is, there scarce is a probability or even possibility of his employing
it in the acquisition of the pleasures and conveniences of life. To
himself alone this power seems perfect and entire; and therefore we must
receive his sentiments by sympathy, before we can have a strong intense
idea of these enjoyments, or esteem him upon account of them.
Thus we have found, that the first principle, viz, the agreeable idea of
those objects, which riches afford the enjoyment of; resolves itself in
a great measure into the third, and becomes a sympathy with the person
we esteem or love. Let us now examine the second principle, viz, the
agreeable expectation of advantage, and see what force we may justly
attribute to it.
It is obvious, that though riches and authority undoubtedly give
their owner a power of doing us service, yet this power is not to be
considered as on the same footing with that, which they afford him, of
pleasing himself, and satisfying his own appetites.
Self-love approaches
the power and exercise very near each other in the latter case; but
in order to produce a similar effect in the former, we must suppose a
friendship and good-will to be conjoined with the riches. Without that
circumstance it is difficult to conceive on what we can found our hope
of advantage from the riches of others, though there is nothing more
certain, than that we naturally esteem and respect the rich, even before
we discover in them any such favourable disposition towards us.
But I carry this farther, and observe, not only that we respect the rich
and powerful, where they shew no inclination to serve us, but also when
we lie so much out of the sphere of their activity, that they cannot
even be supposed to be endowed with that power.
Prisoners of war are
always treated with a respect suitable to their condition; and it is
certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any person.
If birth and quality enter for a share, this still affords us an
argument of the same kind. For what is it we call a man of birth,
but one who is descended from a long succession of rich and powerful
ancestors, and who acquires our esteem by his relation to persons whom
we esteem? His ancestors, therefore, though dead, are respected, in some
measure, on account of their riches, and consequently without any kind
of expectation.
But not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to find instances
of this disinterested esteem for riches, let us observe with a
little attention those phaenomena that occur to us in common life and
conversation. A man, who is himself of a competent fortune, upon coming
into a company of strangers, naturally treats them with different
degrees of respect and deference, as he is informed of their different
fortunes and conditions; though it is impossible he can ever propose,
and perhaps would not accept of any advantage from them.
A traveller is
always admitted into company, and meets with civility, in proportion as
his train and equipage speak him a man of great or moderate fortune. In
short, the different ranks of men are, in a great measure, regulated
by riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as inferiors,
strangers as well as acquaintance.
There is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn from the influence
of general rules. It may be pretended, that being accustomed to expect
succour and protection from the rich and powerful, and to esteem them
upon that account, we extend the same sentiments to those, who
resemble them in their fortune, but from whom we can never hope for any
advantage. The general rule still prevails, and by giving a bent to the
imagination draws along the passion, in the same manner as if its proper
object were real and existent.
But that this principle does not here take place, will easily appear,
if we consider, that in order to establish a general rule, and extend it
beyond its proper bounds, there is required a certain uniformity in
our experience, and a great superiority of those instances, which are
conformable to the rule, above the contrary. But here the case is quite
otherwise. Of a hundred men of credit and fortune I meet with, there
is not, perhaps, one from whom I can expect advantage; so that it is
impossible any custom can ever prevail in the present case.
Upon the whole, there remains nothing, which can give us an esteem for
power and riches, and a contempt for meanness and poverty, except the
principle of sympathy, by which we enter into the sentiments of the
rich and poor, and partake of their pleasure and uneasiness. Riches give
satisfaction to their possessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to
the beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea resembling
the original impression in force and vivacity. This agreeable idea or
impression is connected with love, which is an agreeable passion. It
proceeds from a thinking conscious being, which is the very object of
love. From this relation of impressions, and identity of ideas, the
passion arises, according to my hypothesis.
The best method of reconciling us to this opinion is to take a general
survey of the universe, and observe the force of sympathy through the
whole animal creation, and the easy communication of sentiments from one
thinking being to another. In all creatures, that prey not upon others,
and are not agitated with violent passions, there appears a remarkable
desire of company, which associates them together, without any
advantages they can ever propose to reap from their union. This is still
more conspicuous in man, as being the creature of the universe, who
has the most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by the most
advantages. We can form no wish, which has not a reference to society.
A perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can suffer.
Every pleasure languishes when enjoyed a-part from company, and every
pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. Whatever other passions we may
be actuated by; pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust;
the soul or animating principle of them all is sympathy; nor would
they have any force, were we to abstract entirely from the thoughts and
sentiments of others. Let all the powers and elements of nature conspire
to serve and obey one man: Let the sun rise and set at his command: The
sea and rivers roll as he pleases, and the earth furnish spontaneously
whatever may be useful or agreeable to him: He will still be miserable,
till you give him some one person at least, with whom he may share his
happiness, and whose esteem and friendship he may enjoy.
This conclusion from a general view of human nature, we may confirm by
particular instances, wherein the force of sympathy is very remarkable.
Most kinds of beauty are derived from this origin; and though our first
object be some senseless inanimate piece of matter, it is seldom we rest
there, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational
creatures. A man, who shews us any house or building, takes particular
care among other things to point out the convenience of the apartments,
the advantages of their situation, and the little room lost in the
stairs, antichambers and passages; and indeed it is evident, the chief
part of the beauty consists in these particulars. The observation of
convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a beauty. But after
what manner does it give pleasure? It is certain our own interest is
not in the least concerned; and as this is a beauty of interest, not of
form, so to speak, it must delight us merely by communication, and by
our sympathizing with the proprietor of the lodging. We enter into his
interest by the force of imagination, and feel the same satisfaction,
that the objects naturally occasion in him.
This observation extends to tables, chairs, scritoires, chimneys,
coaches, sadles, ploughs, and indeed to every work of art; it being an
universal rule, that their beauty is chiefly derived from their utility,
and from their fitness for that purpose, to which they are destined.
But this is an advantage, that concerns only the owner, nor is there any
thing but sympathy, which can interest the spectator.
It is evident, that nothing renders a field more agreeable than its
fertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament or situation will
be able to equal this beauty. It is the same case with particular trees
and plants, as with the field on which they grow. I know not but a
plain, overgrown with furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful
as a hill covered with vines or olive-trees; though it will never appear
so to one, who is acquainted with the value of each. But this is a
beauty merely of imagination, and has no foundation in what appears to
the senses. Fertility and value have a plain reference to use; and
that to riches, joy, and plenty; in which though we have no hope of
partaking, yet we enter into them by the vivacity of the fancy, and
share them, in some measure, with the proprietor.
There is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of ballancing the
figures, and placing them with the greatest exactness on their proper
centers of gravity. A figure, which is not justly ballanced, is
disagreeable; and that because it conveys the ideas of its fall, of
harm, and of pain: Which ideas are painful, when by sympathy they
acquire any degree of force and vivacity.
Add to this, that the principal part of personal beauty is an air
of health and vigour, and such a construction of members as promises
strength and activity. This idea of beauty cannot be accounted for but
by sympathy.
In general we may remark, that the minds of men are mirrors to one
another, not only because they reflect each others emotions, but also
because those rays of passions, sentiments and opinions may be often
reverberated, and may decay away by insensible degrees.
Thus the
pleasure, which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown
upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem; which sentiments again,
being perceived and sympathized with, encrease the pleasure of the
possessor; and being once more reflected, become a new foundation for
pleasure and esteem in the beholder. There is certainly an original
satisfaction in riches derived from that power, which they bestow, of
enjoying all the pleasures of life; and as this is their very nature and
essence, it must be the first source of all the passions, which arise
from them. One of the most considerable of these passions is that of
love or esteem in others, which therefore proceeds from a sympathy with
the pleasure of the possessor. But the possessor has also a secondary
satisfaction in riches arising from the love and esteem he acquires by
them, and this satisfaction is nothing but a second reflexion of
that original pleasure, which proceeded from himself.
This secondary
satisfaction or vanity becomes one of the principal recommendations
of riches, and is the chief reason, why we either desire them for
ourselves, or esteem them in others. Here then is a third rebound of the
original pleasure; after which it is difficult to distinguish the images
and reflexions, by reason of their faintness and confusion.
SECT. VI OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER
Ideas may be compared to the extension and solidity of matter, and
impressions, especially reflective ones, to colours, tastes, smells and
other sensible qualities. Ideas never admit of a total union, but are
endowed with a kind of impenetrability, by which they exclude each
other, and are capable of forming a compound by their conjunction,
not by their mixture. On the other hand, impressions and passions are
susceptible of an entire union; and like colours, may be blended so
perfectly together, that each of them may lose itself, and contribute
only to vary that uniform impression, which arises from the whole. Some
of the most curious phaenomena of the human mind are derived from this
property of the passions.
In examining those ingredients, which are capable of uniting with love
and hatred, I begin to be sensible, in some measure, of a misfortune,
that has attended every system of philosophy, with which the world has
been yet acquainted. It is commonly found, that in accounting for the
operations of nature by any particular hypothesis; among a number
of experiments, that quadrate exactly with the principles we would
endeavour to establish; there is always some phaenomenon, which is more
stubborn, and will not so easily bend to our purpose. We need not be
surprized, that this should happen in natural philosophy. The essence
and composition of external bodies are so obscure, that we must
necessarily, in our reasonings, or rather conjectures concerning
them, involve ourselves in contradictions and absurdities. But as
the perceptions of the mind are perfectly known, and I have used all
imaginable caution in forming conclusions concerning them, I have always
hoped to keep clear of those contradictions, which have attended every
other system. Accordingly the difficulty, which I have at present in
my eye, is nowise contrary to my system; but only departs a little from
that simplicity, which has been hitherto its principal force and beauty.
The passions of love and hatred are always followed by, or rather
conjoined with benevolence and anger. It is this conjunction, which
chiefly distinguishes these affections from pride and humility. For
pride and humility are pure emotions in the soul, unattended with any
desire, and not immediately exciting us to action. But love and hatred
are not compleated within themselves, nor rest in that emotion, which
they produce, but carry the mind to something farther.
Love is always
followed by a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an
aversion to his misery: As hatred produces a desire of the misery and
an aversion to the happiness of the person hated. So remarkable a
difference betwixt these two sets of passions of pride and humility,
love and hatred, which in so many other particulars correspond to each
other, merits our attention.
The conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and hatred may be
accounted for by two different hypotheses. The first is, that love and
hatred have not only a cause, which excites them, viz, pleasure and
pain; and an object, to which they are directed, viz, a person or
thinking being; but likewise an end, which they endeavour to attain,
viz, the happiness or misery of the person beloved or hated; all which
views, mixing together, make only one passion. According to this system,
love is nothing but the desire of happiness to another person, and
hatred that of misery. The desire and aversion constitute the very
nature of love and hatred. They are not only inseparable but the same.
But this is evidently contrary to experience. For though it is certain
we never love any person without desiring his happiness, nor hate any
without wishing his misery, yet these desires arise only upon the ideas
of the happiness or misery of our friend or enemy being presented by the
imagination, and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred. They
are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affections, but not
the only ones. The passions may express themselves in a hundred ways,
and may subsist a considerable time, without our reflecting on the
happiness or misery of their objects; which clearly proves, that these
desires are not the same with love and hatred, nor make any essential
part of them.
We may, therefore, infer, that benevolence and anger are passions
different from love and hatred, and only conjoined with them, by the
original constitution of the mind. As nature has given to the body
certain appetites and inclinations, which she encreases, diminishes,
or changes according to the situation of the fluids or solids; she
has proceeded in the same manner with the mind.
According as we are
possessed with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of the happiness
or misery of the person, who is the object of these passions, arises
in the mind, and varies with each variation of these opposite passions.
This order of things, abstractedly considered, is not necessary. Love
and hatred might have been unattended with any such desires, or their
particular connexion might have been entirely reversed.
If nature had
so pleased, love might have had the same effect as hatred, and hatred as
love. I see no contradiction in supposing a desire of producing misery
annexed to love, and of happiness to hatred. If the sensation of the
passion and desire be opposite, nature coued have altered the sensation
without altering the tendency of the desire, and by that means made them
compatible with each other.
SECT. VII OF COMPASSION
But though the desire of the happiness or misery of others, according to
the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary and original instinct
implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on many
occasions, and may arise from secondary principles. Pity is a concern
for, and malice a joy in the misery of others, without any friendship or
enmity to occasion this concern or joy. We pity even strangers, and
such as are perfectly indifferent to us: And if our ill-will to another
proceed from any harm or injury, it is not, properly speaking, malice,
but revenge. But if we examine these affections of pity and malice we
shall find them to be secondary ones, arising from original affections,
which are varied by some particular turn of thought and imagination.
It will be easy to explain the passion of pity, from the precedent
reasoning concerning sympathy. We have a lively idea of every thing
related to us. All human creatures are related to us by resemblance.
Their persons, therefore, their interests, their passions, their pains
and pleasures must strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an
emotion similar to the original one; since a lively idea is easily
converted into an impression. If this be true in general, it must be
more so of affliction and sorrow. These have always a stronger and more
lasting influence than any pleasure or enjoyment.
A spectator of a tragedy passes through a long train of grief, terror,
indignation, and other affections, which the poet represents in the
persons he introduces. As many tragedies end happily, and no excellent
one can be composed without some reverses of fortune, the spectator must
sympathize with all these changes, and receive the fictitious joy as
well as every other passion. Unless, therefore, it be asserted, that
every distinct passion is communicated by a distinct original
quality, and is not derived from the general principle of sympathy
above-explained, it must be allowed, that all of them arise from
that principle. To except any one in particular must appear highly
unreasonable. As they are all first present in the mind of one person,
and afterwards appear in the mind of another; and as the manner of their
appearance, first as an idea, then as an impression, is in every case
the same, the transition must arise from the same principle. I am
at least sure, that this method of reasoning would be considered as
certain, either in natural philosophy or common life.
Add to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on the contiguity,
and even sight of the object; which is a proof, that it is derived from
the imagination. Not to mention that women and children are most subject
to pity, as being most guided by that faculty. The same infirmity, which
makes them faint at the sight of a naked sword, though in the hands of
their best friend, makes them pity extremely those, whom they find in
any grief or affliction. Those philosophers, who derive this passion
from I know not what subtile reflections on the instability of fortune,
and our being liable to the same miseries we behold, will find this
observation contrary to them among a great many others, which it were
easy to produce.
There remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable phaenomenon
of this passion; which is, that the communicated passion of sympathy
sometimes acquires strength from the weakness of its original, and even
arises by a transition from affections, which have no existence.
Thus when a person obtains any honourable office, or inherits a great
fortune, we are always the more rejoiced for his prosperity, the
less sense he seems to have of it, and the greater equanimity and
indifference he shews in its enjoyment. In like manner a man, who is
not dejected by misfortunes, is the more lamented on account of his
patience; and if that virtue extends so far as utterly to remove all
sense of uneasiness, it still farther encreases our compassion. When a
person of merit falls into what is vulgarly esteemed a great misfortune,
we form a notion of his condition; and carrying our fancy from the cause
to the usual effect, first conceive a lively idea of his sorrow, and
then feel an impression of it, entirely over-looking that greatness of
mind, which elevates him above such emotions, or only considering it so
far as to encrease our admiration, love and tenderness for him. We find
from experience, that such a degree of passion is usually connected with
such a misfortune; and though there be an exception in the present
case, yet the imagination is affected by the general rule, and makes
us conceive a lively idea of the passion, or rather feel the passion
itself, in the same manner, as if the person were really actuated by it.
From the same principles we blush for the conduct of those, who behave
themselves foolishly before us; and that though they shew no sense of
shame, nor seem in the least conscious of their folly.
All this proceeds
from sympathy; but it is of a partial kind, and views its objects only
on one side, without considering the other, which has a contrary effect,
and would entirely destroy that emotion, which arises from the first
appearance.
We have also instances, wherein an indifference and insensibility under
misfortune encreases our concern for the misfortunate, even though
the indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity. It is an
aggravation of a murder, that it was committed upon persons asleep and
in perfect security; as historians readily observe of any infant prince,
who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is the more worthy
of compassion the less sensible he is of his miserable condition. As we
ourselves are here acquainted with the wretched situation of the person,
it gives us a lively idea and sensation of sorrow, which is the passion
that generally attends it; and this idea becomes still more lively,
and the sensation more violent by a contrast with that security and
indifference, which we observe in the person himself. A contrast of any
kind never fails to affect the imagination, especially when presented by
the subject; and it is on the imagination that pity entirely depends.
[Footnote 11. To prevent all ambiguity, I must observe,
that where I oppose the imagination to the memor