it into humanity, and to awaken the affections of\nkindness and general love towards those we live with, some of the\npictures with which the benevolent system presents us, might seem\ncapable of producing this effect. We may learn from the system of\nEpicurus, though undoubtedly the worst of all the three, how much the\npractice of both the amiable and respectable virtues is conducive to our\nown interest, to our own ease and safety and quiet even in this life. As\nEpicurus placed happiness in the attainment of ease and security, he\nexerted himself in a particular manner to show that virtue was, not\nmerely the best and the surest, but the only means of acquiring those\ninvaluable possessions. The good effects of virtue, upon our inward\ntranquility and peace of mind, are what other philosophers have chiefly\ncelebrated. Epicurus, without neglecting this topic, has chiefly\ninsisted upon the influence of that amiable quality on our outward\nprosperity and safety. It was upon this account that his writings were\nso much studied in the ancient world by men of all different\nphilosophical parties. It is from him that Cicero, the great enemy of\nthe Epicurean system, borrows his most agreeable proofs that virtue\nalone is sufficient to secure happiness. Seneca, though a Stoic, the\nsect most opposite to that of Epicurus, yet quotes this philosopher more\nfrequently than any other.\n\nThere are, however, some other systems which seem to take away\naltogether the distinction between vice and virtue, and of which the\ntendency is, upon that account, wholly pernicious: I mean the systems of\nthe duke of Rochefoucault and Dr. Mandeville. Though the notions of both\nthese authors are in almost every respect erroneous, there are, however,\nsome appearances in human nature which, when viewed in a certain manner,\nseem at first sight to favour them. These, first slightly sketched out\nwith the elegance and delicate precision of the duke of Rochefoucault,\nand afterwards more fully represented with the lively and humorous,\nthough coarse and rustic eloquence of Dr. Mandeville, have thrown upon\ntheir doctrines an air of truth and probability which is very apt to\nimpose upon the unskilful.\n\nDr. Mandeville, the most methodical of those two authors, considers\nwhatever is done from a sense of propriety, from a regard to what is\ncommendable and praise-worthy, as being done from a love of praise and\ncommendation, or as he calls it from vanity. Man, he observes, is\nnaturally much more interested in his own happiness than in that of\nothers, and it is impossible that in his heart he can ever really prefer\ntheir prosperity to his own. Whenever he appears to do so, we may be\nassured that he imposes upon us, and that he is then acting from the\nsame selfish motives as at all other times. Among his other selfish\npassions, vanity is one of the strongest, and he is always easily\nflattered and greatly delighted with the applauses of those about him.\nWhen he appears to sacrifice his own interest to that of his companions,\nhe knows that this conduct will be highly agreeable to their self-love,\nand that they will not fail to express their satisfaction by bellowing\nupon him the most extravagant praises. The pleasure which he expects\nfrom this, over-balances, in his opinion, the interest which he abandons\nin order to procure it. His conduct, therefore, upon this occasion, is\nin reality just as selfish, and arises from just as mean a motive as\nupon any other. He is flattered, however, and he flatters himself with\nthe belief that it is entirely disinterested; since, unless this was\nsupposed, it would not seem to merit any commendation either in his own\neyes or in those of others. All public spirit, therefore, all preference\nof public to private interest, is, according to him a mere cheat and\nimposition upon mankind; and that human virtue which is so much boasted\nof, and which is the occasion of so much emulation among men, is the\nmere offspring of flattery begot upon pride.\n\nWhether the most generous and public-spirited actions may not, in some\nsense, be regarded as proceeding from self-love, I shall not at present\nexamine. The decision of this question is not, I apprehend, of any\nimportance towards establishing the reality of virtue, since self-love\nmay frequently be a virtuous motive of action. I shall only endeavour to\nshow that the desire of doing what is honourable and noble, of rendering\nourselves the proper objects of esteem and approbation, cannot with any\npropriety be called vanity. Even the love of well-grounded fame and\nreputation, the desire of acquiring esteem by what is really estimable,\ndoes not deserve that name. The first is the love of virtue, the noblest\nand the best passion of human nature. The second is the love of true\nglory, a passion inferior no doubt to the former, but which in dignity\nappears to come immediately after it. He is guilty of vanity who desires\npraise for qualities which are either not praise-worthy in any degree,\nor not in that degree which he expects to be praised for them; who sets\nhis character upon the frivolous ornaments of dress and equipage, or the\nequally frivolous accomplishments of ordinary behaviour. He is guilty of\nvanity who desires praise for what indeed very well deserves it, but\nwhat he perfectly knows does not belong to him. The empty coxcomb who\ngives himself airs of importance which he has no title to, the silly\nliar who assumes the merit of adventures which never happened, the\nfoolish plagiary who gives himself out for the author of what he has no\npretensions to, are properly accused of this passion. He too is said to\nbe guilty of vanity who is not contented with the silent sentiments of\nesteem and approbation, who seems to be fonder of their noisy\nexpressions and acclamations than of the sentiments themselves, who is\nnever satisfied but when his own praises are ringing in his ears, and\nwho solicits with the most anxious importunity all external marks of\nrespect, is fond of titles, of compliments, of being visited, of being\nattended, of being taken notice of in public places with the appearance\nof deference and attention. This frivolous passion is altogether\ndifferent from either of the two former, and is the passion of the\nlowest, and the least of mankind, as they are of the noblest and the\ngreatest.\n\nBut though these three passions, the desire of rendering ourselves the\nproper objects of honour and esteem; or of becoming what is honourable\nand estimable; the desire of acquiring honour and esteem by really\ndeserving those sentiments; and the frivolous desire of praise at any\nrate, are widely different; though the two former are always approved\nof, while the latter never fails to be despised; there is, however, a\ncertain remote affinity among them, which, exaggerated by the humorous\nand diverting eloquence of this lively author, has enabled him to impose\nupon his readers. There is an affinity between vanity and the love of\ntrue glory, as both these passions aim at acquiring esteem and\napprobation. But they are different in this, that the one is a just,\nreasonable, and equitable passion, while the other is unjust, absurd,\nand ridiculous. The man who desires esteem for what is really estimable,\ndesires nothing but what he is justly entitled to, and what cannot be\nrefused him without some sort of injury. He, on the contrary, who\ndesires it upon any other terms, demands what he has no just claim to.\nThe first is easily satisfied, is not apt to be jealous or suspicious\nthat we do not esteem him enough, and is seldom solicitous about\nreceiving many external marks of our regard. The other, on the contrary,\nis never to be satisfied, is full of jealousy and suspicion that we do\nnot esteem him so much as he desires, because he has some secret\nconsciousness that he desires more than he deserves. The least neglect\nof ceremony, he considers as a mortal affront, and as an expression of\nthe most determined contempt. He is restless and impatient, and\nperpetually afraid that we have lost all respect for him, and is upon\nthis account always anxious to obtain new expressions of esteem, and\ncannot be kept in temper but by continual attendance and adulation.\n\nThere is an affinity too between the desire of becoming what is\nhonourable and estimable, and the desire of honour and esteem, between\nthe love of virtue and the love of true glory. They resemble one another\nnot only in this respect, that both aim at really being what is\nhonourable and noble, but even in that respect in which the love of true\nglory resembles what is properly called vanity, some reference to the\nsentiments of others. The man of the greatest magnanimity, who desires\nvirtue for its own sake, and is most indifferent about what actually are\nthe opinions of mankind with regard to him, is still, however, delighted\nwith the thoughts of what they should be, with the consciousness that\nthough he may neither be honoured nor applauded, he is still the proper\nobject of honour and applause, and that if mankind were cool and candid\nand consistent with themselves, and properly informed of the motives and\ncircumstances of his conduct, they would not fail to honour and applaud\nhim. Though he despises the opinions which are actually entertained of\nhim, he has the highest value for those which ought to be entertained of\nhim. That he might think himself worthy of those honourable sentiments,\nand, whatever was the idea which other men might conceive of his\ncharacter, that when he should put himself in their situation, and\nconsider, not what was, but what ought to be their opinion, he should\nalways have the highest idea of it himself, was the great and exalted\nmotive of his conduct. As even in the love of virtue, therefore, there\nis still some reference, though not to what is, yet to what in reason\nand propriety ought to be, the opinion of others, there is even in this\nrespect some affinity between it, and the love of true glory. There is,\nhowever, at the same time, a very great difference between them. The man\nwho acts solely from a regard to what is right and fit to be done, from\na regard to what is the proper object of esteem and approbation, though\nthese sentiments should never be bestowed upon him, acts from the most\nsublime and godlike motive which human nature is even capable of\nconceiving. The man, on the other hand, who while he desires to merit\napprobation is at the same time anxious to obtain it, though he too is\nlaudably in the main, yet his motives have a greater mixture of human\ninfirmity. He is in danger of being mortified by the ignorance and\ninjustice of mankind, and his happiness is exposed to the envy of his\nrivals, and the folly of the public. The happiness of the other, on the\ncontrary, is altogether secure and independent of fortune, and of the\ncaprice of those he lives with. The contempt and hatred which may be\nthrown upon him by the ignorance of mankind, he considers as not\nbelonging to him, and is not at all mortified by it. Mankind despise and\nhate him from a false notion of his character and conduct. If they knew\nhim better, they would esteem and love him. It is not him whom, properly\nspeaking, they hate and despise, but another person whom they mistake\nhim to be. Our friend, whom we should meet at a masquerade in the garb\nof our enemy, would be more diverted than mortified, if under that\ndisguise we should vent our indignation against him. Such are the\nsentiments of a man of real magnanimity, when exposed to unjust censure.\nIt seldom happens, however, that human nature arrives at this degree of\nfirmness. Though none but the weakest and most worthless of mankind are\nmuch delighted with false glory, yet, by a strange inconsistency, false\nignominy is often capable of mortifying those who appear the most\nresolute and determined.\n\nDr. Mandeville is not satisfied with representing the frivolous motive\nof vanity, as the source of all those actions which are commonly\naccounted virtuous. He endeavours to point out the imperfection of human\nvirtue in many other respects. In every case, he pretends, it falls\nshort of that complete self-denial which it pretends to, and, instead of\na conquest, is commonly no more than a concealed indulgence of our\npassions. Wherever our reserve with regard to pleasure falls short of\nthe most ascetic abstinence, he treats it as gross luxury and\nsensuality. Every thing, according to him, is luxury which exceeds what\nis absolutely necessary for the support of human nature, so that there\nis a vice even in the use of a clean shirt, or of a convenient\nhabitation. The indulgence of the inclination to sex, in the most lawful\nunion, he considers as the same sensuality with the most hurtful\ngratification of that passion, and derides that temperance and that\nchastity which can be practiced at so cheap a rate. The ingenious\nsophistry of his reasoning, is here, as upon many other occasions,\ncovered by the ambiguity of language. There are some of our passions\nwhich have no other names except those which mark the disagreeable and\noffensive degree. The spectator is more apt to take notice of them in\nthis degree than in any other. When they shock his own sentiments, when\nthey give him some sort of antipathy and uneasiness, he is necessarily\nobliged to attend to them, and is from thence naturally led to give them\na name. When they fall in with the natural state of his own mind, he is\nvery apt to overlook them altogether, and either gives them no name at\nall, or, if he gives them any, it is one which marks rather the\nsubjection and restraint of the passion than the degree which it still\nis allowed to subsist in, after it is so subjected and restrained. Thus\nthe common names of the [20]love of pleasure, and of the love of sex,\ndenote a vicious and offensive degree of those passions. The words\ntemperance and chastity, on the other hand, seem to mark rather the\nrestraint and subjection which they are kept under, than the degree\nwhich they are still allowed to subsist in. When he can show, therefore,\nthat they still subsist in some degree, he imagines, he has entirely\ndemolished the reality of the virtues of temperance and chastity, and\nshown them to be mere impositions upon the inattention and simplicity of\nmankind. Those virtues, however, do not require an entire insensibility\nto the objects of the passions which they mean to govern. They only aim\nat restraining the violence of those passions so far as not to hurt the\nindividual, and neither disturb nor offend the society.\n\nFootnote 20:\n\n Luxury and lust.\n\nIt is the great fallacy of Dr. Mandeville\u2019s book[21] to represent every\npassion as wholly vicious, which is so in any degree and in any\ndirection. It is thus that he treats every thing as vanity which has any\nreference, either to what are, or to what ought to be the sentiments of\nothers: and it is by means of this sophistry, that he establishes his\nfavourite conclusion, that private vices are public benefits. If the\nlove of magnificence, a taste for the elegant arts and improvements of\nhuman life, for whatever is agreeable in dress, furniture, or equipage,\nfor architecture, statuary, painting, and music, is to be regarded as\nluxury, sensuality and ostentation, even in those whose situation\nallows, without any inconveniency, the indulgence of those passions, it\nis certain that luxury, sensuality, and ostentation are public benefits:\nsince, without the qualities upon which he thinks proper to bestow such\nopprobrious names, the arts of refinement could never find\nencouragement, and must languish for want of employment. Some popular\nascetic doctrines which had been current before his time, and which\nplaced virtue in the entire extirpation and annihilation of all our\npassions, were the real foundation of this licentious system. It was\neasy for Dr. Mandeville to prove, first, that this entire conquest never\nactually took place among men; and secondly, that, if it was to take\nplace universally, it would be pernicious to society, by putting an end\nto all industry and commerce, and in a manner to the whole business of\nhuman life. By the first of these propositions he seemed to prove that\nthere was no real virtue, and that what pretended to be such, was a mere\ncheat and imposition upon mankind; and by the second, that private vices\nwere public benefits, since without them no society could prosper or\nflourish.\n\nFootnote 21:\n\n Fable of the Bees.\n\nSuch is the system of Dr. Mandeville, which once made so much noise in\nthe world, and which, though perhaps, it never gave occasion to more\nvice than what would have been without it, at least taught that vice,\nwhich arose from other causes, to appear with more effrontery, and to\navow the corruption of its motives with a profligate audaciousness which\nhad never been heard of before.\n\nBut how destructive soever this system may appear, it could never have\nimposed upon so great a number of persons, nor have occasioned so\ngeneral an alarm among those who are the friends of better principles,\nhad it not in some respects bordered upon the truth. A system of natural\nphilosophy may appear very plausible, and be for a long time very\ngenerally received in the world, and yet have no foundation in nature,\nnor any sort of resemblance to the truth. The vortices of Des Cartes\nwere regarded by a very ingenious nation, for near a century together,\nas a most satisfactory account of the revolutions of the heavenly\nbodies. Yet it has been demonstrated, to the conviction of all mankind,\nthat these pretended causes of those wonderful effects, not only do not\nactually exist, but are utterly impossible, and if they did exist, could\nproduce no such effects as are ascribed to them. But it is otherwise\nwith systems of moral philosophy, and an author who pretends to account\nfor the origin of our moral sentiments, cannot deceive us so grossly,\nnor depart so very far from all resemblance to the truth. When a\ntraveller gives an account of some distant country, he may impose upon\nour credulity the most groundless and absurd fictions as the most\ncertain matters of fact. But when a person pretends to inform us of what\npasses in our neighbourhood, and of the affairs of the very parish which\nwe live in, though here too, if we are so careless as not to examine\nthings with our own eyes, he may deceive us in many respects, yet the\ngreatest falsehoods which he imposes upon us must bear some resemblance\nto the truth, and must even have a considerable mixture of truth in\nthem. An author who treats of natural philosophy, and pretends to assign\nthe causes of the great phenomena of the universe, pretends to give an\naccount of the affairs of a very distant country, concerning which he\nmay tell us what he pleases, and as long as his narration keeps within\nthe bounds of seeming possibility, he need not despair of gaining our\nbelief. But when he proposes to explain the origin of our desires and\naffections, of our sentiments of approbation and disapprobation, he\npretends to give an account, not only of the affairs of the very parish\nthat we live in, but of our own domestic concerns. Though here too, like\nindolent masters who put their trust in a steward who deceives them, we\nare very liable to be imposed upon, yet we are incapable of passing any\naccount which does not preserve some little regard to the truth. Some of\nthe articles, at least, must be just, and even those which are most\novercharged must have had some foundation, otherwise the fraud would be\ndetected even by that careless inspection which we are disposed to give.\nThe author who should assign, as the cause of any natural sentiment,\nsome principle which neither had any connexion with it, nor resembled\nany other principle which had some such connexion, would appear absurd\nand ridiculous to the most injudicious and unexperienced reader.\n\n\n\n\n SECTION III.\nOf the different systems which have been formed concerning the principle\n of approbation.\n\n\n INTRODUCTION.\n\nAfter the inquiry concerning the nature of virtue, the next question of\nimportance in Moral Philosophy, is concerning the principle of\napprobation, concerning the power or faculty of the mind which renders\ncertain characters agreeable or disagreeable to us, makes us prefer one\ntenour of conduct to another, denominate the one right and the other\nwrong, and consider the one as the object of approbation, honour, and\nreward; the other as that of blame, censure, and punishment.\n\nThree different accounts have been given of this principle of\napprobation. According to some, we approve and disapprove both of our\nown actions and of those of others, from self-love only, or from some\nview of their tendency to our own happiness or disadvantage; according\nto others, reason, the same faculty by which we distinguish between\ntruth and falsehood, enables us to distinguish between what is fit and\nunfit both in actions and affections: according to others this\ndistinction is altogether the effect of immediate sentiment and feeling,\nand arises from the satisfaction or disgust with which the view of\ncertain actions or affections inspires us. Self-love, reason, and\nsentiment, therefore, are the three different sources which have been\nassigned for the principle of approbation.\n\nBefore I proceed to give an account of those different systems, I must\nobserve, that the determination of this second question, though of the\ngreatest importance in speculation, is of none in practice. The question\nconcerning the nature of virtue necessarily has some influence upon our\nnotions of right and wrong in many particular cases. That concerning the\nprinciple of approbation can possibly have no such effect. To examine\nfrom what contrivance or mechanism within, those different notions or\nsentiments arise, is a mere matter of philosophical curiosity.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. I.\n _Of those systems which deduce the principle of approbation from\n self-love._\n\n\nThose who account for the principle of approbation from self-love, do\nnot all account for it in the same manner, and there is a good deal of\nconfusion and inaccuracy in all their different systems. According to\nMr. Hobbes, and many of his followers,[22] man is driven to take refuge\nin society, not by any natural love which he bears to his own kind, but\nbecause without the assistance of others he is incapable of subsisting\nwith ease or safety. Society, upon this account, becomes necessary to\nhim, and whatever tends to its support and welfare, he considers as\nhaving a remote tendency to his own interest, and, on the contrary,\nwhatever is likely to disturb or destroy it, he regards as in some\nmeasure hurtful or pernicious to himself. Virtue is the great support,\nand vice the great disturber of human society. The former, therefore, is\nagreeable, and the latter offensive to every man; as from the one he\nforesees the prosperity, and from the other the ruin and disorder of\nwhat is so necessary for the comfort and security of his existence.\n\nFootnote 22:\n\n Puffendorff. Mandeville.\n\nThat the tendency of virtue to promote, and of vice to disturb the order\nof society, when we consider it coolly and philosophically, reflects a\nvery great beauty upon the one, and a very great deformity upon the\nother, cannot, as I have observed upon a former occasion, be called in\nquestion. Human society, when we contemplate it in a certain abstract\nand philosophical light, appears like a great, an immense machine, whose\nregular and harmonious movements produce a thousand agreeable effects.\nAs in any other beautiful and noble machine that was the production of\nhuman art, whatever tended to render its movements more smooth and easy,\nwould derive a beauty from this effect, and, on the contrary, whatever\ntended to obstruct them would displease upon that account: so virtue,\nwhich is, as it were, the fine polish to the wheels of society,\nnecessarily pleases; while vice, like the vile rust, which makes them\njar and grate upon one another, is as necessarily offensive. This\naccount, therefore, of the origin of approbation and disapprobation, so\nfar as it derives them from a regard to the order of society, runs into\nthat principle which gives beauty to utility, and which I have explained\nupon a former occasion; and it is from thence that this system derives\nall that appearance of probability which it possesses. When those\nauthors describe the innumerable advantages of a cultivated and social,\nabove a savage and solitary life; when they expatiate upon the necessity\nof virtue and good order for the maintenance of the one, and demonstrate\nhow infallibly the prevalence of vice and disobedience to the laws tend\nto bring back the other, the reader is charmed with the novelty and\ngrandeur of those views which they open to him: he sees plainly a new\nbeauty in virtue, and a new deformity in vice, which he had never taken\nnotice of before, and is commonly so delighted with the discovery, that\nhe seldom takes time to reflect, that this political view, having never\noccurred to him in his life before, cannot possibly be the ground of\nthat approbation and disapprobation with which he has always been\naccustomed to consider those different qualities.\n\nWhen those authors, on the other hand, deduce from self-love the\ninterest which we take in the welfare of society, and the esteem which\nupon that account we bestow upon virtue, they do not mean, that when we\nin this age applaud the virtue of Cato, and detest the villainy of\nCatiline, our sentiments are influenced by the notion of any benefit we\nreceive from the one, or of any detriment we suffer from the other. It\nwas not because the prosperity or subversion of society, in those remote\nages and nations, was apprehended to have any influence upon our\nhappiness or misery in the present times; that according to those\nphilosophers, we esteemed the virtuous, and blamed the disorderly\ncharacter. They never imagined that our sentiments were influenced by\nany benefit or damage which we supposed actually to redound to us, from\neither; but by that which might have redounded to us, had we lived in\nthose distant ages and countries; or by that which might still redound\nto us, if in our own times we should meet with characters of the same\nkind. The idea, in short, which those authors were groping about, but\nwhich they were never able to unfold distinctly, was that indirect\nsympathy which we feel with the gratitude or resentment of those who\nreceived the benefit or suffered the damage resulting from such opposite\ncharacters: and it was this which they were indistinctly pointing at,\nwhen they said, that it was not the thought of what we had gained or\nsuffered which prompted our applause or indignation, but the conception\nor imagination of what we might gain or suffer if we were to act in\nsociety with such associates.\n\nSympathy, however, cannot, in any sense, be regarded as a selfish\nprinciple. When I sympathize with your sorrow or your indignation, it\nmay be pretended, indeed, that my emotion is founded in self-love,\nbecause it arises from bringing your case home to myself, from putting\nmyself in your situation, and thence conceiving what I should feel in\nthe like circumstances. But though sympathy is very properly said to\narise from an imaginary change of situations with the person principally\nconcerned, yet this imaginary change is not supposed to happen to me in\nmy own person and character, but in that of the person with whom I\nsympathize. When I condole with you for the loss of your only son, in\norder to enter into your grief, I do not consider what I, a person of\nsuch a character and profession, should suffer, if I had a son, and if\nthat son was unfortunately to die: but I consider what I should suffer\nif I was really you, and I not only change circumstances with you, but I\nchange persons and characters. My grief, therefore, is entirely upon\nyour account, and not in the least upon my own. It is not, therefore, in\nthe least selfish. How can that be regarded as a selfish passion, which\ndoes not arise even from the imagination of any thing that has befallen,\nor that relates to myself, in my own proper person and character, but\nwhich is entirely occupied about what relates to you? A man may\nsympathize with a woman in child-bed; though it is impossible that he\nshould conceive himself as suffering her pains in his own proper person\nand character. That whole account of human nature, however, which\ndeduces all sentiments and affections from self-love, which has made so\nmuch noise in the world, but which, so far as I know, has never yet been\nfully and distinctly explained, seems to me to have arisen from some\nconfused misapprehension of the system of sympathy.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. II.\n _Of those systems which make reason the principle of approbation._\n\n\nIt is well known to have been the doctrine of Mr. Hobbes, that a state\nof nature, is a state of war; and that antecedent to the institution of\ncivil government, there could be no safe or peaceable society among men.\nTo preserve society, therefore, according to him, was to support civil\ngovernment, and to destroy civil government was the same thing as to put\nan end to society. But the existence of civil government depends upon\nthe obedience that is paid to the supreme magistrate. The moment he\nloses his authority, all government is at an end. As self-preservation,\ntherefore, teaches men to applaud whatever tends to promote the welfare\nof society, and to blame whatever is likely to hurt it; so the same\nprinciple, if they would think and speak consistently, ought to teach\nthem to applaud upon all occasions obedience to the civil magistrate,\nand to blame all disobedience and rebellion. The very ideas of laudable\nand blameable, ought to be the same with those of obedience and\ndisobedience. The laws of the civil magistrate, therefore, ought to be\nregarded as the sole ultimate standards of what was just and unjust, of\nwhat was right and wrong.\n\nIt was the avowed intention of Mr. Hobbes, by propagating these notions,\nto subject the consciences of men immediately to the civil, and not to\nthe ecclesiastical powers, whose turbulence and ambition, he had been\ntaught, by the example of his own times, to regard as the principal\nsource of the disorders of society. His doctrine, upon this account, was\npeculiarly offensive to Theologians, who accordingly did not fail to\nvent their indignation against him with great asperity and bitterness.\nIt was likewise offensive to all sound moralists, as it supposed that\nthere was no natural distinction between right and wrong, that these\nwere mutable and changeable, and depended upon the mere arbitrary will\nof the civil magistrate. This account of things, therefore, was attacked\nfrom all quarters, and by all sorts of weapons, by sober reason as well\nas by furious declamation.\n\nIn order to confute so odious a doctrine, it was necessary to prove,\nthat antecedent to all law or positive institution, the mind was\nnaturally endowed with a faculty, by which it distinguished in certain\nactions and affections, the qualities of right, laudable, and virtuous,\nand in others those of wrong, blameable, and vicious.\n\nLaw, it was justly observed by Dr. Cudworth,[23] could not be the\noriginal source of those distinctions; since upon the supposition of\nsuch a law, it must either be right to obey it, and wrong to disobey it,\nor indifferent whether we obeyed it, or disobeyed it. That law which it\nwas indifferent whether we obeyed or disobeyed, could not, it was\nevident, be the source of those distinctions; neither could that which\nit was right to obey and wrong to disobey, since even this still\nsupposed the antecedent notions or ideas of right and wrong, and that\nobedience to the law was conformable to the idea of right, and\ndisobedience to that of wrong.\n\nFootnote 23:\n\n Immutable Morality, l. 1.\n\nSince the mind, therefore, had a notion of those distinctions antecedent\nto all law, it seemed necessarily to follow, that it derived this notion\nfrom reason, which pointed out the difference between right and wrong,\nin the same manner in which it did that between truth and falsehood: and\nthis conclusion, which though true in some respects, is rather hasty in\nothers, was more easily received at a time when the abstract science of\nhuman nature was but in its infancy, and before the distinct offices and\npowers of the different faculties of the human mind had been carefully\nexamined and distinguished from one another. When this controversy with\nMr. Hobbes was carried on with the greatest warmth and keenness, no\nother faculty had been thought of from which any such ideas could\npossibly be supposed to arise. It became at this time, therefore, the\npopular doctrine, that the essence of virtue and vice did not consist in\nthe conformity or disagreement of human actions with the law of a\nsuperior, but in their conformity or disagreement with reason, which was\nthus considered as the original source and principle of approbation and\ndisapprobation.\n\nThat virtue consists in conformity to reason, is true in some respects,\nand this faculty may very justly be considered, as in some sense, the\nsource and principle of approbation and disapprobation, and of all solid\njudgments concerning right and wrong. It is by reason that we discover\nthose general rules of justice by which we ought to regulate our\nactions: and it is by the same faculty that we form those more vague and\nindeterminate ideas of what is prudent, of what is decent, of what is\ngenerous or noble, which we carry constantly about with us, and\naccording to which we endeavour, as well as we can, to model the tenour\nof our conduct. The general maxims of morality are formed, like all\nother general maxims, from experience and induction. We observe in a\ngreat variety of particular cases what pleases or displeases our moral\nfaculties, what these approve or disapprove of, and, by induction from\nthis experience, we establish those general rules. But induction is\nalways regarded as one of the operations of reason. From reason,\ntherefore, we are very properly said to derive all those general maxims\nand ideas. It is by these, however, that we regulate the greater part of\nour moral judgments, which would be extremely uncertain and precarious\nif they depended altogether upon what is liable to so many variations as\nimmediate sentiment and feeling, which the different states of health\nand humour are capable of altering so essentially. As our most solid\njudgments, therefore, with regard to right and wrong, are regulated by\nmaxims and ideas derived from an induction of reason, virtue may very\nproperly be said to consist in a conformity to reason, and so far this\nfaculty may be considered as the source and principle of approbation and\ndisapprobation.\n\nBut though reason is undoubtedly the source of the general rules of\nmorality, and of all the moral judgments which we form by means of them;\nit is altogether absurd and unintelligible to suppose that the first\nperceptions of right and wrong can be derived from reason, even in those\nparticular cases upon the experience of which the general rules are\nformed. These first perceptions, as well all other experiments upon\nwhich any general rules are founded, cannot be the object of reason, but\nof immediate sense and feeling. It is by finding in a vast variety of\ninstances that one tenour of conduct constantly pleases in a certain\nmanner, and that another as constantly displeases the mind, that we form\nthe general rules of morality. But reason cannot render any particular\nobject either agreeable or disagreeable to the mind for its own sake.\nReason may show that this object is the means of obtaining some other\nwhich is naturally either pleasing or displeasing, and in this manner\nmay render it either agreeable or disagreeable for the sake of something\nelse. But nothing can be agreeable or disagreeable for its own sake,\nwhich is not rendered such by immediate sense and feeling. If virtue,\ntherefore, in every particular instance, necessarily pleases for its own\nsake, and if vice as certainly displeases the mind, it cannot be reason,\nbut immediate sense and feeling, which, in this manner, reconciles us to\nthe one, and alienates us from the other.\n\nPleasure and pain are the great objects of desire and aversion: but\nthese are distinguished not by reason, but by immediate sense and\nfeeling. If virtue, therefore, is desirable for its own sake, and if\nvice is, in the same manner, the object of aversion, it cannot be reason\nwhich originally distinguishes those different qualities, but immediate\nsense and feeling.\n\nAs reason, however, in a certain sense, may justly be considered as the\nprinciple of approbation and disapprobation, these sentiments were,\nthrough inattention, long regarded as originally flowing from the\noperations of this faculty. Dr. Hutcheson had the merit of being the\nfirst who distinguished with any degree of precision in what respect all\nmoral distinctions may be said to arise from reason, and in what respect\nthey are founded upon immediate sense and feeling. In his illustrations\nupon the moral sense he has explained this so fully, and, in my opinion,\nso unanswerably, that, if any controversy is still kept up about this\nsubject, I can impute it to nothing, but either to inattention to what\nthat gentleman has written, or to a superstitious attachment to certain\nforms of expression, a weakness not very uncommon among the learned,\nespecially in subjects so deeply interesting as the present, in which a\nman of virtue is often loth to abandon, even the propriety of a single\nphrase which he has been accustomed to.\n\n\n\n\n CHAP. III.\n _Of those systems which make sentiment the principle of approbation._\n\n\nThose systems which make sentiment the principle of approbation may be\ndivided into two different classes.\n\nI. According to some the principle of approbation is founded upon a\nsentiment of a peculiar nature, upon a particular power of perception\nexerted by the mind at the view of certain actions or affections; some\nof which affecting this faculty in an agreeable and others in a\ndisagreeable manner, the former are stampt with the characters of right,\nlaudable, and virtuous; the latter with those of wrong, blameable and\nvicious. This sentiment being of a peculiar nature distinct from every\nother, and the effect of a particular power of perception, they give it\na particular name, and call it a moral sense.\n\nII. According to others, in order to account for the principle of\napprobation, there is no occasion for supposing any new power of\nperception which had never been heard of before: Nature, they imagine,\nacts here, as in all other cases, with the strictest \u0153conomy, and\nproduces a multitude of effects from one and the same cause; and\nsympathy, a power which has always been taken notice of, and with which\nthe mind is manifestly endowed, is, they think, sufficient to account\nfor all the effects ascribed to this peculiar faculty.\n\nI. Dr. Hutcheson[24] had been at great pains to prove that the principle\nof approbation was not founded on self-love. He had demonstrated too\nthat it could not arise from any operation of reason. Nothing remained,\nhe thought, but to suppose it a faculty of a peculiar kind, with which\nNature had endowed the human mind, in order to produce this one\nparticular and important effect. When self-love and reason were both\nexcluded, it did not occur to him that there was any other known faculty\nof the mind which could in any respect answer this purpose.\n\nFootnote 24:\n\n Inquiry concerning Virtue.\n\nThis new power of perception he called a moral sense, and supposed it to\nbe somewhat analogous to the external senses. As the bodies around us,\nby affecting these in a certain manner, appear to possess the different\nqualities of sound, taste, odour, colour; so the various affections of\nthe human mind, by touching this particular faculty in a certain manner,\nappear to possess the different qualities of amiable and odious, of\nvirtuous and vicious, of right and wrong.\n\nThe various senses or powers of perception,[25] from which the human\nmind derives all its simple ideas, were, according to this system, of\ntwo different kinds, of which the one were called the direct or\nantecedent, the other, the reflex or consequent senses. The direct\nsenses were those faculties from which the mind derived the perception\nof such species of things as did not presuppose the antecedent\nperception of any other. Thus sounds and colours were objects of the\ndirect senses. To hear a sound or to see a colour does not presuppose\nthe antecedent perception of any other quality or object. The reflex or\nconsequent senses, on the other hand, were those faculties from which\nthe mind derived the perception of such species of things as presupposed\nthe antecedent perception of some other. Thus harmony and beauty were\nobjects of the reflex senses. In order to perceive the harmony of a\nsound, or the beauty of a colour, we must first perceive the sound or\nthe colour. The moral sense was considered as a faculty of this kind.\nThat faculty, which Mr. Locke calls reflection, and from which he\nderived the simple ideas of the different passions and emotions of the\nhuman mind, was, according to Dr. Hutcheson, a direct internal sense.\nThat faculty again by which we perceived the beauty or deformity, the\nvirtue or vice of those different passions and emotions, was a reflex,\ninternal sense.\n\nFootnote 25:\n\n Treatise of the passions.\n\nDr. Hutcheson endeavoured still further to support this doctrine, by\nshewing that it was agreeable to the analogy of nature, and that the\nmind was endowed with a variety of other reflex senses exactly similar\nto the moral sense; such as a sense of beauty and deformity in external\nobjects; a public sense, by which we sympathize with the happiness or\nmisery of our fellow-creatures; a sense of shame and honour, and a sense\nof ridicule.\n\nBut notwithstanding all the pains which this ingenious philosopher has\ntaken to prove that the principle of approbation is founded in a\npeculiar power of perception, somewhat analogous to the external senses,\nthere are some consequences, which he acknowledges to follow from this\ndoctrine, that will, perhaps, be regarded by many as a sufficient\nconfutation of it. The qualities, he allows,[26] which belong to the\nobjects of any sense, cannot, without the greatest absurdity, be\nascribed to the sense itself. Who ever thought of calling the sense of\nseeing black or white, the sense of hearing loud or low, or the sense of\ntasting sweet or bitter? And, according to him, it is equally absurd to\ncall our moral faculties virtuous or vicious, morally good or evil.\nThese qualities belong to the objects of those faculties, not to the\nfaculties themselves. If any man, therefore, was so absurdly constituted\nas to approve of cruelty and injustice as the highest virtues, and to\ndisapprove of equity and humanity as the most pitiful vices, such a\nconstitution of mind might indeed be regarded as inconvenient both to\nthe individual and to the society, and likewise as strange, surprising,\nand unnatural in itself; but it could not, without the greatest\nabsurdity, be denominated vicious or morally evil.\n\nFootnote 26:\n\n Illustrations upon the Moral Sense. Sect. 1. p. 237, et seq. Third\n Edition.\n\nYet surely if we saw any man shouting with admiration and applause at a\nbarbarous and unmerited execution, which some insolent tyrant had\nordered, we should not think we were guilty of any great absurdity in\ndenominating this behaviour vicious and morally evil in the highest\ndegree, though it expressed nothing but depraved moral faculties, or an\nabsurd approbation of this horrid action, as of what was noble,\nmagnanimous, and great. Our heart, I imagine, at the sight of such a\nspectator, would forget for a while its sympathy with the sufferer, and\nfeel nothing but horror and detestation, at the thought of so execrable\na wretch. We should abominate him even more than the tyrant who might be\ngoaded on by the strong passions of jealousy, fear, and resentment, and\nupon that account be more excusable. But the sentiments of the spectator\nwould appear altogether without cause or motive, and therefore most\nperfectly and completely detestable. There is no perversion of sentiment\nor affection which our heart would be more averse to enter into, or\nwhich it would reject with greater hatred and indignation than one of\nthis kind; and so far from regarding such a constitution of mind as\nbeing merely something strange or inconvenient, and not in any respect\nvicious or morally evil, we should rather consider it as the very last\nand most dreadful stage of moral depravity.\n\nCorrect moral sentiments, on the contrary, naturally appear in some\ndegree laudable and morally good. The man, whose censure and applause\nare upon all occasions suited with the greatest accuracy to the value or\nunworthiness of the object, seems to deserve a degree even of moral\napprobation. We admire the delicate precision of his moral sentiments:\nthey lead our own judgments, and, upon account of their uncommon and\nsurprising justness, they even excite our wonder and applause. We cannot\nindeed be always sure that the conduct of such a person would be in any\nrespect correspondent to the precision and accuracy of his judgments\nconcerning the conduct of others. Virtue requires habit and resolution\nof mind, as well as delicacy of sentiment; and unfortunately the former\nqualities are sometimes wanting, where the latter is in the greatest\nperfection. This disposition of mind, however, though it may sometimes\nbe attended with imperfections, is incompatible with any thing that is\ngrossly criminal, and is the happiest foundation upon which the\nsuperstructure of perfect virtue can be built. There are many men who\nmean very well, and seriously purpose to do what they think their duty,\nwho notwithstanding are disagreeable on account of the coarseness of\ntheir moral sentiments.\n\nIt may be said, perhaps, that though the principle of approbation is not\nfounded upon any power of perception that is in any respect analogous to\nthe external senses, it may still be founded upon a peculiar sentiment\nwhich answers this one particular purpose and no other. Approbation and\ndisapprobation, it may be pretended, are certain feelings or emotions\nwhich arise in the mind upon the view of different characters and\nactions; and as resentment might be called a sense of injuries, or\ngratitude a sense of benefits, so these may very properly receive the\nname of a sense of right and wrong, or of a moral sense.\n\nBut this account of things, though it may not be liable to the same\nobjections with the foregoing, is exposed to others which are equally\nunanswerable.\n\nFirst of all, whatever variations any particular emotion may undergo, it\nstill preserves the general features which distinguish it to be an\nemotion of such a kind, and these general features are always more\nstriking and remarkable than any variation which it may undergo in\nparticular cases. Thus anger is an emotion of a particular kind: and\naccordingly its general features are always more distinguishable than\nall the variations it undergoes in particular cases. Anger against a\nman, is, no doubt, somewhat different from anger against a woman, and\nthat again from anger against a child. In each of those three cases, the\ngeneral passion of anger receives a different modification from the\nparticular character of its object, as may easily be observed by the\nattentive. But still the general features of the passion predominate in\nall these cases. To distinguish these, requires no nice observation: a\nvery delicate attention, on the contrary, is necessary to discover their\nvariations: every body takes notice of the former: scarce any body\nobserves the latter. If approbation and disapprobation, therefore, were,\nlike gratitude and resentment, emotions of a particular kind, distinct\nfrom every other, we should expect that in all the variations which\neither of them might undergo, it would still retain the general features\nwhich mark it to be an emotion of such a particular kind, clear, plain,\nand easily distinguishable. But in fact it happens quite otherwise. If\nwe attend to what we really feel when upon different occasions we either\napprove or disapprove, we shall find that our emotion in one case is\noften totally different from that in another, and that no common\nfeatures can possibly be discovered between them. Thus the approbation\nwith which we view a tender, delicate, and humane sentiment, is quite\ndifferent from that with which we are struck by one that appears great,\ndaring, and magnanimous. Our approbation of both may, upon different\noccasions, be perfect and entire; but we are softened by the one, and we\nare elevated by the other, and there is no sort of resemblance between\nthe emotions which they excite in us. But, according to that system\nwhich I have been endeavouring to establish, this must necessarily be\nthe case. As the emotions of the person whom we approve of, are, in\nthose two cases, quite opposite to one another, and as our approbation\narises from sympathy with those opposite emotions, what we feel upon the\none occasion, can have no sort of resemblance to what we feel upon the\nother. But this could not happen if approbation consisted in a peculiar\nemotion which had nothing in common with the sentiments we approved of,\nbut which arose at the view of those sentiments, like any other passion\nat the view of its proper object. The same thing holds true with regard\nto disapprobation. Our horror for cruelty has no sort of resemblance to\nour contempt for mean-spiritedness. It is quite a different species of\ndiscord which we feel at the view of those two different vices, between\nour minds and those of the person whose sentiments and behaviour we\nconsider.\n\nSecondly, I have already observed, that not only the different passions\nor affections of the human mind which are approved or disapproved of\nappear morally good or evil, but that proper and improper approbation\nappear, to our natural sentiments, to be stampt with the same\ncharacters. I would ask, therefore, how it is, that, according to this\nsystem, we approve or disapprove of proper or improper approbation. To\nthis question, there is, I imagine, but one reasonable answer, which can\npossibly be given. It must be said, that when the approbation with which\nour neighbour regards the conduct of a third person coincides with our\nown, we approve of his approbation, and consider it as, in some measure,\nmorally good; and that on the contrary, when it does not coincide with\nour own sentiments, we disapprove of it, and consider it as, in some\nmeasure, morally evil. It must be allowed, therefore, that, at least in\nthis one case, the coincidence or opposition of sentiments, between the\nobserver and the person observed, constitutes moral approbation or\ndisapprobation. And if it does so in this one case, I would ask, why not\nin every other? to what purpose imagine a new power of perception in\norder to account for those sentiments?\n\nAgainst every account of the principle of approbation, which makes it\ndepend upon a peculiar sentiment, distinct from every other, I would\nobject; that it is strange that this sentiment, which Providence\nundoubtedly intended to be the governing principle of human nature,\nshould hitherto have been so little taken notice of, as not to have got\na name in any language. The word moral sense is of very late formation,\nand cannot yet be considered as making part of the English tongue. The\nword approbation has but within these few years been appropriated to\ndenote peculiarly any thing of this kind. In propriety of language we\napprove of whatever is entirely to our satisfaction, of the form of a\nbuilding, of the contrivance of a machine, of the flavour of a dish of\nmeat. The word conscience does not immediately denote any moral faculty\nby which we approve or disapprove. Conscience supposes, indeed, the\nexistence of some such faculty, and properly signifies our consciousness\nof having acted agreeably or contrary to its directions. When love,\nhatred, joy, sorrow, gratitude, resentment, with so many other passions\nwhich are all supposed to be the subjects of this principle, have made\nthemselves considerable enough to get titles to know them by, is it not\nsurprising that the sovereign of them all should hitherto have been so\nlittle heeded, that, a few philosophers excepted, no body has yet\nthought it worth while to bestow a name upon it?\n\nWhen we approve of any character or action, the sentiments which we\nfeel, are, according to the foregoing system, derived from four sources,\nwhich are in some respects different from one another. First, we\nsympathize with the motives of the agent; secondly, we enter into the\ngratitude of those who receive the benefit of his actions; thirdly, we\nobserve that his conduct has been agreeable to the general rules by\nwhich those two sympathies generally act; and, last of all, when we\nconsider such actions as making part of a system of behaviour which\ntends to promote the happiness either of the individual or of the\nsociety, they appear to derive a beauty from this utility, not unlike\nthat which we ascribe to any well contrived machine. After deducting, in\nany one particular case, all that must be acknowledged to proceed from\nsome one or other of these four principles, I should be glad to know\nwhat remains, and I shall freely allow this overplus to be ascribed to a\nmoral sense, or to any other peculiar faculty, provided any body will\nascertain precisely what this overplus is. It might be expected,\nperhaps, that if there was any such peculiar principle, such as this\nmoral sense is supposed to be, we should feel it, in some particular\ncases, separated and detached from every other, as we often feel joy,\nsorrow, hope, and fear, pure and unmixed with any other emotion. This\nhowever, I imagine, cannot even be pretended. I have never heard any\ninstance alleged in which this principle could be said to exert itself\nalone and unmixed with sympathy or antipathy, with gratitude or\nresentment, with the perception of the agreement or disagreement of any\naction to an established rule, or last of all with that general taste\nfor beauty and order which is excited by inanimated as well as by\nanimated objects.\n\nII. There is another system which attempts to account for the origin of\nour moral sentiments from sympathy distinct from that which I have been\nendeavouring to establish. It is that which places virtue in utility,\nand accounts for the pleasure with which the spectator surveys the\nutility of any quality from sympathy with the happiness of those who are\naffected by it. This sympathy is different both from that by which we\nenter into the motives of the agent, and from that by which we go along\nwith the gratitude of the persons who are benefited by his actions. It\nis the same principle with that by which we approve of a well contrived\nmachine. But no machine can be the object of either of those two last\nmentioned sympathies. I have already, in the fourth part of this\ndiscourse, given some account of this system.\n\n\n\n\n SECTION IV.\n Of the manner in which different authors have treated of the practical\n rules of morality.\n\n\nIt was observed in the third part of this discourse, that the rules of\njustice are the only rules of morality which are precise and accurate;\nthat those of all the other virtues are loose, vague, and indeterminate;\nthat the first may be compared to the rules of grammar; the others to\nthose which critics lay down for the attainment of what is sublime and\nelegant in composition, and which present us rather with a general idea\nof the perfection we ought to aim at, than afford us any certain and\ninfallible directions for acquiring it.\n\nAs the different rules of morality admit such different degrees of\naccuracy, those authors who have endeavoured to collect and digest them\ninto systems have done it in two different manners; and one set has\nfollowed thro\u2019 the whole that loose method to which they were naturally\ndirected by the consideration of one species of virtues; while another\nhas as universally endeavoured to introduce into their precepts that\nsort of accuracy of which only some of them are susceptible. The first\nhave wrote like critics, the second like grammarians.\n\nI. The first, among whom we may count all the ancient moralists, have\ncontented themselves with describing in a general manner the different\nvices and virtues, and with pointing out the deformity and misery of the\none disposition as well as the propriety and happiness of the other, but\nhave not affected to lay down many precise rules that are to hold good\nunexceptionably in all particular cases. They have only endeavoured to\nascertain, as far as language is capable of ascertaining, first, wherein\nconsists the sentiment of the heart, upon which each particular virtue\nis founded, what sort of internal feeling or emotion it is which\nconstitutes the essence of friendship, of humanity, of generosity, of\njustice, of magnanimity, and of all the other virtues, as well as of the\nvices which are opposed to them: and, secondly, What is the general way\nof acting, the ordinary tone and tenour of conduct to which each of\nthose sentiments would direct us, or how it is that a friendly, a\ngenerous, a brave, a just, and a humane man, would, upon ordinary\noccasions, chuse to act.\n\nTo characterize the sentiment of the heart, upon which each particular\nvirtue is founded, though it requires both a delicate and accurate\npencil, is a talk, however, which may be executed with some degree of\nexactness. It is impossible, indeed, to express all the variations which\neach sentiment either does or ought to undergo, according to every\npossible variation of circumstances. They are endless, and language\nwants names to mark them by. The sentiment of friendship, for example,\nwhich we feel for an old man is different from that which we feel for a\nyoung: that which we entertain for an austere man different from that\nwhich we feel for one of softer and gentler manners: and that again from\nwhat we feel for one of gay vivacity and spirit. The friendship which we\nconceive for a man is different from that with which a woman affects us,\neven where there is no mixture of any grosser passion. What author could\nenumerate and ascertain these and all the other infinite varieties which\nthis sentiment is capable of undergoing? But still the general sentiment\nof friendship and familiar attachment which is common to them all, may\nbe ascertained with a sufficient degree of accuracy. The picture which\nis drawn of it, though it will always be in many respects incomplete,\nmay, however, have such a resemblance as to make us know the original\nwhen we meet with it, and even distinguish it from other sentiments to\nwhich it has a considerable resemblance, such as good-will, respect,\nesteem, admiration.\n\nTo describe, in a general manner, what is the ordinary way of acting to\nwhich each virtue would prompt us, is still more easy. It is, indeed,\nscarce possible to describe the internal sentiment or emotion upon which\nit is founded, without doing something of this kind. It is impossible by\nlanguage to express, if I may say so, the invisible features of all the\ndifferent modifications of passion as they show themselves within. There\nis no other way of marking and distinguishing them from one another, but\nby describing the effects which they produce without, the alterations\nwhich they occasion in the countenance, in the air and external\nbehaviour, the resolutions they suggest, the actions they prompt to. It\nis thus that Cicero, in the first book of his Offices, endeavours to\ndirect us to the practice of the four cardinal virtues, and that\nAristotle in the practical parts of his Ethics, points out to us the\ndifferent habits by which he would have us regulate our behaviour, such\nas liberality, magnificence, magnanimity, and even jocularity and good\nhumour, qualities, which that indulgent philosopher has thought worthy\nof a place in the catalogue of the virtues, though the lightness of that\napprobation which we naturally bestow upon them, should not seem to\nentitle them to so venerable a name.\n\nSuch works present us with agreeable and lively pictures of manners. By\nthe vivacity of their descriptions they inflame our natural love of\nvirtue, and increase our abhorrence of vice: by the justness as well as\ndelicacy of their observations they may often help both to correct and\nto ascertain our natural sentiments with regard to the propriety of\nconduct, and suggesting many nice and delicate attentions, form us to a\nmore exact justness of behaviour, than what, without such instruction,\nwe should have been apt to think of. In treating of the rules of\nmorality, in this manner, consists the science which is properly called\nEthics, a science, which though like criticism, it does not admit of the\nmost accurate precision, is, however, both highly useful and agreeable.\nIt is of all others the most susceptible of the embellishments of\neloquence, and by means of them of bestowing, if that be possible, a new\nimportance upon the smallest rules of duty. Its precepts, when thus\ndressed and adorned, are capable of producing upon the flexibility of\nyouth, the noblest and most lasting impressions, and as they fall in\nwith the natural magnanimity of that generous age, they are able to\ninspire, for a time at least, the most heroic resolutions, and thus tend\nboth to establish and confirm the best and most useful habits of which\nthe mind of man is susceptible. Whatever precept and exhortation can do\nto animate us to the practice of virtue, is done by this science\ndelivered in this manner.\n\nII. The second set of moralists, among whom we may count all the\ncasuists of the middle and latter ages of the christian church, as well\nas all those who in this and in the preceding century have treated of\nwhat is called natural jurisprudence, do not content themselves with\ncharacterizing in this general manner that tenour of conduct which they\nwould recommend to us, but endeavour to lay down exact and precise rules\nfor the direction of every circumstance of our behaviour. As justice is\nthe only virtue with regard to which such exact rules can properly be\ngiven; it is this virtue, that has chiefly fallen under the\nconsideration of those two different sets of writers. They treat of it,\nhowever, in a very different manner.\n\nThose who write upon the principles of jurisprudence, consider only what\nthe person to whom the obligation is due, ought to think himself\nentitled to exact by force; what every impartial spectator would approve\nof him for exacting, or what a judge or arbiter, to whom he had\nsubmitted his case, and who had undertaken to do him justice, ought to\noblige the other person to suffer or to perform. The casuists, on the\nother hand, do not so much examine what it is, that might properly be\nexacted by force, as what it is, that the person who owes the obligation\nought to think himself bound to perform from the most sacred and\nscrupulous regard to the general rules of justice, and from the most\nconscientious dread, either of wronging his neighbour, or of violating\nthe integrity of his own character. It is the end of jurisprudence to\nprescribe rules for the decisions of judges and arbiters. It is the end\nof casuistry to prescribe rules for the conduct of a good man. By\nobserving all the rules of jurisprudence, supposing them ever so\nperfect, we should deserve nothing but to be free from external\npunishment. By observing those of casuistry, supposing them such as they\nought to be, we should be entitled to considerable praise by the exact\nand scrupulous delicacy of our behaviour.\n\nIt may frequently happen that a good man ought to think himself bound,\nfrom a sacred and conscientious regard to the general rules of justice\nto perform many things which it would be the highest injustice to extort\nfrom him, or for any judge or arbiter to impose on him by force. To give\na trite example; a highwayman, by the fear of death, obliges a traveller\nto promise him a certain sum of money. Whether such a promise, extorted\nin this manner by unjust force, ought to be regarded as obligatory, is a\nquestion that has been very much debated.\n\nIf we consider it merely as a question of jurisprudence, the decision\ncan admit of no doubt. It would be absurd to suppose that the highwayman\ncan be entitled to use force to constrain the other to perform. To\nextort the promise was a crime which deserved the highest punishment,\nand to extort the performance would only be adding a new crime to the\nformer. He can complain of no injury who has been only deceived by the\nperson by whom he might justly have been killed. To suppose that a judge\nought to enforce the obligation of such promises, or that the magistrate\nought to allow them to sustain an action at law, would be the most\nridiculous of all absurdities. If we consider this question, therefore,\nas a question of jurisprudence, we can be at no loss about the decision.\n\nBut if we consider it as a question of casuistry, it will not be so\neasily determined. Whether a good man, from a conscientious regard to\nthat most sacred rule of justice, which commands the observance of all\nserious promises, would not think himself bound to perform, is at least\nmuch more doubtful. That no regard is due to the disappointment of the\nwretch who brings him into this situation, that no injury is done to the\nrobber, and consequently that nothing can be extorted by force, will\nadmit of no sort of dispute. But whether some regard is not, in this\ncase, due to his own dignity and honour, to the inviolable sacredness of\nthat part of his character which makes him reverence the law of truth,\nand abhor every thing that approaches to treachery and falsehood, may,\nperhaps, more reasonably be made a question. The casuists accordingly\nare greatly divided about it. One party, with whom we may count Cicero\namong the ancients, among the moderns, Puffendorf, Barbeyrac his\ncommentator, and above all the late Dr. Hutcheson, one who in most cases\nwas by no means a loose casuist, determine, without any hesitation, that\nno sort of regard is due to any such promise, and that to think\notherwise is mere weakness and superstition. Another party, among whom\nwe may reckon [27]some of the ancient fathers of the church, as well as\nsome very eminent modern casuists, have been of another opinion, and\nhave judged all such promises obligatory.\n\nFootnote 27:\n\n St. Augustine, la Placette.\n\nIf we consider the matter according to the common sentiments of mankind,\nwe shall find that some regard would be thought due even to a promise of\nthis kind; but that it is impossible to determine how much, by any\ngeneral rule that will apply to all cases without exception. The man who\nwas quite frank and easy in making promises of this kind, and who\nviolated them with as little ceremony, we should not choose for our\nfriend and companion. A gentleman who should promise a highwayman five\npounds and not perform, would incur some blame. If the sum promised,\nhowever, was very great, it might be more doubtful, what was proper to\nbe done. If it was such, for example, that the payment of it would\nentirely ruin the family of the promiser, if it was so great as to be\nsufficient for promoting the most useful purposes, it would appear in\nsome measure criminal, at least extremely improper, to throw it, for the\nsake of a punctilio, into such worthless hands. The man who should\nbeggar himself, or who should throw away an hundred thousand pounds,\nthough he could afford that vast sum, for the sake of observing such a\nparole with a thief, would appear to the common sense of mankind, absurd\nand extravagant in the highest degree. Such profusion would seem\ninconsistent with his duty, with what he owed both to himself and\nothers, and what, therefore, regard, to a promise extorted in this\nmanner, could by no means authorize. To fix, however, by any precise\nrule, what degree of regard ought to be paid to it, or what might be the\ngreatest sum which could be due from it, is evidently impossible. This\nwould vary according to the characters of the persons, according to\ntheir circumstances, according to the solemnity of the promise, and even\naccording to the incidents of the rencounter: and if the promiser had\nbeen treated with a great deal of that sort of gallantry, which is\nsometimes to be met with in persons of the most abandoned characters,\nmore would seem due than upon other occasions. It may be said in\ngeneral, that exact propriety requires the observance of all such\npromises, whenever it is not inconsistent with some other duties that\nare more sacred; such as regard to the public interest, to those whom\ngratitude, whom natural affection, or whom the laws of proper\nbeneficence should prompt us to provide for. But, as was formerly taken\nnotice of, we have no precise rules to determine what external actions\nare due from a regard to such motives, nor, consequently, when it is\nthat those virtues are inconsistent with the observance of such\npromises.\n\nIt is to be observed, however, that whenever such promises are violated,\nthough for the most necessary reasons, it is always with some degree of\ndishonour to the person who made them. After they are made, we may be\nconvinced of the impropriety of observing them. But still there is some\nfault in having made them. It is at least a departure from the highest\nand noblest maxims of magnanimity and honour. A brave man ought to die,\nrather than make a promise which he can neither keep without folly, nor\nviolate without ignominy. For some degree of ignominy always attends a\nsituation of this kind. Treachery and falsehood are vices so dangerous,\nso dreadful, and, at the same time, such as may so easily, and, upon\nmany occasions, so safely be indulged, that we are more jealous of them\nthan of almost any other. Our imagination therefore attaches the idea of\nshame to all violations of faith, in every circumstance and in every\nsituation. They resemble, in this respect, the violations of chastity in\nthe fair sex, a virtue of which, for the like reasons, we are\nexcessively jealous; and our sentiments are not more delicate with\nregard to the one, than with regard to the other. Breach of chastity\ndishonours irretrievably. No circumstances, no solicitation can excuse\nit; no sorrow, no repentance atone for it. We are so nice in this\nrespect that even a rape dishonours, and the innocence of the mind\ncannot, in our imagination, wash out the pollution of the body. It is\nthe same case with the violation of faith, when it has been solemnly\npledged, even to the most worthless of mankind. Fidelity is so necessary\na virtue, that we apprehend it in general to be due even to those to\nwhom nothing else is due, and whom we think it lawful to kill and\ndestroy. It is to no purpose that the person who has been guilty of the\nbreach of it, urges that he promised in order to save his life, and that\nhe broke his promise because it was inconsistent with some other\nrespectable duty to keep it. These circumstances may alleviate, but\ncannot entirely wipe out his dishonour. He appears to have been guilty\nof an action with which, in the imaginations of men, some degree of\nshame is inseparably connected. He has broke a promise which he had\nsolemnly averred he would maintain; and his character, if not\nirretrievably stained and polluted, has at least a ridicule affixed to\nit, which it will be very difficult entirely to efface; and no man, I\nimagine, who had gone through an adventure of this kind, would be fond\nof telling the story.\n\nThis instance may serve to show wherein consists the difference between\ncasuistry and jurisprudence, even when both of them consider the\nobligations of the general rules of justice.\n\nBut though this difference be real and essential, though those two\nsciences propose quite different ends, the sameness of the subject has\nmade such a similarity between them, that the greater part of authors\nwhose professed design was to treat of jurisprudence, have determined\nthe different questions they examine, sometimes according to the\nprinciples of that science, and sometimes according to those of\ncasuistry, without distinguishing, and, perhaps, without being\nthemselves aware when they did the one, and when the other.\n\nThe doctrine of the casuists, however, is by no means confined to the\nconsideration of what a conscientious regard to the general rules of\njustice, would demand of us. It embraces many other parts of Christian\nand moral duty. What seems principally to have given occasion to the\ncultivation of this species of science was the custom of auricular\nconfession, introduced by the Roman Catholic superstition, in times of\nbarbarism and ignorance. By that institution, the most secret actions,\nand even the thoughts of every person, which could be suspected of\nreceding in the smallest degree from the rules of Christian purity, were\nto be revealed to the confessor. The confessor informed his penitents\nwhether, and in what respect they had violated their duty, and what\npenance it behoved them to undergo, before he could absolve them in the\nname of the offended Deity.\n\nThe consciousness, or even the suspicion of having done wrong, is a load\nupon every mind, and is accompanied with anxiety and terror in all those\nwho are not hardened by long habits of iniquity. Men, in this, as in all\nother distresses, are naturally eager to disburthen themselves of the\noppression which they feel upon their thoughts, by unbosoming the agony\nof their mind to some person whose secrecy and discretion they can\nconfide in. The shame, which they suffer from this acknowledgment, is\nfully compensated by that alleviation of their uneasiness which the\nsympathy of their confident seldom fails to occasion. It relieves them\nto find that they are not altogether unworthy of regard, and that\nhowever their past conduct may be censured, their present disposition is\nat least approved of, and is perhaps sufficient to compensate the other,\nat least to maintain them in some degree of esteem with their friend. A\nnumerous and artful clergy had, in those times of superstition,\ninsinuated themselves into the confidence of almost every private\nfamily. They possessed all the little learning which the times could\nafford, and their manners, though in many respects rude and disorderly,\nwere polished and regular compared with those of the age they lived in.\nThey were regarded, therefore, not only as the great directors of all\nreligious, but of all moral duties. Their familiarity gave reputation to\nwhoever was so happy as to possess it, and every mark of their\ndisapprobation stamped the deepest ignominy upon all who had the\nmisfortune to fall under it. Being considered as the great judges of\nright and wrong, they were naturally consulted about all scruples that\noccurred, and it was reputable for any person to have it known that he\nmade those holy men the confidents of all such secrets, and took no\nimportant or delicate step in his conduct without their advice and\napprobation. It was not difficult for the clergy, therefore, to get it\nestablished as a general rule, that they should be entrusted with what\nit had already become fashionable to entrust them, and with what they\ngenerally would have been entrusted though no such rule had been\nestablished. To qualify themselves for confessors became thus a\nnecessary part of the study of churchmen and divines, and they were\nthence led to collect what are called cases of conscience, nice and\ndelicate situations, in which it is hard to determine whereabouts the\npropriety of conduct may lie. Such works, they imagined, might be of use\nboth to the directors of consciences and to those who were to be\ndirected; and hence the origin of books of casuistry.\n\nThe moral duties which fell under the consideration of the casuists were\nchiefly those which can, in some measure at least, be circumscribed\nwithin general rules, and of which the violation is naturally attended\nwith some degree of remorse and some dread of suffering punishment. The\ndesign of that institution which gave occasion to their works, was to\nappease those terrors of conscience which attend upon the infringement\nof such duties. But it is not every virtue of which the defect is\naccompanied with any very severe compunctions of this kind, and no man\napplies to his confessor for absolution, because he did not perform the\nmost generous, the most friendly, or the most magnanimous action which,\nin his circumstances, it was possible to perform. In failures of this\nkind, the rule that is violated is commonly not very determinate, and is\ngenerally of such a nature too, that though the observance of it might\nentitle to honour and reward, the violation seems to expose to no\npositive blame, censure, or punishment. The exercise of such virtues the\ncasuists seem to have regarded as a sort of works of supererogation,\nwhich could not be very strictly enacted, and which it was therefore\nunnecessary for them to treat of.\n\nThe breaches of moral duty, therefore, which came before the tribunal of\nthe confessor, and upon that account fell under the cognizance of the\ncasuists, were chiefly of three different kinds.\n\nFirst and principally, breaches of the rules of justice. The rules here\nare all express and positive, and the violation of them is naturally\nattended with the consciousness of deserving, and the dread of suffering\npunishment both from God and man.\n\nSecondly, breaches of the rules of chastity. These in all grosser\ninstances are real breaches of the rules of justice, and no person can\nbe guilty of them without doing the most unpardonable injury to some\nother. In smaller instances, when they amount only to a violation of\nthose exact decorums which ought to be observed in the conversation of\nthe two sexes, they cannot indeed justly be considered as violations of\nthe rules of justice. They are generally, however, violations of a\npretty plain rule, and, at least in one of the sexes, tend to bring\nignominy upon the person who has been guilty of them, and consequently\nto be attended in the scrupulous with some degree of shame and\ncontrition of mind.\n\nThirdly, breaches of the rules of veracity. The violation of truth, it\nis to be observed, is not always a breach of justice, though it is so\nupon many occasions, and consequently cannot always expose to any\nexternal punishment. The vice of common lying, though a most miserable\nmeanness, may frequently do hurt to no person, and in this case no claim\nof vengeance or satisfaction can be due either to the persons imposed\nupon, or to others. But though the violation of truth is not always a\nbreach of justice, it is always a breach of a very plain rule, and what\nnaturally tends to cover with shame the person who has been guilty of\nit. The great pleasure of conversation, and indeed of society, arises\nfrom a certain correspondence of sentiments and opinions, from a certain\nharmony of minds, which like so many musical instruments coincide and\nkeep time with one another. But this most delightful harmony cannot be\nobtained unless there is a free communication of sentiments and\nopinions. We all desire, upon this account, to feel how each other is\naffected, to penetrate into each other\u2019s bosoms, and to observe the\nsentiments and affections which really subsist there. The man who\nindulges us in this natural passion, who invites us into his heart, who,\nas it were, sets open the gates of his breast to us, seems to exercise a\nspecies of hospitality more delightful than any other. No man, who is in\nordinary good temper, can fail of pleasing, if he has the courage to\nutter his real sentiments as he feels them, and because he feels them.\nIt is this unreserved sincerity which renders even the prattle of a\nchild agreeable. How weak and imperfect soever the views of the\nopen-hearted, we take pleasure to enter into them, and endeavour, as\nmuch as we can, to bring down our own understanding to the level of\ntheir capacities, and to regard every subject in the particular light in\nwhich they appear to have considered it. This passion to discover the\nreal sentiments of others is naturally so strong, that it often\ndegenerates into a troublesome and impertinent curiosity to pry into\nthose secrets of our neighbours which they have very justifiable reasons\nfor concealing, and, upon many occasions, it requires prudence and a\nstrong sense of propriety to govern this, as well as all the other\npassions of human nature, and to reduce it to that pitch which any\nimpartial spectator can approve of. To disappoint this curiosity,\nhowever, when it is kept within proper bounds, and aims at nothing which\nthere can be any just reason for concealing, is equally disagreeable in\nits turn. The man who eludes our most innocent questions, who gives no\nsatisfaction to our most inoffensive inquiries, who plainly wraps\nhimself up in impenetrable obscurity, seems, as it were, to build a wall\nabout his breast. We run forward to get within it, with all the\neagerness of harmless curiosity, and feel ourselves all at once pushed\nback with the rudest and most offensive violence. If to conceal is so\ndisagreeable, to attempt to deceive us is still more disgusting, even\nthough we could possibly suffer nothing by the success of the fraud. If\nwe see that our companion wants to impose upon us, if the sentiments and\nopinions which he utters appear evidently not to be his own, let them be\never so fine, we can derive no sort of entertainment from them; and if\nsomething of human nature did not now and then transpire through all the\ncovers which falsehood and affectation are capable of wrapping around\nit, a puppet of wood would be altogether as pleasant a companion as a\nperson who never spoke as he was affected. No man ever deceives, with\nregard to the most insignificant matters, who is not conscious of doing\nsomething like an injury to those he converses with; and who does not\ninwardly blush and shrink back with shame and confusion even at the\nsecret thought of a detection. Breach of veracity, therefore, being\nalways attended with some degree of remorse and self-condemnation,\nnaturally fell under the cognizance of the casuists.\n\nThe chief subjects of the works of the casuists, therefore, were the\nconscientious regard that is due to the rules of justice; how far we\nought to respect the life and property of our neighbour; the duty of\nrestitution; the laws of chastity and modesty, and wherein consisted\nwhat, in their language, are called the sins of concupiscence: the rules\nof veracity, and the obligation of oaths, promises, and contracts of all\nkinds.\n\nIt may be said in general of the works of the casuists that they\nattempted, to no purpose, to direct by precise rules what belongs to\nfeeling and sentiment only to judge of. How is it possible to ascertain\nby rules the exact point at which, in every case, a delicate sense of\njustice begins to run into a frivolous and weak scrupulosity of\nconscience? When it is that secrecy and reserve begin to grow into\ndissimulation? How far an agreeable irony may be carried, and at what\nprecise point it begins to degenerate into a detestable lie? What is the\nhighest pitch of freedom and ease of behaviour which can be regarded as\ngraceful and becoming, and when it is that it first begins to run into a\nnegligent and thoughtless licentiousness? With regard to all such\nmatters, what would hold good in any one case would scarce do so exactly\nin any other, and what constitutes the propriety and happiness of\nbehaviour varies in every case with the smallest variety of situation.\nBooks of casuistry, therefore, are generally as useless as they are\ncommonly tiresome. They could be of little use to one who should consult\nthem upon occasion, even supposing their decisions to be just; because,\nnotwithstanding the multitude of cases collected in them, yet upon\naccount of the still greater variety of possible circumstances, it is a\nchance, if among all those cases there be found one exactly parallel to\nthat under consideration. One, who is really anxious to do his duty,\nmust be very weak, if he can imagine that he has much occasion for them;\nand with regard to one who is negligent of it, the style of those\nwritings is not such as is likely to awaken him to more attention. None\nof them tend to animate us to what is generous and noble. None of them\ntend to soften us to what is gentle and humane. Many of them, on the\ncontrary, tend rather to teach us to chicane with our own consciences,\nand by their vain subtilties serve to authorize innumerable evasive\nrefinements with regard to the most essential articles of our duty. That\nfrivolous accuracy which they attempted to introduce into subjects which\ndo not admit of it, almost necessarily betrayed them into those\ndangerous errors, and at the same time rendered their works dry and\ndisagreeable, abounding in abstruse and metaphysical distinctions, but\nincapable of exciting in the heart any of those emotions which it is the\nprincipal use of books of morality to excite.\n\nThe two useful parts of moral philosophy, therefore, are Ethics and\nJurisprudence: casuistry ought to be rejected altogether, and the\nancient moralists appear to have judged much better, who, in treating of\nthe same subjects, did not affect any such nice exactness, but contented\nthemselves with describing, in a general manner, what is the sentiment\nupon which justice, modesty, and veracity are founded, and what is the\nordinary way of acting to which those virtues would commonly prompt us.\n\nSomething, indeed, not unlike the doctrine of the casuists, seems to\nhave been attempted by several philosophers. There is something of this\nkind in the third book of Cicero\u2019s Offices, where he endeavours like a\ncasuist to give rules for our conduct in many nice cases, in which it is\ndifficult to determine whereabouts the point of propriety may lie. It\nappears too, from many passages in the same book, that several other\nphilosophers had attempted something of the same kind before him.\nNeither he nor they, however, appear to have aimed at giving a complete\nsystem of this sort, but only meant to show how situations may occur, in\nwhich it is doubtful, whether the highest propriety of conduct consists\nin observing or in receding from what, in ordinary cases, are the rules\nof duty.\n\nEvery system of positive law may be regarded as a more or less imperfect\nattempt towards a system of natural jurisprudence, or towards an\nenumeration of the particular rules of justice. As the violation of\njustice is what men will never submit to from one another, the public\nmagistrate is under a necessity of employing the power of the\ncommonwealth to enforce the practice of this virtue. Without this\nprecaution, civil society would become a scene of bloodshed and\ndisorder, every man revenging himself at his own hand whenever he\nfancied he was injured. To prevent the confusion which would attend upon\nevery man\u2019s doing justice to himself, the magistrate, in all governments\nthat have acquired any considerable authority, undertakes to do justice\nto all, and promises to hear and to redress every complaint of injury.\nIn all well-governed states too, not only judges are appointed for\ndetermining the controversies of individuals, but rules are prescribed\nfor regulating the decisions of those judges; and these rules are, in\ngeneral, intended to coincide with those of natural justice. It does\nnot, indeed, always happen that they do so in every instance. Sometimes\nwhat is called the constitution of the state, that is, the interest of\nthe government; sometimes of the interest of particular orders of men\nwho tyrannize the government, warp the positive laws of the country from\nwhat natural justice would prescribe. In some countries, the rudeness\nand barbarism of the people hinder the natural sentiments of justice\nfrom arriving at that accuracy and precision which, in more civilized\nnations, they naturally attain to. Their laws are, like their manners,\ngross and rude and undistinguishing. In other countries the unfortunate\nconstitution of their courts of judicature hinders any regular system of\njurisprudence from ever establishing itself among them, though the\nimproved manners of the people may be such as would admit of the most\naccurate. In no country do the decisions of positive law coincide\nexactly, in every case, with the rules which the natural sense of\njustice would dictate. Systems of positive law, therefore, though they\ndeserve the greatest authority, as the records of the sentiments of\nmankind in different ages and nations, yet can never be regarded as\naccurate systems of the rules of natural justice.\n\nIt might have been expected that the reasonings of lawyers, upon the\ndifferent imperfections and improvements of the laws of different\ncountries, should have given occasion to an inquiry into what were the\nnatural rules of justice independent of all positive institution. It\nmight have been expected that these reasonings should have led them to\naim at establishing a system of what might properly be called natural\njurisprudence, or a theory of the general principles which ought to run\nthrough and be the foundation of the laws of all nations. But tho\u2019 the\nreasonings of lawyers did produce something of this kind, and though no\nman has treated systematically of the laws of any particular country,\nwithout intermixing in his work many observations of this sort; it was\nvery late in the world before any such general system was thought of, or\nbefore the philosophy of law was treated of by itself, and without\nregard to the particular institutions of any one nation. In none of the\nancient moralists, do we find any attempt towards a particular\nenumeration of the rules of justice. Cicero in his Offices, and\nAristotle in his Ethics, treat of justice in the same general manner in\nwhich they treat of all the other virtues. In the laws of Cicero and\nPlato, where we might naturally have expected some attempts towards an\nenumeration of those rules of natural equity, which ought to be enforced\nby the positive laws of every country, there is however, nothing of this\nkind. Their laws are laws of police, not of justice. Grotius seems to\nhave been the first, who attempted to give the world any thing like a\nsystem of those principles which ought to run through, and be the\nfoundation of the laws of all nations; and his treatise of the laws of\nwar and peace, with all its imperfections, is perhaps at this day the\nmost complete work that has yet been given upon this subject. I shall in\nanother discourse endeavour to give an account of the general principles\nof law and government, and of the different revolutions they have\nundergone in the different ages and periods of society, not only in what\nconcerns justice, but in what concerns police, revenue, and arms, and\nwhatever else is the object of law. I shall not, therefore, at present\nenter into any further detail concerning the history of jurisprudence.\n\n\n THE END.\n\n\n\n\n CONSIDERATIONS\n Concerning the FIRST\n FORMATION OF LANGUAGES,\n AND THE\n Different Genius of original and compounded LANGUAGES.\n\n\nThe assignation of particular names, to denote particular objects, that\nis, the institution of nouns substantive, would, probably, be one of the\nfirst steps towards the formation of language. Two savages, who had\nnever been taught to speak, but had been bred up remote from the\nsocieties of men, would naturally begin to form that language by which\nthey would endeavour to make their mutual wants intelligible to each\nother, by uttering certain sounds, whenever they meant to denote certain\nobjects. Those objects only which were most familiar to them, and which\nthey had most frequent occasion to mention, would have particular names\nassigned to them. The particular cave whose covering sheltered them from\nthe weather, the particular tree whose fruit relieved their hunger, the\nparticular fountain whose water allayed their thirst, would first be\ndenoted by the words _cave_, _tree_, _fountain_, or by whatever other\nappellations they might think proper, in that primitive jargon, to mark\nthem. Afterwards, when the more enlarged experience of these savages had\nled them to observe, and their necessary occasions obliged them to make\nmention of, other caves, and other trees, and other fountains, they\nwould naturally bestow, upon each of those new objects, the same name,\nby which they had been accustomed to express the similar object they\nwere first acquainted with. The new objects had none of them any name of\nits own, but each of them exactly resembled another object, which had\nsuch an appellation. It was impossible that those savages could behold\nthe new objects, without recollecting the old ones; and the name of the\nold ones, to which the new bore so close a resemblance. When they had\noccasion, therefore, to mention, or to point out to each other, any of\nthe new objects, they would naturally utter the name of the\ncorrespondent old one, of which the idea could not fail, at that\ninstant, to present itself to their memory in the strongest and\nliveliest manner. And thus, those words, which were originally the\nproper names of individuals, would each of them insensibly become the\ncommon name of a multitude. A child that is just learning to speak,\ncalls every person who comes to the house its papa or its mama; and thus\nbestows upon the whole species those names which it had been taught to\napply to two individuals. I have known a clown, who did not know the\nproper name of the river which ran by his own door. It was _the river_,\nhe said, and he never heard any other name for it. His experience, it\nseems, had not led him to observe any other river. The general word\n_river_, therefore, was, it is evident, in his acceptance of it, a\nproper name, signifying an individual object. If this person had been\ncarried to another river, would he not readily have called it a river?\nCould we suppose any person living on the banks of the Thames so\nignorant, as not to know the general word _river_, but to be acquainted\nonly with the particular word _Thames_, if he was brought to any other\nriver, would he not readily call it a _Thames_? This, in reality, is no\nmore than what they, who are well acquainted with the general word, are\nvery apt to do. An Englishman, describing any great river which he may\nhave seen in some foreign country, naturally says, that it is another\nThames. The Spaniards, when they first arrived upon the coast of Mexico,\nand observed the wealth, populousness, and habitations of that fine\ncountry, so much superior to the savage nations which they had been\nvisiting for some time before, cried out, that it was another Spain.\nHence it was called New Spain; and this name has stuck to that\nunfortunate country ever since. We say, in the same manner, of a hero,\nthat he is an Alexander; of an orator, that he is a Cicero; of a\nphilosopher, that he is a Newton. This way of speaking, which the\ngrammarians call an Antonomasia, and which is still extremely common,\nthough now not at all necessary, demonstrates how much mankind are\nnaturally disposed to give to one object the name of any other, which\nnearly resembles it, and thus to denominate a multitude, by what\noriginally was intended to express an individual.\n\nIt is this application of the name of an individual to a great multitude\nof objects, whose resemblance naturally recalls the idea of that\nindividual, and of the name which expresses it, that seems originally to\nhave given occasion to the formation of those classes and assortments,\nwhich, in the schools, are called genera and species, and of which the\ningenious and eloquent M. Rousseau of Geneva[28], finds himself so much\nat a loss to account for the origin. What constitutes a species is\nmerely a number of objects, bearing a certain degree of resemblance to\none another, and on that account denominated by a single appellation,\nwhich may be applied to express any one of them.\n\nFootnote 28:\n\n Origine de l\u2019Inegalit\u00e9. Partie premiere, p. 376, 377, Edition\n d\u2019Amsterdam, des Oeuvres diverses de J. J. Rousseau.\n\nWhen the greater part of objects had thus been arranged under their\nproper classes and assortments, distinguished by such general names, it\nwas impossible that the greater part of that almost infinite number of\nindividuals, comprehended under each particular assortment or species,\ncould have any peculiar or proper names of their own, distinct from the\ngeneral name of the species. When there was occasion, therefore, to\nmention any particular object, it often became necessary to distinguish\nit from the other objects comprehended under the same general name,\neither, first, by its peculiar qualities; or, secondly, by the peculiar\nrelation which it stood in to some other things. Hence the necessary\norigin of two other sets of words, of which the one should express\nquality; the other relation.\n\nNouns adjective are the words which express quality considered as\nqualifying, or, as the schoolmen say, in concrete with, some particular\nsubject. Thus the word _green_ expresses a certain quality considered as\nqualifying, or as in concrete with, the particular subject to which it\nmay be applied. Words of this kind, it is evident, may serve to\ndistinguish particular objects from others comprehended under the same\ngeneral appellation. The words _green tree_, for example, might serve to\ndistinguish a particular tree from others that were withered or blasted.\n\nPrepositions are the words which express relation considered, in the\nsame manner, in concrete with the co-relative object. Thus the\nprepositions _of_, _to_, _for_, _with_, _by_, _above_, _below_, _&c._\ndenote some relation subsisting between the objects expressed by the\nwords between which the prepositions are placed; and they denote that\nthis relation is considered in concrete with the co-relative object.\nWords of this kind serve to distinguish particular objects from others\nof the same species, when those particular objects cannot be so properly\nmarked out by any peculiar qualities of their own. When we say, _the\ngreen tree of the meadow_, for example, we distinguish a particular\ntree, not only by the quality which belongs to it, but by the relation\nwhich it stands in to another object.\n\nAs neither quality nor relation can exist in abstract, it is natural to\nsuppose that the words which denote them considered in concrete, the way\nin which we always see them subsist, would be of much earlier invention,\nthan those which express them considered in abstract, the way in which\nwe never see them subsist. The words _green_ and _blue_ would, in all\nprobability, be sooner invented than the words _greenness_ and\n_blueness_; the words _above_ and _below_, than the words _superiority_\nand _inferiority_. To invent words of the latter kind requires a much\ngreater effort of abstraction than to invent those of the former. It is\nprobable, therefore, that such abstract terms would be of much later\ninstitution. Accordingly, their etymologies generally show that they are\nso, they being generally derived from others that are concrete.\n\nBut though the invention of nouns adjective be much more natural than\nthat of the abstract nouns substantive derived from them, it would\nstill, however, require a considerable degree of abstraction and\ngeneralization. Those, for example, who first invented the words,\n_green_, _blue_, _red_, and the other names of colours, must have\nobserved and compared together a great number of objects, must have\nremarked their resemblances and dissimilitudes in respect of the quality\nof colour, and must have arranged them, in their own minds, into\ndifferent classes and assortments, according to those resemblances and\ndissimilitudes. An adjective is by nature a general, and in some\nmeasure, an abstract word, and necessarily presupposes the idea of a\ncertain species or assortment of things, to all of which it is equally\napplicable. The word _green_ could not, as we were supposing might be\nthe case of the word _cave_, have been originally the name of an\nindividual, and afterwards have become, by what grammarians call an\nAntonomasia the name of a species. The word _green_ denoting, not the\nname of a substance, but the peculiar quality of a substance, must from\nthe very first have been a general word, and considered as equally\napplicable to any other substance possessed of the same quality. The man\nwho first distinguished a particular object by the epithet of _green_,\nmust have observed other objects that were not _green_, from which he\nmeant to separate it by this appellation. The institution of this name,\ntherefore, supposes comparison. It likewise supposes some degree of\nabstraction. The person who first invented this appellation must have\ndistinguished the quality from the object to which it belonged, and must\nhave conceived the object as capable of subsisting without the quality.\nThe invention, therefore, even of the simplest nouns adjective, must\nhave required more metaphysics than we are apt to be aware of. The\ndifferent mental operations, of arrangement or classing, of comparison,\nand of abstraction, must all have been employed, before even the names\nof the different colours, the least metaphysical of all nouns adjective,\ncould be instituted. From all which I infer, that when languages were\nbeginning to be formed, nouns adjective would by no means be the words\nof the earliest invention.\n\nThere is another expedient for denoting the different qualities of\ndifferent substances, which as it requires no abstraction, nor any\nconceived separation of the quality from the subject, seems more natural\nthan the invention of nouns adjective, and which, upon this account,\ncould hardly fail, in the first formation of language, to be thought of\nbefore them. This expedient is to make some variation upon the noun\nsubstantive itself, according to the different qualities which it is\nendowed with. Thus, in many languages, the qualities both of sex and of\nthe want of sex, are expressed by different terminations in the nouns\nsubstantive, which denote objects so qualified. In Latin, for example,\n_lupus_, _lupa_; _equus_, _equa_; _juvencus_, _juvenca_; _Julius_,\n_Julia_; _Lucretius_, _Lucretia_, &c. denote the qualities of male and\nfemale in the animals and persons to whom such appellations belong,\nwithout needing the addition of any adjective for this purpose. On the\nother hand, the words _forum_, _pratum_, _plaustrum_, denote by their\npeculiar termination the total absence of sex in the different\nsubstances which they stand for. Both sex, and the want of all sex,\nbeing naturally considered as qualities modifying and inseparable from\nthe particular substances to which they belong, it was natural to\nexpress them rather by a modification in the noun substantive, than by\nany general and abstract word expressive of this particular species of\nquality. The expression bears, it is evident, in this way, a much more\nexact analogy to the idea or object which it denotes, than in the other.\nThe quality appears, in nature, as a modification of the substance, and\nas it is thus expressed, in language, by a modification of the noun\nsubstantive, which denotes that substance, the quality and the subject\nare, in this case, blended together, if I may say so, in the expression,\nin the same manner, as they appear to be in the object and in the idea.\nHence the origin of the masculine, feminine, and neutral genders, in all\nthe ancient languages. By means of these, the most important of all\ndistinctions, that of substances into animated and inanimated, and that\nof animals into male and female, seem to have been sufficiently marked\nwithout the assistance of adjectives, or of any general names denoting\nthis most extensive species of qualifications.\n\nThere are no more than these three genders in any of the languages with\nwhich I am acquainted; that is to say, the formation of nouns\nsubstantive, can, by itself, and without the accompaniment of\nadjectives, express no other qualities but those three above-mentioned,\nthe qualities of male, of female, of neither male nor female. I should\nnot, however, be surprised, if, in other languages with which I am\nunacquainted, the different formations of nouns substantive should be\ncapable of expressing many other different qualities. The different\ndiminutives of the Italian, and of some other languages, do, in reality,\nsometimes, express a great variety of different modifications in the\nsubstances denoted by those nouns which undergo such variations.\n\nIt was impossible, however, that nouns substantive could, without losing\naltogether their original form, undergo so great a number of variations,\nas would be sufficient to express that almost infinite variety of\nqualities, by which it might, upon different occasions, be necessary to\nspecify and distinguish them. Though the different formation of nouns\nsubstantive, therefore, might, for some time, forestall the necessity of\ninventing nouns adjective, it was impossible that this necessity could\nbe forestalled altogether. When nouns adjective came to be invented, it\nwas natural that they should be formed with some similarity to the\nsubstantives, to which they were to serve as epithets or qualifications.\nMen would naturally give them the same terminations with the\nsubstantives to which they were first applied, and from that love of\nsimilarity of sound, from that delight in the returns of the same\nsyllables, which is in the foundation of analogy in all languages, they\nwould be apt to vary the termination of the same adjective, according as\nthey had occasion to apply it to a masculine, to a feminine, or to a\nneutral substantive. They would say, _magnus lupus_, _magna lupa_,\n_magnum pratum_, when they meant to express a great he wolf, a great\n_she wolf_, a great _meadow_.\n\nThis variation, in the termination of the noun adjective, according to\nthe gender of the substantive, which takes place in all the ancient\nlanguages, seems to have been introduced chiefly for the sake of a\ncertain similarity of sound, of a certain species of rhyme, which is\nnaturally so very agreeable to the human ear. Gender, it is to be\nobserved, cannot properly belong to a noun adjective, the signification\nof which is always precisely the same, to whatever species of\nsubstantives it is applied. When we say, _a great man_, _a great woman_,\nthe word _great_ has precisely the same meaning in both cases, and the\ndifference of the sex in the subjects to which it may be applied, makes\nno sort of difference in its signification. _Magnus_, _magna_, _magnum_,\nin the same manner, are words which express precisely the same quality,\nand the change of the termination is accompanied with no sort of\nvariation in the meaning. Sex and gender are qualities which belong to\nsubstances, but cannot belong to the qualities of substances. In\ngeneral, no quality, when considered in concrete, or as qualifying some\nparticular subject, can itself be conceived as the subject of any other\nquality; though when considered in abstract it may. No adjective\ntherefore can qualify any other adjective. A _great good man_, means a\nman who is both _great_ and _good_. Both the adjectives qualify the\nsubstantive; they do not qualify one another. On the other hand, when we\nsay, the _great goodness_ of the man, the word _goodness_ denoting a\nquality considered in abstract, which may itself be the subject of other\nqualities, is upon that account capable of being qualified by the word,\n_great_.\n\nIf the original invention of nouns adjective would be attended with so\nmuch difficulty, that of prepositions would be accompanied with yet\nmore. Every preposition, as I have already observed, denotes some\nrelation considered in concrete with the co-relative object. The\npreposition _above_, for example, denotes the relation of superiority,\nnot in abstract, as it is expressed by the word _superiority_, but in\nconcrete with some co-relative object. In this phrase, for example, _the\ntree above the cave_, the word _above_, expresses a certain relation\nbetween the _tree_ and the _cave_, and it expresses this relation in\nconcrete with the co-relative object, the _cave_. A preposition always\nrequires, in order to complete the sense, some other word to come after\nit; as may be observed in this particular instance. Now, I say, the\noriginal invention of such words would require a yet greater effort of\nabstraction and generalization, than that of nouns adjective. First of\nall, a relation is, in itself, a more metaphysical object than a\nquality. Nobody can be at a loss to explain what is meant by a quality;\nbut few people will find themselves able to express, very distinctly,\nwhat is understood by a relation. Qualities are almost always the\nobjects of our external senses; relations never are. No wonder,\ntherefore, that the one set of objects should be so much more\ncomprehensible than the other. Secondly, though prepositions always\nexpress the relation which they stand for, in concrete with the\nco-relative object, they could not have originally been formed without a\nconsiderable effort of abstraction. A preposition denotes a relation,\nand nothing but a relation. But before men could institute a word, which\nsignified a relation, and nothing but a relation, they must have been\nable, in some measure, to consider this relation abstractedly from the\nrelated objects; since the idea of those objects does not, in any\nrespect, enter into the signification of the preposition. The invention\nof such a word, therefore, must have required a considerable degree of\nabstraction. Thirdly, a preposition is from its nature a general word,\nwhich, from its very first institution, must have been considered as\nequally applicable to denote any other similar relation. The man who\nfirst invented the word _above_, must not only have distinguished, in\nsome measure, the relation of _superiority_ from the objects which were\nso related, but he must also have distinguished this relation from other\nrelations, such as, from the relation of _inferiority_ denoted by the\nword _below_, from the relation of _juxtaposition_, expressed by the\nword _beside_, and the like. He must have conceived this word,\ntherefore, as expressive of a particular sort or species of relation\ndistinct from every other, which could not be done without a\nconsiderable effort of comparison and generalization.\n\nWhatever were the difficulties, therefore, which embarrassed the first\ninvention of nouns adjective, the same, and many more, must have\nembarrassed that of prepositions. If mankind, therefore, in the first\nformation of languages, seem to have, for some time, evaded the\nnecessity of nouns adjective, by varying the termination of the names of\nsubstances, according as these varied in some of their most important\nqualities, they would much more find themselves under the necessity of\nevading, by some similar contrivance, the yet more difficult invention\nof prepositions. The different cases in the ancient languages is a\ncontrivance of precisely the same kind. The genitive and dative cases,\nin Greek and Latin, evidently supply the place of the prepositions; and\nby a variation in the noun substantive, which stands for the co-relative\nterm, express the relation which subsists between what is denoted by\nthat noun substantive, and what is expressed by some other word in the\nsentence. In these expressions, for example, _fructus arboris_, _the\nfruit of the tree_; _sacer Herculi_, _sacred to Hercules_; the\nvariations made in the co-relative words, _arbor_ and _Hercules_,\nexpress the same relations which are expressed in English by the\nprepositions _of_ and _to_.\n\nTo express a relation in this manner, did not require any effort of\nabstraction. It was not here expressed by a peculiar word denoting\nrelation and nothing but relation, but by a variation upon the\nco-relative term. It was expressed here, as it appears in nature, not as\nsomething separated and detached, but as thoroughly mixed and blended\nwith the co-relative object.\n\nTo express relation in this manner, did not require any effort of\ngeneralization. The words _arboris_ and _Herculi_, while they involve in\ntheir signification the same relation expressed by the English\nprepositions _of_ and _to_, are not, like those prepositions, general\nwords, which can be applied to express the same relation between\nwhatever other objects it might be observed to subsist.\n\nTo express relation in this manner did not require any effort of\ncomparison. The words _arboris_ and _Herculi_ are not general words\nintended to denote a particular species of relations which the inventors\nof those expressions meant, in consequence of some sort of comparison,\nto separate and distinguish from every other sort of relation. The\nexample, indeed, of this contrivance would soon probably be followed,\nand whoever had occasion to express a similar relation between any other\nobjects would be very apt to do it by making a similar variation on the\nname of the co-relative object. This, I say, would probably, or rather\ncertainly happen; but it would happen without any intention or foresight\nin those who first set the example, and who never meant to establish any\ngeneral rule. The general rule would establish itself insensibly, and by\nslow degrees, in consequence of that love of analogy and similarity of\nsound, which is the foundation of by far the greater part of the rules\nof grammar.\n\nTo express relation therefore, by a variation in the name of the\nco-relative object, requiring neither abstraction, nor generalization,\nnor comparison of any kind, would, at first, be much more natural and\neasy, than to express it by those general words called prepositions, of\nwhich the first invention must have demanded some degree of all those\noperations.\n\nThe number of cases is different in different languages. There are five\nin the Greek, six in the Latin, and there are said to be ten in the\nArmenian language. It must have naturally happened that there should be\na greater or a smaller number of cases, according as in the terminations\nof nouns substantive the first formers of any language happened to have\nestablished a greater or a smaller number of variations, in order to\nexpress the different relations they had occasion to take notice of,\nbefore the invention of those more general and abstract prepositions\nwhich could supply their place.\n\nIt is, perhaps, worth while to observe that those prepositions, which in\nmodern languages hold the place of the ancient cases, are, of all\nothers, the most general, and abstract, and metaphysical; and of\nconsequence, would probably be the last invented. Ask any man of common\nacuteness, What relation is expressed by the preposition _above_? He\nwill readily answer, that of _superiority_. By the preposition _below_?\nHe will as quickly reply, that of _inferiority_. But ask him, what\nrelation is expressed by the preposition _of_, and, if he has not\nbeforehand employed his thoughts a good deal upon these subjects, you\nmay safely allow him a week to consider of his answer. The prepositions\n_above_ and _below_ do not denote any of the relations expressed by the\ncases in the ancient languages. But the preposition _of_, denotes the\nsame relation, which is in them expressed by the genitive case; and\nwhich, it is easy to observe, is of a very metaphysical nature. The\npreposition of, denotes relation in general, considered in concrete with\nthe co-relative object. It marks that the noun substantive which goes\nbefore it, is somehow or other related to that which comes after it, but\nwithout in any respect ascertaining, as is done by the preposition\n_above_, what is the peculiar nature of that relation. We often apply\nit, therefore, to express the most opposite relations; because, the most\nopposite relations agree so far that each of them comprehends in it the\ngeneral idea or nature of a relation. We say, _the father of the son_,\nand _the son of the father_; _the fir-trees of the forest_, and the\n_forest of the fir-trees_. The relation in which the father stands to\nthe son, is, it is evident, a quite opposite relation to that in which\nthe son stands to the father; that in which the parts stand to the\nwhole, is quite opposite to that in which the whole stands to the parts.\nThe word _of_, however, serves very well to denote all those relations,\nbecause in itself it denotes no particular relation, but only relation\nin general; and so far as any particular relation is collected from such\nexpressions, it is inferred by the mind, not from the preposition\nitself, but from the nature and arrangement of the substantives, between\nwhich the preposition is placed.\n\nWhat I have said concerning the preposition _of_, may in some measure be\napplied to the prepositions, _to_, _for_, _with_, _by_, and to whatever\nother prepositions are made use of in modern languages, to supply the\nplace of the ancient cases. They all of them express very abstract and\nmetaphysical relations, which any man, who takes the trouble to try it,\nwill find it extremely difficult to express by nouns substantive, in the\nsame manner as we may express the relation denoted by the preposition\n_above_, by the noun substantive _superiority_. They all of them,\nhowever, express some specific relation, and are, consequently, none of\nthem so abstract as the preposition _of_, which may be regarded as by\nfar the most metaphysical of all prepositions. The prepositions\ntherefore, which are capable of supplying the place of the ancient\ncases, being more abstract than the other prepositions, would naturally\nbe of more difficult invention. The relations at the same time which\nthose prepositions express, are, of all others, those which we have most\nfrequent occasion to mention. The prepositions _above_, _below_, _near_,\n_within_, _without_, _against_, &c. are much more rarely made use of, in\nmodern languages, than the prepositions _of_, _to_, _for_, _with_,\n_from_, _by_. A preposition of the former kind will not occur twice in a\npage; we can scarce compose a single sentence without the assistance of\none or two of the latter. If these latter prepositions, therefore, which\nsupply the place of the cases, would be of such difficult invention on\naccount of their abstractedness, some expedient, to supply their place,\nmust have been of indispensable necessity, on account of the frequent\noccasion which men have to take notice of the relations which they\ndenote. But there is no expedient so obvious, as that of varying the\ntermination of one of the principal words.\n\nIt is, perhaps, unnecessary to observe, that there are some of the cases\nin the ancient languages, which, for particular reasons, cannot be\nrepresented by any prepositions. These are the nominative, accusative,\nand vocative cases. In those modern languages, which do not admit of any\nsuch variety in the terminations of their nouns substantive, the\ncorrespondent relations are expressed by the place of the words, and by\nthe order and construction of the sentence.\n\nAs men have frequently occasion to make mention of multitudes as well as\nof single objects, it became necessary that they should have some method\nof expressing number. Number may be expressed either by a particular\nword, expressing number in general, such as the words _many_, _more_,\n&c. or by some variation upon the words which express the things\nnumbered. It is this last expedient which mankind would probably have\nrecourse to, in the infancy of language. Number, considered in general,\nwithout relation to any particular set of objects numbered, is one of\nthe most abstract and metaphysical ideas, which the mind of man is\ncapable of forming; and, consequently, is not an idea, which would\nreadily occur to rude mortals, who were just beginning to form a\nlanguage. They would naturally, therefore, distinguish when they talked\nof a single, and when they talked of a multitude of objects, not by any\nmetaphysical adjectives, such as the English, _a_, _an_, _many_, but by\na variation upon the termination of the word which signified the objects\nnumbered. Hence the origin of the singular and plural numbers, in all\nthe ancient languages; and the same distinction has likewise been\nretained in all the modern languages, at least, in the greater part of\nwords.\n\nAll primitive and uncompounded languages seem to have a dual, as well as\na plural number. This is the case of the Greek, and I am told of the\nHebrew, of the Gothic, and of many other languages. In the rude\nbeginnings of society, _one_, _two_, and _more_, might possibly be all\nthe numeral distinctions which mankind would have any occasion to take\nnotice of. These they would find it more natural to express, by a\nvariation upon every particular noun substantive, than by such general\nand abstract words as _one_, _two_, _three_, _four_, &c. These words,\nthough custom has rendered them familiar to us, express, perhaps, the\nmost subtile and refined abstractions, which the mind of man is capable\nof forming. Let any one consider within himself, for example, what he\nmeans by the word _three_, which signifies neither three shillings, nor\nthree pence, nor three men, nor three horses, but three in general; and\nhe will easily satisfy himself that a word, which denotes so very\nmetaphysical an abstraction, could not be either a very obvious or a\nvery early invention. I have read of some savage nations, whose language\nwas capable of expressing no more than the three first numeral\ndistinctions. But whether it expressed those distinctions by three\ngeneral words, or by variations upon the nouns substantive, denoting the\nthings numbered, I do not remember to have met with any thing which\ncould determine.\n\nAs all the same relations which subsist between single, may likewise\nsubsist between numerous objects, it is evident there would be occasion\nfor the same number of cases in the dual and in the plural, as in the\nsingular number. Hence the intricacy and complexness of the declensions\nin all the ancient languages. In the Greek there are five cases in each\nof the three numbers, consequently fifteen in all.\n\nAs nouns adjective, in the ancient languages, varied their terminations\naccording to the gender of the substantive to which they were applied,\nso did they likewise, according to the case and the number. Every noun\nadjective in the Greek language, therefore, having three genders, and\nthree numbers, and five cases in each number, may be considered as\nhaving five and forty different variations. The first formers of\nlanguage seem to have varied the termination of the adjective, according\nto the case and the number of the substantive, for the same reason which\nmade them vary according to the gender; the love of analogy, and of a\ncertain regularity of sound. In the signification of adjectives there is\nneither case nor number, and the meaning of such words is always\nprecisely the same, notwithstanding all the variety of termination under\nwhich they appear. _Magnus vir_, _magni viri_, _magnorum virorum_; _a\ngreat man_, _of a great man_, _of great men_ in all these expressions\nthe words _magnus_, _magni_, _magnorum_, as well as the word _great_,\nhave precisely one and the same signification, though the substantives\nto which they are applied have not. The difference of termination in the\nnoun adjective is accompanied with no sort of difference in the meaning.\nAn adjective denotes the qualification of a noun substantive. But the\ndifferent relations in which that noun substantive may occasionally\nstand, can make no sort of difference upon its qualification.\n\nIf the declensions of the ancient languages are so very complex, their\nconjugations are infinitely more so. And the complexness of the one is\nfounded upon the same principle with that of the other, the difficulty\nof forming, in the beginnings of language, abstract and general terms.\n\nVerbs must necessarily have been coeval with the very first attempts\ntowards the formation of language. No affirmation can be expressed\nwithout the assistance of some verb. We never speak but in order to\nexpress our opinion that something either is or is not. But the word\ndenoting this event, or this matter of fact, which is the subject of our\naffirmation, must always be a verb.\n\nImpersonal verbs, which express in one word a complete event, which\npreserve in the expression that perfect simplicity and unity, which\nthere always is in the object and in the idea, and which suppose no\nabstraction, or metaphysical division of the event into its several\nconstituent members of subject and attribute, would, in all probability,\nbe the species of verbs first invented. The verbs _pluit_, _it rains_;\n_ningit_, _it snows_; _tonat_, _it thunders_; _lucet_, _it is day_;\n_turbatur_, _there is a confusion_, &c. each of them express a complete\naffirmation, the whole of an event, with that perfect simplicity and\nunity with which the mind conceives it in nature. On the contrary, the\nphrases, _Alexander ambulat_, _Alexander walks_; _Petrus sedet_, _Peter\nsits_, divide the event, as it were, into two parts, the person or\nsubject, and the attribute, or matter of fact, affirmed of that subject.\nBut in nature, the idea or conception of Alexander walking, is as\nperfectly and completely one single conception, as that of Alexander not\nwalking. The division of this event, therefore, into two parts, is\naltogether artificial, and is the effect of the imperfection of\nlanguage, which, upon this, as upon many other occasions, supplies, by a\nnumber of words, the want of one, which could express at once the whole\nmatter of fact that was meant to be affirmed. Every body must observe\nhow much more simplicity there is in the natural expression, _pluit_,\nthan in the more artificial expressions, _imber decidit_, _the rain\nfalls_; or, _tempestas est pluvia_, _the weather is rainy_. In these two\nlast expressions, the simple event, or matter of fact, is artificially\nsplit and divided, in the one, into two; in the other, into three parts.\nIn each of them it is expressed by a sort of grammatical circumlocution,\nof which the significancy is founded upon a certain metaphysical\nanalysis of the component parts of the idea expressed by the word\n_pluit_. The first verbs, therefore, perhaps even the first words, made\nuse of in the beginnings of language, would in all probability be such\nimpersonal verbs. It is observed accordingly, I am told, by the Hebrew\nGrammarians, that the radical words of their language, from which all\nthe others are derived, are all of them verbs, and impersonal verbs.\n\nIt is easy to conceive how, in the progress of language, those\nimpersonal verbs should become personal. Let us suppose, for example,\nthat the word _venit_, _it comes_, was originally an impersonal verb,\nand that it denoted, not the coming of something in general, as at\npresent, but the coming of a particular object, such as _the Lion_. The\nfirst savage inventors of language, we shall suppose, when they observed\nthe approach of this terrible animal, were accustomed to cry out to one\nanother, _venit_, that is, _the lion comes_; and that this word thus\nexpressed a complete event, without the assistance of any other.\nAfterwards, when, on the further progress of language, they had begun to\ngive names to particular substances, whenever they observed the approach\nof any other terrible object, they would naturally join the name of that\nobject to the word _venit_, and cry out, _venit ursus_, _venit lupus_.\nBy degrees the word _venit_ would thus come to signify the coming of any\nterrible object, and not merely the coming of the lion. It would now\ntherefore, express, not the coming of a particular object, but the\ncoming of an object of a particular kind. Having become more general in\nits signification, it could no longer represent any particular distinct\nevent by itself, and without the assistance of a noun substantive, which\nmight serve to ascertain and determine its signification. It would now,\ntherefore, have become a personal, instead of an impersonal verb. We may\neasily conceive how, in the further progress of society, it might still\ngrow more general in its signification, and come to signify, as at\npresent, the approach of any thing whatever, whether good, bad, or\nindifferent.\n\nIt is probably in some such manner as this, that almost all verbs have\nbecome personal, and that mankind have learned by degrees to split and\ndivide almost every event into a great number of metaphysical parts,\nexpressed by the different parts of speech, variously combined in the\ndifferent members of every phrase and sentence.[29] The same sort of\nprogress seems to have been made in the art of speaking as in the art of\nwriting. When mankind first began to attempt to express their ideas by\nwriting, every character represented a whole word. But the number of\nwords being almost infinite, the memory found itself quite loaded and\noppressed by the multitude of characters which it was obliged to retain.\nNecessity taught them, therefore, to divide words into their elements,\nand to invent characters which should represent, not the words\nthemselves, but the elements of which they were composed. In consequence\nof this invention, every particular word came to be represented, not by\none character, but by a multitude of characters; and the expression of\nit in writing became much more intricate and complex than before. But\nthough particular words were thus represented by a greater number of\ncharacters, the whole language was expressed by a much smaller, and\nabout four and twenty letters were found capable of supplying the place\nof that immense multitude of characters, which were requisite before. In\nthe same manner, in the beginnings of language, men seem to have\nattempted to express every particular event, which they had occasion to\ntake notice of, by a particular word, which expressed at once the whole\nof that event. But as the number of words must, in this case, have\nbecome really infinite, in consequence of the really infinite variety of\nevents, men found themselves partly compelled by necessity, and partly\nconducted by nature, to divide every event into what may be called its\nmetaphysical elements, and to institute words, which should denote not\nso much the events, as the elements of which they were composed. The\nexpression of every particular event, became in this manner more\nintricate and complex, but the whole system of the language became more\ncoherent, more connected, more easily retained and comprehended.\n\nFootnote 29:\n\n As the far greater part of Verbs express, at present, not an event,\n but the attribute of an event, and, consequently, require a subject,\n or nominative case, to complete their signification, some grammarians,\n not having attended to this progress of nature, and being desirous to\n make their common rules quite universal, and without any exception,\n have insisted that all verbs required a nominative, either expressed\n or understood; and have, accordingly put themselves to the torture to\n find some awkward nominatives to those few verbs, which still\n expressing a complete event, plainly admit of none. _Pluit_, for\n example, according to _Sanctius_, means _pluvia pluit_, in English,\n _the rain rains_. See Sanctii Minerva, l. 3. c. 1.\n\nWhen verbs, from being originally impersonal had thus, by the division\nof the event into its metaphysical elements, become personal, it is\nnatural to suppose that they would first be made use of in the third\nperson singular. No verb is ever used impersonally in our language, nor,\nso far as I know, in any other modern tongue. But in the ancient\nlanguages, whenever any verb is used impersonally, it is always in the\nthird person singular. The termination of those verbs, which are still\nalways impersonal, is constantly the same with that of the third person\nsingular of personal verbs. The consideration of these circumstances,\njoined to the naturalness of the thing itself, may serve to convince us\nthat verbs first became personal in what is now called the third person\nsingular.\n\nBut as the event, or matter of fact, which is expressed by a verb, may\nbe affirmed either of the person who speaks, or of the person who is\nspoken to, as well as of some third person or object, it became\nnecessary to fall upon some method of expressing these two peculiar\nrelations of the event. In the English language this is commonly done,\nby prefixing, what are called the personal pronouns, to the general word\nwhich expresses the event affirmed. _I came_, _you came_, _he_ or _it\ncame_; in these phrases the event of having come is, in the first,\naffirmed of the speaker; in the second, of the person spoken to; in the\nthird, of some other person, or object. The first formers of language,\nit may be imagined, might have done the same thing, and prefixing in the\nsame manner the two first personal pronouns, to the same termination of\nthe verb, which expressed the third person singular, might have said,\n_ego venit_, _tu venit_, as well as _ille_ or _illud venit_. And I make\nno doubt but they would have done so, if at the time when they had first\noccasion to express these relations of the verb, there had been any such\nwords as either _ego_ or _tu_ in their language. But in this early\nperiod of the language, which we are now endeavouring to describe, it is\nextremely improbable that any such words would be known. Though custom\nhas now rendered them familiar to us, they, both of them, express ideas\nextremely metaphysical and abstract. The word _I_, for example, is a\nword of a very particular species. Whatever speaks may denote itself by\nthis personal pronoun. The word _I_, therefore, is a general word,\ncapable of being predicated, as the logicians say, of an infinite\nvariety of objects. It differs, however, from all other general words in\nthis respect; that the objects of which it may be predicated, do not\nform any particular species of objects distinguished from all others.\nThe word _I_, does not, like the word _man_, denote a particular class\nof objects, separated from all others by peculiar qualities of their\nown. It is far from being the name of a species, but, on the contrary,\nwhenever it is made use of, it always denotes a precise individual, the\nparticular person who then speaks. It may be said to be, at once, both\nwhat the logicians call, a singular, and what they call, a common term;\nand to join in its signification the seemingly opposite qualities of the\nmost precise individuality, and the most extensive generalization. This\nword, therefore, expressing so very abstract and metaphysical an idea,\nwould not easily or readily occur to the first formers of language. What\nare called the personal pronouns, it may be observed, are among the last\nwords of which children learn to make use. A child, speaking of itself,\nsays, _Billy walks_, _Billy sits_, instead of _I walk_, _I sit_. As in\nthe beginnings of language, therefore, mankind seem to have evaded the\ninvention of at least the more abstract proportions, and to have\nexpressed the same relations which these _now_ stand for, by varying the\ntermination of the co-relative term, so they likewise would naturally\nattempt to evade the necessity of inventing those more abstract pronouns\nby varying the termination of the verb, according as the event which it\nexpressed was intended to be affirmed of the first, second, or third\nperson. This seems, accordingly, to be the universal practice of all the\nancient languages. In Latin, _veni_, _venisti_, _venit_, sufficiently\ndenote, without any other addition, the different events expressed by\nthe English phrases, _I came_, _you came_, he, or _it came_. The verb\nwould, for the same reason, vary its termination, according as the event\nwas intended to be affirmed of the first, second, or third persons\nplural; and what is expressed by the English phrases, _we came_, _ye\ncame_, _they came_, would be denoted by the Latin words, _venimus_,\n_venistis_, _venerunt_. Those primitive languages, too, which, upon\naccount of the difficulty of inventing numeral names, had introduced a\ndual, as well as a plural number, into the declension of their nouns\nsubstantive, would probably, from analogy, do the same thing in the\nconjugations of their verbs. And thus in all those original languages,\nwe might expect to find, at least six, if not eight or nine variations,\nin the termination of every verb, according as the event which it\ndenoted was meant to be affirmed of the first, second, or third persons\nsingular, dual, or plural. These variations again being repeated, along\nwith others, through all its different tenses, modes and voices, must\nnecessarily have rendered their conjugations still more intricate and\ncomplex than their declensions.\n\nLanguage would probably have continued upon this footing in all\ncountries, nor would ever have grown more simple in its declensions and\nconjugations, had it not become more complex in its composition, in\nconsequence of the mixture of several languages with one another,\noccasioned by the mixture of different nations. As long as any language\nwas spoke by those only who learned it in their infancy, the intricacy\nof its declensions and conjugations could occasion no great\nembarrassment. The far greater part of those who had occasion to speak\nit, had acquired it at so very early a period of their lives, so\ninsensibly and by such slow degrees, that they were scarce ever sensible\nof the difficulty. But when two nations came to be mixed with one\nanother, either by conquest or migration, the case would be very\ndifferent. Each nation, in order to make itself intelligible to those\nwith whom it was under the necessity of conversing, would be obliged to\nlearn the language of the other. The greater part of individuals too,\nlearning the new language, not by art, or by remounting to its rudiments\nand first principles, but by rote, and by what they commonly heard in\nconversation, would be extremely perplexed by the intricacy of its\ndeclensions and conjugations. They would endeavour, therefore, to supply\ntheir ignorance of these, by whatever shift the language could afford\nthem. Their ignorance of the declensions they would naturally supply by\nthe use of prepositions; and a Lombard, who was attempting to speak\nLatin, and wanted to express that such a person was a citizen of Rome,\nor a benefactor to Rome, if he happened not to be acquainted with the\ngenitive and dative cases of the word _Roma_, would naturally express\nhimself by prefixing the prepositions _ad_ and _de_ to the nominative;\nand, instead of _Rom\u00e6_, would say, _ad Roma_, and _de Roma_. _Al Roma_\nand _di Roma_, accordingly, is the manner in which the present Italians,\nthe descendants of the ancient Lombards and Romans, express this and all\nother similar relations. And in this manner prepositions seem to have\nbeen introduced, in the room of the ancient declensions. The same\nalteration has, I am informed, been produced upon the Greek language,\nsince the taking of Constantinople by the Turks. The words are, in a\ngreat measure, the same as before; but the grammar is entirely lost,\nprepositions having come in the place of the old declensions. This\nchange is undoubtedly a simplification of the language, in point of\nrudiments and principle. It introduces, instead of a great variety of\ndeclensions, one universal declension, which is the same in every word,\nof whatever gender, number, or termination.\n\nA similar expedient enables men, in the situation above-mentioned, to\nget rid of almost the whole intricacy of their conjugations. There is in\nevery language a verb, known by the name of the substantive verb; in\nLatin, _sum_; in English, _I am_. This verb denotes not the existence of\nany particular event, but existence in general. It is, upon this\naccount, the most abstract and metaphysical of all verbs; and,\nconsequently, could by no means be a a word of early invention. When it\ncame to be invented, however, as it had all the tenses and modes of any\nother verb, by being joined with the passive participle, it was capable\nof supplying the place of the whole passive voice, and of rendering this\npart of their conjugations as simple and uniform, as the use of\nprepositions had rendered their declensions. A Lombard, who wanted to\nsay, _I am loved_, but could not recollect the word _amor_, naturally\nendeavoured to supply his ignorance, by saying, _ego sum amatus_. _Io\nsono amato_, is at this day the Italian expression, which corresponds to\nthe English phrase above-mentioned.\n\nThere is another verb, which, in the same manner, runs through all\nlanguages, and which is distinguished by the name of the possessive\nverb; in Latin, _habeo_; in English, _I have_. This verb, likewise,\ndenotes an event of an extremely abstract and metaphysical nature, and,\nconsequently, cannot be supposed to have been a word of the earliest\ninvention. When it came to be invented, however, by being applied to the\npassive participle, it was capable of supplying a great part of the\nactive voice, as the substantive verb had supplied the whole of the\npassive. A Lombard, who wanted to say, _I had loved_, but could not\nrecollect the word _amaveram_, would endeavour to supply the place of\nit, by saying either _ego habebam amatum_, or _ego habui amatum_. _Io\navev\u00e1 amato_, or _Io ebbi amato_, are the correspondent Italian\nexpressions at this day. And thus upon the intermixture of different\nnations with one another, the conjugations, by means of different\nauxiliary verbs, were made to approach towards the simplicity and\nuniformity of the declensions.\n\nIn general it may be laid down for a maxim, that the more simple any\nlanguage is in its composition, the more complex it must be in its\ndeclensions and conjugations; and, on the contrary, the more simple it\nis in its declensions and conjugations, the more complex it must be in\nits composition.\n\nThe Greek seems to be, in a great measure, a simple, uncompounded\nlanguage, formed from the primitive jargon of those wandering savages,\nthe ancient Hellenians and Pelasgians, from whom the Greek nation is\nsaid to have been descended. All the words in the Greek language are\nderived from about three hundred primitives, a plain evidence that the\nGreeks formed their language almost entirely among themselves, and that\nwhen they had occasion for a new word, they were not accustomed, as we\nare, to borrow it from some foreign language, but to form it, either by\ncomposition or derivation from some other word or words, in their own.\nThe declensions and conjugations, therefore, of the Greek are much more\ncomplex than those of any other European language with which I am\nacquainted.\n\nThe Latin is a composition of the Greek and of the ancient Tuscan\nlanguages. Its declensions and conjugations accordingly are much less\ncomplex than those of the Greek: it has dropt the dual number in both.\nIts verbs have no optative mood distinguished by any peculiar\ntermination. They have but one future. They have no aorist distinct from\nthe preterit-perfect; they have no middle voice; and even many of their\ntenses in the passive voice are eked out, in the same manner as in the\nmodern languages, by the help of the substantive verb joined to the\npassive participle. In both the voices, the number of infinitives and\nparticiples is much smaller in the Latin than in the Greek.\n\nThe French and Italian languages are each of them compounded, the one of\nthe Latin, and the language of the ancient Franks, the other of the same\nLatin and the language of the ancient Lombards. As they are both of\nthem, therefore, more complex in their composition than the Latin, so\nare they likewise more simple in their declensions and conjugations.\nWith regard to their declensions, they have both of them lost their\ncases altogether; and with regard to their conjugations, they have both\nof them lost the whole of the passive, and some part of the active\nvoices of their verbs. The want of the passive voice they supply\nentirely by the substantive verb joined to the passive participle; and\nthey make out part of the active, in the same manner, by the help of the\npossessive verb and the same passive participle.\n\nThe English is compounded of the French and the ancient Saxon languages.\nThe French was introduced into Britain by the Norman conquest, and\ncontinued, till the time of Edward III. to be the sole language of the\nlaw as well as the principal language of the court. The English, which\ncame to be spoken afterwards, and which continues to be spoken now, is a\nmixture of the ancient Saxon and this Norman French. As the English\nlanguage, therefore, is more complex in its composition than either the\nFrench or the Italian, so is it likewise more simple in its declensions\nand conjugations. Those two languages retain, at least, a part of the\ndistinction of genders, and their adjectives vary their termination\naccording as they are applied to a masculine or to a feminine\nsubstantive. But there is no such distinction in the English language,\nwhose adjectives admit of no variety of termination. The French and\nItalian languages have, both of them, the remains of a conjugation, and\nall those tenses of the active voice, which cannot be expressed by the\npossessive verb joined to the passive participle, as well as many of\nthose which can, are, in those languages, marked by varying the\ntermination of the principal verb. But almost all those other tenses are\nin the English eked out by other auxiliary verbs, so that there is in\nthis language scarce even the remains of a conjugation. _I love_, _I\nloved_, _loving_, are all the varieties of termination which the greater\npart of English verbs admit of. All the different modifications of\nmeaning, which cannot be expressed by any of those three terminations,\nmust be made out by different auxiliary verbs joined to some one or\nother of them. Two auxiliary verbs supply all the deficiencies of the\nFrench and Italian conjugations; it requires more than half a dozen to\nsupply those of the English, which besides the substantive and\npossessive verbs, makes use of _do_, _did_; _will_, _would_; _shall_,\n_should_; _can_, _could_; _may_, _might_.\n\nIt is in this manner that language becomes more simple in its rudiments\nand principles, just in proportion as it grows more complex in its\ncomposition, and the same thing has happened in it, which commonly\nhappens with regard to mechanical engines. All machines are generally,\nwhen first invented, extremely complex in their principles, and there is\noften a particular principle of motion for every particular movement\nwhich, it is intended, they should perform. Succeeding improvers\nobserve, that one principle may be so applied as to produce several of\nthose movements, and thus the machine becomes gradually more and more\nsimple, and produces its effects with fewer wheels, and fewer principles\nof motion. In language, in the same manner, every case of every noun,\nand every tense of every verb, was originally expressed by a particular\ndistinct word, which served for this purpose and for no other. But\nsucceeding observation discovered that one set of words was capable of\nsupplying the place of all that infinite number, and that four or five\nprepositions, and half a dozen auxiliary verbs, were capable of\nanswering the end of all the declensions, and of all the conjugations in\nthe ancient languages.\n\nBut this simplification of languages, though it arises, perhaps, from\nsimilar causes, has by no means similar effects with the correspondent\nsimplification of machines. The simplification of machines renders them\nmore and more perfect, but this simplification of the rudiments of\nlanguages renders them more and more imperfect and less proper for many\nof the purposes of language: and this for the following reasons.\n\nFirst of all, languages are by this simplification rendered more prolix,\nseveral words having become necessary to express what could have been\nexpressed by a single word before. Thus the words, _Dei_ and, _Deo_, in\nthe Latin, sufficiently show, without any addition, what relation, the\nobject signified is understood to stand in to the objects expressed by\nthe other words in the sentence. But to express the same relation in\nEnglish, and in all other modern languages, we must make use of, at\nleast, two words, and say, _of God_, _to God_. So far as the declensions\nare concerned, therefore, the modern languages are much more prolix than\nthe ancient. The difference is still greater with regard to the\nconjugations. What a Roman expressed by the single word, _amavissem_, an\nEnglishman is obliged to express by four different words, _I should have\nloved_. It is unnecessary to take any pains to show how much this\nprolixness must enervate the eloquence of all modern languages. How much\nthe beauty of any expression depends upon its conciseness, is well known\nto those who have any experience in composition.\n\nSecondly, this simplification of the principles of languages renders\nthem less agreeable to the ear. The variety of termination in the Greek\nand Latin, occasioned by their declensions and conjugations, give a\nsweetness to their language altogether unknown to ours, and a variety\nunknown to any other modern language. In point of sweetness, the\nItalian, perhaps, may surpass the Latin, and almost equal the Greek; but\nin point of variety, it is greatly inferior to both.\n\nThirdly, this simplification, not only renders the sounds of our\nlanguage less agreeable to the ear, but it also restrains us from\ndisposing such sounds as we have, in the manner that might be most\nagreeable. It ties down many words to a particular situation, though\nthey might often be placed in another with much more beauty. In the\nGreek and Latin, though the adjective and substantive were separated\nfrom one another, the correspondence of their terminations still showed\ntheir mutual reference, and the separation did not necessarily occasion\nany sort of confusion. Thus in the first line of Virgil:\n\n _Tityre tu patul\u00e6 recubans sub tegmine fagi._\n\nWe easily see that _tu_ refers to _recubans_, and _patul\u00e6_ to _fagi_;\nthough the related words are separated from one another by the\nintervention of several others: because the terminations, showing the\ncorrespondence of their cases, determine their mutual reference. But if\nwe were to translate this line literally into English, and say,\n_Tityrus, thou of spreading reclining under the shade beech_, \u0152dipus\nhimself could not make sense of it; because there is here no difference\nof termination, to determine which substantive each adjective belongs\nto. It is the same case with regard to verbs. In Latin the verb may\noften be placed, without an inconveniency or ambiguity, in any part of\nthe sentence. But in English its place is almost always precisely\ndetermined. It must follow the subjective and precede the objective\nmember of the phrase in almost all cases. Thus in Latin whether you say,\n_Joannem verberavit Robertus_, or _Robertus verberavit Joannem_, the\nmeaning is precisely the same, and the termination fixes John to be the\nsufferer in both cases. But in English _John beat Robert_, and _Robert\nbeat John_, have by no means the same signification. The place therefore\nof the three principal members of the phrase is in the English, and for\nthe same reason in the French and Italian languages almost always\nprecisely determined; whereas in the ancient languages a greater\nlatitude is allowed, and the place of those members is often, in a great\nmeasure, indifferent. We must have recourse to Horace, in order to\ninterpret some parts of Milton\u2019s literal translation;\n\n _Who now enjoys thee credulous all gold,\n Who always vacant, always amiable\n Hopes thee; of flattering gales\n Unmindful._\n\nare verses which it is impossible to interpret by any rules of our\nlanguage. There are no rules in our language, by which any man could\ndiscover, that, in the first line, _credulous_ referred to _who_, and\nnot to _thee_; or, that _all gold_ referred to any thing; or, that in\nthe fourth line, _unmindful_, referred to _who_, in the second, and not\nto _thee_ in the third; or, on the contrary, that, in the second line\n_always vacant, always amiable_, referred to _thee_ in the third, and\nnot to _who_ in the same line with it. In the Latin, indeed, all this is\nabundantly plain.\n\n _Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aure\u00e2,\n Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem\n Sperat te; nescius aur\u00e6 fallacis._\n\nBecause the terminations in the Latin determine the reference of each\nadjective to its proper substantive, which it is impossible for any\nthing in the English to do. How much this power of transposing the order\nof their words must have facilitated the composition of the ancients,\nboth in verse and prose, can hardly be imagined. That it must greatly\nhave facilitated their versification it is needless to observe; and in\nprose, whatever beauty depends upon the arrangement and construction of\nthe several members of the period, must to them have been acquirable\nwith much more ease, and to much greater perfection, than it can be to\nthose whose expression is constantly confined by the prolixness,\nconstraint and monotony of modern languages.\n\n\n FINIS.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n\n\n TRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTES\n\n\n 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in\n spelling.\n 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.\n 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.","title":"The Theory of Moral Sentiments: Or, an Essay Towards an Analysis of the Principles by Which Men Naturally Judge Concerning the Conduct and Character, First of Their Neighbours, and Afterwards of Themselves. to Which Is Added, a Dissertation on the Origin of Languages.","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":117582}