THE
PHILOSOPHICAL WORKS
OF
DAVID HUME.
INCLUDING ALL THE ESSAYS, AND EXHIBITING THE
MORE IMPORTANT ALTERATIONS AND CORRECTIONS
IN THE SUCCESSIVE EDITIONS PUBLISHED
BY THE AUTHOR.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED FOR ADAM BLACK AND WILLIAM TAIT;
AND CHARLES TAIT, 63, FLEET STREET,
LONDON.
MDCCCXXVI.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME SECOND.
TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE.
BOOK II.--OF THE PASSIONS.
PART I.
OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY.
Division of the Subject
Of Pride and Humility, their Objects and Causes
Whence these Objects and Causes are derived
Of the Relations of Impressions and Ideas
Of the Influence of these Relations on Pride and Humility
Limitations of this System
Of Vice and Virtue
Of Beauty and Deformity
Of external Advantages and Disadvantages
Of Property and Riches
Of the Love of Fame
Of Pride and Humility of Animals
PART II.
OF LOVE AND HATRED.
Of the Objects and Causes of Love and Hatred
Experiments to confirm this System
Difficulties solved
Of the Love of Relations
Of our Esteem for the Rich and Powerful
Of Benevolence and Anger
Of Compassion
Of Malice and Envy
Of the mixture of Benevolence and Anger with Compassion and Malice
Of Respect and Contempt
Of the Amorous Passion, or Love betwixt the Sexes
Of Love and Hatred of Animals
PART III.
OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS.
Of Liberty and Necessity
The Same subject continued
Of the Influencing Motives of the Will
Of the Causes of the Violent Passions
Of the Effects of Custom
Of the Influence of the Imagination on the Passions
Of Contiguity and Distance in Space and Time
The same Subject continued
Of the Direct Passions
Of Curiosity, or the Love of Truth
BOOK III.--OF MORALS.
PART I.
OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL.
Moral Distinctions not derived from Reason
Moral Distinctions derived from a Moral Sense
PART II.
OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE.
Justice, whether a natural or artificial Virtue?
Of the Origin of Justice and Property
Of the Rules which determine Property
Of the Transference of Property by Consent
Of the Obligation of Promises
Some farther Reflections concerning Justice and Injustice
Of the Origin of Government
Of the Source of Allegiance
Of the Measures of Allegiance
Of the Objects of Allegiance
Of the Laws of Nations
Of Chastity and Modesty
PART III.
OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES.
Of the Origin of the Natural Virtues and Vices
Of Greatness of Mind
Of Goodness and Benevolence
Of Natural Abilities
Some farther Reflections concerning the Natural Virtues
Conclusion of this Book
Dialogues concerning Natural Religion
Appendix to the Treatise of Human Nature
BOOK II.
OF THE PASSIONS
PART I.
OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY.
SECTION I.
DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT.
As all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into _impressions_
and _ideas_, so the impressions admit of another division into
_original_ and _secondary_. This division of the impressions is the
same with that which I formerly made use of[1] when I distinguished
them into impressions of _sensation_ and _reflection_. Original
impressions, or impressions of sensation, are such as, without any
antecedent perception, arise in the soul, from the constitution of the
body, from the animal spirits, or from the application of objects to
the external organs. Secondary, or reflective impressions, are such as
proceed from some of these original ones, either immediately, or by the
interposition of its idea. Of the first kind are all the impressions of
the senses, and all bodily pains and pleasures: of the second are the
passions, and other emotions resembling them.
'Tis certain that the mind, in its perceptions, must begin somewhere;
and that since the impressions precede their correspondent ideas, there
must be some impressions, which, without any introduction, make their
appearance in the soul. As these depend upon natural and physical
causes, the examination of them would lead me too far from my present
subject, into the sciences of anatomy and natural philosophy. For this
reason I shall here confine myself to those other impressions, which
I have called secondary and reflective, as arising either from the
original impressions, or from their ideas. Bodily pains and pleasures
are the source of many passions, both when felt and considered by the
mind; but arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you
please to call it, without any preceding thought or perception. A fit
of the gout produces a long train of passions, as grief, hope, fear;
but is not derived immediately from any affection or idea.
The reflective impressions may be divided into two kinds, viz. the
_calm_ and the _violent_. Of the first kind is the sense of beauty and
deformity in action, composition, and external objects. Of the second
are the passions of love and hatred, grief and joy, pride and humility.
This division is far from being exact. The raptures of poetry and music
frequently rise to the greatest height; while those other impressions,
properly called _passions_, may decay into so soft an emotion, as to
become in a manner imperceptible. But as, in general, the passions
are more violent than the emotions arising from beauty and deformity,
these impressions have been commonly distinguished from each other. The
subject of the human mind being so copious and various, I shall here
take advantage of this vulgar and specious division, that I may proceed
with the greater order; and, having said all I thought necessary
concerning our ideas, shall now explain those violent emotions or
passions, their nature, origin, causes and effects.
When we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a division of
them into _direct_ and _indirect_. By direct passions I understand
such as arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure.
By indirect, such as proceed from the same principles, but by the
conjunction of other qualities. This distinction I cannot at present
justify or explain any farther. I can only observe in general, that
under the indirect passions I comprehend pride, humility, ambition,
vanity, love, hatred, envy, pity, malice, generosity, with their
dependents. And under the direct passions, desire, aversion, grief,
joy, hope, fear, despair, and security. I shall begin with the former.
[1] Book I. Part I. Sect. 2.
SECTION II.
OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY, THEIR OBJECTS AND CAUSES.
The passions of _pride_ and _humility_ being simple and uniform
impressions, 'tis impossible we can ever, by a multitude of words,
give a just definition of them, or indeed of any of the passions. The
utmost we can pretend to is a description of them, by an enumeration
of such circumstances as attend them: but as these words, _pride_ and
_humility_, are of general use, and the impressions they represent the
most common of any, every one, of himself, will be able to form a just
idea of them, without any danger of mistake. For which reason, not
to lose time upon preliminaries, I shall immediately enter upon the
examination of these passions.
'Tis evident, that pride and humility, though directly contrary, have
yet the same _object_. This object is self, or that succession of
related ideas and impressions, of which we have an intimate memory
and consciousness. Here the view always fixes when we are actuated by
either of these passions. According as our idea of ourself is more or
less advantageous, we feel either of those opposite affections, and are
elated by pride, or dejected with humility. Whatever other objects may
be comprehended by the mind, they are always considered with a view to
ourselves; otherwise they would never be able either to excite these
passions, or produce the smallest increase or diminution of them. When
self enters not into the consideration, there is no room either for
pride or humility.
But though that connected succession of perceptions, which we call
_self_ be always the object of these two passions, 'tis impossible
it can be their _cause_, or be sufficient alone to excite them. For
as these passions are directly contrary, and have the same object in
common; were their object also their cause, it could never produce
any degree of the one passion, but at the same time it must excite
an equal degree of the other; which opposition and contrariety must
destroy both. 'Tis impossible a man can at the same time be both proud
and humble; and where he has different reasons for these passions, as
frequently happens, the passions either take place alternately, or, if
they encounter, the one annihilates the other, as far as its strength
goes, and the remainder only of that which is superior, continues to
operate upon the mind. But in the present case neither of the passions
could ever become superior; because, supposing it to be the view only
of ourself which excited them, that being perfectly indifferent to
either, must produce both in the very same proportion; or, in other
words, can produce neither. To excite any passion, and at the same time
raise an equal share of its antagonist, is immediately to undo what was
done, and must leave the mind at last perfectly calm and indifferent.
We must therefore make a distinction betwixt the cause and the object
of these passions; betwixt that idea which excites them, and that to
which they direct their view when excited. Pride and humility, being
once raised, immediately turn our attention to ourself, and regard that
as their ultimate and final object; but there is something farther
requisite in order to raise them: something, which is peculiar to
one of the passions, and produces not both in the very same degree.
The first idea that is presented to the mind is that of the cause or
productive principle. This excites the passion connected with it; and
that passion, when excited, turns our view to another idea, which is
that of self. Here then is a passion placed betwixt two ideas, of which
the one produces it, and the other is produced by it. The first idea
therefore represents the cause, the second the _object_ of the passion.
To begin with the causes of pride and humility; we may observe, that
their most obvious and remarkable property is the vast variety of
_subjects_ on which they may be placed. Every valuable quality of the
mind, whether of the imagination, judgment, memory or disposition;
wit, good sense, learning, courage, justice, integrity; all these are
the causes of pride, and their opposites of humility. Nor are these
passions confined to the mind, but extend their view to the body
likewise. A man may be proud of his beauty, strength, agility, good
mien, address in dancing, riding, fencing, and of his dexterity in
any manual business or manufacture. But this is not all. The passion,
looking farther, comprehends whatever objects are in the least allied
or related to us. Our country, family, children, relations, riches,
houses, gardens, horses, dogs, clothes; any of these may become a cause
either of pride or of humility.
From the consideration of these causes, it appears necessary we should
make a new distinction in the causes of the passion, betwixt that
_quality_ which operates, and the _subject_ on which it is placed. A
man, for instance, is vain of a beautiful house which belongs to him,
or which he has himself built and contrived. Here the object of the
passion is himself, and the cause is the beautiful house: which cause
again is subdivided into two parts, viz. the quality, which operates
upon the passion, and the subject, in which the quality inheres. The
quality is the beauty, and the subject is the house, considered as his
property or contrivance. Both these parts are essential, nor is the
distinction vain and chimerical. Beauty, considered merely as such,
unless placed upon something related to us, never produces any pride or
vanity; and the strongest relation alone, without beauty, or something
else in its place, has as little influence on that passion. Since,
therefore, these two particulars are easily separated, and there is a
necessity for their conjunction, in order to produce the passion, we
ought to consider them as component parts of the cause; and infix in
our minds an exact idea of this distinction.
SECTION III.
WHENCE THESE OBJECTS AND CAUSES ARE DERIVED.
Being so far advanced as to observe a difference betwixt the _object_
of the passions and their _cause_, and to distinguish in the cause the
_quality_, which operates on the passions, from the _subject_, in which
it inheres; we now proceed to examine what determines each of them to
be what it is, and assigns such a particular object and quality, and
subject to these affections. By this means we shall fully understand
the origin of pride and humility.
'Tis evident, in the first place, that these passions are determined
to have self for their _object_, not only by a natural, but also by an
original property. No one can doubt but this property is _natural_,
from the constancy and steadiness of its operations. 'Tis always self,
which is the object of pride and humility; and whenever the passions
look beyond, 'tis still with a view to ourselves; nor can any person or
object otherwise have any influence upon us.
That this proceeds from an _original_ quality or primary impulse, will
likewise appear evident, if we consider that 'tis the distinguishing
characteristic of these passions. Unless nature had given some original
qualities to the mind, it could never have any secondary ones; because
in that case it would have no foundation for action, nor could ever
begin to exert itself. Now these qualities, which we must consider as
original, are such as are most inseparable from the soul, and can be
resolved into no other: and such is the quality which determines the
object of pride and humility.
We may, perhaps, make it a greater question, whether the _causes_ that
produce the passion, be as _natural_ as the object to which it is
directed, and whether all that vast variety proceeds from caprice, or
from the constitution of the mind. This doubt we shall soon remove, if
we cast our eye upon human nature, and consider that, in all nations
and ages, the same objects still give rise to pride and humility; and
that upon the view even of a stranger, we can know pretty nearly what
will either increase or diminish his passions of this kind. If there
be any variation in this particular, it proceeds from nothing but a
difference in the tempers and complexions of men, and is, besides, very
inconsiderable. Can we imagine it possible, that while human nature
remains the same, men will ever become entirely indifferent to their
power, riches, beauty or personal merit, and that their pride and
vanity will not be affected by these advantages?
But though the causes of pride and humility be plainly _natural_, we
shall find, upon examination, that they are not _original_, and that
'tis utterly impossible they should each of them be adapted to these
passions by a particular provision and primary constitution of nature.
Beside their prodigious number, many of them are the effects of art,
and arise partly from the industry, partly from the caprice, and partly
from the good fortune of men. Industry produces houses, furniture,
clothes. Caprice determines their particular kinds and qualities. And
good fortune frequently contributes to all this, by discovering the
effects that result from the different mixtures and combinations
of bodies. 'Tis absurd therefore to imagine, that each of these was
foreseen and provided for by nature, and that every new production
of art, which causes pride or humility, instead of adapting itself
to the passion by partaking of some general quality that naturally
operates on the mind, is itself the object of an original principle,
which till then lay concealed in the soul, and is only by accident
at last brought to light. Thus the first mechanic that invented a
fine scrutoire, produced pride in him who became possessed of it, by
principles different from those which made him proud of handsome chairs
and tables. As this appears evidently ridiculous, we must conclude,
that each cause of pride and humility is not adapted to the passions
by a distinct original quality, but that there are some one or more
circumstances common to all of them, on which their efficacy depends.
Besides, we find in the course of nature, that though the effects be
many, the principles from which they arise are commonly but few and
simple, and that 'tis the sign of an unskilful naturalist to have
recourse to a different quality, in order to explain every different
operation. How much more must this be true with regard to the human
mind, which, being so confined a subject, may justly be thought
incapable of containing such a monstrous heap of principles, as would
be necessary to excite the passions of pride and humility, were each
distinct cause adapted to the passion by a distinct set of principles!
Here, therefore, moral philosophy is in the same condition as natural,
with regard to astronomy before the time of Copernicus. The ancients,
though sensible of that maxim, _that Nature does nothing in vain_,
contrived such intricate systems of the heavens, as seemed inconsistent
with true philosophy, and gave place at last to something more simple
and natural. To invent without scruple a new principle to every
new phenomenon, instead of adapting it to the old; to overload our
hypothesis with a variety of this kind, are certain proofs that none of
these principles is the just one, and that we only desire, by a number
of falsehoods, to cover our ignorance of the truth.
SECTION IV.
OF THE RELATIONS OF IMPRESSIONS AND IDEAS.
Thus we have established two truths without any obstacle or difficulty,
_that 'tis from natural principles this variety of causes excite
pride and humility_, and _that 'tis not by a different principle each
different cause is adapted to its passion_. We shall now proceed to
inquire how we may reduce these principles to a lesser number, and find
among the causes something common on which their influence depends.
In order to this, we must reflect on certain properties of human
nature, which, though they have a mighty influence on every operation
both of the understanding and passions, are not commonly much insisted
on by philosophers. The _first_ of these is the association of ideas,
which I have so often observed and explained. 'Tis impossible for the
mind to fix itself steadily upon one idea for any considerable time;
nor can it by its utmost efforts ever arrive at such a constancy. But
however changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without
rule and method in their changes. The rule by which they proceed, is to
pass from one object to what is resembling, contiguous to, or produced
by it. When one idea is present to the imagination, any other, united
by these relations naturally follows it, and enters with more facility
by means of that introduction.
The _second_ property I shall observe in the human mind is a like
association of impressions. All resembling impressions are connected
together, and no sooner one arises than the rest immediately follow.
Grief and disappointment give rise to anger, anger to envy, envy to
malice, and malice to grief again, till the whole circle be completed.
In like manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws
itself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other
resembling affections. 'Tis difficult for the mind, when actuated
by any passion, to confine itself to that passion alone, without
any change or variation. Human nature is too inconstant to admit of
any such regularity. Changeableness is essential to it. And to what
can it so naturally change as to affections or emotions, which are
suitable to the temper, and agree with that set of passions which
then prevail? 'Tis evident then there is an attraction or association
among impressions, as well as among ideas; though with this remarkable
difference, that ideas are associated by resemblance, contiguity, and
causation, and impressions only by resemblance.
In the _third_ place, 'tis observable of these two kinds of
association, that they very much assist and forward each other, and
that the transition is more easily made where they both concur in
the same object. Thus, a man who, by an injury from another, is very
much discomposed and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred
subjects of discontent, impatience, fear, and other uneasy passions,
especially if he can discover these subjects in or near the person who
was the cause of his first passion. Those principles which forward
the transition of ideas here concur with those which operate on the
passions; and both uniting in one action, bestow on the mind a double
impulse. The new passion, therefore, must arise with so much greater
violence, and the transition to it must be rendered so much more easy
and natural.
Upon this occasion I may cite the authority of an elegant writer, who
expresses himself in the following manner:--"As the fancy delights in
every thing that is great, strange or beautiful, and is still more
pleased the more it finds of these perfections in the _same_ object,
so it is capable of receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance of
another sense. Thus, any continued sound, as the music of birds or a
fall of waters, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and
makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the place that lie
before him. Thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes,
they heighten the pleasure of the imagination, and make even the
colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable; for the
ideas of both senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together
than when they enter the mind separately: as the different colours of a
picture, when they are well disposed, set off one another, and receive
an additional beauty from the advantage of the situation." In this
phenomenon we may remark the association both of impressions and ideas,
as well as the mutual assistance they lend each other.
SECTION V.
OF THE INFLUENCE OF THESE RELATIONS ON PRIDE AND HUMILITY.
These principles being established on unquestionable experience, I
begin to consider how we shall apply them, by revolving over all the
causes of pride and humility, whether these causes be regarded as the
qualities that operate, or as the subjects on which the qualities
are placed. In examining these _qualities_, I immediately find many
of them to concur in producing the sensation of pain and pleasure,
independent of those affections which I here endeavour to explain. Thus
the beauty of our person, of itself, and by its very appearance, gives
pleasure as well as pride; and its deformity, pain as well as humility.
A magnificent feast delights us, and a sordid one displeases. What I
discover to be true in some instances, I _suppose_ to be so in all,
and take it for granted at present, without any farther proof, that
every cause of pride, by its peculiar qualities, produces a separate
pleasure, and of humility a separate uneasiness.
Again, in considering the _subjects_, to which these qualities
adhere, I make a new _supposition_, which also appears probable from
many obvious instances, viz. that these subjects are either parts
of ourselves, or something nearly related to us. Thus the good and
bad qualities of our actions and manners constitute virtue and vice,
and determine our personal character, than which nothing operates
more strongly on these passions. In like manner, 'tis the beauty or
deformity of our person, houses, equipage, or furniture, by which
we are rendered either vain or humble. The same qualities, when
transferred to subjects, which bear us no relation, influence not in
the smallest degree either of these affections.
Having thus in a manner supposed two properties of the causes of
these affections, viz. that the _qualities_ produce a separate
pain or pleasure, and that the _subjects_, on which the qualities
are placed, are related to self; I proceed to examine the passions
themselves, in order to find something in them correspondent to the
supposed properties of their causes. _First_, I find, that the peculiar
object of pride and humility is determined by an original and natural
instinct, and that 'tis absolutely impossible, from the primary
constitution of the mind, that these passions should ever look beyond
self, or that individual person, of whose actions and sentiments each
of us is intimately conscious. Here at last the view always rests,
when we are actuated by either of these passions; nor can we, in that
situation of mind, ever lose sight of this object. For this I pretend
not to give any reason; but consider such a peculiar direction of the
thought as an original quality.
The _second_ quality which I discover in these passions, and which
I likewise consider as an original quality, is their sensations, or
the peculiar emotions they excite in the soul, and which constitute
their very being and essence. Thus, pride is a pleasant sensation, and
humility a painful; and upon the removal of the pleasure and pain,
there is in reality no pride nor humility. Of this our very feeling
convinces us; and beyond our feeling, 'tis here in vain to reason or
dispute.
If I compare therefore these two _established_ properties of the
passions, viz. their object, which is self, and their sensation, which
is either pleasant or painful, to the two _supposed_ properties of the
causes, viz. their relation to self, and their tendency to produce a
pain or pleasure independent of the passion; I immediately find, that
taking these suppositions to be just, the true system breaks in upon me
with an irresistible evidence. That cause, which excites the passion,
is related to the object, which nature has attributed to the passion;
the sensation, which the cause separately produces, is related to
the sensation of the passion: from this double relation of ideas and
impressions, the passion is derived. The one idea is easily converted
into its correlative; and the one impression into that which resembles
and corresponds to it: with how much greater facility must this
transition be made, where these movements mutually assist each other,
and the mind receives a double impulse from the relations both of its
impressions and ideas!
That we may comprehend this the better, we must suppose that nature
has given to the organs of the human mind a certain disposition fitted
to produce a peculiar impression or emotion, which we call _pride_:
to this emotion she has assigned a certain idea, viz. that of _self_,
which it never fails to produce. This contrivance of nature is easily
conceived. We have many instances of such a situation of affairs.
The nerves of the nose and palate are so disposed, as in certain
circumstances to convey such peculiar sensations to the mind: the
sensations of lust and hunger always produce in us the idea of those
peculiar objects, which are suitable to each appetite. These two
circumstances are united in pride. The organs are so disposed as to
produce the passion; and the passion, after its production, naturally
produces a certain idea. All this needs no proof. 'Tis evident we never
should be possessed of that passion, were there not a disposition of
mind proper for it; and 'tis as evident, that the passion always turns
our view to ourselves, and makes us think of our own qualities and
circumstances.
This being fully comprehended, it may now be asked, _Whether nature
produces the passion immediately of herself, or whether she must be
assisted by the cooperation of other causes_? For 'tis observable,
that in this particular her conduct is different in the different
passions and sensations. The palate must be excited by an external
object, in order to produce any relish: but hunger arises internally,
without the concurrence of any external object. But however the case
may stand with other passions and impressions, 'tis certain that pride
requires the assistance of some foreign object, and that the organs
which produce it exert not themselves like the heart and arteries, by
an original internal movement. For, _first_, daily experience convinces
us, that pride requires certain causes to excite it, and languishes
when unsupported by some excellency in the character, in bodily
accomplishments, in clothes, equipage, or fortune. _Secondly_, 'tis
evident pride would be perpetual if it arose immediately from nature,
since the object is always the same, and there is no disposition of
body peculiar to pride, as there is to thirst and hunger. _Thirdly_,
humility is in the very same situation with pride; and therefore either
must, upon this supposition, be perpetual likewise, or must destroy the
contrary passion from the very first moment; so that none of them could
ever make its appearance. Upon the whole, we may rest satisfied with
the foregoing conclusion, that pride must have a cause as well as an
object, and that the one has no influence without the other.
The difficulty, then, is only to discover this cause, and find what
it is that gives the first motion to pride, and sets those organs
in action which are naturally fitted to produce that emotion. Upon
my consulting experience, in order to resolve this difficulty, I
immediately find a hundred different causes that produce pride; and
upon examining these causes, I suppose, what at first I perceive to
be probable, that all of them concur in two circumstances, which are,
that of themselves they produce an impression allied to the passion,
and are placed on a subject allied to the object of the passion. When I
consider after this the nature of _relation_, and its effects both on
the passions and ideas, I can no longer doubt upon these suppositions,
that 'tis the very principle which gives rise to pride, and bestows
motion on those organs, which, being naturally disposed to produce that
affection, require only a first impulse or beginning to their action.
Any thing that gives a pleasant sensation, and is related to self,
excites the passion of pride, which is also agreeable, and has self for
its object.
What I have said of pride is equally true of humility. The sensation
of humility is uneasy, as that of pride is agreeable; for which reason
the separate sensation arising from the causes must be reversed, while
the relation to self continues the same. Though pride and humility
are directly contrary in their effects and in their sensations, they
have notwithstanding the same object; so that 'tis requisite only to
change the relation of impressions without making any change upon that
of ideas. Accordingly we find, that a beautiful house belonging to
ourselves produces pride; and that the same house, still belonging
to ourselves, produces humility, when by any accident its beauty is
changed into deformity, and thereby the sensation of pleasure, which
corresponded to pride, is transformed into pain, which is related
to humility. The double relation between the ideas and impressions
subsists in both cases, and produces an easy transition from the one
emotion to the other.
In a word, nature has bestowed a kind of attraction on certain
impressions and ideas, by which one of them, upon its appearance,
naturally introduces its correlative. If these two attractions or
associations of impressions and ideas concur on the same object, they
mutually assist each other, and the transition of the affections and
of the imagination is made with the greatest ease and facility. When
an idea produces an impression, related to an impression, which is
connected with an idea related to the first idea, these two impressions
must be in a manner inseparable, nor will the one in any case be
unattended with the other. 'Tis after this manner that the particular
causes of pride and humility are determined. The quality which operates
on the passion produces separately an impression resembling it; the
subject to which the quality adheres is related to self, the object of
the passion: no wonder the whole cause, consisting of a quality and of
a subject, does so unavoidably give rise to the passion.
To illustrate this hypothesis, we may compare it to that by which I
have already explained the belief attending the judgments which we
form from causation. I have observed, that in all judgments of this
kind, there is always a present impression and a related idea; and
that the present impression gives a vivacity to the fancy, and the
relation conveys this vivacity, by an easy transition, to the related
idea. Without the present impression, the attention is not fixed, nor
the spirits excited. Without the relation, this attention rests on
its first object, and has no farther consequence. There is evidently
a great analogy betwixt that hypothesis, and our present one of an
impression and idea, that transfuse themselves into another impression
and idea by means of their double relation: which analogy must be
allowed to be no despicable proof of both hypotheses.
SECTION VI.
LIMITATIONS OF THIS SYSTEM.
But before we proceed farther in this subject, and examine particularly
all the causes of pride and humility, 'twill be proper to make some
limitations to the general system, _that all agreeable objects, related
to ourselves by an association of ideas and of impressions, produce
pride, and disagreeable ones, humility_: and these limitations are
derived from the very nature of the subject.
I. Suppose an agreeable object to acquire a relation to self, the
first passion that appears on this occasion is joy; and this passion
discovers itself upon a slighter relation than pride and vain-glory.
We may feel joy upon being present at a feast, where our senses are
regaled with delicacies of every kind: but 'tis only the master of
the feast, who, beside the same joy, has the additional passion of
self-applause and vanity. 'Tis true, men sometimes boast of a great
entertainment, at which they have only been present; and by so small
a relation convert their pleasure into pride: but however this must in
general be owned, that joy arises from a more inconsiderable relation
than vanity, and that many things, which are too foreign to produce
pride, are yet able to give us a delight and pleasure. The reason
of the difference may be explained thus. A relation is requisite to
joy, in order to approach the object to us, and make it give us any
satisfaction. But beside this, which is common to both passions,
'tis requisite to pride, in order to produce a transition from one
passion to another, and convert the satisfaction into vanity. As it
has a double task to perform, it must be endowed with double force and
energy. To which we may add, that where agreeable objects bear not
a very close relation to ourselves, they commonly do to some other
person; and this latter relation not only excels, but even diminishes,
and sometimes destroys the former, as we shall see afterwards.[2]
Here then is the first limitation we must make to our general position,
_that every thing related to us, which produces pleasure or pain,
produces likewise pride or humility_. There is not only a relation
required, but a close one, and a closer than is required to joy.
II. The second limitation is, that the agreeable or disagreeable
object be not only closely related, but also peculiar to ourselves, or
at least common to us with a few persons. 'Tis a quality observable
in human nature, and which we shall endeavour to explain afterwards,
that every thing, which is often presented, and to which we have been
long accustomed, loses its value in our eyes, and is in a little
time despised and neglected. We likewise judge of objects more from
comparison than from their real and intrinsic merit; and where we
cannot by some contrast enhance their value, we are apt to overlook
even what is essentially good in them. These qualities of the mind have
an effect upon joy as well as pride; and 'tis remarkable, that goods,
which are common to all mankind, and have become familiar to us by
custom, give us little satisfaction, though perhaps of a more excellent
kind than those on which, for their singularity, we set a much higher
value. But though this circumstance operates on both these passions, it
has a much greater influence on vanity. We are rejoiced for many goods,
which, on account of their frequency, give us no pride. Health, when it
returns after a long absence, affords us a very sensible satisfaction;
but is seldom regarded as a subject of vanity, because 'tis shared with
such vast numbers.
The reason why pride is so much more delicate in this particular than
joy, I take to be as follows. In order to excite pride, there are
always two objects we must contemplate, viz. the _cause_, or that
object which produces pleasure; and self, which is the real object of
the passion. But joy has only one object necessary to its production,
viz. that which gives pleasure; and though it be requisite that this
bear some relation to self, yet that is only requisite in order to
render it agreeable; nor is self, properly speaking, the object of
this passion. Since, therefore, pride has, in a manner, two objects to
which it directs our view, it follows, that where neither of them have
any singularity, the passion must be more weakened upon that account
than a passion which has only one object. Upon comparing ourselves
with others, as we are every moment apt to do, we find we are not in
the least distinguished; and, upon comparing the object we possess, we
discover still the same unlucky circumstance. By two comparisons so
disadvantageous, the passion must be entirely destroyed.
III. The third limitation is, that the pleasant or painful object be
very discernible and obvious, and that not only to ourselves but to
others also. This circumstance, like the two foregoing, has an effect
upon joy as well as pride. We fancy ourselves more happy, as well as
more virtuous or beautiful, when we appear so to others; but are still
more ostentatious of our virtues than of our pleasures. This proceeds
from causes which I shall endeavour to explain afterwards.
IV. The fourth limitation is derived from the inconstancy of the cause
of these passions, and from the short duration of its connexion with
ourselves. What is casual and inconstant gives but little joy, and less
pride. We are not much satisfied with the thing itself; and are still
less apt to feel any new degrees of self-satisfaction upon its account.
We foresee and anticipate its change by the imagination, which makes
us little satisfied with the thing: we compare it to ourselves, whose
existence is more durable, by which means its inconstancy appears still
greater. It seems ridiculous to infer an excellency in ourselves from
an object which is of so much shorter duration, and attends us during
so small a part of our existence. 'Twill be easy to comprehend the
reason why this cause operates not with the same force in joy as in
pride; since the idea of self is not so essential to the former passion
as to the latter.
V. I may add, as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement of this
system, that _general rules_ have a great influence upon pride and
humility, as well as on all the other passions. Hence we form a notion
of different ranks of men, suitable to the power or riches they are
possessed of; and this notion we change not upon account of any
peculiarities of the health or temper of the persons, which may deprive
them of all enjoyment in their possessions. This may be accounted for
from the same principles that explained the influence of general rules
on the understanding. Custom readily carries us beyond the just bounds
in our passions as well as in our reasonings.
It may not be amiss to observe on this occasion, that the influence
of general rules and maxims on the passions very much contributes to
facilitate the effects of all the principles, which we shall explain
in the progress of this Treatise. For 'tis evident, that if a person,
full grown, and of the same nature with ourselves, were on a sudden
transported into our world, he would be very much embarrassed with
every object, and would not readily find what degree of love or hatred,
pride or humility, or any other passion he ought to attribute to it.
The passions are often varied by very inconsiderable principles; and
these do not always play with a perfect regularity, especially on the
first trial. But as custom and practice have brought to light all
these principles, and have settled the just value of every thing; this
must certainly contribute to the easy production of the passions, and
guide us, by means of general established maxims, in the proportions
we ought to observe in preferring one object to another. This remark
may, perhaps, serve to obviate difficulties that may arise concerning
some causes which I shall hereafter ascribe to particular passions,
and which may be esteemed too refined to operate so universally and
certainly as they are found to do. I shall close this subject with a
reflection derived from these five limitations. This reflection is,
that the persons who are proudest, and who, in the eye of the world,
have most reason for their pride, are not always the happiest; nor
the most humble always the most miserable, as may at first sight be
imagined from this system. An evil may be real, though its cause has
no relation to us: it may be real, without being peculiar: it may be
real without showing itself to others: it may be real, without being
constant: and it may be real, without falling under the general rules.
Such evils as these will not fail to render us miserable, though they
have little tendency to diminish pride: and perhaps the most real and
the most solid evils of life will be found of this nature.
[2] Part. II. Sect. 4.
SECTION VII.
OF VICE AND VIRTUE.
Taking these limitations along with us, let us proceed to examine the
causes of pride and humility, and see whether in every case we can
discover the double relations by which they operate on the passions.
If we find that all these causes are related to self, and produce a
pleasure or uneasiness separate from the passion, there will remain no
farther scruple with regard to the present system. We shall principally
endeavour to prove the latter point, the former being in a manner
self-evident.
To begin with _vice_ and _virtue_, which are the most obvious causes
of these passions, 'twould be entirely foreign to my present purpose
to enter upon the controversy, which of late years has so much excited
the curiosity of the public, _whether these moral distinctions be
founded on natural and original principles, or arise from interest
and education_. The examination of this I reserve for the following
book; and, in the mean time, shall endeavour to show, that my system
maintains its ground upon either of these hypotheses, which will be a
strong proof of its solidity.
For, granting that morality had no foundation in nature, it must still
be allowed, that vice and virtue, either from self-interest or the
prejudices of education, produce in us a real pain and pleasure; and
this we may observe to be strenuously asserted by the defenders of
that hypothesis. Every passion, habit, or turn of character (say they)
which has a tendency to our advantage or prejudice, gives a delight
or uneasiness; and 'tis from thence the approbation or disapprobation
arises. We easily gain from the liberality of others, but are always in
danger of losing by their avarice: courage defends us, but cowardice
lays us open to every attack: justice is the support of society, but
injustice, unless checked, would quickly prove its ruin: humility
exalts, but pride mortifies us. For these reasons the former qualities
are esteemed virtues, and the latter regarded as vices. Now, since
'tis granted there is a delight or uneasiness still attending merit or
demerit of every kind, this is all that is requisite for my purpose.
But I go farther, and observe, that this moral hypothesis and my
present system not only agree together, but also that, allowing the
former to be just, 'tis an absolute and invincible proof of the latter.
For if all morality be founded on the pain or pleasure which arises
from the prospect of any loss or advantage that may result from our own
characters, or from those of others, all the effects of morality must
be derived from the same pain or pleasure, and, among the rest, the
passions of pride and humility. The very essence of virtue, according
to this hypothesis, is to produce pleasure, and that of vice to give
pain. The virtue and vice must be part of our character, in order to
excite pride or humility. What farther proof can we desire for the
double relation of impressions and ideas?
The same unquestionable argument may be derived from the opinion
of those who maintain that morality is something real, essential,
and founded on nature. The most probable hypothesis, which has been
advanced to explain the distinction betwixt vice and virtue, and
the origin of moral rights and obligations, is, that from a primary
constitution of nature, certain characters and passions, by the very
view and contemplation, produce a pain, and others in like manner
excite a pleasure. The uneasiness and satisfaction are not only
inseparable from vice and virtue, but constitute their very nature and
essence. To approve of a character is to feel an original delight upon
its appearance. To disapprove of it is to be sensible of an uneasiness.
The pain and pleasure therefore being the primary causes of vice and
virtue, must also be the causes of all their effects, and consequently
of pride and humility, which are the unavoidable attendants of that
distinction.
But, supposing this hypothesis of moral philosophy should be allowed to
be false, 'tis still evident that pain and pleasure, if not the causes
of vice and virtue, are at least inseparable from them. A generous and
noble character affords a satisfaction even in the survey; and when
presented to us, though only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm
and delight us. On the other hand, cruelty and treachery displease
from their very nature; nor is it possible ever to reconcile us to
these qualities, either in ourselves or others. Thus, one hypothesis of
morality is an undeniable proof of the foregoing system, and the other
at worst agrees with it.
But pride and humility arise not from these qualities alone of the
mind, which, according to the vulgar systems of ethicks, have been
comprehended as parts of moral duty, but from any other that has a
connexion with pleasure and uneasiness. Nothing flatters our vanity
more than the talent of pleasing by our wit, good humour, or any other
accomplishment; and nothing gives us a more sensible mortification than
a disappointment in any attempt of that nature. No one has ever been
able to tell what _wit_ is, and to show why such a system of thought
must be received under that denomination, and such another rejected.
'Tis only by taste we can decide concerning it, nor are we possessed
of any other standard, upon which we can form a judgment of this kind.
Now, what is this _taste_, from which true and false wit in a manner
receive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to
either of these denominations? 'Tis plainly nothing but a sensation of
pleasure from true wit, and of uneasiness from false, without our being
able to tell the reasons of that pleasure or uneasiness. The power of
bestowing these opposite sensations is, therefore, the very essence
of true and false wit, and consequently the cause of that pride or
humility which arises from them.
There may perhaps be some, who, being accustomed to the style of the
schools and pulpit, and having never considered human nature in any
other light, than that in which _they_ place it, may here be surprised
to hear me talk of virtue as exciting pride, which they look upon as a
vice; and of vice as producing humility, which they have been taught
to consider as a virtue. But not to dispute about words, I observe,
that by _pride_ I understand that agreeable impression, which arises in
the mind, when the view either of our virtue, beauty, riches or power,
makes us satisfied with ourselves; and that by _humility_ I mean the
opposite impression. 'Tis evident the former impression is not always
vicious, nor the latter virtuous. The most rigid morality allows us
to receive a pleasure from reflecting on a generous action; and 'tis
by none esteemed a virtue to feel any fruitless remorses upon the
thoughts of past villany and baseness. Let us, therefore, examine these
impressions, considered in themselves; and inquire into their causes,
whether placed on the mind or body, without troubling ourselves at
present with that merit or blame, which may attend them.
SECTION VIII.
OF BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY.
Whether we consider the body as a part of ourselves, or assent to those
philosophers, who regard it as something external, it must still be
allowed to be near enough connected with us to form one of these double
relations, which I have asserted to be necessary to the causes of
pride and humility. Wherever, therefore, we can find the other relation
of impressions to join to this of ideas, we may expect with assurance
either of these passions, according as the impression is pleasant or
uneasy. But _beauty_ of all kinds gives us a peculiar delight and
satisfaction; as _deformity_ produces pain, upon whatever subject it
may be placed, and whether surveyed in an animate or inanimate object.
If the beauty or deformity, therefore, be placed upon our own bodies,
this pleasure or uneasiness must be converted into pride or humility,
as having in this case all the circumstances requisite to produce a
perfect transition of impressions and ideas. These opposite sensations
are related to the opposite passions. The beauty or deformity is
closely related to self, the object of both these passions. No wonder,
then, our own beauty becomes an object of pride, and deformity of
humility.
But this effect of personal and bodily qualities is not only a proof
of the present system, by showing that the passions arise not in
this case without all the circumstances I have required, but may be
employed as a stronger and more convincing argument. If we consider
all the hypotheses which have been formed either by philosophy
or common reason, to explain the difference betwixt beauty and
deformity, we shall find that all of them resolve into this, that
beauty is such an order and construction of parts, as, either by the
_primary constitution_ of our nature, by _custom_, or by _caprice_,
is fitted to give a pleasure and satisfaction to the soul. This is
the distinguishing character of beauty, and forms all the difference
betwixt it and deformity, whose natural tendency is to produce
uneasiness. Pleasure and pain, therefore, are not only necessary
attendants of beauty and deformity, but constitute their very essence.
And, indeed, if we consider that a great part of the beauty which we
admire either in animals or in other objects is derived from the idea
of convenience and utility, we shall make no scruple to assent to
this opinion. That shape which produces strength is beautiful in one
animal; and that which is a sign of agility, in another. The order and
convenience of a palace are no less essential to its beauty than its
mere figure and appearance. In like manner the rules of architecture
require, that the top of a pillar should be more slender than its base,
and that because such a figure conveys to us the idea of security,
which is pleasant; whereas the contrary form gives us the apprehension
of danger, which is uneasy. From innumerable instances of this kind,
as well as from considering that beauty, like wit, cannot be defined,
but is discerned only by a taste or sensation, we may conclude that
beauty is nothing but a form, which produces pleasure, as deformity
is a structure of parts which conveys pain; and since the power of
producing pain and pleasure make in this manner the essence of beauty
and deformity, all the effects of these qualities must be derived from
the sensation; and among the rest pride and humility, which of all
their effects are the most common and remarkable.
This argument I esteem just and decisive; but in order to give greater
authority to the present reasoning, let us suppose it false for a
moment, and see what will follow. 'Tis certain, then, that if the power
of producing pleasure and pain forms not the essence of beauty and
deformity, the sensations are at least inseparable from the qualities,
and 'tis even difficult to consider them apart. Now, there is nothing
common to natural and moral beauty (both of which are the causes of
pride), but this power of producing pleasure; and as a common effect
always supposes a common cause, 'tis plain that pleasure must in both
cases be the real and influencing cause of the passion. Again, there
is nothing originally different betwixt the beauty of our bodies and
the beauty of external and foreign objects, but that the one has
a near relation to ourselves, which is waiting in the other. This
original difference, therefore, must be the cause of all their other
differences, and, among the rest, of their different influence upon the
passion of pride, which is excited by the beauty of our person, but
is not affected in the least by that of foreign and external objects.
Placing then these two conclusions together, we find they compose the
preceding system betwixt them, viz. that pleasure, as a related or
resembling impression, when placed on a related object, by a natural
transition produces pride, and its contrary, humility. This system,
then, seems already sufficiently confirmed by experience, though we
have not yet exhausted all our arguments.
'Tis not the beauty of the body alone that produces pride, but also
its strength and force. Strength is a kind of power, and therefore
the desire to excel in strength is to be considered as an inferior
species of _ambition_. For this reason the present phenomenon will be
sufficiently accounted for in explaining that passion.
Concerning all other bodily accomplishments, we may observe, in
general, that whatever in ourselves is either useful, beautiful or
surprising, is an object of pride, and its contrary of humility. Now,
'tis obvious that every thing useful, beautiful or surprising, agrees
in producing a separate pleasure, and agrees in nothing else. The
pleasure, therefore, with relation to self, must be the cause of the
passion.
Though it should not be questioned whether beauty be not something
real, and different from the power of producing pleasure, it can never
be disputed, that, as surprise is nothing but a pleasure arising from
novelty, it is not, properly speaking, a quality in any object, but
merely a passion or impression in the soul. It must therefore be from
that impression that pride by a natural transition arises. And it
arises so naturally, that there is nothing _in us, or belonging to us_,
which produces surprise, that does not at the same time excite that
other passion. Thus, we are vain of the surprising adventures we have
met with, the escapes we have made, and dangers we have been exposed
to. Hence the origin of vulgar lying; where men, without any interest,
and merely out of vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events,
which are either the fictions of their brain, or, if true, have at
least no connexion with themselves. Their fruitful invention supplies
them with a variety of adventures; and where that talent is wanting,
they appropriate such as belong to others, in order to satisfy their
vanity.
In this phenomenon are contained two curious experiments, which, if
we compare them together, according to the known rules, by which we
judge of cause and effect in anatomy, natural philosophy, and other
sciences, will be an undeniable argument for that influence of the
double relations above-mentioned. By one of these experiments we find,
that an object produces pride merely by the interposition of pleasure;
and that because the quality by which it produces pride, is in reality
nothing but the power of producing pleasure. By the other experiment
we find, that the pleasure produces the pride by a transition along
related ideas; because when we cut off that relation, the passion is
immediately destroyed. A surprising adventure, in which we have been
ourselves engaged, is related to us, and by that means produces pride:
but the adventures of others, though they may cause pleasure, yet, for
want of this relation of ideas, never excite that passion. What farther
proof can be desired for the present system?
There is only one objection to this system with regard to our body;
which is, that though nothing be more agreeable than health, and more
painful than sickness, yet commonly men are neither proud of the one,
nor mortified with the other. This will easily be accounted for, if
we consider the _second_ and _fourth_ limitations, proposed to our
general system. It was observed, that no object ever produces pride or
humility, if it has not something _peculiar_ to ourself; as also, that
every cause of that passion must be in some measure _constant_, and
hold some proportion to the duration of ourself, which is its object.
Now, as health and sickness vary incessantly to all men, and there is
none who is _solely_ or _certainly_ fixed in either, these accidental
blessings and calamities are in a manner separated from us, and are
never considered as connected with our being and existence. And that
this account is just, appears hence, that wherever a malady of any kind
is so rooted in our constitution that we no longer entertain any hopes
of recovery, from that moment it becomes an object of humility; as is
evident in old men, whom nothing mortifies more than the consideration
of their age and infirmities. They endeavour, as long as possible, to
conceal their blindness and deafness, their rheums and gout; nor do
they ever confess them without reluctance and uneasiness. And though
young men are not ashamed of every headache or cold they fall into, yet
no topic is so proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a
mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every moment of our
lives subject to such infirmities. This sufficiently proves that bodily
pain and sickness are in themselves proper causes of humility; though
the custom of estimating every thing by comparison more than by its
intrinsic worth and value, makes us overlook these calamities, which we
find to be incident to every one, and causes us to form an idea of our
merit and character independent of them.
We are ashamed of such maladies as affect others, and are either
dangerous or disagreeable to them. Of the epilepsy, because it gives
a horror to every one present; of the itch, because it is infectious;
of the king's evil, because it commonly goes to posterity. Men always
consider the sentiments of others in their judgment of themselves. This
has evidently appeared in some of the foregoing reasonings, and will
appear still more evidently, and be more fully explained afterwards.
SECTION IX.
OF EXTERNAL ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES.
But though pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body,
that is _self_, for their natural and more immediate causes, we find
by experience that there are many other objects which produce these
affections, and that the primary one is, in some measure, obscured
and lost by the multiplicity of foreign and extrinsic. We round a
vanity upon houses, gardens, equipages, as well as upon personal
merit and accomplishments; and though these external advantages be
in themselves widely distant from thought or a person, yet they
considerably influence even a passion, which is directed to that as
its ultimate object. This happens when external objects acquire any
particular relation to ourselves, and are associated or connected with
us. A beautiful fish in the ocean, an animal in a desart, and indeed
any thing that neither belongs, nor is related to us, has no manner of
influence on our vanity, whatever extraordinary qualities it may be
endowed with, and whatever degree of surprise and admiration it may
naturally occasion. It must be some way associated with us in order to
touch our pride. Its idea must hang in a manner upon that of ourselves;
and the transition from the one to the other must be easy and natural.
But here 'tis remarkable, that though the relation of _resemblance_
operates upon the mind in the same manner as contiguity and causation,
in conveying us from one idea to another, yet 'tis seldom a foundation
either of pride or of humility. If we resemble a person in any of the
valuable parts of his character, we must, in some degree, possess the
quality in which we resemble him; and this quality we always choose
to survey directly in ourselves, rather than by reflection in another
person, when we would found upon it any degree of vanity. So that
though a likeness may occasionally produce that passion, by suggesting
a more advantageous idea of ourselves, 'tis there the view, fixes at
last, and the passion finds its ultimate and final cause.
There are instances, indeed, wherein men show a vanity in resembling
a great man in his countenance, shape, air, or other minute
circumstances, that contribute not in any degree to his reputation;
but it must be confessed, that this extends not very far, nor is of
any considerable moment in these affections. For this I assign the
following reason. We can never have a vanity of resembling in trifles
any person, unless he be possessed of very shining qualities, which
give us a respect and veneration for him. These qualities, then, are,
properly speaking, the causes of our vanity, by means of their relation
to ourselves. Now, after what manner are they related to ourselves?
They are parts of the person we value, and, consequently, connected
with these trifles; which are also supposed to be parts of him. These
trifles are connected with the resembling qualities in us; and these
qualities in us, being parts, are connected with the whole; and, by
that means, form a chain of several links betwixt ourselves and the
shining qualities of the person we resemble. But, besides that this
multitude of relations must weaken the connexion, 'tis evident the
mind, in passing from the shining qualities to the trivial ones, must,
by that contrast, the better perceive the minuteness of the latter, and
be, in some measure, ashamed of the comparison and resemblance.
The relation, therefore, of contiguity, or that of causation, betwixt
the cause and object of pride and humility, is alone requisite to
give rise to these passions; and these relations are nothing else
but qualities, by which the imagination is conveyed from one idea to
another. Now, let us consider what effect these can possibly have upon
the mind, and by what means they become so requisite to the production
of the passions. 'Tis evident, that the association of ideas operates
in so silent and imperceptible a manner, that we are scarce sensible
of it, and discover it more by its effects than by any immediate
feeling or perception. It produces no emotion, and gives rise to no
new impression of any kind, but only modifies those ideas of which the
mind was formerly possessed, and which it could recal upon occasion.
From this reasoning, as well as from undoubted experience, we may
conclude, that an association of ideas, however necessary, is not alone
sufficient to give rise to any passion.
'Tis evident, then, that when the mind feels the passion, either of
pride or humility, upon the appearance of a related object, there
is, beside the relation or transition of thought, an emotion, or
original impression, produced by some other principle. The question
is, whether the emotion first produced be the passion itself, or some
other impression related to it. This question we cannot be long in
deciding. For, besides all the other arguments with which this subject
abounds, it must evidently appear, that the relation of ideas, which
experience shows to be so requisite a circumstance to the production
of the passion, would be entirely superfluous, were it not to second
a relation of affections, and facilitate the transition from one
impression to another. If nature produced immediately the passion
of pride or humility, it would be completed in itself, and would
require no farther addition or increase from any other affection. But,
supposing the first emotion to be only related to pride or humility,
'tis easily conceived to what purpose the relation of objects may
serve, and how the two different associations of impressions and ideas,
by uniting their forces, may assist each other's operation. This is not
only easily conceived, but, I will venture to affirm, 'tis the only
manner in which we can conceive this subject. An easy transition of
ideas, which, of itself, causes no emotion, can never be necessary, or
even useful to the passions, but by forwarding the transition betwixt
some related impressions. Not to mention that the same object causes
a greater or smaller degree of pride, not only in proportion to the
increase or decrease of its qualities, but also to the distance or
nearness of the relation, which is a clear argument for the transition
of affections along the relation of ideas, since every change in the
relation produces a proportionable change in the passion. Thus one
part of the preceding system, concerning the relations of ideas, is a
sufficient proof of the other, concerning that of impressions; and is
itself so evidently founded on experience, that 'twould be lost time to
endeavour farther to prove it.
This will appear still more evidently in particular instances. Men are
vain of the beauty of their country, of their county, of their parish.
Here the idea of beauty plainly produces a pleasure. This pleasure
is related to pride. The object or cause of this pleasure is, by the
supposition, related to self, or the object of pride. By this double
relation of impressions and ideas, a transition is made from the one
impression to the other.
Men are also vain of the temperature of the climate in which they were
born; of the fertility of their native soil; of the goodness of the
wines, fruits, or victuals, produced by it; of the softness or force of
their language, with other particulars of that kind. These objects have
plainly a reference to the pleasures of the senses, and are originally
considered as agreeable to the feeling, taste, or hearing. How is it
possible they could ever become objects of pride, except by means of
that transition above explained?
There are some that discover a vanity of an opposite kind, and affect
to depreciate their own country, in comparison of those to which
they have travelled. These persons find, when they are at home, and
surrounded with their countrymen, that the strong relation betwixt them
and their own nation is shared with so many, that 'tis in a manner lost
to them; whereas their distant relation to a foreign country, which is
formed by their having seen it and lived in it, is augmented by their
considering how few there are who have done the same. For this reason
they always admire the beauty, utility, and rarity of what is abroad,
above what is at home.
Since we can be vain of a country, climate, or any inanimate object
which bears a relation to us, 'tis no wonder we are vain of the
qualities of those who are connected with us by blood or friendship.
Accordingly we find, that the very same qualities, which in ourselves
produce pride, produce also, in a lesser degree, the same affection
when discovered in persons related to us. The beauty, address, merit,
credit, and honours of their kindred, are carefully displayed by the
proud, as some of their most considerable sources of their vanity.
As we are proud of riches in ourselves, so, to satisfy our vanity, we
desire that every one, who has any connexion with us, should likewise
be possessed of them, and are ashamed of any one that is mean or poor
among our friends and relations. For this reason we remove the poor
as far from us as possible; and as we cannot prevent poverty in some
distant collaterals, and our forefathers are taken to be our nearest
relations, upon this account every one affects to be of a good family,
and to be descended from a long succession of rich and honourable
ancestors.
I have frequently observed, that those who boast of the antiquity
of their families, are glad when they can join this circumstance,
that their ancestors for many generations have been uninterrupted
proprietors of the same portion of land, and that their family has
never changed its possessions, or been transplanted into any other
county or province. I have also observed, that 'tis an additional
subject of vanity, when they can boast that these possessions have been
transmitted through a descent composed entirely of males, and that
the honours and fortune have never passed through any female. Let us
endeavour to explain these phenomena by the foregoing system.
'Tis evident that, when any one boasts of the antiquity of his family,
the subjects of his vanity are not merely the extent of time and number
of ancestors, but also their riches and credit, which are supposed to
reflect a lustre on himself on account of his relation to them. He
first considers these objects; is affected by them in an agreeable
manner; and then returning back to himself, through the relation of
parent and child, is elevated with the passion of pride, by means of
the double relation of impressions and ideas. Since, therefore, the
passion depends on these relations, whatever strengthens any of the
relations must also increase the passion, and whatever weakens the
relations must diminish the passion. Now 'tis certain the identity of
the possession strengthens the relation of ideas arising from blood
and kindred, and conveys the fancy with greater facility from one
generation to another, from the remotest ancestors to their posterity,
who are both their heirs and their descendants. By this facility the
impression is transmitted more entire, and excites a greater degree of
pride and vanity.
The case is the same with the transmission of the honours and fortune
through a succession of males without their passing through any female.
'Tis a quality of human nature, which we shall consider afterwards,[3]
that the imagination naturally turns to whatever is important and
considerable; and where two objects are presented to it, a small and
a great one, usually leaves the former, and dwells entirely upon the
latter. As in the society of marriage, the male sex has the advantage
above the female, the husband first engages our attention; and whether
we consider him directly, or reach him by passing through related
objects, the thought both rests upon him with greater satisfaction,
and arrives at him with greater facility than his consort. 'Tis easy
to see, that this property must strengthen the child's relation to the
father, and weaken that to the mother. For as all relations are nothing
but a propensity to pass from one idea to another, whatever strengthens
the propensity strengthens the relation; and as we have a stronger
propensity to pass from the idea of the children to that of the father,
than from the same idea to that of the mother, we ought to regard the
former relation as the closer and more considerable. This is the reason
why children commonly bear their father's name, and are esteemed to
be of nobler or baser birth, according to _his_ family. And though
the mother should be possessed of a superior spirit and genius to the
father, as often happens, the _general rule_ prevails, notwithstanding
the exception, according to the doctrine above explained. Nay, even
when a superiority of any kind is so great, or when any other reasons
have such an effect, as to make the children rather represent the
mother's family than the father's, the general rule still retains
such an efficacy, that it weakens the relation, and makes a kind of
break in the line of ancestors. The imagination runs not along them
with facility, nor is able to transfer the honour and credit of the
ancestors to their posterity of the same name and family so readily,
as when the transition is conformable to the general rules, and passes
from father to son, or from brother to brother.
[3] Part II. Sect. 2.
SECTION X.
OF PROPERTY AND RICHES.
But the relation which is esteemed the closest, and which, of all
others, produces most commonly the passion of pride, is that of
_property_. This relation 'twill be impossible for me fully to explain
before I come to treat of justice and the other moral virtues. 'Tis
sufficient to observe on this occasion, that property may be defined,
_such a relation betwixt a person and an object as permits him, but
forbids any other, the free use and possession of it, without violating
the laws of justice and moral equity_. If justice therefore be a
virtue, which has a natural and original influence on the human mind,
property may be looked upon as a particular species of _causation_;
whether we consider the liberty it gives the proprietor to operate
as he pleases upon the object, or the advantages which he reaps
from it. 'Tis the same case, if justice, according to the system of
certain philosophers, should be esteemed an artificial and not a
natural virtue. For then honour, and custom, and civil laws supply
the place of natural conscience, and produce in some degree, the same
effects. This, in the mean time, is certain, that the mention of the
property naturally carries our thought to the proprietor, and of the
proprietor to the property; which being a proof of a perfect relation
of ideas, is all that is requisite to our present purpose. A relation
of ideas, joined to that of impressions, always produces a transition
of affections; and therefore, whenever any pleasure or pain arises
from an object, connected with us by property, we may be certain, that
either pride or humility must arise from this conjunction of relations,
if the foregoing system be solid and satisfactory. And whether it be so
or not, we may soon satisfy ourselves by the most cursory view of human
life.
Every thing belonging to a vain man is the best that is any where to
be found. His houses, equipage, furniture, clothes, horses, hounds,
excel all others in his conceit; and 'tis easy to observe, that from
the least advantage in any of these, he draws a new subject of pride
and vanity. His wine, if you'll believe him, has a finer flavour than
any other; his cookery is more exquisite; his table more orderly; his
servant more expert; the air in which he lives more healthful; the soil
he cultivates more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier, and to greater
perfection; such a thing is remarkable for its novelty; such another
for its antiquity: this is the workmanship of a famous artist, that
belonged to such a prince or great man; all objects, in a word, that
are useful, beautiful, or surprising, or are related to such, may, by
means of property, give rise to this passion. These agree in giving
pleasure, and agree in nothing else. This alone is common to them, and
therefore must be the quality that produces the passion, which is their
common effect. As every new instance is a new argument, and as the
instances are here without number, I may venture to affirm, that scarce
any system was ever so fully proved by experience, as that which I have
here advanced.
If the property of any thing that gives pleasure either by its
utility, beauty, or novelty, produces also pride by a double relation
of impressions and ideas; we need not be surprised that the power of
acquiring this property should have the same effect. Now, riches are to
be considered as the power of acquiring the property of what pleases;
and 'tis only in this view they have any influence on the passions.
Paper will, on many occasions, be considered as riches, and that
because it may convey the power of acquiring money; and money is not
riches, as it is a metal endowed with certain qualities of solidity,
weight, and fusibility; but only as it has a relation to the pleasures
and conveniences of life. Taking then this for granted, which is in
itself so evident, we may draw from it one of the strongest arguments
I have yet employed to prove the influence of the double relations on
pride and humility.
It has been observed, in treating of the understanding, that the
distinction which we sometimes make betwixt a _power_ and the
_exercise_ of it, is entirely frivolous, and that neither man nor any
other being ought ever to be thought possessed of any ability, unless
it be exerted and put in action. But though this be strictly true in
a just and _philosophical_ way of thinking, 'tis certain it is not
_the philosophy_ of our passions, but that many things operate upon
them by means of the idea and supposition of power, independent of
its actual exercise. We are pleased when we acquire an ability of
procuring pleasure, and are displeased when another acquires a power of
giving pain. This is evident from experience; but in order to give a
just explication of the matter, and account for this satisfaction and
uneasiness, we must weigh the following reflections.
'Tis evident the error of distinguishing power from its exercise
proceeds not entirely from the scholastic doctrine of _free will_,
which, indeed, enters very little into common life, and has but small
influence on our vulgar and popular ways of thinking. According to
that doctrine, motives deprive us not of free-will, nor take away our
power of performing or forbearing any action. But according to common
notions a man has no power, where very considerable motives lie betwixt
him and the satisfaction of his desires, and determine him to forbear
what he wishes to perform. I do not think I have fallen into my enemy's
power when I see him pass me in the streets with a sword by his side,
while I am, unprovided of any weapon. I know that the fear of the civil
magistrate is as strong a restraint as any of iron, and that I am in as
perfect safety as if he were chained or imprisoned. But when a person
acquires such an authority over me, that not only there is no external
obstacle to his actions, but also that he may punish or reward me as he
pleases without any dread of punishment in his turn, I then attribute a
full power to him, and consider myself as his subject or vassal.
Now, if we compare these two cases, that of a person who has very
strong motives of interest or safety to forbear any action, and
that of another who lies under no such obligation, we shall find,
according to the philosophy explained in the foregoing book, that
the only _known_ difference betwixt them lies in this, that in the
former case we conclude, from _past experience_, that the person never
will perform that action, and in the latter, that he possibly or
probably will perform it. Nothing is more fluctuating and inconstant
on many occasions than the will of man; nor is there any thing but
strong motives which can give us an absolute certainty in pronouncing
concerning any of his future actions. When we see a person free
from these motives, we suppose a possibility either of his acting
or forbearing; and though, in general, we may conclude him to be
determined by motives and causes, yet this removes not the uncertainty
of our judgment concerning these causes, nor the influence of that
uncertainty on the passions. Since, therefore, we ascribe a power of
performing an action to every one who has no very powerful motive to
forbear it, and refuse it to such as have, it may justly be concluded,
that _power_ has always a reference to its _exercise_, either actual
or probable, and that we consider a person as endowed with any ability
when we find, from past experience, that 'tis probable, or at least
possible, he may exert it. And indeed, as our passions always regard
the real existence of objects, and we always judge of this reality
from past instances, nothing can be more likely of itself, without
any farther reasoning, than that power consists in the possibility or
probability of any action, as discovered by experience and the practice
of the world.
Now, 'tis evident that, wherever a person is in such a situation with
regard to me that there is no very powerful motive to deter him from
injuring me, and consequently 'tis _uncertain_ whether he will injure
me or not, I must be uneasy in such a situation, and cannot consider
the possibility or probability of that injury without a sensible
concern. The passions are not only affected by such events as are
certain and infallible, but also in an inferior degree by such as are
possible and contingent. And though perhaps I never really feel any
harm, and discover by the event, that, philosophically speaking, the
person never had any power of harming me, since he did not exert any,
this prevents not my uneasiness from the preceding uncertainty. The
agreeable passions may here operate as well as the uneasy, and convey a
pleasure when I perceive a good to become either possible or probable
by the possibility or probability of another's bestowing it on me, upon
the removal of any strong motives which might formerly have hindered
him.
But we may farther observe, that this satisfaction increases, when
any good approaches, in such a manner that it is in one's _own_ power
to take or leave it, and there neither is any physical impediment,
nor any very strong motive to hinder our enjoyment. As all men desire
pleasure, nothing can be more probable than its existence when there is
no external obstacle to the producing it, and men perceive no danger
in following their inclinations. In that case their imagination easily
anticipates the satisfaction, and conveys the same joy as if they were
persuaded of its real and actual existence.
But this accounts not sufficiently for the satisfaction which attends
riches. A miser receives delight from his money; that is, from the
_power_ it affords him of procuring all the pleasures and conveniences
of life, though he knows he has enjoyed his riches for forty years
without ever enjoying them; and consequently cannot conclude, by any
species of reasoning, that the real existence of these pleasures is
nearer, than if he were entirely deprived of all his possessions.
But though he cannot form any such conclusion in a way of reasoning
concerning the nearer approach of the pleasure, 'tis certain he
_imagines_ it to approach nearer, whenever all external obstacles are
removed, along with the more powerful motives of interest and danger,
which oppose it. For farther satisfaction on this head, I must refer to
my account of the will,[4] where I shall explain that false sensation
of liberty, which makes us imagine we can perform any thing that is not
very dangerous or destructive. Whenever any other person is under no
strong obligations of interest to forbear any pleasure, we judge from
_experience_, that the pleasure will exist, and that he will probably
obtain it. But when ourselves are in that situation, we judge from an
_illusion of the fancy_, that the pleasure is still closer and more
immediate. The will seems to move easily every way, and casts a shadow
or image of itself even to that side on which it did not settle. By
means of this image the enjoyment seems to approach nearer to us, and
gives us the same lively satisfaction as if it were perfectly certain
and unavoidable.
'Twill now be easy to draw this whole reasoning to a point, and
to prove, that when riches produce any pride or vanity in their
possessors, as they never fail to do, 'tis only by means of a double
relation of impressions and ideas. The very essence of riches consists
in the power of procuring the pleasures and conveniences of life.
The very essence of this power consists in the probability of its
exercise, and in its causing us to anticipate, by a _true_ or _false_
reasoning, the real existence of the pleasure. This anticipation of
pleasure is, in itself, a very considerable pleasure; and as its cause
is some possession or property which we enjoy, and which is thereby
related to us, we here clearly see all the parts of the foregoing
system most exactly and distinctly drawn out before us.
For the same reason, that riches cause pleasure and pride, and
poverty excites uneasiness and humility, power must produce the
former emotions, and slavery the latter. Power or an authority over
others makes us capable of satisfying all our desires; as slavery, by
subjecting us to the will of others, exposes us to a thousand wants and
mortifications.
'Tis here worth observing, that the vanity of power, or shame of
slavery, are much augmented by the consideration of the persons over
whom we exercise our authority, or who exercise it over us. For,
supposing it possible to frame statues of such an admirable mechanism,
that they could move and act in obedience to the will; 'tis evident the
possession of them would give pleasure and pride, but not to such a
degree as the same authority, when exerted over sensible and rational
creatures, whose condition, being compared to our own, makes it seem
more agreeable and honourable. Comparison is in every case a sure
method of augmenting our esteem of any thing. A rich man feels the
felicity of his condition better by opposing it to that of a beggar.
But there is a peculiar advantage in power, by the contrast, which
is, in a manner, presented to us betwixt ourselves and the person we
command. The comparison is obvious and natural: the imagination finds
it in the very subject: the passage of the thought to its conception
is smooth and easy. And that this circumstance has a considerable
effect in augmenting its influence, will appear afterwards in examining
the nature of _malice_ and _envy_.
[4] Part III. Sect. 2.
SECTION XI.
OF THE LOVE OF FAME.
But beside these original causes of pride and humility, there is a
secondary one in the opinions of others, which has an equal influence
on the affections. Our reputation, our character, our name, are
considerations of vast weight and importance; and even the other causes
of pride, virtue, beauty and riches, have little influence, when not
seconded by the opinions and sentiments of others. In order to account
for this phenomenon, 'twill be necessary to take some compass, and
first explain the nature of _sympathy_.
No quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in itself and
in its consequences, than that propensity we have to sympathize
with others, and to receive by communication their inclinations and
sentiments, however different from, or even contrary to, our own. This
is not only conspicuous in children, who implicitly embrace every
opinion proposed to them; but also in men of the greatest judgment and
understanding, who find it very difficult to follow their own reason
or inclination, in opposition to that of their friends and daily
companions. To this principle we ought to ascribe the great uniformity
we may observe in the humours and turn of thinking of those of the
same nation; and 'tis much more probable, that this resemblance arises
from sympathy, than from any influence of the soil and climate, which,
though they continue invariably the same, are not able to preserve the
character of a nation the same for a century together. A good-natured
man finds himself in an instant of the same humour with his company;
and even the proudest and most surly take a tincture from their
countrymen and acquaintance. A cheerful countenance infuses a sensible
complacency and serenity into my mind; as an angry or sorrowful one
throws a sudden damp upon me. Hatred, resentment, esteem, love,
courage, mirth and melancholy; all these passions I feel more from
communication, than from my own natural temper and disposition. So
remarkable a phenomenon merits our attention, and must be traced up to
its first principles.
When any affection is infused by sympathy, it is at first known only
by its effects, and by those external signs in the countenance and
conversation, which convey an idea of it. This idea is presently
converted into an impression, and acquires such a degree of force
and vivacity, as to become the very passion itself, and produce an
equal emotion as any original affection. However instantaneous this
change of the idea into an impression may be, it proceeds from certain
views and reflections, which will not escape the strict scrutiny of a
philosopher, though they may the person himself who makes them.
'Tis evident that the idea, or rather impression of ourselves, is
always intimately present with us, and that our consciousness gives us
so lively a conception of our own person, that 'tis not possible to
imagine that any thing can in this particular go beyond it. Whatever
object, therefore, is related to ourselves, must be conceived with a
like vivacity of conception, according to the foregoing principles; and
though this relation should not be so strong as that of causation, it
must still have a considerable influence. Resemblance and contiguity
are relations not to be neglected; especially when, by an inference
from cause and effect, and by the observation of external signs, we are
informed of the real existence of the object, which is resembling or
contiguous.
Now, 'tis obvious that nature has preserved a great resemblance among
all human creatures, and that we never remark any passion or principle
in others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a
parallel in ourselves. The case is the same with the fabric of the
mind as with that of the body. However the parts may differ in shape
or size, their structure and composition are in general the same.
There is a very remarkable resemblance, which preserves itself amidst
all their variety; and this resemblance must very much contribute to
make us enter into the sentiments of others, and embrace them with
facility and pleasure. Accordingly we find, that where, beside the
general resemblance of our natures, there is any peculiar similarity
in our manners, or character, or country, or language, it facilitates
the sympathy. The stronger the relation is betwixt ourselves and any
object, the more easily does the imagination make the transition, and
convey to the related idea the vivacity of conception, with which we
always form the idea of our own person.
Nor is resemblance the only relation which has this effect, but
receives new force from other relations that may accompany it. The
sentiments of others have little influence when far removed from
us, and require the relation of contiguity to make them communicate
themselves entirely. The relations of blood, being a species of
causation, may sometimes contribute to the same effect; as also
acquaintance, which operates in the same manner with education and
custom, as we shall see more fully afterwards.[5] All these relations,
when united together, convey the impression or consciousness of our own
person to the idea of the sentiments or passions of others, and makes
us conceive them in the strongest and most lively manner.
It has been remarked in the beginning of this Treatise, that all ideas
are borrowed from impressions, and that these two kinds of perceptions
differ only in the degrees of force and vivacity with which they
strike upon the soul. The component parts of ideas and impressions are
precisely alike. The manner and order of their appearance may be the
same. The different degrees of their force and vivacity are, therefore,
the only particulars that distinguish them: and as this difference may
be removed, in some measure, by a relation betwixt the impressions
and ideas, 'tis no wonder an idea of a sentiment or passion may by
this means be so enlivened as to become the very sentiment or passion.
The lively idea of any object always approaches its impression; and
'tis certain we may feel sickness and pain from the mere force of
imagination, and make a malady real by often thinking of it. But this
is most remarkable in the opinions and affections; and 'tis there
principally that a lively idea is converted into an impression. Our
affections depend more upon ourselves, and the internal operations of
the mind, than any other impressions; for which reason they arise more
naturally from the imagination, and from every lively idea we form of
them. This is the nature and cause of sympathy; and 'tis after this
manner we enter so deep into the opinions and affections of others,
whenever we discover them.
What is principally remarkable in this whole affair, is the strong
confirmation these phenomena give to the foregoing system concerning
the understanding, and consequently to the present one concerning
the passions, since these are analogous to each other. 'Tis indeed
evident, that when we sympathize with the passions and sentiments
of others, these movements appear at first in _our_ mind as mere
ideas, and are conceived to belong to another person, as we conceive
any other matter of fact. 'Tis also evident, that the ideas of the
affections of others are converted into the very impressions they
represent, and that the passions arise in conformity to the images we
form of them. All this is an object of the plainest experience, and
depends not on any hypothesis of philosophy. That science can only be
admitted to explain the phenomena; though at the same time it must be
confessed, they are so clear of themselves, that there is but little
occasion to employ it. For, besides the relation of cause and effect,
by which we are convinced of the reality of the passion with which we
sympathize; besides this, I say, we must be assisted by the relations
of resemblance and contiguity, in order to feel the sympathy in its
full perfection. And since these relations can entirely convert an
idea into an impression, and convey the vivacity of the latter into
the former, so perfectly as to lose nothing of it in the transition,
we may easily conceive how the relation of cause and effect alone,
may serve to strengthen and enliven an idea. In sympathy there is an
evident conversion of an idea into an impression. This conversion
arises from the relation of objects to ourself. Ourself is always
intimately present to us. Let us compare all these circumstances, and
we shall find, that sympathy is exactly correspondent to the operations
of our understanding; and even contains something more surprising and
extraordinary.
'Tis now time to turn our view from the general consideration of
sympathy, to its influence on pride and humility, when these passions
arise from praise and blame, from reputation and infamy. We may
observe, that no person is ever praised by another for any quality
which would not, if real, produce of itself a pride in the person
possessed of it. The eulogiums either turn upon his power, or riches,
or family, or virtue; all of which are subjects of vanity, that we
have already explained and accounted for. 'Tis certain, then, that
if a person considered himself in the same light in which he appears
to his admirer, he would first receive a separate pleasure, and
afterwards a pride or self-satisfaction, according to the hypothesis
above explained. Now, nothing is more natural than for us to embrace
the opinions of others in this particular, both from _sympathy_,
which renders all their sentiments intimately present to us, and from
_reasoning_, which makes us regard their judgment as a kind of argument
for what they affirm. These two principles of authority and sympathy
influence almost all our opinions, but must have a peculiar influence
when we judge of our own worth and character. Such judgments are
always attended with passion;[6] and nothing tends more to disturb
our understanding, and precipitate us into any opinions, however
unreasonable, than their connexion with passion, which diffuses itself
over the imagination, and gives an additional force to every related
idea. To which we may add, that, being conscious of great partiality in
our own favour, we are peculiarly pleased with any thing that confirms
the good opinion we have of ourselves, and are easily shocked with
whatever opposes it.
All this appears very probable in theory; but in order to bestow a
full certainty on this reasoning, we must examine the phenomena of the
passions, and see if they agree with it.
Among these phenomena we may esteem it a very favourable one to our
present purpose, that though fame in general be agreeable, yet we
receive a much greater satisfaction from the approbation of those
whom we ourselves esteem and approve of, than of those whom we hate
and despise. In like manner we are principally mortified with the
contempt of persons upon whose judgment we set some value, and are,
in a great measure, indifferent about the opinions of the rest of
mankind. But if the mind received from any original instinct a desire
of fame, and aversion to infamy, fame and infamy would influence us
without distinction; and every opinion, according as it were favourable
or unfavourable, would equally excite that desire or aversion. The
judgment of a fool is the judgment of another person, as well as
that of a wise man, and is only inferior in its influence on our own
judgment.
We are not only better pleased with the approbation of a wise man than
with that of a fool, but receive an additional satisfaction from the
former, when 'tis obtained after a long and intimate acquaintance. This
is accounted for after the same manner.
The praises of others never give us much pleasure, unless they concur
with our own opinion, and extol us for those qualities in which we
chiefly excel. A mere soldier little values the character of eloquence;
a gownman, of courage; a bishop, of humour; or a merchant, of
learning. Whatever esteem a man may have for any quality, abstractedly
considered, when he is conscious he is not possessed of it, the
opinions of the whole world will give him little pleasure in that
particular, and that because they never will be able to draw his own
opinion after them.
Nothing is more usual than for men of good families, but narrow
circumstances, to leave their friends and country, and rather seek
their livelihood by mean and mechanical employments among strangers,
than among those who are acquainted with their birth and education.
We shall be unknown, say they, where we go. Nobody will suspect from
what family we are sprung. We shall be removed from all our friends and
acquaintance, and our poverty and meanness will by that means sit more
easy upon us. In examining these sentiments, I find they afford many
very convincing arguments for my present purpose.
First, we may infer from them that the uneasiness of being contemned
depends on sympathy, and that sympathy depends on the relation of
objects to ourselves, since we are most uneasy under the contempt of
persons who are both related to us by blood and contiguous in place.
Hence we seek to diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating
these relations, and placing ourselves in a contiguity to strangers,
and at a distance from relations.
Secondly, we may conclude, that relations are requisite to sympathy,
not absolutely considered as relations, but by their influence
in converting our ideas of the sentiments of others into the very
sentiments by means of the association betwixt the idea of their
persons and that of our own. For here the relations of kindred and
contiguity both subsist, but not being united in the same persons, they
contribute in a less degree to the sympathy.
Thirdly, this very circumstance of the diminution of sympathy, by the
separation of relations, is worthy of our attention. Suppose I am
placed in a poor condition among strangers, and consequently am but
lightly treated; I yet find myself easier in that situation, than when
I was every day exposed to the contempt of my kindred and countrymen.
Here I feel a double contempt; from my relations, but they are absent;
from those about me, but they are strangers. This double contempt is
likewise strengthened by the two relations of kindred and contiguity.
But as the persons are not the same who are connected with me by those
two relations, this difference of ideas separates the impressions
arising from the contempt, and keeps them from running into each other.
The contempt of my neighbours has a certain influence, as has also
that of my kindred; but these influences are distinct and never unite,
as when the contempt proceeds from persons who are at once both my
neighbours and kindred. This phenomenon is analogous to the system of
pride and humility above explained, which may seem so extraordinary to
vulgar apprehensions.
Fourthly, a person in these circumstances naturally conceals his birth
from those among whom he lives, and is very uneasy if any one suspects
him to be of a family much superior to his present fortune and way of
living. Every thing in this world is judged of by comparison What is
an immense fortune for a private gentleman, is beggary for a prince.
A peasant would think himself happy in what cannot afford necessaries
for a gentleman. When a man has either been accustomed to a more
splendid way of living, or thinks himself entitled to it by his birth
and quality, every thing below is disagreeable and even shameful; and
'tis with the greatest industry he conceals his pretensions to a better
fortune. Here he himself knows his misfortunes; but as those with whom
he lives are ignorant of them, he has the disagreeable reflection and
comparison suggested only by his own thoughts, and never receives it by
a sympathy with others; which must contribute very much to his ease and
satisfaction.
If there be any objections to this hypothesis, _that the pleasure which
we receive from praise arises from a communication of sentiments_, we
shall find, upon examination, that these objections, when taken in a
proper light, will serve to confirm it. Popular fame may be agreeable
even to a man who despises the vulgar; but 'tis because their multitude
gives them additional weight and authority. Plagiaries are delighted
with praises, which they are conscious they do not deserve; but this
is a kind of castle-building, where the imagination amuses itself
with its own fictions, and strives to render them firm and stable by
a sympathy with the sentiments of others. Proud men are most shocked
with contempt, though they do not most readily assent to it; but 'tis
because of the opposition betwixt the passion, which is natural to
them, and that received by sympathy. A violent lover, in like manner,
is very much displeased when you blame and condemn his love; though
'tis evident your opposition can have no influence but by the hold it
takes of himself, and by his sympathy with you. If he despises you, or
perceives you are in jest, whatever you say has no effect upon him.
[5] Part II. Sect. 4.
[6] Book I. Part III. Sect. 10.
SECTION XII.
OF THE PRIDE AND HUMILITY OF ANIMALS.
Thus, in whatever light we consider this subject, we may still
observe, that the causes of pride and humility correspond exactly to
our hypothesis, and that nothing can excite either of these passions,
unless it be both related to ourselves, and produces a pleasure or
pain independent of the passion. We have not only proved, that a
tendency to produce pleasure or pain is common to all the causes of
pride or humility, but also that 'tis the only thing which is common,
and consequently is the quality by which they operate. We have farther
proved, that the most considerable causes of these passions are
really nothing but the power of producing either agreeable or uneasy
sensations; and therefore that all their effects, and amongst the rest
pride and humility, are derived solely from that origin. Such simple
and natural principles, founded on such solid proofs, cannot fail to be
received by philosophers, unless opposed by some objections that have
escaped me.
'Tis usual with anatomists to join their observations and experiments
on human bodies to those on beasts; and, from the agreement of these
experiments, to derive an additional argument for any particular
hypothesis. 'Tis indeed certain, that where the structure of parts in
brutes is the same as in men, and the operation of these parts also
the same, the causes of that operation cannot be different; and that
whatever we discover to be true of the one species, may be concluded,
without hesitation, to be certain of the other. Thus, though the
mixture of humours, and the composition of minute parts, may justly
be presumed to be somewhat different in men from what it is in mere
animals, and therefore any experiment we make upon the one concerning
the effects of medicines, will not always apply to the other, yet, as
the structure of the veins and muscles, the fabric and situation of the
heart, of the lungs, the stomach, the liver, and other parts, are the
same or nearly the same in all animals, the very same hypothesis, which
in one species explains muscular motion, the progress of the chyle,
the circulation of the blood, must be applicable to every one; and,
according as it agrees or disagrees with the experiments we may make in
any species of creatures, we may draw a proof of its truth or falsehood
on the whole. Let us therefore apply this method of inquiry, which is
found so just and useful in reasonings concerning the body, to our
present anatomy of the mind, and see what discoveries we can make by it.
In order to this, we must first show the correspondence of _passions_
in men and animals, and afterwards compare the _causes_, which produce
these passions.
'Tis plain, that almost in every species of creatures, but especially
of the nobler kind, there are many evident marks of pride and humility.
The very port and gait of a swan, or turkey, or peacock, show the high
idea he has entertained of himself, and his contempt of all others.
This is the more remarkable, that, in the two last species of animals,
the pride always attends the beauty, and is discovered in the mule
only. The vanity and emulation of nightingales in singing have been
commonly remarked; as likewise that of horses in swiftness, of hounds
in sagacity and smell, of the bull and cock in strength, and of every
other animal in his particular excellency. Add to this, that every
species of creatures, which approach so often to man as to familiarize
themselves with him, show an evident pride in his approbation, and
are pleased with his praises and caresses, independent of every
other consideration. Nor are they the caresses of every one without
distinction which give them this vanity, but those principally of
the persons they know and love; in the same manner as that passion
is excited in mankind. All these are evident proofs that pride and
humility are not merely human passions, but extend themselves over the
whole animal creation.
The _causes_ of these passions are likewise much the same in beasts
as in us, making a just allowance for our superior knowledge and
understanding. Thus, animals have little or no sense of virtue or vice;
they quickly lose sight of the relations of blood; and are incapable
of that of right and property: for which reason the causes of their
pride and humility must lie solely in the body, and can never be placed
either in the mind or external objects. But so far as regards the body,
the same qualities cause pride in the animal as in the human kind; and
'tis on beauty, strength, swiftness, or some other useful or agreeable
quality, that this passage is always founded.
The next question is, whether, since those passions are the same, and
arise from the same causes through the whole creation, the _manner_,
in which the causes operate, be also the same. According to all rules
of analogy, this is justly to be expected; and if we find upon
trial, that the explication of these phenomena, which we make use of
in one species, will not apply to the rest, we may presume that that
explication, however specious, is in reality without foundation.
In order to decide this question, let us consider, that there is
evidently the same _relation_ of ideas, and derived from the same
causes, in the minds of animals as in those of men. A dog, that has
hid a bone, often forgets the place; but when brought to it, his
thought passes easily to what he formerly concealed, by means of the
contiguity, which produces a relation among his ideas. In like manner,
when he has been heartily beat in any place, he will tremble on his
approach to it, even though he discover no signs of any present danger.
The effects of resemblance are not so remarkable; but as that relation
makes a considerable ingredient in causation, of which all animals show
so evident a judgment, we may conclude, that the three relations of
resemblance, contiguity, and causation operate in the same manner upon
beasts as upon human creatures.
There are also instances of the relation of impressions, sufficient to
convince us, that there is an union of certain affections with each
other in the inferior species of creatures, as well as in the superior,
and that their minds are frequently conveyed through a series of
connected emotions. A dog, when elevated with joy, runs naturally into
love and kindness, whether of his master or of the sex. In like manner,
when full of pain and sorrow, he becomes quarrelsome and ill natured;
and that passion, which at first was grief, is by the smallest occasion
converted into anger.
Thus, all the internal principles that are necessary in us to produce
either pride or humility, are common to all creatures; and since the
causes, which excite these passions, are likewise the same, we may
justly conclude, that these causes operate after the same _manner_
through the whole animal creation. My hypothesis is so simple, and
supposes so little reflection and judgment, that 'tis applicable
to every sensible creature; which must not only be allowed to be a
convincing proof of its veracity, but, I am confident, will be found an
objection to every other system.
PART II.
OF LOVE AND HATRED.
SECTION I.
OF THE OBJECT AND CAUSES OF LOVE AND HATRED.
'Tis altogether impossible to give any definition of the passions
of _love_ and _hatred_; and that because they produce merely a
simple impression, without any mixture or composition. 'Twould be
as unnecessary to attempt any description of them, drawn from their
nature, origin, causes, and objects; and that both because these
are the subjects of our present inquiry, and because these passions
of themselves are sufficiently known from our common feeling and
experience. This we have already observed concerning pride and
humility, and here repeat it concerning love and hatred; and, indeed,
there is so great a resemblance betwixt these two sets of passions,
that we shall be obliged to begin with a kind of abridgment of our
reasonings concerning the former, in order to explain the latter.
As the immediate _object_ of pride and humility is self, or that
identical person of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are
intimately conscious; so the _object_ of love and hatred is some
other person, of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are not
conscious. This is sufficiently evident from experience. Our love and
hatred are always directed to some sensible being external to us; and
when we talk of _self-love_, 'tis not in a proper sense, nor has the
sensation it produces any thing in common with that tender emotion,
which is excited by a friend or mistress. 'Tis the same case with
hatred. We may be mortified by our own faults and follies; but never
feel any anger or hatred, except from the injuries of others.
But though the object of love and hatred be always some other person,
'tis plain that the object is not, properly speaking, the _cause_ of
these passions, or alone sufficient to excite them. For since love
and hatred are directly contrary in their sensation, and have the
same object in common, if that object were also their cause, it would
produce these opposite passions in an equal degree; and as they must,
from the very first moment, destroy each other, none of them would ever
be able to make its appearance. There must, therefore, be some cause
different from the object.
If we consider the causes of love and hatred, we shall find they are
very much diversified, and have not many things in common. The virtue,
knowledge, wit, good sense, good humour of any person, produce love
and esteem; as the opposite qualities, hatred and contempt. The same
passions arise from bodily accomplishments, such as beauty, force,
swiftness, dexterity; and from their contraries; as likewise from the
external advantages and disadvantages of family, possessions, clothes,
nation and climate. There is not one of these objects but what, by
its different qualities, may produce love and esteem, or hatred and
contempt.
From the view of these causes we may derive a new distinction betwixt
the _quality_ that operates, and the _subject_ on which it is placed.
A prince that is possessed of a stately palace commands the esteem of
the people upon that account; and that, _first_, by the beauty of the
palace; and, _secondly_, by the relation of property, which connects it
with him. The removal of either of these destroys the passion; which
evidently proves that the cause is a compounded one.
'Twould be tedious to trace the passions of love and hatred through all
the observations which we have formed concerning pride and humility,
and which are equally applicable to both sets of passions. 'Twill be
sufficient to _remark_, in general, that the object of love and hatred
is evidently some thinking person; and that the sensation of the former
passion is always agreeable, and of the latter uneasy. We may also
_suppose_, with some show of probability, _that the cause of both these
passions is always related to a thinking being_, and _that the cause of
the former produces a separate pleasure, and of the latter a separate
uneasiness_.
One of these suppositions, viz. that the cause of love and hatred must
be related to a person or thinking being, in order to produce these
passions, is not only probable, but too evident to be contested. Virtue
and vice, when considered in the abstract; beauty and deformity, when
placed on inanimate objects; poverty and riches, when belonging to a
third person, excite no degree of love or hatred, esteem or contempt,
towards those who have no relation to them. A person looking out at a
window sees me in the street, and beyond me a beautiful palace, with
which I have no concern: I believe none will pretend, that this person
will pay me the same respect as if I were owner of the palace.
'Tis not so evident at first sight, that a relation of impressions
is requisite to these passions, and that because in the transition
the one impression is so much confounded with the other, that they
become in a manner undistinguishable. But as in pride and humility,
we have easily been able to make the separation, and to prove, that
every cause of these passions produces a separate pain or pleasure, I
might here observe the same method with the same success, in examining
particularly the several causes of love and hatred. But as I hasten to
a full and decisive proof of these systems, I delay this examination
for a moment; and in the mean time shall endeavour to convert to my
present purpose all my reasonings concerning pride and humility, by an
argument that is founded on unquestionable experience.
There are few persons that are satisfied with their own character,
or genius, or fortune, who are not desirous of showing themselves to
the world, and of acquiring the love and approbation of mankind. Now
'tis evident, that the very same qualities and circumstances, which
are the causes of pride or self-esteem, are also the causes of vanity,
or the desire of reputation; and that we always put to view those
particulars with which in ourselves we are best satisfied. But if love
and esteem were not produced by the same qualities as pride, according
as these qualities are related to ourselves or others, this method of
proceeding would be very absurd; nor could men expect a correspondence
in the sentiments of every other person with those themselves have
entertained. 'Tis true, few can form exact systems of the passions, or
make reflections on their general nature and resemblances. But without
such a progress in philosophy, we are not subject to many mistakes in
this particular, but are sufficiently guided by common experience, as
well as by a kind of _presentation_, which tells us what will operate
on others, by what we feel immediately in ourselves. Since then the
same qualities that produce pride or humility, cause love or hatred,
all the arguments that have been employed to prove that the causes
of the former passions excite a pain or pleasure independent of the
passion, will be applicable with equal evidence to the causes of the
latter.
SECTION II.
EXPERIMENTS TO CONFIRM THIS SYSTEM.
Upon duly weighing these arguments, no one will make any scruple to
assent to that conclusion I draw from them, concerning the transition
along related impressions and ideas, especially as 'tis a principle in
itself so easy and natural. But that we may place this system beyond
doubt, both with regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, 'twill
be proper to make some new experiments upon all these passions, as well
as to recal a few of these observations which I have formerly touched
upon.
In order to make these experiments, let us suppose I am in company with
a person, whom I formerly regarded without any sentiments either of
friendship or enmity. Here I have the natural and ultimate object of
all these four passions placed before me. Myself am the proper object
of pride or humility; the other person of love or hatred.
Regard now with attention the nature of these passions, and their
situation with respect to each other. 'Tis evident here are four
affections, placed as it were in a square, or regular connexion with,
and distance from, each other. The passions of pride and humility,
as well as those of love and hatred, are connected together by the
identity of their object, which to the first set of passions is self,
to the second some other person. These two lines of communication or
connexion form two opposite sides of the square. Again, pride and love
are agreeable passions; hatred and humility uneasy. This similitude of
sensation betwixt pride and love, and that betwixt humility and hatred,
form a new connexion, and may be considered as the other two sides of
the square. Upon the whole, pride is connected with humility, love
with hatred, by their objects or ideas: pride with love, humility with
hatred, by their sensations or impressions.
I say then, that nothing can produce any of these passions without
bearing it a double relation, viz. of ideas to the object of the
passion, and of sensation to the passion itself. This we must prove by
our experiments.
_First experiment_. To proceed with the greater order in these
experiments, let us first suppose, that being placed in the situation
above mentioned, viz. in company with some other person, there is an
object presented, that has no relation either of impressions or ideas
to any of these passions. Thus, suppose we regard together an ordinary
stone, or other common object, belonging to neither of us, and causing
of itself no emotion, or independent pain and pleasure: 'tis evident
such an object will produce none of these four passions. Let us try it
upon each of them successively. Let us apply it to love, to hatred, to
humility, to pride; none of them ever arises in the smallest degree
imaginable. Let us change the object as oft as we please, provided
still we choose one that has neither of these two relations. Let us
repeat the experiment in all the dispositions of which the mind is
susceptible. No object in the vast variety of nature will, in any
disposition, produce any passion without these relations.
_Second experiment_. Since an object that wants both these relations
can ever produce any passion, let us bestow on it only one of these
relations, and see what will follow. Thus, suppose I regard a stone,
or any common object that belongs either to me or my companion, and by
that means acquires a relation of ideas to the object of the passions:
'tis plain that, to consider the matter _a priori_, no emotion of
any kind can reasonably be expected. For, besides that a relation of
ideas operates secretly and calmly on the mind, it bestows an equal
impulse towards the opposite passions of pride and humility, love
and hatred, according as the object belongs to ourselves or others;
which opposition of the passions must destroy both, and leave the mind
perfectly free from any affection or emotion. This reasoning _a priori_
is confirmed by experience. No trivial or vulgar object, that causes
not a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will ever, by its
property or other relations, either to ourselves or others, be able to
produce the affections of pride or humility, love or hatred.
_Third experiment_. 'Tis evident, therefore, that a relation of ideas
is not able alone to give rise to these affections. Let us now remove
this relation, and, in its stead, place a relation of impressions,
by presenting an object, which is agreeable or disagreeable, but has
no relation either to ourself or companion; and let us observe the
consequences. To consider the matter first _a priori_, as in the
preceding experiment, we may conclude that the object will have a
small, but an uncertain connexion with these passions. For, besides
that this relation is not a cold and imperceptible one, it has not
the inconvenience of the relation of ideas, nor directs us with equal
force to two contrary passions, which, by their opposition, destroy
each other. But if we consider, on the other hand, that this transition
from the sensation to the affection is not forwarded by any principle
that produces a transition of ideas; but, on the contrary, that though
the one impression be easily transfused into the other, yet the change
of objects is supposed contrary to all the principles that cause a
transition of that kind; we may from thence infer, that nothing will
ever be a steady or durable cause of any passion that is connected with
the passion merely by a relation of impressions. What our reason would
conclude from analogy, after balancing these arguments, would be, that
an object, which produces pleasure or uneasiness, but has no manner of
connexion either with ourselves or others, may give such a turn to the
disposition as that it may naturally fall into pride or love, humility
or hatred, and search for other objects, upon which, by a double
relation, it can found these affections; but that an object, which has
only one of these relations, though the most advantageous one, can
never give rise to any constant and established passion.
Most fortunately, all this reasoning is found to be exactly
conformable to experience and the phenomena of the passions. Suppose I
were travelling with a companion through a country to which we are both
utter strangers; 'tis evident, that if the prospects be beautiful, the
roads agreeable, and the inns commodious, this may put me into good
humour both with myself and fellow-traveller. But as we suppose that
this country has no relation either to myself or friend, it can never
be the immediate cause of pride or love; and, therefore, if I found
not the passion on some other object that bears either of us a closer
relation, my emotions are rather to be considered as the overflowings
of an elevate or humane disposition, than as an established passion.
The case is the same where the object produces uneasiness.
_Fourth experiment_. Having found, that neither an object, without
any relation of ideas or impressions, nor an object that has only one
relation, can ever cause pride or humility, love or hatred; reason
alone may convince us, without any farther experiment, that whatever
has a double relation must necessarily excite these passions; since
'tis evident they must have some cause. But, to leave as little room
for doubt as possible, let us renew our experiments, and see whether
the event in this case answers our expectation. I chuse an object,
such as virtue, that causes a separate satisfaction: on this object
I bestow a relation to self; and find, that from this disposition of
affairs there immediately arises a passion. But what passion? That very
one of pride, to which this object bears a double relation. Its idea
is related to that of self, the object of the passion: the sensation
it causes resembles the sensation of the passion. That I may be sure I
am not mistaken in this experiment, I remove first one relation, then
another, and find that each removal destroys the passion, and leaves
the object perfectly indifferent. But I am not content with this. I
make a still farther trial; and instead of removing the relation,
I only change it for one of a different kind. I suppose the virtue
to belong to my companion, not to myself; and observe what follows
from this alteration. I immediately perceive the affections to wheel
about, and leaving pride, where there is only one relation, viz.
of impressions, fall to the side of love, where they are attracted
by a double relation of impressions and ideas. By repeating the
same experiment in changing anew the relation of ideas, I bring the
affections back to pride; and, by a new repetition, I again place them
at love or kindness. Being fully convinced of the influence of this
relation, I try the effects of the other; and, by changing virtue for
vice, convert the pleasant impression which arises from the former,
into the disagreeable one which proceeds from the latter. The effect
still answers expectation. Vice, when placed on another, excites,
by means of its double relations, the passion of hatred, instead of
love, which, for the same reason, arises from virtue. To continue the
experiment, I change anew the relation of ideas, and suppose the vice
to belong to myself. What follows? What is usual. A subsequent change
of the passion from hatred to humility. This humility I convert into
pride by a new change of the impression; and find, after all, that I
have completed the round, and have by these changes brought back the
passion to that very situation in which I first found it.
But to make the matter still more certain, I alter the object; and,
instead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon beauty and deformity,
riches and poverty, power and servitude. Each of these objects runs
the circle of the passions in the same manner, by a change of their
relations: and in whatever order we proceed, whether through pride,
love, hatred, humility, or through humility, hatred, love, pride,
the experiment is not in the least diversified. Esteem and contempt,
indeed, arise on some occasions instead of love and hatred; but these
are, at the bottom, the same passions, only diversified by some causes,
which we shall explain afterwards.
_Fifth experiment_. To give greater authority to these experiments, let
us change the situation of affairs as much as possible, and place the
passions and objects in all the different positions of which they are
susceptible. Let us suppose, beside the relations above mentioned, that
the person, along with whom I make all these experiments, is closely
connected with me either by blood or friendship. He is, we shall
suppose, my son or brother, or is united to me by a long and familiar
acquaintance. Let us next suppose, that the cause of the passion
acquires a double relation of impressions and ideas to this person; and
let us see what the effects are of all these complicated attractions
and relations.
Before we consider what they are in fact, let us determine what they
ought to be, conformable to my hypothesis. 'Tis plain, that, according
as the impression is either pleasant or uneasy, the passion of love or
hatred must arise towards the person who is thus connected to the cause
of the impression by these double relations which I have all along
required. The virtue of a brother must make me love him, as his vice
or infamy must excite the contrary passion. But to judge only from the
situation of affairs, I should not expect that the affections would
rest there, and never transfuse themselves into any other impression.
As there is here a person, who, by means of a double relation, is the
object of my passion, the very same reasoning leads me to think the
passion will be carried farther. The person has a relation of ideas
to myself, according to the supposition; the passion of which he is
the object, by being either agreeable or uneasy, has a relation of
impressions to pride or humility. 'Tis evident, then, that one of these
passions must arise from the love or hatred.
This is the reasoning I form in conformity to my hypothesis; and am
pleased to find, upon trial, that every thing answers exactly to my
expectation. The virtue or vice of a son or brother not only excites
love or hatred, but, by a new transition from similar causes, gives
rise to pride or humility. Nothing causes greater vanity than any
shining quality in our relations; as nothing mortifies us more than
their vice or infamy. This exact conformity of experience to our
reasoning is a convincing proof of the solidity of that hypothesis upon
which we reason.
_Sixth experiment_. This evidence will be still augmented if we reverse
the experiment, and, preserving still the same relations, begin only
with a different passion. Suppose that, instead of the virtue or vice
of a son or brother, which causes first love or hatred, and afterwards
pride or humility, we place these good or bad qualities on ourselves,
without any immediate connexion with the person who is related to us,
experience shows us, that, by this change of situation, the whole
chain is broke, and that the mind is not conveyed from one passion to
another, as in the preceding instance. We never love or hate a son or
brother for the virtue or vice we discern in ourselves; though 'tis
evident the same qualities in him give us a very sensible pride or
humility. The transition from pride or humility to love or hatred,
is not so natural as from love or hatred to pride or humility. This
may at first sight be esteemed contrary to my hypothesis, since the
relations of impressions and ideas are in both cases precisely the
same. Pride and humility are impressions related to love and hatred.
Myself am related to the person. It should therefore be expected, that
like causes must produce like effects, and a perfect transition arise
from the double relation, as in all other cases. This difficulty we may
easily solve by the following reflections.
'Tis evident that, as we are at all times intimately conscious of
ourselves, our sentiments and passions, their ideas must strike upon us
with greater vivacity than the ideas of the sentiments and passions of
any other person. But every thing that strikes upon us with vivacity,
and appears in a full and strong light, forces itself, in a manner,
into our consideration, and becomes present to the mind on the smallest
hint and most trivial relation. For the same reason, when it is once
present, it engages the attention, and keeps it from wandering to other
objects, however strong may be their relation to our first object.
The imagination passes easily from obscure to lively ideas, but with
difficulty from lively to obscure. In the one case the relation is
aided by another principle; in the other case, 'tis opposed by it.
Now, I have observed, that those two faculties of the mind, the
imagination and passions, assist each other in their operation when
their propensities are similar, and when they act upon the same object.
The mind has always a propensity to pass from a passion to any other
related to it; and this propensity is forwarded when the object of the
one passion is related to that of the other. The two impulses concur
with each other, and render the whole transition more smooth and easy.
But if it should happen, that, while the relation of ideas, strictly
speaking, continues the same, its influence in causing a transition
of the imagination should no longer take place, 'tis evident its
influence on the passions must also cease, as being dependent entirely
on that transition. This is the reason why pride or humility is not
transfused into love or hatred with the same ease that the latter
passions are changed into the former. If a person be my brother, I am
his likewise: but though the relations be reciprocal, they have very
different effects on the imagination. The passage is smooth and open
from the consideration of any person related to us to that of ourself,
of whom we are every moment conscious. But when the affections are once
directed to ourself, the fancy passes not with the same facility from
that object to any other person, how closely soever connected with us.
This easy or difficult transition of the imagination operates upon the
passions, and facilitates or retards their transition; which is a clear
proof that these two faculties of the passions and imagination are
connected together, and that the relations of ideas have an influence
upon the affections. Besides innumerable experiments that prove
this, we here find, that even when the relation remains; if by any
particular circumstance its usual effect upon the fancy in producing an
association or transition of ideas is prevented, its usual effect upon
the passions, in conveying us from one to another, is in like manner
prevented.
Some may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt this phenomenon
and that of sympathy, where the mind passes easily from the idea
of ourselves to that of any other object related to us. But this
difficulty will vanish, if we consider that in sympathy our own person
is not the object of any passion, nor is there any thing that fixes our
attention on ourselves, as in the present case, where we are supposed
to be actuated, with pride or humility. Ourself, independent of the
perception of every other object, is in reality nothing; for which
reason we must turn our view to external objects, and 'tis natural for
us to consider with most attention such as lie contiguous to us, or
resemble us. But when self is the object of a passion, 'tis not natural
to quit the consideration of it till the passion be exhausted, in
which case the double relations of impressions and ideas can no longer
operate.
_Seventh experiment_. To put this whole reasoning to a farther trial,
let us make a new experiment; and as we have already seen the effects
of related passions and ideas, let us here suppose an identity of
passions along with a relation of ideas; and let us consider the
effects of this new situation. 'Tis evident a transition of the
passions from the one object to the other is here in all reason to be
expected; since the relation of ideas is supposed still to continue,
and an identity of impressions must produce a stronger connexion,
than the most perfect resemblance that can be imagined. If a double
relation, therefore, of impressions and ideas, is able to produce a
transition from one to the other, much more an identity of impressions
with a relation of ideas. Accordingly, we find, that when we either
love or hate any person, the passions seldom continue within their
first bounds; but extend themselves towards all the contiguous
objects, and comprehend the friends and relations of him we love or
hate. Nothing is more natural than to bear a kindness to one brother on
account of our friendship for another, without any farther examination
of his character. A quarrel with one person gives us a hatred for the
whole family, though entirely innocent of that which displeases us.
Instances of this kind are every where to be met with.
There is only one difficulty in this experiment which it will be
necessary to account for, before we proceed any farther. 'Tis evident,
that though all passions pass easily from one object to another related
to it, yet this transition is made with greater facility where the
more considerable object is first presented, and the lesser follows
it, than where this order is reversed, and the lesser takes the
precedence. Thus, 'tis more natural for us to love the son upon account
of the father, than the father upon account of the son; the servant
for the master, than the master for the servant; the subject for the
prince, than the prince for the subject. In like manner we more readily
contract a hatred against a whole family, where our first quarrel
is with the head of it, than where we are displeased with a son, or
servant, or some inferior member. In short, our passions, like other
objects, descend with greater facility than they ascend.
That we may comprehend wherein consists the difficulty of explaining
this phenomenon, we must consider, that the very same reason, which
determines the imagination to pass from remote to contiguous objects
with more facility than from contiguous to remote, causes it likewise
to change with more ease the less for the greater, than the greater for
the less. Whatever has the greatest influence is most taken notice of;
and whatever is most taken notice of, presents itself most readily
to the imagination. We are more apt to overlook in any subject what
is trivial, than what appears of considerable moment; but especially
if the latter takes the precedence, and first engages our attention.
Thus, if any accident makes us consider the satellites of Jupiter, our
fancy is naturally determined to form the idea of that planet; but if
we first reflect on the principal planet, 'tis more natural for us to
overlook its attendants. The mention of the provinces of any empire
conveys our thought to the seat of the empire; but the fancy returns
not with the same facility to the consideration of the provinces.
The idea of the servant makes us think of the master; that of the
subject carries our view to the prince. But the same relation has not
an equal influence in conveying us back again. And on this is founded
that reproach of Cornelia to her sons, that they ought to be ashamed
she should be more known by the title of the daughter of Scipio,
than by that of the mother of the Gracchi. This was, in other words,
exhorting them to render themselves as illustrious and famous as their
grandfather, otherwise the imagination of the people, passing from her
who was intermediate, and placed in an equal relation to both, would
always leave them, and denominate her by what was more considerable and
of greater moment. On the same principle is founded that common custom
of making wives bear the name of their husbands, rather than husbands
that of their wives; as also the ceremony of giving the precedency to
those whom we honour and respect. We might find many other instances to
confirm this principle, were it not already sufficiently evident.
Now, since the fancy finds the same facility in passing from the
lesser to the greater, as from remote to contiguous, why does not
this easy transition of ideas assist the transition of passions in
the former case as well as in the latter? The virtues of a friend
or brother produce first love, and then pride; because in that case
the imagination passes from remote to contiguous, according to its
propensity. Our own virtues produce not first pride, and then love to
a friend or brother; because the passage in that case would be from
contiguous to remote, contrary to its propensity. But the love or
hatred of an inferior, causes not readily any passion to the superior,
though that be the natural propensity of the imagination: while the
love or hatred of a superior, causes a passion to the inferior,
contrary to its propensity. In short, the same facility of transition
operates not in the same manner upon superior and inferior as upon
contiguous and remote. These two phenomena appear contradictory, and
require some attention to be reconciled.
As the transition of ideas is here made contrary to the natural
propensity of the imagination, that faculty must be overpowered by
some stronger principle of another kind; and as there is nothing ever
present to the mind but impressions and ideas, this principle must
necessarily lie in the impressions. Now, it has been observed, that
impressions or passions are connected only by their resemblance, and
that where any two passions place the mind in the same or in similar
dispositions, it very naturally passes from the one to the other: as on
the contrary, a repugnance in the dispositions produces a difficulty
in the transition of the passions. But, 'tis observable, that this
repugnance may arise from a difference of degree as well as of kind;
nor do we experience a greater difficulty in passing suddenly from a
small degree of love to a small degree of hatred, than from a small to
a great degree of either of these affections. A man, when calm or only
moderately agitated, is so different, in every respect, from himself,
when disturbed with a violent passion, that no two persons can be more
unlike; nor is it easy to pass from the one extreme to the other,
without a considerable interval betwixt them.
The difficulty is not less, if it be not rather greater in passing
from the strong passion to the weak, than in passing from the weak to
the strong, provided the one passion upon its appearance destroys the
other, and they do not both of them exist at once. But the case is
entirely altered, when the passions unite together, and actuate the
mind at the same time. A weak passion, when added to a strong, makes
not so considerable change in the disposition, as a strong when added
to a weak; for which reason there is a closer connexion betwixt the
great degree and the small, than betwixt the small degree and the great.
The degree of any passion depends upon the nature of its object; and an
affection directed to a person, who is considerable in our eyes, fills
and possesses the mind much more than one, which has for its object
a person we esteem of less consequence. Here then, the contradiction
betwixt the propensities of the imagination and passion displays
itself. When we turn our thought to a great and a small object, the
imagination finds more facility in passing from the small to the great,
than from the great to the small; but the affections find a greater
difficulty: and, as the affections are a more powerful principle than
the imagination, no wonder they prevail over it, and draw the mind to
their side. In spite of the difficulty of passing from the idea of
great to that of little, a passion directed to the former produces
always a similar passion towards the latter, when the great and little
are related together. The idea of the servant conveys our thought most
readily to the master; but the hatred or love of the master produces
with greater facility anger or good will to the servant. The strongest
passion in this case takes the precedence; and the addition of the
weaker making no considerable change on the disposition, the passage is
by that means rendered more easy and natural betwixt them.
As, in the foregoing experiment, we found that a relation of ideas,
which, by any particular circumstance, ceases to produce its usual
effect of facilitating the transition of ideas, ceases likewise to
operate on the passions; so, in the present experiment, we find the
same property of the impressions. Two different degrees of the same
passion are surely related together; but if the smaller be first
present, it has little or no tendency to introduce the greater; and
that because the addition of the great to the little produces a more
sensible alteration on the temper than the addition of the little to
the great. These phenomena, when duly weighed, will be found convincing
proofs of this hypothesis.
And these proofs will be confirmed, if we consider the manner in which
the mind here reconciles the contradiction I have observed betwixt the
passions and the imagination. The fancy passes with more facility from
the less to the greater, than from the greater to the less. But, on the
contrary, a violent passion produces more easily a feeble than that
does a violent. In this opposition, the passion in the end prevails
over the imagination: but 'tis commonly by complying with it, and
by seeking another quality, which may counterbalance that principle
from whence the opposition arises. When we love the father or master
of a family, we think of his children or servants. But when these are
present with us, or when it lies any ways in our power to serve them,
the nearness and contiguity in this case increases their magnitude,
or at least removes that opposition which the fancy makes to the
transition of the affections. If the imagination finds a difficulty in
passing from greater to less, it finds an equal facility in passing
from remote to contiguous, which brings the matter to an equality, and
leaves the way open from the one passion to the other.
_Eighth experiment_. I have observed, that the transition from love or
hatred to pride or humility, is more easy than from pride or humility
to love or hatred; and that the difficulty which the imagination finds
in passing from contiguous to remote, is the cause why we scarce have
any instance of the latter transition of the affections. I must,
however, make one exception, viz. when the very cause of the pride
and humility is placed in some other person. For, in that case, the
imagination is necessitated to consider the person, nor can it possibly
confine its view to ourselves. Thus, nothing more readily produces
kindness and affection to any person than his approbation of our
conduct and character; as, on the other hand, nothing inspires us with
a stronger hatred than his blame or contempt. Here, 'tis evident, that
the original passion is pride or humility, whose object is self; and
that this passion is transfused into love or hatred, whose object is
some other person, notwithstanding the rule I have already established,
_that the imagination passes with difficulty from contiguous to
remote_. But the transition in this case is not made merely on account
of the relation betwixt ourselves and the person; but because that very
person is the real cause of our first passion, and, of consequence, is
intimately connected with it. 'Tis his approbation that produces pride,
and disapprobation humility. No wonder, then, the imagination returns
back again attended with the related passions of love and hatred. This
is not a contradiction, but an exception to the rule; and an exception
that arises from the same reason with the rule itself.
Such an exception as this is, therefore, rather a confirmation of the
rule. And indeed, if we consider all the eight experiments I have
explained, we shall find that the same principle appears in all of
them, and that 'tis by means of a transition arising from a double
relation of impressions and ideas, pride and humility, love and hatred
are produced. An object without a relation,[1] or with but one,[2]
never produces either of these passions; and 'tis found[3] that the
passion always varies in conformity to the relation. Nay we may
observe, that where the relation, by any particular circumstance, has
not its usual effect of producing a transition either of ideas or of
impressions,[4] it ceases to operate upon the passions, and gives
rise neither to pride nor love, humility nor hatred. This rule we find
still to hold good, even under the appearance of its contrary;[5] and
as relation is frequently experienced to have no effect, which upon
examination is found to proceed from some particular circumstance
that prevents the transition; so, even in instances where that
circumstance, though present, prevents not the transition, 'tis found
to arise from some other circumstance which counterbalances it. Thus,
not only the variations resolve themselves into the general principle,
but even the variations of these variations.
[1] First experiment.
[2] Second and third experiments.
[3] Fourth experiment.
[4] Sixth experiment.
[5] Seventh and eighth experiments.
SECTION III.
DIFFICULTIES SOLVED.
After so many and such undeniable proofs drawn from daily experience
and observation, it may seem superfluous to enter into a particular
examination of all the causes of love and hatred. I shall therefore
employ the sequel of this part, _first_, in removing some difficulties
concerning particular causes of these passions; _secondly_, in
examining the compound affections, which arise from the mixture of love
and hatred with other emotions.
Nothing is more evident, than that any person acquires our kindness, or
is exposed to our ill-will, in proportion to the pleasure or uneasiness
we receive from him, and that the passions keep pace exactly with the
sensations in all their changes and variations. Whoever can find the
means, either by his services, his beauty, or his flattery, to render
himself useful or agreeable to us, is sure of our affections; as, on
the other hand, whoever harms or displeases us never fails to excite
our anger or hatred. When our own nation is at war with any other,
we detest them under the character of cruel, perfidious, unjust, and
violent; but always esteem ourselves and allies equitable, moderate,
and merciful. If the general of our enemies be successful, 'tis with
difficulty we allow him the figure and character of a man. He is a
sorcerer; he has a communication with demons, as is reported of Oliver
Cromwell and the Duke of Luxembourg; he is bloody-minded, and takes a
pleasure in death and destruction. But if the success be on our side,
our commander has all the opposite good qualities, and is a pattern
of virtue, as well as of courage and conduct. His treachery we call
policy; his cruelty is an evil inseparable from war. In short, every
one of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or dignify it with
the name of that virtue which approaches it. 'Tis evident the same
method of thinking rims through common life.
There are some who add another condition, and require not only that the
pain and pleasure arise from the person, but likewise that it arise
knowingly, and with a particular design and intention. A man who wounds
and harms us by accident, becomes not our enemy upon that account; nor
do we think ourselves bound, by any ties of gratitude, to one who does
us any service after the same manner. By the intention we judge of the
actions; and, according as that is good or bad, they become causes of
love or hatred.
But here we must make a distinction. If that quality in another, which
pleases or displeases, be constant and inherent in his person and
character, it will cause love or hatred, independent of the intention:
but otherwise a knowledge and design is requisite, in order to give
rise to these passions. One that is disagreeable by his deformity or
folly, is the object of our aversion, though nothing be more certain,
than that he has not the least intention of displeasing us by these
qualities. But if the uneasiness proceed not from a quality, but an
action, which is produced and annihilated in a moment, 'tis necessary,
in order to produce some relation, and connect this action sufficiently
with the person, that it be derived from a particular forethought and
design. 'Tis not enough that the action arise from the person, and
have him for its immediate cause and author. This relation alone is
too feeble and inconstant to be a foundation for these passions. It
reaches not the sensible and thinking part, and neither proceeds from
any thing _durable_ in him, nor leaves any thing behind it, but passes
in a moment, and is as if it had never been. On the other hand, an
intention shows certain qualities, which, remaining after the action is
performed, connect it with the person, and facilitate the transition
of ideas from one to the other. We can never think of him without
reflecting on these qualities, unless repentance and a change of life
have produced an alteration in that respect; in which case the passion
is likewise altered. This, therefore, is one reason why an intention is
requisite to excite either love or hatred.
But we must farther consider, that an intention, besides its
strengthening the relation of ideas, is often necessary to produce a
relation of impressions, and give rise to pleasure and uneasiness. For
'tis observable, that the principal part of an injury is the contempt
and hatred which it shows in the person that injures us; and without
that, the mere harm gives us a less sensible uneasiness. In like
manner, a good office is agreeable, chiefly because it flatters our
vanity, and is a proof of the kindness and esteem of the person who
performs it. The removal of the intention removes the mortification
in the one case, and vanity in the other; and must of course cause a
remarkable diminution in the passions of love and hatred.
I grant, that these effects of the removal of design, hatred, in
diminishing the relations of impressions and ideas, are not entire, nor
able to remove every degree of these relations. But then I ask, if the
removal of design be able entirely to remove the passion of love and
hatred? Experience, I am sure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there
any thing more certain than that men often fall into a violent anger
for injuries which they themselves must own to be entirely involuntary
and accidental. This emotion, indeed, cannot be of long continuance,
but still is sufficient to show, that there is a natural connexion
betwixt uneasiness and anger, and that the relation of impressions will
operate upon a very small relation of ideas. But when the violence of
the impression is once a little abated, the defect of the relation
begins to be better felt; and as the character of a person is no wise
interested in such injuries as are casual and involuntary, it seldom
happens that on their account we entertain a lasting enmity.
To illustrate this doctrine by a parallel instance, we may observe,
that not only the uneasiness which proceeds from another by accident,
has but little force to excite our passion, but also that which arises
from an acknowledged necessity and duty. One that has a real design of
harming us, proceeding not from hatred and ill will, but from justice
and equity, draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any degree
reasonable; notwithstanding he is both the cause, and the knowing
cause, of our sufferings. Let us examine a little this phenomenon.
'Tis evident, in the first place, that this circumstance is not
decisive; and though it may be able to diminish the passions, 'tis
seldom it can entirely remove them. How few criminals are there who
have no ill will to the person that accuses them, or to the judge that
condemns them, even though they be conscious of their own deserts!
In like manner our antagonist in a lawsuit, and our competitor for
any office, are commonly regarded as our enemies, though we must
acknowledge, if we would but reflect a moment, that their motive is
entirely as justifiable as our own.
Besides we may consider, that when we receive harm from any person,
we are apt to imagine him criminal, and 'tis with extreme difficulty
we allow of his justice and innocence. This is a clear proof that,
independent of the opinion of iniquity, any harm or uneasiness has a
natural tendency to excite our hatred, and that afterwards we seek for
reasons upon which we may justify and establish the passion. Here the
idea of injury produces not the passion, but arises from it.
Nor is it any wonder that passion should produce the opinion of injury;
since otherwise it must suffer a considerable diminution, which all the
passions avoid as much as possible. The removal of injury may remove
the anger, without proving that the anger arises only from the injury.
The harm and the justice are two contrary objects, of which the one has
a tendency to produce hatred, and the other love; and 'tis according
to their different degrees, and our particular turn of thinking, that
either of the objects prevails and excites its proper passion.
SECTION IV.
OF THE LOVE OF RELATIONS.
Having given a reason why several actions that cause a real pleasure or
uneasiness excite not any degree, or but a small one, of the passion of
love or hatred towards the actors, 'twill be necessary to show wherein
consists the pleasure or uneasiness of many objects which we find by
experience to produce these passions.
According to the preceding system, there is always required a double
relation of impressions and ideas betwixt the cause and effect, in
order to produce either love or hatred. But though this be universally
true, 'tis remarkable that the passion of love may be excited by
only one _relation_ of a different kind, viz. betwixt ourselves and
the object; or, more properly speaking, that this relation is always
attended with both the others. Whoever is united to us by any connexion
is always sure of a share of our love, proportioned to the connexion,
without inquiring into his other qualities. Thus, the relation of
blood produces the strongest tie the mind is capable of in the love of
parents to their children, and a lesser degree of the same affection
as the relation lessens. Nor has consanguinity alone this effect, but
any other relation without exception. We love our countrymen, our
neighbours, those of the same trade, profession, and even name with
ourselves. Every one of these relations is esteemed some tie, and gives
a title to a share of our affection.
There is another phenomenon which is parallel to this, viz. that
_acquaintance_, without any kind of relation, gives rise to love and
kindness. When we have contracted a habitude and intimacy with any
person, though in frequenting his company we have not been able to
discover any very valuable quality of which he is possessed; yet we
cannot forbear preferring him to strangers of whose superior merit we
are fully convinced. These two phenomena of the effects of relation
and acquaintance will give mutual light to each other, and may be both
explained from the same principle.
Those who take a pleasure in declaiming against human nature have
observed, that man is altogether insufficient to support himself,
and that, when you loosen all the holds which he has of external
objects, he immediately drops down into the deepest melancholy and
despair. From this, say they, proceeds that continual search after
amusement in gaming, in hunting, in business, by which we endeavour
to forget ourselves, and excite our spirits from the languid state
into which they fall when not sustained by some brisk and lively
emotion. To this method of thinking I so far agree, that I own the
mind to be insufficient, of itself, to its own entertainment, and that
it naturally seeks after foreign objects which may produce a lively
sensation, and agitate the spirits. On the appearance of such an object
it awakes, as it were, from a dream; the blood flows with a new tide;
the heart is elevated; and the whole man acquires a vigour which he
cannot command in his solitary and calm moments. Hence company is
naturally so rejoicing, as presenting the liveliest of all objects,
viz. a rational and thinking being like ourselves, who communicates
to us all the actions of his mind, makes us privy to his inmost
sentiments and affections, and lets us see, in the very instant of
their production, all the emotions which are caused by any object.
Every lively idea is agreeable, but especially that of a passion,
because such an idea becomes a kind of passion, and gives a more
sensible agitation to the mind than any other image or conception.
This being once admitted, all the rest is easy. For as the company of
strangers is agreeable to us for _a short time_, by enlivening our
thought, so the company of our relations and acquaintance must be
peculiarly agreeable, because it has this effect in a greater degree,
and is of more _durable_ influence. Whatever is related to us is
conceived in a lively manner by the easy transition from ourselves
to the related object. Custom also, or acquaintance, facilitates the
entrance, and strengthens the conception of any object. The first case
is parallel to our reasonings from cause and effect; the second to
education. And as reasoning and education concur only in producing a
lively and strong idea of any object, so is this the only particular
which is common to relation and acquaintance. This must therefore be
the influencing quality by which they produce all their common effects;
and love or kindness being one of these effects, it must be from the
force and liveliness of conception that the passion is derived. Such a
conception is peculiarly agreeable, and makes us have an affectionate
regard for every thing that produces it, when the proper object of
kindness and good will.
'Tis obvious that people associate together according to their
particular tempers and dispositions, and that men of gay tempers
naturally love the gay, as the serious bear an affection to the
serious. This not only happens where they remark this resemblance
betwixt themselves and others, but also by the natural course of the
disposition, and by a certain sympathy which always arises betwixt
similar characters. Where they remark the resemblance, it operates
after the manner of a relation by producing a connexion of ideas. Where
they do not remark it, it operates by some other principle; and if this
latter principle be similar to the former, it must be received as a
confirmation of the foregoing reasoning.
The idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us, and conveys
a sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any other object to
which we are related. This lively idea changes by degrees into a real
impression; these two kinds of perception being in a great measure the
same, and differing only in their degrees of force and vivacity. But
this change must be produced with the greater ease, that our natural
temper gives us a propensity to the same impression which we observe
in others, and makes it arise upon any slight occasion. In that case
resemblance converts the idea into an impression, not only by means
of the relation, and by transfusing the original vivacity into the
related idea; but also by presenting such materials as take fire from
the least spark. And as in both cases a love or affection from the
resemblance, we may learn that a sympathy with others is agreeable
only by giving an emotion to the spirits, since an easy sympathy and
correspondent emotions are alone common to _relation, acquaintance_,
and _resemblance_.
The great propensity men have to pride may be considered as another
similar phenomenon. It often happens, that after we have lived
a considerable time in any city, however at first it might be
disagreeable to us, yet as we become familiar with the objects, and
contract an acquaintance, though merely with the streets and buildings,
the aversion diminishes by degrees, and at last changes into the
opposite passion. The mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view
of objects to which it is accustomed, and naturally prefers them to
others, which, though perhaps in themselves more valuable, are less
known to it. By the same quality of the mind we are seduced into a
good opinion of ourselves, and of all objects that belong to us. They
appear in a stronger light, are more agreeable, and consequently fitter
subjects of pride and vanity than any other.
It may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear our
acquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty curious phenomena
which attend it. 'Tis easy to remark in common life, that children
esteem their relation to their mother to be weakened, in a great
measure, by her second marriage, and no longer regard her with the same
eye as if she had continued in her state of widowhood. Nor does this
happen only when they have felt any inconveniences from her second
marriage, or when her husband is much her inferior; but even without
any of these considerations, and merely because she has become part
of another family. This also takes place with regard to the second
marriage of a father, but in a much less degree; and 'tis certain the
ties of blood are not so much loosened in the latter case as by the
marriage of a mother. These two phenomena are remarkable in themselves,
but much more so when compared.
In order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, 'tis
requisite, not only that the imagination be conveyed from one to the
other, by resemblance, contiguity or causation, but also that it return
back from the second to the first with the same ease and facility. At
first sight this may seem a necessary and unavoidable consequence.
If one object resemble another, the latter object must necessarily
resemble the former. If one object be the cause of another, the second
object is effect to its cause. 'Tis the same with contiguity; and
therefore the relation being always reciprocal, it may be thought,
that the return of the imagination from the second to the first must
also, in every case, be equally natural as its passage from the first
to the second. But upon farther examination we shall easily discover
our mistake. For supposing the second object, beside its reciprocal
relation to the first, to have also a strong relation to a third
object; in that case the thought, passing from the first object to the
second, returns not back with the same facility, though the relation
continues the same, but is readily carried on to the third object,
by means of the new relation which presents itself, and gives a new
impulse to the imagination. This new relation, therefore, weakens the
tie betwixt the first and second objects. The fancy is, by its very
nature, wavering and inconstant, and considers always two objects as
more strongly related together, where it finds the passage equally easy
both in going and returning, than where the transition is easy only in
one of these motions. The double motion is a kind of a double tie, and
binds the objects together in the closest and most intimate manner.
The second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation of child and
parent; and that relation suffices to convey my imagination from myself
to her with the greatest ease and facility. But after the imagination
is arrived at this point of view, it finds its object to be surrounded
with so many other relations which challenge its regard, that it knows
not which to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch upon.
The ties of interest and duty bind her to another family, and prevent
that return of the fancy from her to myself which is necessary to
support the union. The thought has no longer the vibration requisite
to set it perfectly at ease, and indulge its inclination to change.
It goes with facility, but returns with difficulty; and by that
interruption finds the relation much weakened from what it would be
were the passage open and easy on both sides.
Now, to give a reason why this effect follows not in in the same degree
upon the second marriage of a father; we may reflect on what has been
proved already, that though the imagination goes easily from the view
of a lesser object to that of a greater, yet it returns not with the
same facility from the greater to the less. When my imagination goes
from myself to my father, it passes not so readily from him to his
second wife, nor considers him as entering into a different family,
but as continuing the head of that family of which I am myself a part.
His superiority prevents the easy transition of the thought from him
to his spouse, but keeps the passage still open for a return to myself
along the same relation of child and parent. He is not sunk in the new
relation he acquires; so that the double motion or vibration of thought
is still easy and natural. By this indulgence of the fancy in its
inconstancy, the tie of child and parent still preserves its full force
and influence.
A mother thinks not her tie to a son weakened because 'tis shared with
her husband; nor a son his with a parent, because 'tis shared with a
brother. The third object is here related to the first as well as to
the second: so that the imagination goes and comes along all of them
with the greatest facility.
SECTION V.
OF OUR ESTEEM FOR THE RICH AND POWERFUL.
Nothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for any person than
his power and riches, or a contempt, than his poverty and meanness:
and as esteem and contempt are to be considered as species of love and
hatred, 'twill be proper in this place to explain these phenomena.
Here it happens, most fortunately, that the greatest difficulty is,
not to discover a principle capable of producing such an effect,
but to chuse the chief and predominant among several that present
themselves. The _satisfaction_ we take in the riches of others, and
the _esteem_ we have for the possessors, may be ascribed to three
different causes. _First_, to the objects they possess; such as houses,
gardens, equipages, which, being agreeable in themselves, necessarily
produce a sentiment of pleasure in every one that either considers or
surveys them. _Secondly_, to the expectation of advantage from the
rich and powerful by our sharing their possessions. _Thirdly_, to
sympathy, which makes us partake of the satisfaction of every one that
approaches us. All these principles may concur in producing the present
phenomenon. The question is, to which of them we ought principally to
ascribe it.
'Tis certain that the first principle, viz. the reflection on
agreeable objects, has a greater influence than what, at first sight,
we may be apt to imagine. We seldom reflect on what is beautiful or
ugly, agreeable or disagreeable, without an emotion of pleasure or
uneasiness; and though these sensations appear not much, in our common
indolent way of thinking, 'tis easy, either in reading or conversation,
to discover them. Men of wit always turn the discourse on subjects
that are entertaining to the imagination; and poets never present any
objects but such as are of the same nature. Mr Philips has chosen
_Cider_ for the subject of an excellent poem. Beer would not have been
so proper, as being neither so agreeable to the taste nor eye. But he
would certainly have preferred wine to either of them, could his native
country have afforded him so agreeable a liquor. We may learn from
thence, that every thing which is agreeable to the senses, is also, in
some measure, agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to the thought an
image of that satisfaction, which it gives by its real application to
the bodily organs.
But, though these reasons may induce us to comprehend this delicacy
of the imagination among the causes of the respect which we pay the
rich and powerful, there are many other reasons that may keep us from
regarding it as the sole or principal. For, as the ideas of pleasure
can have an influence only by means of their vivacity, which makes them
approach impressions, 'tis most natural those ideas should have that
influence, which are favoured by most circumstances, and have a natural
tendency to become strong and lively; such as our ideas of the passions
and sensations of any human creature. Every human creature resembles
ourselves, and, by that means, has an advantage above any other object
in operating on the imagination.
Besides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the great
influence which all relations have upon it, we shall easily be
persuaded, that however the ideas of the pleasant wines, music, or
gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may become lively and agreeable,
the fancy will not confine itself to them, but will carry its view to
the related objects, and, in particular, to the person who possesses
them. And this is the more natural, that the pleasant idea, or image,
produces here a passion towards the person by means of his relation
to the object; so that 'tis unavoidable but he must enter into the
original conception, since he makes the object of the derivative
passion. But if he enters into the original conception, and is
considered as enjoying these agreeable objects, 'tis _sympathy_ which
is properly the cause of the affection; and the _third_ principle is
more powerful and universal than the _first_.
Add to this, that riches and power alone, even though unemployed,
naturally cause esteem and respect; and, consequently, these passions
arise not from the idea of any beautiful or agreeable objects. 'Tis
true money implies a kind of representation of such objects by the
power it affords of obtaining them; and for that reason may still be
esteemed proper to convey those agreeable images which may give rise to
the passion. But as this prospect is very distant, 'tis more natural
for us to take a contiguous object, viz. the satisfaction which this
power affords the person who is possessed of it. And of this we shall
be farther satisfied, if we consider that riches represent the goods of
life only by means of the will which employs them; and therefore imply,
in their very nature, an idea of the person, and cannot be considered
without a kind of sympathy with his sensations and enjoyments.
This we may confirm by a reflection which to some will perhaps appear
too subtile and refined. I have already observed that power, as
distinguished from its exercise, has either no meaning at all, or is
nothing but a possibility or probability of existence, by which any
object approaches to reality, and has a sensible influence on the
mind. I have also observed, that this approach, by an illusion of the
fancy, appears much greater when we ourselves are possessed of the
power than when it is enjoyed by another; and that, in the former case,
the objects seem to touch upon the very verge of reality, and convey
almost an equal satisfaction as if actually in our possession. Now I
assert, that where we esteem a person upon account of his riches, we
must enter into this sentiment of the proprietor, and that, without
such a sympathy, the idea of the agreeable objects, which they give
him the power to produce, would have but a feeble influence upon
us. An avaricious man is respected for his money, though he scarce
is possessed of a _power_; that 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.
'Tis 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 'tis 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 show 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
'tis 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 phenomena 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 'tis 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 'tis
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
pride of _sympathy_, by which we enter into the sentiments of 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 apart 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, 'tis seldom we rest
there, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational
creatures. A man who shows 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, anti-chambers and passages; and indeed 'tis 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? 'Tis 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, scrutoires, chimneys,
coaches, saddles, 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.
'Tis 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. 'Tis 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 balancing the
figures, and placing them with the greatest exactness on their proper
centre of gravity.
A figure which is not justly balanced 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, increase 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
reflection 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 'tis difficult to
distinguish the images and reflections, by reason of their faintness
and confusion.
SECTION 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 phenomena 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. 'Tis 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 phenomenon which
is more stubborn, and will not so easily bend to our purpose. We need
not be surprised 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 no wise 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. 'Tis 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 completed 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 'tis 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 increases, 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 could
have altered the sensation without altering the tendency of the desire,
and by that means made them compatible with each other.
SECTION 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.
'Twill 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 'tis 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 phenomenon
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 shows 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 increases 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 overlooking
that greatness of mind which elevates him above such emotions, or
only considering it so far as to increase 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 show no sense of shame, nor seem in the least
conscious of their folly. All this proceeds from sympathy, but 'tis
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 increases our concern for the misfortunate, even
though the indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity.
'Tis 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
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 effect the imagination,
especially when presented by the subject; and 'tis on the imagination
that pity entirely depends.[6]
[6] To prevent all ambiguity, I must observe, that where I oppose the
imagination to the memory, I mean in general the faculty that presents
our fainter ideas. In all other places, and particularly when it is
opposed to the understanding, I understand the same faculty, excluding
only our demonstrative and probable reasonings.
SECTION VIII.
OF MALICE AND ENVY.
We must now proceed to account for the passion of _malice_, which
imitates the effects of hatred as pity does those of love, and gives us
a joy in the sufferings and miseries of others, without any offence or
injury on their part.
So little are men governed by reason in their sentiments and opinions,
that they always judge more of objects by comparison than from their
intrinsic worth and value. When the mind considers, or is accustomed
to any degree of perfection, whatever falls short of it, though really
estimable, has, notwithstanding, the same effect upon the passions as
what is defective and ill. This is an _original_ quality of the soul,
and similar to what we have every day experience of in our bodies.
Let a man heat one hand and cool the other; the same water will at
the same time seem both hot and cold, according to the disposition
of the different organs. A small degree of any quality, succeeding a
greater, produces the same sensation as if less than it really is, and
even sometimes as the opposite quality. Any gentle pain that follows a
violent one, seems as nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure; as, on the
other hand, a violent pain succeeding a gentle one, is doubly grievous
and uneasy.
This no one can doubt of with regard to our passions and sensations.
But there may arise some difficulty with regard to our ideas and
objects. When an object augments or diminishes to the eye or
imagination, from a comparison with others, the image and idea of the
object are still the same, and are equally extended in the _retina_,
and in the brain or organ of perception. The eyes refract the rays of
light, and the optic nerves convey the images to the brain in the very
same manner, whether a great or small object has preceded; nor does
even the imagination alter the dimensions of its object on account of
a comparison with others. The question then is, how, from the same
impression, and the same idea, we can form such different judgments
concerning the same object, and at one time admire its bulk, and at
another despise its littleness? This variation in our judgments must
certainly proceed from a variation in some perception; but as the
variation lies not in the immediate impression or idea of the object,
it must lie in some other impression that accompanies it.
In order to explain this matter, I shall just touch upon two
principles, one of which shall be more fully explained in the progress
of this Treatise; the other has been already accounted for. I believe
it may safely be established for a general maxim, that no object is
presented to the senses, nor image formed in the fancy, but what is
accompanied with some emotion or movement of spirits proportioned
to it; and however custom may make us insensible of this sensation,
and cause us to confound it with the object or idea, 'twill be easy,
by careful and exact experiments, to separate and distinguish them.
For, to instance only in the cases of extension and number, 'tis
evident that any very bulky object, such as the ocean, an extended
plain, a vast chain of mountains, a wide forest; or any very numerous
collection of objects, such as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in
the mind a sensible emotion; and that the admiration which arises on
the appearance of such objects is one of the most lively pleasures
which human nature is capable of enjoying. Now, as this admiration
increases or diminishes by the increase or diminution of the objects,
we may conclude, according to our foregoing principles,[7] that 'tis
a compound effect, proceeding from the conjunction of the several
effects which arise from each part of the cause. Every part, then, of
extension, and every unite of number, has a separate emotion attending
it when conceived by the mind; and though that emotion be not always
agreeable, yet, by its conjunction with others, and by its agitating
the spirits to a just pitch, it contributes to the production of
admiration, which is always agreeable. If this be allowed with respect
to extension and number, we can make no difficulty with respect to
virtue and vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty, happiness and
misery, and other objects of that kind, which are always attended with
an evident emotion.
The second principle I shall take notice of is that of our adherence
to _general rules_; which has such a mighty influence on the actions
and understanding, and is able to impose on the very senses. When an
object is found by experience to be always accompanied with another,
whenever the first object appears, though changed in very material
circumstances, we naturally fly to the conception of the second, and
form an idea of it in as lively and strong a manner, as if we had
inferred its existence by the justest and most authentic conclusion
of our understanding. Nothing can undeceive us, not even our senses,
which, instead of correcting this false judgment, are often perverted
by it, and seem to authorize its errors.
The conclusion I draw from these two principles, joined to the
influence of comparison above-mentioned, is very short and decisive.
Every object is attended with some emotion proportioned to it; a great
object with a great emotion, a small object with a small emotion.
A great _object_, therefore, succeeding a small one, makes a great
_emotion_ succeed a small one. Now, a great emotion succeeding a small
one becomes still greater, and rises beyond its ordinary proportion.
But as there is a certain degree of an emotion which commonly attends
every magnitude of an object, when the emotion increases, we naturally
imagine that the object has likewise increased. The effect conveys
our view to its usual cause, a certain degree of emotion to a certain
magnitude of the object; nor do we consider, that comparison may
change the emotion without changing any thing in the object. Those
who are acquainted with the metaphysical part of optics, and know how
we transfer the judgments and conclusions of the understanding to the
senses, will easily conceive this whole operation.
But leaving this new discovery of an impression that secretly attends
every idea, we must at least allow of that principle from whence the
discovery arose, _that objects appear greater or less by a comparison
with others_. We have so many instances of this, that it is impossible
we can dispute its veracity; and 'tis from this principle I derive the
passions of malice and envy.
'Tis evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction or
uneasiness from reflecting on our own condition and circumstances,
in proportion as they appear more or less fortunate or unhappy,
in proportion to the degrees of riches, and power, and merit, and
reputation, which we think ourselves possest of. Now, as we seldom
judge of objects from their intrinsic value, but form our notions of
them from a comparison with other objects, it follows, that according
as we observe a greater or less share of happiness or misery in others,
we must make an estimate of our own, and feel a consequent pain or
pleasure. The misery of another gives us a more lively idea of our
happiness, and his happiness of our misery. The former, therefore,
produces delight, and the latter uneasiness.
Here then is a kind of pity reverst, or contrary sensations arising
in the beholder, from those which are felt by the person whom he
considers. In general we may observe, that, in all kinds of comparison,
an object makes us always receive from another, to which it is
compared, a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct
and immediate survey. A small object makes a great one appear still
greater. A great object makes a little one appear less. Deformity of
itself produces uneasiness, but makes us receive new pleasure by its
contrast with a beautiful object, whose beauty is augmented by it; as,
on the other hand, beauty, which of itself produces pleasure, makes us
receive a new pain by the contrast with any thing ugly, whose deformity
it augments. The case, therefore, must be the same with happiness and
misery. The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us
pleasure, and therefore produces pain when compared with our own. His
pain, considered in itself, is painful to us, but augments the idea of
our own happiness, and gives us pleasure.
Nor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reverst sensation from
the happiness and misery of others, since we find the same comparison
may give us a kind of malice against ourselves, and make us rejoice for
our pains, and grieve for our pleasures. Thus, the prospect of past
pain is agreeable, when we are satisfied with our present condition;
as, on the other hand, our past pleasures give us uneasiness, when we
enjoy nothing at present equal to them. The comparison being the same
as when we reflect on the sentiments of others, must be attended with
the same effects.
Nay, a person may extend this malice against himself, even to his
present fortune, and carry it so far as designedly to seek affliction,
and increase his pains and sorrows. This may happen upon two occasions.
_First_, Upon the distress and misfortune of a friend, or person dear
to him. _Secondly_, Upon the feeling any remorses for a crime of
which he has been guilty. 'Tis from the principle of comparison that
both these irregular appetites for evil arise. A person who indulges
himself in any pleasure while his friend lies under affliction, feels
the reflected uneasiness from his friend more sensibly by a comparison
with the original pleasure which he himself enjoys. This contrast,
indeed, ought also to enliven the present pleasure. But as grief is
here supposed to be the predominant passion, every addition falls to
that side, and is swallowed up in it, without operating in the least
upon the contrary affection. 'Tis the same case with those penances
which men inflict on themselves for their past sins and failings. When
a criminal reflects on the punishment he deserves, the idea of it is
magnified by a comparison with his present ease and satisfaction, which
forces him, in a manner, to seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so
disagreeable a contrast.
This reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well as of
malice. The only difference betwixt these passions lies in this,
that envy is excited by some present enjoyment of another, which, by
comparison, diminishes our idea of our own: whereas malice is the
unprovoked desire of producing evil to another, in order to reap a
pleasure from the comparison. The enjoyment, which is the object of
envy, is commonly superior to our own. A superiority naturally seems to
overshade us, and presents a disagreeable comparison. But even in the
case of an inferiority, we still desire a greater distance, in order to
augment still more the idea of ourself. When this distance diminishes,
the comparison is, less to our advantage, and consequently gives us
less pleasure, and is even disagreeable. Hence arises that species of
envy which men feel, when they perceive their inferiors approaching or
overtaking them in the pursuit of glory or happiness. In this envy we
may see the effects of comparison twice repeated. A man, who compares
himself to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the comparison; and
when the inferiority decreases by the elevation of the inferior, what
should only have been a decrease of pleasure, becomes a real pain, by a
new comparison with its preceding condition.
'Tis worthy of observation concerning that envy which arises from a
superiority in others, that 'tis not the great disproportion betwixt
ourself and another, which produces it; but, on the contrary, our
proximity. A common soldier bears no such envy to his general as
to his sergeant or corporal; nor does an eminent writer meet with
so great jealousy in common hackney scribblers, as in authors that
more nearly approach him. It may indeed be thought, that the greater
the disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from the
comparison. But we may consider on the other hand, that the great
disproportion cuts off the relation, and either keeps us from comparing
ourselves, with what is remote from us, or diminishes the effects of
the comparison. Resemblance and proximity always produce a relation of
ideas; and where you destroy these ties, however other accidents may
bring two ideas together, as they have no bond or connecting quality
to join them in the imagination, 'tis impossible they can remain long
united, or have any considerable influence on each other.
I have observed, in considering the nature of ambition, that the great
feel a double pleasure in authority, from the comparison of their own
condition with that of their slaves; and that this comparison has a
double influence, because 'tis natural, and presented by the subject.
When the fancy, in the comparison of objects, passes not easily from
the one object to the other, the action of the mind is in a great
measure broke, and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins,
as it were, upon a new footing. The impression which attends every
object, seems not greater in that case by succeeding a less of the
same kind; but these two impressions are distinct, and produce their
distinct effects, without any communication together. The want of
relation in the ideas breaks the relation of the impressions, and by
such a separation prevents their mutual operation and influence.
To confirm this we may observe, that the proximity in the degree
of merit is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, but must be
assisted by other relations. A poet is not apt to envy a philosopher,
or a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, or a different
age. All these differences prevent or weaken the comparison, and
consequently the passion.
This too is the reason why all objects appear great or little, merely
by a comparison with those of the same species. A mountain neither
magnifies nor diminishes a horse in our eyes; but when a Flemish and a
Welsh horse are seen together, the one appears greater and the other
less, then when viewed apart.
From the same principle we may account for that remark of historians,
that any party in a civil war always choose to call in a foreign enemy
at any hazard, rather than submit to their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin
applies this remark to the wars in Italy, where the relations betwixt
the different states are, properly speaking, nothing but of name,
language, and contiguity. Yet even these relations, when joined with
superiority, by making the comparison more natural, make it likewise
more grievous, and cause men to search for some other superiority,
which may be attended with no relation, and by that means may have a
less sensible influence on the imagination. The mind quickly perceives
its several advantages and disadvantages; and finding its situation to
be most uneasy, where superiority is conjoined with other relations,
seeks its repose as much as possible by their separation, and by
breaking that association of ideas, which renders the comparison
so much more natural and efficacious. When it cannot break the
association, it feels a stronger desire to remove the superiority;
and this is the reason why travellers are commonly so lavish of their
praises to the Chinese and Persians, at the same time that they
depreciate those neighbouring nations which may stand upon a foot of
rivalship with their native country.
These examples from history and common experience are rich and
curious; but we may find parallel ones in the arts, which are no less
remarkable. Should an author compose a treatise, of which one part
was serious and profound, another light and humorous, every one would
condemn so strange a mixture, and would accuse him of the neglect
of all rules of art and criticism. These rules of art are founded
on the qualities of human nature; and the quality of human nature,
which requires a consistency in every performance, is that which
renders the mind incapable of passing in a moment from one passion and
disposition to a quite different one. Yet this makes us not blame Mr
Prior for joining his Alma and his Solomon in the same volume; though
that admirable poet has succeeded perfectly well in the gaiety of the
one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. Even supposing the
reader should peruse these two compositions without any interval, he
would feel little or no difficulty in the change of passions: why? but
because he considers these performances as entirely different, and, by
this break in the ideas, breaks the progress of the affections, and
hinders the one from influencing or contradicting the other.
An heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture, would be
monstrous; though we place two pictures of so opposite a character in
the same chamber, and even close by each other, without any scruple or
difficulty.
In a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by comparison, or by
the passions they separately produce, unless they be united together
by some relation which may cause an easy transition of the ideas, and
consequently of the emotions or impressions attending the ideas, and
may preserve the one impression in the passage of the imagination
to the object of the other. This principle is very remarkable,
because it is analogous to what we have observed both concerning the
_understanding_ and the _passions_. Suppose two objects to be presented
to me, which are not connected by any kind of relation. Suppose that
each of these objects separately produces a passion, and that these
two passions are in themselves contrary; we find from experience,
that the want of relation in the objects or ideas hinders the natural
contrariety of the passions, and that the break in the transition of
the thought removes the affections from each other, and prevents their
opposition. 'Tis the same case with comparison; and from both these
phenomena we may safely conclude, that the relation of ideas must
forward the transition of impressions, since its absence alone is able
to prevent it, and to separate what naturally should have operated
upon each other. When the absence of an object or quality removes any
usual or natural effect, we may certainly conclude that its presence
contributes to the production of the effect.
[7] Book I. Part III. Sect. 15.
SECTION IX.
OF THE MIXTURE OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER
WITH COMPASSION AND MALICE.
Thus we have endeavoured to account for _pity_ and _malice_. Both these
affections arise from the imagination, according to the light in which
it places its object. When our fancy considers directly the sentiments
of others, and enters deep into them, it makes us sensible of all the
passions it surveys, but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow.
On the contrary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our own,
we feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, viz. a joy
from the grief of others, and a grief from their joy. But these are
only the first foundations of the affections of pity and malice. Other
passions are afterwards confounded with them. There is always a mixture
of love or tenderness with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice.
But it must be confessed, that this mixture seems at first sight to be
contradictory to my system. For as pity is an uneasiness, and malice a
joy, arising from the misery of others, pity should naturally, as in
all other cases, produce hatred, and malice, love. This contradiction I
endeavour to reconcile, after the following manner.
In order to cause a transition of passions, there is required a double
relation of impressions and ideas; nor is one relation sufficient to
produce this effect. But that we may understand the full force of this
double relation, we must consider, that 'tis not the present sensation
alone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of
any passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning
to the end. One impression may be related to another, not only when
their sensations are resembling, as we have all along supposed in the
preceding cases, but also when their impulses or directions are similar
and correspondent. This cannot take place with regard to pride and
humility, because these are only pure sensations, without any direction
or tendency to action. We are, therefore, to look for instances of
this peculiar relation of impressions only in such affections as are
attended with a certain appetite or desire, such as those of love and
hatred.
Benevolence, or the appetite which attends love, is a desire of the
happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery, as
anger, or the appetite which attends hatred, is a desire of the misery
of the person hated, and an aversion to his happiness. A desire,
therefore, of the happiness of another, and aversion to his misery,
are similar to benevolence; and a desire of his misery and aversion
to his happiness, are correspondent to anger. Now, pity is a desire
of happiness to another, and aversion to his misery, as malice is the
contrary appetite. Pity, then, is related to benevolence, and malice to
anger; and as benevolence has been already found to be connected with
love, by a natural and original quality, and anger with hatred, 'tis by
this chain the passions of pity and malice are connected with love and
hatred.
This hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. A man, who, from
any motives, has entertained a resolution of performing an action,
naturally runs into every other view or motive which may fortify that
resolution, and give it authority and influence on the mind. To confirm
us in any design, we search for motives drawn from interest, from
honour, from duty. What wonder, then, that pity and benevolence, malice
and anger, being the same desires arising from different principles,
should so totally mix together as to be undistinguishable? As to
the connexion betwixt benevolence and love, anger and hatred, being
_original_ and primary, it admits of no difficulty.
We may add to this another experiment, viz. that benevolence and anger,
and, consequently, love and hatred, arise when our happiness or misery
have any dependence on the happiness or misery of another person,
without any farther relation. I doubt not but this experiment will
appear so singular as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it.
Suppose that two persons of the same trade should seek employment in a
town that is not able to maintain both, 'tis plain the success of one
is perfectly incompatible with that of the other; and that whatever
is for the interest of either is contrary to that of his rival, and
so _vice versa_. Suppose, again, that two merchants, though living
in different parts of the world, should enter into co-partnership
together, the advantage or loss of one becomes immediately the
advantage or loss of his partner, and the same fortune necessarily
attends both. Now, 'tis evident, that, in the first case, hatred
always follows upon the contrariety of interests; as, in the second,
love arises from their union. Let us consider to what principle we can
ascribe these passions.
'Tis plain they arise, not from the double relations of impressions and
ideas, if we regard only the present sensation. For, taking the first
case of rivalship, though the pleasure and advantage of an antagonist
necessarily causes my pain and loss, yet, to counterbalance this,
his pain and loss causes my pleasure and advantage; and, supposing
him to be unsuccessful, I may, by this means, receive from him a
superior degree of satisfaction. In the same manner the success of a
partner rejoices me, but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal
proportion; and 'tis easy to imagine that the latter sentiment may, in
some cases, preponderate. But whether the fortune of a rival or partner
be good or bad, I always hate the former and love the latter.
This love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or connexion
betwixt us, in the same manner as I love a brother or countryman. A
rival has almost as close a relation to me as a partner. For, as the
pleasure of the latter causes my pleasure, and his pain my pain; so the
pleasure of the former causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. The
connexion, then, of cause and effect, is the same in both cases; and
if, in the one case, the cause and effect has a farther relation of
resemblance, they have that of contrariety in the other; which, being
also a species of resemblance, leaves the matter pretty equal.
The only explication, then, we can give of this phenomenon, is derived
from that principle of a parallel direction above-mentioned. Our
concern for our own interest gives us a pleasure in the pleasure, and
a pain in the pain of a partner, after the same manner as by sympathy
we feel a sensation correspondent to those which appear in any person
who is present with us. On the other hand, the same concern for our
interest makes us feel a pain in the pleasure, and a pleasure in the
pain of a rival; and, in short, the same contrariety of sentiments
as arises from comparison and malice. Since, therefore, a parallel
direction of the affections, proceeding from interest, can give rise to
benevolence or anger, no wonder the same parallel direction, derived
from sympathy and from comparison, should have the same effect.
In general we may observe, that 'tis impossible to do good to others,
from whatever motive, without feeling some touches of kindness and
good will towards them; as the injuries we do not only cause hatred in
the person who suffers them, but even in ourselves. These phenomena,
indeed, may in part be accounted for from other principles.
But here there occurs a considerable objection, which 'twill be
necessary to examine before we proceed any farther. I have endeavoured
to prove that power and riches, or poverty and meanness, which give
rise to love or hatred, without producing any original pleasure or
uneasiness, operate upon us by means of a secondary sensation derived
from a sympathy with that pain or satisfaction which they produce in
the person who possesses them. From a sympathy with his pleasure there
arises love; from that with his uneasiness, hatred. But 'tis a maxim
which I have just now established, and which is absolutely necessary
to the explication of the phenomena of pity and malice, "That 'tis not
the present sensation or momentary pain or pleasure which determines
the character of any passion, but the general bent or tendency of it
from the beginning to the end." For this reason, pity or a sympathy
with pain produces love, and that because it interests us in the
fortunes of others, good or bad, and gives us a secondary sensation
correspondent to the primary, in which it has the same influence with
love and benevolence. Since, then, this rule holds good in one case,
why does it not prevail throughout, and why does sympathy in uneasiness
ever produce any passion beside good will and kindness? Is it becoming
a philosopher to alter his method of reasoning, and run from one
principle to its contrary, according to the particular phenomenon which
he would explain?
I have mentioned two different causes from which a transition of
passion may arise, viz. a double relation of ideas and impressions,
and, what is similar to it, a conformity in the tendency and direction
of any two desires which arise from different principles. Now I
assert, that when a sympathy with uneasiness is weak, it produces
hatred or contempt by the former cause; when strong, it produces love
or tenderness by the latter. This is the solution of the foregoing
difficulty, which seems so urgent; and this is a principle founded on
such evident arguments, that we ought to have established it, even
though it were not necessary to the explication of any phenomenon.
'Tis certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the present
moment, but that we often feel, by communication, the pains and
pleasures of others which are not in being, and which we only
anticipate by the force of imagination. For, supposing I saw a person
perfectly unknown to me, who, while asleep in the fields, was in danger
of being trod under foot by horses, I should immediately run to his
assistance; and in this I should be actuated by the same principle
of sympathy which makes me concerned for the present sorrows of a
stranger. The bare mention of this is sufficient. Sympathy being
nothing but a lively idea converted into an impression, 'tis evident
that, in considering the future possible or probable condition of any
person, we may enter into it with so vivid a conception as to make it
our own concern, and by that means be sensible of pains and pleasures
which neither belong to ourselves, nor at the present instant have any
real existence.
But however we may look forward to the future in sympathizing with any
person, the extending of our sympathy depends in a great measure upon
our sense of his present condition. 'Tis a great effort of imagination
to form such lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as
to feel these very sentiments; but 'tis impossible we could extend this
sympathy to the future without being aided by some circumstance in the
present, which strikes upon us in a lively manner. When the present
misery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the
conception is not confined merely to its immediate object, but diffuses
its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion
of all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or
future; possible, probable, or certain. By means of this lively notion
I am interested in them, take part with them, and feel a sympathetic
motion in my breast, conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I
diminish the vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that of the
related ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at
the fountain. By this diminution I destroy the future prospect which
is necessary to interest me perfectly in the fortune of another. I may
feel the present impression, but carry my sympathy no farther, and
never transfuse the force of the first conception into my ideas of the
related objects. If it be another's misery which is presented in this
feeble manner, I receive it by communication, and am affected with all
the passions related to it: but as I am not so much interested as to
concern myself in his good fortune as well as his bad, I never feel the
extensive sympathy, nor the passions related to _it_.
Now, in order to know what passions are related to these different
kinds of sympathy, we must consider that benevolence is an original
pleasure arising from the pleasure of the person beloved, and a pain
proceeding from his pain: from which correspondence of impressions
there arises a subsequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his
pain. In order, then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence,
'tis requisite we should feel these double impressions, correspondent
to those of the person whom we consider; nor is any one of them
alone sufficient for that purpose. When we sympathize only with one
impression, and that a painful one, this sympathy is related to anger
and to hatred, upon account of the uneasiness it conveys to us. But as
the extensive or limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first
sympathy, it follows that the passion of love or hatred depends upon
the same principle. A strong impression, when communicated, gives a
double tendency of the passions, which is related to benevolence and
love by a similarity of direction, however painful the first impression
might have been. A weak impression that is painful is related to
anger and hatred by the resemblance of sensations. Benevolence,
therefore, arises from a great degree of misery, or any degree strongly
sympathized with: hatred or contempt from a small degree, or one weakly
sympathized with; which is the principle I intended to prove and
explain.
Nor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle, but
also experience. A certain degree of poverty produces contempt; but
a degree beyond causes compassion and good will. We may undervalue
a peasant or servant; but when the misery of a beggar appears very
great, or is painted in very lively colours, we sympathize with him
in his afflictions, and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and
benevolence. The same object causes contrary passions, according to its
different degrees. The passions, therefore, must depend upon principles
that operate in such certain degrees, according to my hypothesis. The
increase of the sympathy has evidently the same effect as the increase
of the misery.
A barren or desolate country always seems ugly and disagreeable,
and commonly inspires us with contempt for the inhabitants. This
deformity, however, proceeds in a great measure from a sympathy
with the inhabitants, as has been already observed; but it is only
a weak one, and reaches no farther than the immediate sensation,
which is disagreeable. The view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent
sentiments; because we there enter so deep into the interests of the
miserable inhabitants, as to wish for their prosperity, as well as feel
their adversity.
But though the force of the impression generally produces pity and
benevolence, 'tis certain that, by being carried too far, it ceases
to have that effect. This, perhaps, may be worth our notice. When the
uneasiness is either small in itself, or remote from us, it engages
not the imagination, nor is able to convey an equal concern for the
future and contingent good, as for the present and real evil. Upon its
acquiring greater force, we become so interested in the concerns of the
person, as to be sensible both of his good and bad fortune; and from
that complete sympathy there arises pity and benevolence. But 'twill
easily be imagined, that where the present evil strikes with more than
ordinary force, it may entirely engage our attention, and prevent that
double sympathy above mentioned. Thus we find, that though every one,
but especially women, are apt to contract a kindness for criminals who
go to the scaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly handsome
and well-shaped; yet one who is present at the cruel execution of the
rack, feels no such tender emotions; but is in a manner overcome with
horror, and has no leisure to temper this uneasy sensation by any
opposite sympathy.
But the instance which makes the most clearly for my hypothesis, is
that wherein, by a change of the objects, we separate the double
sympathy even from a middling degree of the passion; in which case we
find that pity, instead of producing love and tenderness as usual,
always gives rise to the contrary affection. When we observe a person
in misfortune, we are affected with pity and love; but the author of
that misfortune becomes the object of our strongest hatred, and is the
more detested in proportion to the degree of our compassion. Now, for
what reason should the same passion of pity produce love to the person
who suffers the misfortune, and hatred to the person who causes it;
unless it be because, in the latter case, the author bears a relation
only to the misfortune; whereas, in considering the sufferer, we carry
our view on every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well as are
sensible of his affliction?
I shall just observe, before I leave the present subject, that this
phenomenon of the double sympathy, and its tendency to cause love,
may contribute to the production of the kindness which we naturally
bear our relations and acquaintance. Custom and relation make us enter
deeply into the sentiments of others; and whatever fortune we suppose
to attend them, is rendered present to us by the imagination, and
operates as if originally our own. We rejoice in their pleasures, and
grieve for their sorrows, merely from the force of sympathy. Nothing
that concerns them is indifferent to us; and as this correspondence of
sentiments is the natural attendant of love, it readily produces that
affection.
SECTION X.
OF RESPECT AND CONTEMPT.
There now remains only to explain the passions of _respect_ and
_contempt_, along with the _amorous_ affection, in order to understand
all the passions which have any mixture of love or hatred. Let us begin
with respect and contempt.
In considering the qualities and circumstances of others, we may either
regard them as they really are in themselves; or may make a comparison
betwixt them and our own qualities and circumstances; or may join these
two methods of consideration. The good qualities of others, from the
first point of view, produce love; from the second, humility; and, from
the third, respect; which is a mixture of these two passions. Their bad
qualities, after the same manner, cause either hatred, or pride, or
contempt, according to the light in which we survey them.
That there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of humility in
respect, is, I think, too evident, from their very feeling or
appearance, to require any particular proof. That this mixture arises
from a tacit comparison of the person contemned or respected with
ourselves, is no less evident. The same man may cause either respect,
love, or contempt, by his condition and talents, according as the
person who considers him, from his inferior, becomes his equal or
superior. In changing the point of view, though the object may remain
the same, its proportion to ourselves entirely alters; which is the
cause of an alteration in the passions. These passions, therefore,
arise from our observing the proportion, that is, from a comparison.
I have already observed, that the mind has a much stronger propensity
to pride than to humility, and have endeavoured, from the principles
of human nature, to assign a cause for this phenomenon. Whether my
reasoning be received or not, the phenomenon is undisputed, and appears
in many instances. Among the rest, 'tis the reason why there is a much
greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility in respect, and
why we are more elevated with the view of one below us, than mortified
with the presence of one above us. Contempt or scorn has so strong a
tincture of pride, that there scarce is any other passion discernible:
Whereas in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable ingredient
than humility. The passion of vanity is so prompt, that it rouses at
the least call; while humility requires a stronger impulse to make it
exert itself.
But here it may reasonably be asked, why this mixture takes place only
in some cases, and appears not on every occasion. All those objects
which cause love, when placed on another person, are the causes of
pride when transferred to ourselves; and consequently ought to be
causes of humility as well as love while they belong to others, and are
only compared to those which we ourselves possess. In like manner every
quality, which, by being directly considered, produces hatred, ought
always to give rise to pride by comparison, and, by a mixture of these
passions of hatred and pride, ought to excite contempt or scorn. The
difficulty then is, why any objects ever cause pure love or hatred,
and produce not always the mixt passions of respect and contempt.
I have supposed all along that the passions of love and pride, and
those of humility and hatred, are similar in their sensations, and that
the two former are always agreeable, and that the two latter painful.
But though this be universally true, 'tis observable, that the two
agreeable as well as the two painful passions, have some differences,
and even contrarieties, which distinguish them. Nothing invigorates and
exalts the mind equally with pride and vanity; though at the same time
love or tenderness is rather found to weaken and enfeeble it. The same
difference is observable betwixt the uneasy passions. Anger and hatred
bestow a new force on all our thoughts and actions; while humility and
shame deject and discourage us. Of these qualities of the passions,
'twill be necessary to form a distinct idea. Let us remember that pride
and hatred invigorate the soul, and love and humility enfeeble it.
From this it follows, that though the conformity betwixt love and
hatred in the agreeableness of their sensation makes them always be
excited by the same objects, yet this other contrariety is the reason
why they are excited in very different degrees. Genius and learning are
_pleasant_ and _magnificent_ objects, and by both these circumstances
are adapted to pride and vanity, but have a relation to love by their
pleasure only. Ignorance and simplicity are _disagreeable_ and _mean_,
which in the same manner gives them a double connexion with humility,
and a single one with hatred. We may, therefore, consider it as
certain, that though the same object always produces love and pride,
humility and hatred, according to its different situations, yet it
seldom produces either the two former or the two latter passions in the
same proportion.
'Tis here we must seek for a solution of the difficulty
above-mentioned, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, and
does not always produce respect or contempt, by a mixture of humility
or pride. No quality in another gives rise to humility by comparison,
unless it would have produced pride by being placed in ourselves;
and, _vice versa_, no object excites pride by comparison, unless it
would have produced humility by the direct survey. This is evident,
objects always produce by _comparison_ a sensation directly contrary to
their _original_ one. Suppose, therefore, an object to be presented,
which is peculiarly fitted to produce love, but imperfectly to excite
pride, this object, belonging to another, gives rise directly to a
great degree of love, but to a small one of humility by comparison;
and consequently that latter passion is scarce felt in the compound,
nor is able to convert the love into respect. This is the case with
good nature, good humour, facility, generosity, beauty, and many other
qualities. These have a peculiar aptitude to produce love in others;
but not so great a tendency to excite pride in ourselves: for which
reason the view of them, as belonging to another person, produces pure
love, with but a small mixture of humility and respect. 'Tis easy to
extend the same reasoning to the opposite passions.
Before we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to account for a
pretty curious phenomenon, viz. why we commonly keep at a distance
such as we contemn, and allow not our inferiors to approach too near
even in place and situation. It has already been observed, that almost
every kind of ideas is attended with some emotion, even the ideas of
number and extension, much more those of such objects as are esteemed
of consequence in life, and fix our attention. 'Tis not with entire
indifference we can survey either a rich man or a poor one, but must
feel some faint touches, at least, of respect in the former case, and
of contempt in the latter. These two passions are contrary to each
other; but in order to make this contrariety be felt, the objects must
be someway related; otherwise the affections are totally separate and
distinct, and never encounter. The relation takes place wherever the
persons become contiguous; which is a general reason why we are uneasy
at seeing such disproportioned objects as a rich man and a poor one, a
nobleman and a porter, in that situation.
This uneasiness, which is common to every spectator, must be more
sensible to the superior; and that because the near approach of the
inferior is regarded as a piece of ill breeding, and shows that he is
not sensible of the disproportion, and is no way affected by it. A
sense of superiority in another breeds in all men an inclination to
keep themselves at a distance from him, and determines them to redouble
the marks of respect and reverence, when they are obliged to approach
him; and where they do not observe that conduct, 'tis a proof they are
not sensible of his superiority. From hence too it proceeds, that any
great _difference_ in the degrees of any quality is called a _distance_
by a common metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear, is founded
on natural principles of the imagination. A great difference inclines
us to produce a distance. The ideas of distance and difference are,
therefore, connected together. Connected ideas are readily taken for
each other; and this is in general the source of the metaphor, as we
shall have occasion to observe afterwards.
SECTION XI.
OF THE AMOROUS PASSION, OR LOVE BETWIXT THE SEXES.
Of all the compound passions which proceed from a mixture of love and
hatred with other affections, no one better deserves our attention,
than that love which arises betwixt the sexes, as well on account of
its force and violence, as those curious principles of philosophy, for
which it affords us an uncontestable argument. 'Tis plain that this
affection, in its most natural state, is derived from the conjunction
of three different impressions or passions, viz. the pleasing sensation
arising from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous
kindness or good will. The origin of kindness from beauty may be
explained from the foregoing reasoning. The question is, how the bodily
appetite is excited by it.
The appetite of generation, when confined to a certain degree, is
evidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong connexion with all
the agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth, vanity, and kindness, are all
incentives to this desire, as well as music, dancing, wine, and good
cheer. On the other hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are
destructive of it. From this quality, 'tis easily conceived why it
should be connected with the sense of beauty.
But there is another principle that contributes to the same effect.
I have observed that the parallel direction of the desires is a real
relation, and, no less than a resemblance in their sensation, produces
a connexion among them. That we may fully comprehend the extent of
this relation, we must consider that any principal desire may be
attended with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to
which, if other desires are parallel, they are by that means related to
the principal one. Thus, hunger may oft be considered as the primary
inclination of the soul, and the desire of approaching the meat as the
secondary one, since 'tis absolutely necessary to the satisfying that
appetite. If an object, therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines
us to approach the meat, it naturally increases our appetite; as on the
contrary, whatever inclines us to set our victuals at a distance, is
contradictory to hunger, and diminishes our inclination to them. Now,
'tis plain, that beauty has the first effect, and deformity the second;
which is the reason why the former gives us a keener appetite for
our victuals, and the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most
savoury dish that cookery has invented. All this is easily applicable
to the appetite for generation.
From these two relations, viz. resemblance and a parallel desire,
there arises such a connexion betwixt the sense of beauty, the bodily
appetite, and benevolence, that they become in a manner inseparable;
and we find from experience, that 'tis indifferent which of them
advances first, since any of them is almost sure to be attended with
the related affections. One who is inflamed with lust, feels at least
a momentary kindness towards the object of it, and at the same time
fancies her more beautiful than ordinary; as there are many, who
begin with kindness and esteem for the wit and merit of the person,
and advance from that to the other passions. But the most common
species of love is that which first arises from beauty, and afterwards
diffuses itself into kindness, and into the bodily appetite. Kindness
or esteem, and the appetite to generation, are too remote to unite
easily together. The one is, perhaps, the most refined passion of the
soul, the other the most gross and vulgar. The love of beauty is placed
in a just medium betwixt them, and partakes of both their natures; from
whence it proceeds, that 'tis so singularly fitted to produce both.
This account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is unavoidable
on any hypothesis. The three affections which compose this passion are
evidently distinct, and has each of them its distinct object. 'Tis
certain, therefore, that 'tis only by their relation they produce each
other. But the relation of passions is not alone sufficient. 'Tis
likewise necessary there should be a relation of ideas. The beauty of
one person never inspires us with love for another. This then is a
sensible proof of the double relation of impressions and ideas. From
one instance so evident as this we may form a judgment of the rest.
This may also serve in another view to illustrate what I have insisted
on concerning the origin of pride and humility, love and hatred. I have
observed, that though self be the object of the first set of passions,
and some other person of the second, yet these objects cannot alone
be the causes of the passions, as having each of them a relation to
two contrary affections, which must from the very first moment destroy
each other. Here then is the situation of the mind, as I have already
described it. It has certain organs naturally fitted to produce a
passion; that passion, when produced, naturally turns the view to a
certain object. But this not being sufficient to produce the passion,
there is required some other emotion, which, by a double relation of
impressions and ideas, may set these principles in action, and bestow
on them their first impulse. This situation is still more remarkable
with regard to the appetite of generation. Sex is not only the object,
but also the cause of the appetite. We not only turn our view to it,
when actuated by that appetite, but the reflecting on it suffices to
excite the appetite. But as this cause loses its force by too great
frequency, 'tis necessary it should be quickened by some new impulse;
and that impulse we find to arise from the _beauty_ of the _person_;
that is, from a double relation of impressions and ideas. Since this
double relation is necessary where an affection has both a distinct
cause and object, how much more so where it has only a distinct object
without any determinate cause!
SECTION XII.
OF THE LOVE AND HATRED OF ANIMALS.
But to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and from their
mixtures and compositions, as they appear in man, to the same
affections as they display themselves in brutes, we may observe, not
only that love and hatred are common to the whole sensitive creation,
but likewise that their causes, as above explained, are of so simple
a nature that they may easily be supposed to operate on mere animals.
There is no force of reflection or penetration required. Every thing
is conducted by springs and principles, which are not peculiar to man,
or any one species of animals. The conclusion from this is obvious in
favour of the foregoing system.
Love, in animals, has not for its only object animals of the same
species, but extends itself farther, and comprehends almost every
sensible and thinking being. A dog naturally loves a man above his own
species, and very commonly meets with a return of affection.
As animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures or pains
of the imagination, they can judge of objects only by the sensible
good or evil which they produce, and from _that_ must regulate their
affections towards them. Accordingly we find, that by benefits or
injuries we produce their love or hatred; and that, by feeding and
cherishing any animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating
and abusing him we never fail to draw on us his enmity and ill-will.
Love in beasts is not caused so much by relation as in our species; and
that because their thoughts are not so active as to trace relations,
except in very obvious instances. Yet 'tis easy to remark, that on
some occasions it has a considerable influence upon them. Thus,
acquaintance, which has the same effect as relation, always produces
love in animals, either to men or to each other. For the same reason,
any likeness among them is the source of affection. An ox confined to a
park with horses, will naturally join their company, if I may so speak,
but always leaves it to enjoy that of his own species, where he has the
choice of both.
The affection of parents to their young proceeds from a peculiar
instinct in animals, as well as in our species.
'Tis evident that _sympathy_, or the communication of passions, takes
place among animals, no less than among men. Fear, anger, courage,
and other affections, are frequently communicated from one animal to
another, without their knowledge of that cause which produced the
original passion. Grief likewise is received by sympathy, and produces
almost all the same consequences, and excites the same emotions, as in
our species. The howlings and lamentations of a dog produce a sensible
concern in his fellows. And 'tis remarkable, that though almost all
animals use in play the same member, and nearly the same action as
in fighting; a lion, a tiger, a cat, their paws; an ox, his horns;
a dog, his teeth; a horse, his heels: yet they most carefully avoid
harming their companion, even though they have nothing to fear from his
resentment; which is an evident proof of the sense brutes have of each
other's pain and pleasure.
Every one has observed how much more dogs are animated when they hunt
in a pack, than when they pursue their game apart; and 'tis evident
this can proceed from nothing but from sympathy. 'Tis also well known
to hunters, that this effect follows in a greater degree, and even in
too great a degree, where too packs that are strangers to each other
are joined together. We might, perhaps, be at a loss to explain this
phenomenon, if we had not experience of a similar in ourselves.
Envy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals. They are
perhaps more common than pity; as requiring less effort of thought and
imagination.
PART III.
OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS.
SECTION I.
OF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY.
We come now to explain the _direct_ passions, or the impressions which
arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. Of this
kind are, _desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear._
Of all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure, there is none more
remarkable than the _will_; and though, properly speaking, it be not
comprehended among the passions, yet, as the full understanding of its
nature and properties is necessary to the explanation of them, we shall
here make it the subject of our inquiry. I desire it may be observed,
that, by the _will_, I mean nothing but _the internal impression we
feel, and are conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to any new
motion of our body, or new perception of our mind_. This impression,
like the preceding ones of pride and humility, love and hatred, 'tis
impossible to define, and needless to describe any farther; for
which reason we shall cut off all those definitions and distinctions
with which philosophers are wont to perplex rather than clear up this
question; and entering at first upon the subject, shall examine that
long-disputed question concerning _liberty and necessity_, which occurs
so naturally in treating of the will.
'Tis universally acknowledged that the operations of external bodies
are necessary; and that, in the communication of their motion, in their
attraction, and mutual cohesion, there are not the least traces of
indifference or liberty. Every object is determined by an absolute fate
to a certain degree and direction of its motion, and can no more depart
from that precise line in which it moves, than it can convert itself
into an angel, or spirit, or any superior substance. The actions,
therefore, of matter, are to be regarded as instances of necessary
actions; and whatever is, in this respect, on the same footing with
matter, must be acknowledged to be necessary. That we may know whether
this be the case with the actions of the mind, we shall begin with
examining matter, and considering on what the idea of a necessity in
its operations are founded, and why we conclude one body or action to
be the infallible cause of another.
It has been observed already, that in no single instance the ultimate
connexion of any objects is discoverable either by our senses or
reason, and that we can never penetrate so far into the essence and
construction of bodies, as to perceive the principle on which their
mutual influence depends. 'Tis their constant union alone with which
we are acquainted; and 'tis from the constant union the necessity
arises. If objects had not an uniform and regular conjunction with
each other, we should never arrive at any idea of cause and effect;
and even after all, the necessity which enters into that idea, is
nothing but a determination of the mind to pass from one object to
its usual attendant, and infer the existence of one from that of the
other. Here then are two particulars which we are to consider as
essential to necessity, viz. the constant _union_ and the _inference_
of the mind; and wherever we discover these, we must acknowledge a
necessity. As the actions of matter have no necessity but what is
derived from these circumstances, and it is not by any insight into
the essence of bodies we discover their connexion, the absence of
this insight, while the union and inference remain, will never, in
any case, remove the necessity. 'Tis the observation of the union
which produces the inference; for which reason it might be thought
sufficient, if we prove a constant union in the actions of the mind,
in order to establish the inference along with the necessity of these
actions. But that I may bestow a greater force on my reasoning, I shall
examine these particulars apart, and shall first prove from experience
that our actions have a constant union with our motives, tempers, and
circumstances, before I consider the inferences we draw from it.
To this end a very slight and general view of the common course of
human affairs will be sufficient. There is no light in which we can
take them that does not confirm this principle. Whether we consider
mankind according to the difference of sexes, ages, governments,
conditions, or methods of education; the same uniformity and regular
operation of natural principles are discernible. Like causes still
produce like effects; in the same manner as in the mutual action of the
elements and powers of nature.
There are different trees which regularly produce fruit, whose relish
is different from each other; and this regularity will be admitted as
an instance of necessity and causes in external bodies. But are the
products of Guienne and of Champagne more regularly different than
the sentiments, actions, and passions of the two sexes, of which the
one are distinguished by their force and maturity, the other by their
delicacy and softness?
Are the changes of our body from infancy to old age more regular and
certain than those of our mind and conduct? And would a man be more
ridiculous, who would expect that an infant of four years old will
raise a weight of three hundred pounds, than one who, from a person of
the same age, would look for a philosophical reasoning, or a prudent
and well concerted action?
We must certainly allow, that the cohesion of the parts of matter
arises from natural and necessary principles, whatever difficulty we
may find in explaining them: and for a like reason we must allow, that
human society is founded on like principles; and our reason in the
latter case is better than even that in the former; because we not
only observe that men _always_ seek society, but can also explain the
principles on which this universal propensity is founded. For it is
more certain that two flat pieces of marble will unite together, than
two young savages of different sexes will copulate? Do the children
arise from this copulation more uniformly, than does the parents' care
for their safety and preservation? And after they have arrived at years
of discretion by the care of their parents, are the inconveniences
attending their separation more certain than their foresight of these
inconveniences, and their care of avoiding them by a close union and
confederacy?
The skin, pores, muscles, and nerves of a day-labourer, are different
from those of a man of quality: so are his sentiments, actions, and
manners. The different stations of life influence the whole fabric,
external and internal; and these different stations arise necessarily,
because uniformly, from the necessary and uniform principles of human
nature. Men cannot live without society, and cannot be associated
without government. Government makes a distinction of property, and
establishes the different ranks of men. This produces industry,
traffic, manufactures, lawsuits, war, leagues, alliances, voyages,
travels, cities, fleets, ports, and all those other actions and objects
which cause such a diversity, and at the same time maintain such an
uniformity in human life.
Should a traveller, returning from a far country, tell us, that he had
seen a climate in the fiftieth degree of northern latitude, where all
the fruits ripen and come to perfection in the winter, and decay in the
summer, after the same manner as in England they are produced and decay
in the contrary seasons, he would find few so credulous as to believe
him. I am apt to think a traveller would meet with as little credit,
who should inform us of people exactly of the same character with those
in Plato's republic on the one hand, or those in Hobbes's _Leviathan_
on the other. There is a general course of nature in human actions, as
well as in the operations of the sun and the climate. There are also
characters peculiar to different nations and particular persons, as
well as common to mankind. The knowledge of these characters is founded
on the observation of an uniformity in the actions that flow from them;
and this uniformity forms the very essence of necessity.
I can imagine only one way of eluding this argument, which is by
denying that uniformity of human actions, on which it is founded. As
long as actions have a constant union and connexion with the situation
and temper of the agent, however we may in words refuse to acknowledge
the necessity, we really allow the thing. Now, some may perhaps find
a pretext to deny this regular union and connexion. For what is more
capricious than human actions? What more inconstant than the desires
of man? And what creature departs more widely, not only from right
reason, but from his own character and disposition? An hour, a moment
is sufficient to make him change from one extreme to another, and
overturn what cost the greatest pain and labour to establish. Necessity
is regular and certain. Human conduct is irregular and uncertain. The
one therefore proceeds not from the other.
To this I reply, that in judging of the actions of men we must proceed
upon the same maxims, as when we reason concerning external objects.
When any phenomena are constantly and invariably conjoined together,
they acquire such a connexion in the imagination, that it passes from
one to the other without any doubt or hesitation. But below this there
are many inferior degrees of evidence and probability, nor does one
single contrariety of experiment entirely destroy all our reasoning.
The mind balances the contrary experiments, and, deducting the inferior
from the superior, proceeds with that degree of assurance or evidence,
which remains. Even when these contrary experiments are entirely equal,
we remove not the notion of causes and necessity; but, supposing that
the usual contrariety proceeds from the operation of contrary and
concealed causes, we conclude, that the chance or indifference lies
only in our judgment on account of our imperfect knowledge, not in the
things themselves, which are in every case equally necessary, though,
to appearance, not equally constant or certain. No union can be more
constant and certain than that of some actions with some motives and
characters; and if, in other cases, the union is uncertain, 'tis no
more than what happens in the operations of body; nor can we conclude
any thing from the one irregularity which will not follow equally from
the other.
'Tis commonly allowed that madmen have no liberty. But, were we to
judge by their actions, these have less regularity and constancy than
the actions of wise men, and consequently are farther removed from
necessity. Our way of thinking in this particular is, therefore,
absolutely inconsistent; but is a natural consequence of these confused
ideas and undefined terms, which we so commonly make use of in our
reasonings, especially on the present subject.
We must now show, that, as the _union_ betwixt motives and actions has
the same constancy as that in any natural operations, so its influence
on the understanding is also the same, in _determining_ us to infer
the existence of one from that of another. If this shall appear, there
is no known circumstance that enters into the connexion and production
of the actions of matter that is not to be found in all the operations
of the mind; and consequently we cannot, without a manifest absurdity,
attribute necessity to the one, and refuse it to the other.
There is no philosopher, whose judgment is so rivetted to this
fantastical system of liberty, as not to acknowledge the force of
_moral evidence_, and both in speculation and practice proceed upon
it as upon a reasonable foundation. Now, moral evidence is nothing
but a conclusion concerning the actions of men, derived from the
consideration of their motives, temper, and situation. Thus, when we
see certain characters or figures described upon paper, we infer that
the person who produced them would affirm such facts, the death of
Cæsar, the success of Augustus, the cruelty of Nero; and, remembering
many other concurrent testimonies, we conclude that those facts were
once really existent, and that so many men, without any interest,
would never conspire to deceive us; especially since they must, in the
attempt, expose themselves to the derision of all their contemporaries,
when these facts were asserted to be recent and universally known. The
same kind of reasoning runs through politics, war, commerce, economy,
and indeed mixes itself so entirely in human life, that 'tis impossible
to act or subsist a moment without having recourse to it. A prince who
imposes a tax upon his subjects, expects their compliance. A general
who conducts an army, makes account of a certain degree of courage. A
merchant looks for fidelity and skill in his factor or supercargo. A
man who gives orders for his dinner, doubts not of the obedience of
his servants. In short, as nothing more nearly interests us than our
own actions and those of others, the greatest part of our reasonings
is employed in judgments concerning them. Now I assert, that whoever
reasons after this manner, does _ipso facto_ believe the actions of the
will to arise from necessity, and that he knows not what he means when
he denies it.
All those objects, of which we call the one _cause_ and the other
_effect_, considered in themselves, are as distinct and separate from
each other as any two things in nature; nor can we ever, by the most
accurate survey of them, infer the existence of the one from that
of the other. 'Tis only from experience and the observation of their
constant union, that we are able to form this inference; and even
after all, the inference is nothing but the effects of custom on the
imagination. We must not here be content with saying, that the idea
of cause and effect arises from objects constantly united; but must
affirm, that 'tis the very same with the idea of these objects, and
that the _necessary connexion_ is not discovered by a conclusion of
the understanding, but is merely a perception of the mind. Wherever,
therefore, we observe the same union, and wherever the union operates
in the same manner upon the belief and opinion, we have the idea of
causes and necessity, though perhaps we may avoid those expressions.
Motion in one body, in all past instances that have fallen under our
observation, is followed upon impulse by motion in another. 'Tis
impossible for the mind to penetrate farther. From this constant union
it _forms_ the idea of cause and effect, and by its influence _feels_
the necessity. As there is the same constancy, and the same influence,
in what we call moral evidence, I ask no more. What remains can only be
a dispute of words.
And indeed, when we consider how aptly _natural_ and _moral_ evidence
cement together, and form only one chain of argument betwixt them, we
shall make no scruple to allow, that they are of the same nature, and
derived from the same principles. A prisoner, who has neither money nor
interest, discover the impossibility of his escape, as well from the
obstinacy of the gaoler, as from the walls and bars with which he is
surrounded; and in all attempts for his freedom, chooses rather to work
upon the stone and iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature
of the other. The same prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold,
foresees his death as certainly from the constancy and fidelity of
his guards, as from the operation of the axe or wheel. His mind runs
along a certain train of ideas: the refusal of the soldiers to consent
to his escape; the action of the executioner; the separation of the
head and body, bleeding, convulsive motions, and death. Here is a
connected chain of natural causes and voluntary actions; but the mind
feels no difference betwixt them in passing from one link to another;
nor is less certain of the future event than if it were connected
with the present impressions of the memory and senses by a train of
causes cemented together by what we are pleased to call a _physical
necessity_. The same experienced union has the same effect on the mind,
whether the united objects be motives, volitions and actions, or figure
and motion. We may change the names of things, but their nature and
their operation on the understanding never change.
I dare be positive no one will ever endeavour to refute these
reasonings otherwise than by altering my definitions, and assigning a
different meaning to the terms of _cause, and effect, and necessity,
and liberty, and chance_. According to my definitions, necessity makes
an essential part of causation; and consequently liberty, by removing
necessity, removes also causes, and is the very same thing with chance.
As chance is commonly thought to imply a contradiction, and is at least
directly contrary to experience, there are always the same arguments
against liberty or free-will. If any one alters the definitions, I
cannot pretend to argue with him till I know the meaning he assigns to
these terms.
SECTION II.
THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.
I believe we may assign the three following reasons for the prevalence
of the doctrine of liberty, however absurd it may be in one sense,
and unintelligible in any other. First, after we have performed any
action, though we confess we were influenced by particular views and
motives, 'tis difficult for us to persuade ourselves we were governed
by necessity, and that 'twas utterly impossible for us to have acted
otherwise, the idea of necessity seeming to imply something of force,
and violence, and constraint, of which we are not sensible. Few are
capable of distinguishing betwixt the liberty of _spontaneity_, as it
is called in the schools, and the liberty of _indifference_; betwixt
that which is opposed to violence, and that which means a negation of
necessity and causes. The first is even the most common sense of the
word; and as 'tis only that species of liberty which it concerns us to
preserve, our thoughts have been principally turned towards it, and
have almost universally confounded it with the other.
Secondly, there is a _false sensation or experience_ even of the
liberty of indifference, which is regarded as an argument for its real
existence. The necessity of any action, whether of matter or of the
mind, is not properly a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or
intelligent being, who may consider the action, and consists in the
determination of his thought to infer its existence from some preceding
objects: as liberty or chance, on the other hand, is nothing but the
want of that determination, and a certain looseness, which we feel
in passing or not passing from the idea of one to that of the other.
Now, we may observe, that though in reflecting on human actions, we
seldom feel such a looseness or indifference, yet it very commonly
happens, that, in performing the actions themselves, we are sensible of
something like it: and as all related or resembling objects are readily
taken for each other, this has been employed as a demonstrative, or
even an intuitive proof of human liberty. We feel that our actions
are subject to our will on most occasions, and imagine we feel that
the will itself is subject to nothing; because when, by a denial of
it, we are provoked to try, we feel that it moves easily every way,
and produces an image of itself even on that side on which it did not
settle. This image or faint motion, we persuade ourselves, could have
been completed into the thing itself; because, should that be denied,
we find, upon a second trial, that it can. But these efforts are all in
vain; and whatever capricious and irregular actions we may perform, as
the desire of showing our liberty is the sole motive of our actions, we
can never free ourselves from the bonds of necessity. We may imagine
we feel a liberty within ourselves, but a spectator can commonly infer
our actions from our motives and character; and even where he cannot,
he concludes in general that he might, were he perfectly acquainted
with every circumstance of our situation and temper, and the most
secret springs of our complexion and disposition. Now, this is the very
essence of necessity, according to the foregoing doctrine.
A third reason why the doctrine of liberty has generally been better
received in the world than its antagonist, proceeds from _religion_,
which has been very unnecessarily interested in this question. There
is no method of reasoning more common, and yet none more blameable,
than in philosophical debates to endeavour to refute any hypothesis
by a pretext of its dangerous consequences to religion and morality.
When any opinion leads us into absurdities, 'tis certainly false;
but 'tis not certain an opinion is false, because 'tis of dangerous
consequence. Such topics, therefore, ought entirely to be foreborn,
as serving nothing to the discovery of truth, but only to make the
person of an antagonist odious. This I observe in general, without
pretending to draw any advantage from it. I submit myself frankly to an
examination of this kind, and dare venture to affirm, that the doctrine
of necessity, according to my explication of it, is not only innocent,
but even advantageous to religion and morality.
I define necessity two ways, conformable to the two definitions of
_cause_, of which it makes an essential part. I place it either in the
constant union and conjunction of like objects, or in the inference
of the mind from the one to the other. Now, necessity, in both these
senses, has universally, though tacitly, in the schools, in the pulpit,
and in common life, been allowed to belong to the will of man; and no
one has ever pretended to deny, that we can draw inferences concerning
human actions, and that those inferences are founded on the experienced
union of like actions with like motives and circumstances. The only
particular in which any one can differ from me is, either that perhaps
he will refuse to call this necessity; but as long as the meaning is
understood, I hope the word can do no harm; or, that he will maintain
there is something else in the operations of matter. Now, whether it
be so or not, is of no consequence to religion, whatever it may be to
natural philosophy. I may be mistaken in asserting, that we have no
idea of any other connexion in the actions of body, and shall be glad
to be farther instructed on that head: but sure I am, I ascribe nothing
to the actions of the mind, but what must readily be allowed of. Let no
one, therefore, put an invidious construction on my words, by saying
simply, that I assert the necessity of human actions, and place them
on the same footing with the operations of senseless matter. I do not
ascribe to the will that unintelligible necessity, which is supposed
to lie in matter. But I ascribe to matter that intelligible quality,
call it necessity or not, which the most rigorous orthodoxy does or
must allow to belong to the will. I change, therefore, nothing in the
received systems, with regard to the will, but only with regard to
material objects.
Nay, I shall go farther, and assert, that this kind of necessity is so
essential to religion and morality, that without it there must ensue
an absolute subversion of both, and that every other supposition is
entirely destructive to all laws, both _divine_ and _human_. 'Tis
indeed certain, that as all human laws are founded on rewards and
punishments, 'tis supposed as a fundamental principle, that these
motives have an influence on the mind, and both produce the good and
prevent the evil actions. We may give to this influence what name we
please; but as 'tis usually conjoined with the action, common sense
requires it should be esteemed a cause, and be looked upon as an
instance of that necessity, which I would establish.
This reasoning is equally solid, when applied to _divine_ laws,
so far as the Deity is considered as a legislator, and is supposed
to inflict punishment and bestow rewards with a design to produce
obedience. But I also maintain, that even where he acts not in his
magisterial capacity, is regarded as the avenger of crimes merely on
account of their odiousness and deformity, not only 'tis impossible,
without the necessary connexion of cause and effect in human actions,
that punishments could be inflicted compatible with justice and moral
equity; but also that it could ever enter into the thoughts of any
reasonable being to inflict them. The constant and universal object
of hatred or anger is a person or creature endowed with thought and
consciousness; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that
passion, 'tis only by their relation to the person or connexion with
him. But according to the doctrine of liberty or chance, this connexion
is reduced to nothing, nor are men more accountable for those actions,
which are designed and premeditated, than for such as are the most
casual and accidental. Actions are, by their very nature, temporary and
perishing; and where they proceed not from some cause in the characters
and disposition of the person who performed them, they infix not
themselves upon him, and can neither redound to his honour, if good,
nor infamy, if evil. The action itself may be blameable; it may be
contrary to all the rules of morality and religion: but the person is
not responsible for it; and as it proceeded from nothing in him that is
durable or constant, and leaves nothing of that nature behind it, 'tis
impossible he can, upon its account, become the object of punishment or
vengeance. According to the hypothesis of liberty, therefore, a man is
as pure and untainted, after having committed the most horrid crimes,
as at the first moment of his birth, nor is his character any way
concerned in his actions, since they are not derived from it, and the
wickedness of the one can never be used as a proof of the depravity of
the other. 'Tis only upon the principles of necessity, that a person
acquires any merit or demerit from his actions, however the common
opinion may incline to the contrary.
But so inconsistent are men with themselves, that though they often
assert that necessity utterly destroys all merit and demerit either
towards mankind or superior powers, yet they continue still to reason
upon these very principles of necessity in all their judgments
concerning this matter. Men are not blamed for such evil actions
as they perform ignorantly and casually, whatever may be their
consequences. Why? but because the causes of these actions are only
momentary, and terminate in them alone. Men are less blamed for such
evil actions as they perform hastily and unpremeditately, than for such
as proceed from thought and deliberation. For what reason? but because
a hasty temper, though a constant cause in the mind, operates only by
intervals, and infects not the whole character. Again, repentance wipes
off every crime, especially if attended with an evident reformation of
life and manners. How is this to be accounted for? but by asserting
that actions render a person criminal, merely as they are proofs
of criminal passions or principles in the mind; and when, by any
alteration of these principles, they cease to be just proofs, they
likewise cease to be criminal. But according the doctrine of _liberty_
or _chance_, they never were just proofs, and consequently never were
criminal.
Here then I turn to my adversary, and desire him to free his own system
from these odious consequences before he charge them upon others.
Or, if he rather chooses that this question should be decided by fair
arguments before philosophers, than by declamations before the people,
let him return to what I have advanced to prove that liberty and chance
are synonymous; and concerning the nature of moral evidence and the
regularity of human actions. Upon a review of these reasonings, I
cannot doubt of an entire victory; and therefore, having proved that
all actions of the will have particular causes, I proceed to explain
what these causes are, and how they operate.
SECTION III.
OF THE INFLUENCING MOTIVES OF THE WILL.
Nothing is more usual in philosophy, and even in common life, than to
talk of the combat of passion and reason, to give the preference to
reason, and assert that men are only so far virtuous as they conform
themselves to its dictates. Every rational creature, 'tis said, is
obliged to regulate his actions by reason; and if any other motive or
principle challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to oppose
it, 'till it be entirely subdued, or at least brought to a conformity
with that superior principle. On this method of thinking the greatest
part of moral philosophy, ancient and modern, seems to be founded;
nor is there an ampler field, as well for metaphysical arguments, as
popular declamations, than this supposed pre-eminence of reason above
passion. The eternity, invariableness, and divine origin of the former,
have been displayed to the best advantage: the blindness, inconstancy,
and deceitfulness of the latter, have been as strongly insisted on. In
order to show the fallacy of all this philosophy, I shall endeavour to
prove _first_, that reason alone can never be a motive to any action
of the will; and _secondly_, that it can never oppose passion in the
direction of the will.
The understanding exerts itself after two different ways, as the judges
from demonstration or probability; as it regards the abstract relations
of our ideas, or those relations of objects of which experience only
gives us information. I believe it scarce will be asserted, that the
first species of reasoning alone is ever the cause of any action. As
its proper province is the world of ideas, and as the will always
places us in that of realities, demonstration and volition seem upon
that account to be totally removed from each other. Mathematics,
indeed, are useful in all mechanical operations, and arithmetic in
almost every art and profession: but 'tis not of themselves they have
any influence. Mechanics are the art of regulating the motions of
bodies _to some designed end or purpose_; and the reason why we employ
arithmetic in fixing the proportions of numbers, is only that we may
discover the proportions of their influence and operation. A merchant
is desirous of knowing the sum total of his accounts with any person:
why? but that he may learn what sum will have the same _effects_ in
paying his debt, and going to market, as all the particular articles
taken together. Abstract or demonstrative reasoning, therefore, never
influences any of our actions, but only as it directs our judgment
concerning causes and effects; which leads us to the second operation
of the understanding.
'Tis obvious, that when we have the prospect of pain or pleasure from
any object, we feel a consequent emotion of aversion or propensity,
and are carried to avoid or embrace what will give us this uneasiness
or satisfaction. 'Tis also obvious, that this emotion rests not here,
but, making us cast our view on every side, comprehends whatever
objects are connected with its original one by the relation of cause
and effect. Here then reasoning takes place to discover this relation;
and according as our reasoning varies, our actions receive a subsequent
variation. But 'tis evident, in this case, that the impulse arises not
from reason, but is only directed by it. 'Tis from the prospect of pain
or pleasure that the aversion or propensity arises towards any object:
and these emotions extend themselves to the causes and effects of that
object, as they are pointed out to us by reason and experience. It can
never in the least concern us to know, that such objects are causes,
and such others effects, if both the causes and effects be indifferent
to us. Where the objects themselves do not affect us, their connexion
can never give them any influence; and 'tis plain that, as reason is
nothing but the discovery of this connexion, it cannot be by its means
that the objects are able to affect us.
Since reason alone can never produce any action, or give rise to
volition, I infer, that the same faculty is as incapable of preventing
volition, or of disputing the preference with any passion or emotion.
This consequence is necessary. 'Tis impossible reason could have the
latter effect of preventing, volition, but by giving an impulse in a
contrary direction to our passion; and that impulse, had it operated
alone, would have been able to produce volition. Nothing can oppose or
retard the impulse of passion, but a contrary impulse; and if this
contrary impulse ever arises from reason, that latter faculty must
have an original influence on the will, and must be able to cause, as
well as hinder, any act of volition. But if reason has no original
influence, 'tis impossible it can withstand any principle which has
such an efficacy, or ever keep the mind in suspence a moment. Thus,
it appears, that the principle which opposes our passion, cannot be
the same with reason, and is only called so in an improper sense. We
speak not strictly and philosophically, when we talk of the combat of
passion and of reason. Reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of
the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve
and obey them. As this opinion may appear somewhat extraordinary, it
may not be improper to confirm it by some other considerations.
A passion is an original existence, or, if you will, modification of
existence, and contains not any representative quality, which renders
it a copy of any other existence or modification. When I am angry, I
am actually possest with the passion, and in that emotion have no more
a reference to any other object, than when I am thirsty, or sick, or
more than five feet high. 'Tis impossible, therefore, that this passion
can be opposed by, or be contradictory to, truth and reason; since this
contradiction consists in the disagreement of ideas, considered as
copies, with those objects which they represent.
What may at first occur on this head is, that as nothing can be
contrary to truth or reason, except what has a reference to it, and as
the judgments of our understanding only have this reference, it must
follow, that passions can be contrary to reason only, so far as they
are _accompanied_ with some judgment or opinion. According to this
principle, which is so obvious and natural, 'tis only in two senses
that any affection can be called unreasonable. First, When a passion,
such as hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, is founded
on the supposition of the existence of objects, which really do not
exist. Secondly, When in exerting any passion in action, we choose
means sufficient for the designed end, and deceive ourselves in our
judgment of causes and effects. Where a passion is neither founded on
false suppositions, nor chooses means insufficient for the end, the
understanding can neither justify nor condemn it. 'Tis not contrary to
reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching
of my finger. 'Tis not contrary to reason for me to choose my total
ruin, to prevent the least uneasiness of an Indian, or person wholly
unknown to me. 'Tis as little contrary to reason to prefer even my
own acknowledged lesser good to my greater, and have a more ardent
affection for the former than the latter. A trivial good may, from
certain circumstances, produce a desire superior to what arises from
the greatest and most valuable enjoyment; nor is there any thing more
extraordinary in this, than in mechanics to see one pound weight raise
up a hundred by the advantage of its situation. In short, a passion
must be accompanied with some false judgment, in order to its being
unreasonable; and even then, 'tis not the passion, properly speaking,
which is unreasonable, but the judgment.
The consequences are evident. Since a passion can never, in any sense,
be called unreasonable, but when founded on a false supposition,
or when it chuses means insufficient for the designed end, 'tis
impossible, that reason and passion can ever oppose each other, or
dispute for the government of the will and actions. The moment we
perceive the falsehood of any supposition, or the insufficiency of
any means, our passions yield to our reason without any opposition.
I may desire any fruit as of an excellent relish; but whenever
you convince me of my mistake, my longing ceases. I may will the
performance of certain actions as means of obtaining any desired good;
but as my willing of these actions is only secondary, and founded on
the supposition that they are causes of the proposed effect; as soon
as I discover the falsehood of that supposition, they must become
indifferent to me.
'Tis natural for one, that does not examine objects with a strict
philosophic eye, to imagine, that those actions of the mind are
entirely the same, which produce not a different sensation, and are
not immediately distinguishable to the feeling and perception. Reason,
for instance, exerts itself without producing any sensible emotion;
and except in the more sublime disquisitions of philosophy, or in the
frivolous subtilties of the schools, scarce ever conveys any pleasure
or uneasiness. Hence it proceeds, that every action of the mind which
operates with the same calmness and tranquillity, is confounded
with reason by all those who judge of things from the first view
and appearance. Now 'tis certain there are certain calm desires and
tendencies, which, though they be real passions, produce little emotion
in the mind, and are more known by their effects than by the immediate
feeling or sensation. These desires are of two kinds; either certain
instincts originally implanted in our natures, such as benevolence and
resentment, the love of life, and kindness to children; or the general
appetite to good, and aversion to evil, considered merely as such. When
any of these passions are calm, and cause no disorder in the soul,
they are very readily taken for the determinations of reason, and are
supposed to proceed from the same faculty with that which judges of
truth and falsehood. Their nature and principles have been supposed the
same, because their sensations are not evidently different.
Beside these calm passions, which often determine the will, there are
certain violent emotions of the same kind, which have likewise a great
influence on that faculty. When I receive any injury from another, I
often feel a violent passion of resentment, which makes me desire his
evil and punishment, independent of all considerations of pleasure and
advantage to myself. When I am immediately threatened with any grievous
ill, my fears, apprehensions and aversions rise to a great height, and
produce a sensible emotion.
The common error of metaphysicians has lain in ascribing the direction
of the will entirely to one of these principles, and supposing the
other to have no influence. Men often act knowingly against their
interest; for which reason, the view of the greatest possible good
does not always influence them. Men often counteract a violent passion
in prosecution of their interests and designs; 'tis not, therefore,
the present uneasiness alone which determines them. In general we may
observe, that both these principles, operate on the will; and where
they are contrary, that either of them prevails, according to the
_general_ character or _present_ disposition of the person. What we
call strength of mind, implies the prevalence of the calm passions
above the violent; though we may easily observe, there is no man so
constantly possessed of this virtue, as never on any occasion to yield
to the solicitations of passion and desire. From these variations
of temper proceeds the great difficulty of deciding concerning the
actions and resolutions of men, where there is any contrariety of
motives and passions.
SECTION IV.
OF THE CAUSES OF THE VIOLENT PASSIONS.
There is not in philosophy a subject of more nice speculation than
this, of the different _causes_ and _effects_ of the calm and violent
passions. 'Tis evident, passions influence not the will in proportion
to their violence, or the disorder they occasion in the temper;
but, on the contrary, that when a passion has once become a settled
principle of action, and is the predominant inclination of the soul,
it commonly produces no longer any sensible agitation. As repeated
custom and its own force have made every thing yield to it, it directs
the actions and conduct without that opposition and emotion which so
naturally attend every momentary gust of passion. We must, therefore,
distinguish betwixt a calm and a weak passion; betwixt a violent and
a strong one. But notwithstanding this, 'tis certain that, when we
would govern a man, and push him to any action, 'twill commonly be
better policy to work upon the violent than the calm passions, and
rather take him by his inclination, than what is vulgarly called his
_reason_. We ought to place the object in such particular situations
as are proper to increase the violence of the passion. For we may
observe, that all depends upon the situation of the object, and that a
variation in this particular will be able to change the calm and the
violent passions into each other. Both these kinds of passions pursue
good, and avoid evil; and both of them are increased or diminished by
the increase or diminution of the good or evil. But herein lies the
difference betwixt them: the same good, when near, will cause a violent
passion, which, when remote, produces only a calm one. As this subject
belongs very properly to the present question concerning the will, we
shall here examine it to the bottom, and shall consider some of those
circumstances and situations of objects, which render a passion either
calm or violent.
'Tis a remarkable property of human nature, that any emotion which
attends a passion, is easily converted into it, though in their
natures they be originally different from, and even contrary to, each
other. 'Tis true, in order to make a perfect union among the passions,
there is always required a double relation of impressions and ideas;
nor is one relation sufficient for that purpose. But though this be
confirmed by undoubted experience, we must understand it with its
proper limitations, and must regard the double relation as requisite
only to make one passion produce another. When two passions are already
produced by their separate causes, and are both present in the mind,
they readily mingle and unite, though they have but one relation,
and sometimes without any. The predominant passion swallows up the
inferior, and converts it into itself. The spirits, when once excited,
easily receive a change in their direction; and 'tis natural to imagine
this change will come from the prevailing affection. The connexion is
in many respects closer betwixt any two passions, than betwixt any
passion and indifference.
When a person is once heartily in love, the little faults and caprice
of his mistress, the jealousies and quarrels to which that commerce is
so subject, however unpleasant, and related to anger and hatred, are
yet found to give additional force to the prevailing passion. 'Tis a
common artifice of politicians, when they would affect any person very
much by a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, first to
excite his curiosity, delay as long as possible the satisfying it, and
by that means raise his anxiety and impatience to the utmost, before
they give him a full insight into the business. They know that his
curiosity will precipitate him into the passion they design to raise,
and assist the object in its influence on the mind. A soldier advancing
to the battle, is naturally inspired with courage and confidence,
when he thinks on his friends and fellow-soldiers; and is struck with
fear and terror, when he reflects on the enemy. Whatever new emotion,
therefore, proceeds from the former, naturally increases the courage;
as the same emotion, proceeding from the latter, augments the fear,
by the relation of ideas, and the conversion of the inferior emotion
into the predominant. Hence it is, that in martial discipline, the
uniformity and lustre of our habit, the regularity of our figures and
motions, with all the pomp and majesty of war, encourage ourselves and
allies; while the same objects in the enemy strike terror into us,
though agreeable and beautiful in themselves.
Since passions, however independent, are naturally transfused into each
other, if they are both present at the same time, it follows, that when
good or evil is placed in such a situation as to cause any particular
emotion beside its direct passion of desire or aversion, that latter
passion must acquire new force and violence.
This happens, among other cases, whenever any object excites contrary
passions. For 'tis observable that an opposition of passions commonly
causes a new emotion in the spirits, and produces more disorder than
the concurrence of any two affections of equal force. This new emotion
is easily converted into the predominant passion, and increases its
violence beyond the pitch it would have arrived at had it met with
no opposition. Hence we naturally desire what is forbid, and take a
pleasure in performing actions, merely because they are unlawful.
The notion of duty, when opposite to the passions, is seldom able to
overcome them; and, when it fails of that effect, is apt rather to
increase them, by producing an opposition in our motives and principles.
The same effect follows, whether the opposition arises from internal
motives or external obstacles. The passion commonly acquires new
force and violence in both cases. The efforts which the mind makes to
surmount the obstacle, excite the spirits and enliven the passion.
Uncertainty has the same influence as opposition. The agitation of the
thought, the quick turns it makes from one view to another, the variety
of passions which succeed each other, according to the different views;
all these produce an agitation in the mind, and transfuse themselves
into the predominant passion.
There is not, in my opinion, any other natural cause why security
diminishes the passions, than because it removes that uncertainty which
increases them. The mind, when left to itself, immediately languishes,
and, in order to preserve its ardour, must be every moment supported by
a new flow of passion. For the same reason, despair, though contrary to
security, has a like influence.
'Tis certain, nothing more powerful animates any affection, than to
conceal some part of its object by throwing it into a kind of shade,
which, at the same time that it shows enough to prepossess us in
favour of the object, leaves still some work for the imagination.
Besides, that obscurity is always attended with a kind of uncertainty;
the effort which the fancy makes to complete the idea, rouses the
spirits, and gives an additional force to the passion.
As despair and security, though contrary to each other, produce the
same effects, so absence is observed to have contrary effects, and, in
different circumstances, either increases or diminishes our affections.
The Duc de la Rochefoucault has very well observed, that absence
destroys weak passions, but increases strong; as the wind extinguishes
a candle, but blows up a fire. Long absence naturally weakens our idea,
and diminishes the passion; but where the idea is so strong and lively
as to support itself, the uneasiness, arising from absence, increases
the passion, and gives it new force and violence.
SECTION V.
OF THE EFFECTS OF CUSTOM.
But nothing has a greater effect both to increase and diminish our
passions, to convert pleasure into pain, and pain into pleasure, than
custom and repetition. Custom has two _original_ effects upon the mind,
in bestowing a _facility_ in the performance of any action, or the
conception of any object, and afterwards a _tendency or inclination_
towards it; and from these we may account for all its other effects,
however extraordinary.
When the soul applies itself to the performance of any action, or the
conception of any object to which it is not accustomed, there is a
certain unpliableness in the faculties, and a difficulty of the spirits
moving in their new direction. As this difficulty excites the spirits,
'tis the source of wonder, surprise, and of all the emotions which
arise from novelty, and is in itself very agreeable, like every thing
which enlivens the mind to a moderate degree. But though surprise be
agreeable in itself, yet, as it puts the spirits in agitation, it not
only augments our agreeable affections, but also our painful, according
to the foregoing principle, _that every emotion which precedes or
attends a passion is easily converted into it_. Hence, every thing
that is new is most affecting, and gives us either more pleasure or
pain than what, strictly speaking, naturally belongs to it. When it
often returns upon us, the novelty wears off, the passions subside, the
hurry of the spirits is over, and we survey the objects with greater
tranquillity.
By degrees, the repetition produces a facility, which is another
very powerful principle of the human mind, and an infallible source
of pleasure where the facility goes not beyond a certain degree. And
here 'tis remarkable, that the pleasure which arises from a moderate
facility has not the same tendency with that which arises from
novelty, to augment the painful as well as the agreeable affections.
The pleasure of facility does not so much consist in any ferment of
the spirits, as in their orderly motion, which will sometimes be so
powerful as even to convert pain into pleasure, and give us a relish in
time for what at first was most harsh and disagreeable.
But, again, as facility converts pain into pleasure, so it often
converts pleasure into pain when it is too great, and renders the
actions of the mind so faint and languid, that they are no longer able
to interest and support it. And indeed scarce any other objects become
disagreeable through custom, but such as are naturally attended with
some emotion or affection, which is destroyed by the too frequent
repetition. One can consider the clouds, and heavens, and trees,
and stones, however frequently repeated, without ever feeling any
aversion. But when the fair sex, or music, or good cheer, or any thing
that naturally ought to be agreeable, becomes indifferent, it easily
produces the opposite affection.
But custom not only gives a facility to perform any action, but
likewise an inclination and tendency towards it, where it is not
entirely disagreeable, and can never be the object of inclination.
And this is the reason why custom increases all _active_ habits, but
diminishes _passive_, according to the observation of a late eminent
philosopher. The facility takes off from the force of the passive
habits by rendering the motion of the spirits faint and languid. But as
in the active, the spirits are sufficiently supported of themselves,
the tendency of the mind gives them new force, and bends them more
strongly to the action.
SECTION VI.
OF THE INFLUENCE OF THE IMAGINATION ON THE PASSIONS.
'Tis remarkable, that the imagination and affections have a close union
together, and that nothing, which affects the former, can be entirely
indifferent to the latter. Wherever our ideas of good or evil acquire
a new vivacity, the passions become more violent, and keep pace with
the imagination in all its variations. Whether this proceeds from
the principle above-mentioned, _that any attendant emotion is easily
converted into the Predominant_, I shall not determine. 'Tis sufficient
for my present purpose, that we have many instances to confirm this
influence of the imagination upon the passions.
Any pleasure with which we are acquainted, affects us more than any
other which we own to be superior, but of whose nature we are wholly
ignorant. Of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea:
the other we conceive under the general notion of pleasure; and 'tis
certain, that the more general and universal any of our ideas are, the
less influence they have upon the imagination. A general idea, though
it be nothing but a particular one considered in a certain view, is
commonly more obscure; and that because no particular idea, by which we
represent a general one, is ever fixed or determinate, but may easily
be changed for other particular ones, which will serve equally in the
representation.
There is a noted passage in the history of Greece, which may serve
for our present purpose. Themistocles told the Athenians, that he had
formed a design, which would be highly useful to the public, but which
'twas impossible for him to communicate to them without ruining the
execution, since its success depended entirely on the secrecy with
which it should be conducted. The Athenians, instead of granting him
full power to act as he thought fitting, ordered him to communicate his
design to Aristides, in whose prudence they had an entire confidence,
and whose opinion they were resolved blindly to submit to. The design
of Themistocles was secretly to set fire to the fleet of all the
Grecian commonwealths, which was assembled in a neighbouring port,
and which, being once destroyed, would give the Athenians the empire
of the sea without any rival. Aristides returned to the assembly, and
told them, that nothing could be more advantageous than the design of
Themistocles; but at the same time that nothing could be more unjust:
upon which the people unanimously rejected the project.
A late celebrated historian[1] admires this passage of ancient history
as one of the most singular that is any where to be met with. "Here,"
says he, "they are not philosophers, to whom 'tis easy in their schools
to establish the finest maxims and most sublime rules of morality, who
decide that interest ought never to prevail above justice. 'Tis a whole
people interested in the proposal which is made to them, who consider
it as of importance to the public good, and who, notwithstanding,
reject it unanimously, and without hesitation, merely because it is
contrary to justice." For my part I see nothing so extraordinary in
this proceeding of the Athenians. The same reasons which render it so
easy for philosophers to establish these sublime maxims, tend, in part,
to diminish the merit of such a conduct in that people. Philosophers
never balance betwixt profit and honesty, because their decisions are
general, and neither their passions nor imaginations are interested
in the objects. And though, in the present case, the advantage was
immediate to the Athenians, yet as it was known only under the general
notion of advantage, without being conceived by any particular idea, it
must have had a less considerable influence on their imaginations, and
have been a less violent temptation, than if they had been acquainted
with all its circumstances: otherwise 'tis difficult to conceive,
that a whole people, unjust and violent as men commonly are, should
so unanimously have adhered to justice, and rejected any considerable
advantage.
Any satisfaction which we lately enjoyed, and of which the memory is
fresh and recent, operates on the will with more violence than another
of which the traces are decayed, and almost obliterated. From whence
does this proceed, but that the memory in the first case assists the
fancy, and gives an additional force and vigour to its conceptions?
The image of the past pleasure being strong and violent, bestows these
qualities on the idea of the future pleasure, which is connected with
it by the relation of resemblance.
A pleasure which is suitable to the way of life in which we are
engaged, excites more our desires and appetites than another which is
foreign to it. This phenomenon may be explained from the same principle.
Nothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the mind, than
eloquence, by which objects are represented in their strongest and most
lively colours. We may of ourselves acknowledge, that such an object
is valuable, and such another odious; but till an orator excites the
imagination, and gives force to these ideas, they may have but a feeble
influence either on the will or the affections.
But eloquence is not always necessary. The bare opinion of another,
especially when enforced with passion, will cause an idea of good or
evil to have an influence upon us, which would otherwise have been
entirely neglected. This proceeds from the principle of sympathy or
communication; and sympathy, as I have already observed, is nothing
but the conversion of an idea into an impression by the force of
imagination.
'Tis remarkable, that lively passions commonly attend a lively
imagination. In this respect, as well as others, the force of the
passion depends as much on the temper of the person, as the nature or
situation of the object.
I have already observed, that belief is nothing but a lively idea
related to a present impression. This vivacity is a requisite
circumstance to the exciting all our passions, the calm as well as the
violent; nor has a mere fiction of the imagination any considerable
influence upon either of them. 'Tis too weak to take any hold of the
mind, or be attended with emotion.
[1] Mons. Rollin.
SECTION VII.
OF CONTIGUITY AND DISTANCE IN SPACE AND TIME.
There is an easy reason why every thing contiguous to us, either in
space or time, should be conceived with a peculiar force and vivacity,
and excel every other object in its influence on the imagination.
Ourself is intimately present to us, and whatever is related to self
must partake of that quality. But where an object is so far removed
as to have lost the advantage of this relation, why, as it is farther
removed, its idea becomes still fainter and more obscure, would
perhaps require a more particular examination.
'Tis obvious that the imagination can never totally forget the
points of space and time in which we are existent; but receives such
frequent advertisements of them from the passions and senses, that,
however it may turn its attention to foreign and remote objects, it
is necessitated every moment to reflect on the present. 'Tis also
remarkable, that in the conception of those objects which we regard as
real and existent, we take them in their proper order and situation,
and never leap from one object to another, which is distant from it,
without running over, at least in a cursory manner, all those objects
which are interposed betwixt them. When we reflect, therefore, on
any object distant from ourselves, we are obliged not only to reach
it at first by passing through all the intermediate space betwixt
ourselves and the object, but also to renew our progress every moment,
being every moment recalled to the consideration of ourselves and our
present situation. 'Tis easily conceived, that this interruption must
weaken the idea, by breaking the action of the mind, and hindering the
conception from being so intense and continued, as when we reflect on
a nearer object. The _fewer_ steps we make to arrive at the object,
and the _smoother_ the road is, this diminution of vivacity is less
sensibly felt, but still may be observed more or less in proportion to
the degrees of distance and difficulty.
Here then we are to consider two kinds of objects, the contiguous and
remote, of which the former, by means of their relation to ourselves,
approach an impression in force and vivacity; the latter, by reason of
the interruption in our manner of conceiving them, appear in a weaker
and more imperfect light. This is their effect on the imagination.
If my reasoning be just, they must have a proportionable effect on
the will and passions. Contiguous objects must have an influence much
superior to the distant and remote. Accordingly we find, in common
life, that men are principally concerned about those objects which are
not much removed either in space or time, enjoying the present, and
leaving what is afar off to the care of chance and fortune. Talk to a
man of his condition thirty years hence, and he will not regard you.
Speak of what is to happen to-morrow, and he will lend you attention.
The breaking of a mirror gives us more concern when at home, than the
burning of a house when abroad, and some hundred leagues distant.
But farther; though distance, both in space and time, has a
considerable effect on the imagination, and by that means on the will
and passions, yet the consequence of a removal in _space_ are much
inferior to those of a removal in _time_. Twenty years are certainly
but a small distance of time in comparison of what history and even
the memory of some may inform them of, and yet I doubt if a thousand
leagues, or even the greatest distance of place this globe can admit
of, will so remarkably weaken our ideas, and diminish our passions.
A West India merchant will tell you, that he is not without concern
about what passes in Jamaica; though few extend their views so far into
futurity, as to dread very remote accidents.
The cause of this phenomenon must evidently lie in the different
properties of space and time. Without having recourse to metaphysics,
any one may easily observe, that space or extension consists of a
number of co-existent parts disposed in a certain order, and capable of
being at once present to the sight or feeling. On the contrary, time
or succession, though it consists likewise of parts, never presents
to us more than one at once; nor is it possible for any two of them
ever to co-existent. These qualities of the objects have a suitable
effect on the imagination. The parts of extension being susceptible
of an union to the senses, acquire an union in the fancy; and as
the appearance of one part excludes not another, the transition or
passage of the thought through the contiguous parts is by that means
rendered more smooth and easy. On the other hand, the incompatibility
of the parts of time in their real existence separates them in the
imagination, and makes it more difficult for that faculty to trace any
long succession or series of events. Every part must appear single and
alone, nor can regularly have entrance into the fancy without banishing
what is supposed to have been immediately precedent. By this means any
distance in time causes a greater interruption in the thought than an
equal distance in space, and consequently weakens more considerably the
idea, and consequently the passions; which depend in a great measure on
the imagination, according to my system.
There is another phenomenon of a like nature with the foregoing, viz.
_the superior effects of the same distance in futurity above that in
the past_. This difference with respect to the will is easily accounted
for. As none of our actions can alter the past, 'tis not strange it
should never determine the will. But with respect to the passions, the
question is yet entire, and well worth the examining.
Besides the propensity to a gradual progression through the points of
space and time, we have another peculiarity in our method of thinking,
which concurs in producing this phenomenon. We always follow the
succession of time in placing our ideas, and from the consideration of
any object pass more easily to that which follows immediately after
it, than to that which went before it. We may learn this, among other
instances, from the order which is always observed in historical
narrations. Nothing but an absolute necessity can oblige an historian
to break the order of time, and in his _narration_ give the precedence
to an event, which was in _reality_ posterior to another.
This will easily be applied to the question in hand, if we reflect
on what I have before observed, that the present situation of the
person is always that of the imagination, and that 'tis from thence
we proceed to the conception of any distant object. When the object
is past, the progression of the thought in passing to it from the
present is contrary to nature, as proceeding from one point of time
to that which is preceding, and from that to another preceding, in
opposition to the natural course of the succession. On the other hand,
when we turn our thought to a future object, our fancy flows along the
stream of time, and arrives at the object of an order, which seems
most natural, passing always from one point of time to that which is
immediately posterior to it. This easy progression of ideas favours
the imagination, and makes it conceive its object in a stronger and
fuller light, than when we are continually opposed in our passage,
and are obliged to overcome the difficulties arising from the natural
propensity of the fancy. A small degree of distance in the past
has, therefore, a greater effect in interrupting and weakening the
conception, than a much greater in the future. From this effect of it
on the imagination is derived its influence on the will and passions.
There is another cause, which both contributes to the same effect, and
proceeds from the same quality of the fancy, by which we are determined
to trace the succession of time by a similar succession of ideas.
When, from the present instant, we consider two points Of time equally
distant in the future and in the past, 'tis evident that, abstractedly
considered, their relation to the present is almost equal. For as the
future will _some time_ be present, so the past was _once_ present.
If we could, therefore, remove this quality of the imagination, an
equal distance in the past and in the future would have a similar
influence. Nor is this only true when the fancy remains fixed, and from
the present instant surveys the future and the past; but also when it
changes its situation, and places us in different periods of time. For
as, on the one hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of
time interposed betwixt the present instant and the future object, we
find the future object approach to us, and the past retire and become
more distant: so, on the other hand, in supposing ourselves existent
in a point of time interposed betwixt the present and the past, the
past approaches to us, and the future becomes more distant. But from
the property of the fancy above mentioned, we rather choose to fix
our thought on the point of time interposed betwixt the present and
the future, than on that betwixt the present and the past. We advance
rather than retard our existence; and, following what seems the natural
succession of time, proceed from past to present, and from present to
future; by which means we conceive the future as flowing every moment
nearer us, and the past as retiring. An equal distance, therefore, in
the past and in the future, has not the same effect on the imagination;
and that because we consider the one as continually increasing, and
the other as continually diminishing. The fancy anticipates the course
of things, and surveys the object in that condition to which it tends,
as well as in that which is regarded as the present.
SECTION VIII.
THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.
Thus, we have accounted for three phenomena, which seem pretty
remarkable. Why distance weakens the conception and passion: why
distance in time has a greater effect than that in space: and why
distance in past time has still a greater effect than that in future.
We must now consider three phenomena, which seem to be in a manner the
reverse of these: why a very great distance increases our esteem and
admiration for an object: why such a distance in time increases it
more than that in space: and a distance in past time more than that in
future. The curiousness of the subject will, I hope, excuse my dwelling
on it for some time.
To begin with the first phenomenon, why a great distance increases our
esteem and admiration for an object; 'tis evident that the mere view
and contemplation of any greatness, whether successive or extended,
enlarges the soul, and gives it a sensible delight and pleasure. A wide
plain, the ocean, eternity, a succession of several ages; all these
are entertaining objects, and excel every thing, however beautiful,
which accompanies not its beauty with a suitable greatness. Now, when
any very distant object is presented to the imagination, we naturally
reflect on the interposed distance, and by that means conceiving
something great and magnificent, receive the usual satisfaction. But
as the fancy passes easily from one idea to another related to it,
and transports to the second all the passions excited by the first,
the admiration, which is directed to the distance, naturally diffuses
itself over the distant object. Accordingly we find, that 'tis not
necessary the object should be actually distant from us in order to
cause our admiration; but that 'tis sufficient if, by the natural
association of ideas, it conveys our view to any considerable distance.
A great traveller, though in the same chamber, will pass for a very
extraordinary person; as a Greek medal, even in our cabinet, is
always esteemed a valuable curiosity. Here the object, by a natural
transition, conveys our view to the distance; and the admiration which
arises from that distance, by another natural transition, returns back
to the object.
But though every great distance produces an admiration for the distant
object, a distance in time has a more considerable effect than that
in space. Ancient busts and inscriptions are more valued than Japan
tables: and, not to mention the Greeks and Romans, 'tis certain we
regard with more veneration the old Chaldeans and Egyptians, than the
modern Chinese and Persians; and bestow more fruitless pains to clear
up the history and chronology of the former, than it would cost us to
make a voyage, and be certainly informed of the character, learning,
and government of the latter. I shall be obliged to make a digression
in order to explain this phenomenon.
'Tis a quality very observable in human nature, that any opposition
which does not entirely discourage and intimidate us, has rather a
contrary effect, and inspires us with a more than ordinary grandeur
and magnanimity. In collecting our force to overcome the opposition, we
invigorate the soul, and give it an elevation with which otherwise it
would never have been acquainted. Compliance, by rendering our strength
useless, makes us insensible of it; but opposition awakens and employs
it.
This is also true in the inverse. Opposition not only enlarges the
soul; but the soul, when full of courage and magnanimity, in a manner
seeks opposition.
Spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis
Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem.
Whatever supports and fills the passions is agreeable to us; as, on the
contrary, what weakens and enfeebles them is uneasy. As opposition has
the first effect, and facilitates the second, no wonder the mind, in
certain dispositions, desires the former, and is averse to the latter.
These principles have an effect on the imagination as well as on the
passions. To be convinced of this, we need only consider the influence
of _heights_ and _depths_ on that faculty. Any great elevation of
place communicates a kind of pride or sublimity of imagination, and
gives a fancied superiority over those that lie below; and, _vice
versa_, a sublime and strong imagination conveys the idea of ascent and
elevation. Hence it proceeds, that we associate, in a manner, the idea
of whatever is good with that of height, and evil with lowness. Heaven
is supposed to be above, and hell below. A noble genius is called an
elevate and sublime one. _Atque udam spernit humum fugiente penna_. On
the contrary, a vulgar and trivial conception is styled indifferently
low or mean. Prosperity is denominated ascent, and adversity descent.
Kings and princes are supposed to be placed at the top of human
affairs; as peasants and day-labourers are said to be in the lowest
stations. These methods of thinking and of expressing ourselves, are
not of so little consequence as they may appear at first sight.
'Tis evident to common sense, as well as philosophy, that there is no
natural nor essential difference betwixt high and low, and that this
distinction arises only from the gravitation of matter, which produces
a motion from the one to the other. The very same direction, which in
this part of the globe is called _ascent_, is denominated _descent_ in
our antipodes; which can proceed from nothing but the contrary tendency
of bodies. Now 'tis certain, that the tendency of bodies, continually
operating upon our senses, must produce, from custom, a like tendency
in the fancy; and that when we consider any object situated in an
ascent, the idea of its weight gives us a propensity to transport it
from the place in which it is situated to the place immediately below
it, and so on till we come to the ground, which equally stops the
body and our imagination. For a like reason we feel a difficulty in
mounting, and pass not without a kind of reluctance from the inferior
to that which is situated above it; as if our ideas acquired a kind of
gravity from their objects. As a proof of this, do we not find, that
the facility, which is so much studied in music and poetry, is called
the fall or cadency of the harmony or period; the idea of facility
communicating to us that of descent, in the same manner as descent
produces a facility?
Since the imagination, therefore, in running from low to high, finds
an opposition in its internal qualities and principles, and since
the soul, when elevated with joy and courage, in a manner seeks
opposition, and throws itself with alacrity into any scene of thought
or action where its courage meets with matter to nourish and employ
it, it follows, that every thing which invigorates and enlivens the
soul, whether by touching the passions or imagination, naturally
conveys to the fancy this inclination for ascent, and determines it to
run against the natural stream of its thoughts and conceptions. This
aspiring progress of the imagination suits the present disposition of
the mind; and the difficulty, instead of extinguishing its vigour and
alacrity, has the contrary effect of sustaining and increasing it.
Virtue, genius, power and riches, are for this reason associated with
height and sublimity, as poverty, slavery and folly, are conjoined
with descent and lowness. Were the case the same with us as Milton
represents it to be with the angels, to whom _descent is adverse_, and
who _cannot sink without labour and compulsion_, this order of things
would be entirely inverted; as appears hence, that the very nature of
ascent and descent is derived from the difficulty and propensity, and
consequently every one of their effects proceeds from that origin.
All this is easily applied to the present question, why a considerable
distance in time produces a greater veneration for the distant
objects than a like removal in space. The imagination moves with more
difficulty in passing from one portion of time to another, than in
a transition through the parts of space; and that because space or
extension appears united to our senses, while time or succession is
always broken and divided. This difficulty, when joined with a small
distance, interrupts and weakens the fancy, but has a contrary effect
in a great removal. The mind, elevated by the vastness of its object,
is still farther elevated by the difficulty of the conception, and,
being obliged every moment to renew its efforts in the transition
from one part of time to another, feels a more vigorous and sublime
disposition than in a transition through the parts of space, where
the ideas flow along with easiness and facility. In this disposition,
the imagination, passing, as is usual, from the consideration of the
distance to the view of the distant objects, gives us a proportionable
veneration for it; and this is the reason why all the relicks of
antiquity are so precious in our eyes, and appear more valuable than
what is brought even from the remotest parts of the world.
The third phenomenon I have remarked will be a full confirmation of
this. 'Tis not every removal in time which has the effect of producing
veneration and esteem. We are not apt to imagine our posterity
will excel us, or equal our ancestors. This phenomenon is the more
remarkable, because any distance in futurity weakens not our ideas so
much as an equal removal in the past. Though a removal in the past,
when very great, increases our passions beyond a like removal in the
future, yet a small removal has a greater influence in diminishing them.
In our common way of thinking we are placed in a kind of middle station
betwixt the past and future; and as our imagination finds a kind of
difficulty in running along the former, and a facility in following
the course of the latter, the difficulty conveys the notion of ascent,
and the facility of the contrary. Hence we imagine our ancestors to
be, in a manner, mounted above us, and our posterity to lie below us.
Our fancy arrives not at the one without effort, but easily reaches
the other: which effort weakens the conception, where the distance is
small; but enlarges and elevates the imagination, when attended with a
suitable object. As on the other hand, the facility assists the fancy
in a small removal, but takes off from its force when it contemplates
any considerable distance.
It may not be improper, before we leave this subject of the will, to
resume, in a few words, all that has been said concerning it, in order
to set the whole more distinctly before the eyes of the reader. What we
commonly understand by _passion_ is a violent and sensible emotion of
mind, when any good or evil is presented, or any object, which, by the
original formation of our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite.
By _reason_ we mean affections of the very same kind with the former,
but such as operate more calmly, and cause no disorder in the temper:
which tranquillity leads us into a mistake concerning them, and causes
us to regard them as conclusions only of our intellectual faculties.
Both the _causes_ and _effects_ of these violent and calm passions are
pretty variable, and depend, in a great measure, on the peculiar temper
and disposition of every individual. Generally speaking, the violent
passions have a more powerful influence on the will; though 'tis
often found that the calm ones, when corroborated by reflection, and
seconded by resolution, are able to control them in their most furious
movements. What makes this whole affair more uncertain, is, that a calm
passion may easily be changed into a violent one, either by a change
of temper, or of the circumstances and situation of the object; as by
the borrowing of force from any attendant passion, by custom, or by
exciting the imagination. Upon the whole, this struggle of passion
and of reason, as it is called, diversifies human life, and makes men
so different not only from each other, but also from themselves in
different times. Philosophy can only account for a few of the greater
and more sensible events of this war; but must leave all the smaller
and more delicate revolutions, as dependent on principles too fine and
minute for her comprehension.
SECTION IX.
OF THE DIRECT PASSIONS.
'Tis easy to observe, that the passions, both direct and indirect,
are founded on pain and pleasure, and that, in order to produce an
affection of any kind, 'tis only requisite to present some good or
evil. Upon the removal of pain and pleasure, there immediately follows
a removal of love and hatred, pride and humility, desire and aversion,
and of most of our reflective or secondary impressions.
The impressions which arise from good and evil most naturally, and
with the least preparation, are the _direct_ passions of desire and
aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, along with volition. The mind,
by an _original_ instinct, tends to unite itself with the good, and
to avoid the evil, though they be conceived merely in idea, and be
considered as to exist in any future period of time.
But supposing that there is an immediate impression of pain or
pleasure, and _that_ arising from an object related to ourselves or
others, this does not prevent the propensity or aversion, with the
consequent emotions, but, by concurring with certain dormant principles
of the human mind, excites the new impressions of pride or humility,
love or hatred. That propensity which unites us to the object, or
separates us from it, still continues to operate, but in conjunction
with the _indirect_ passions which arise from a double relation of
impressions and ideas.
These indirect passions, being always agreeable or uneasy, give in
their turn additional force to the direct passions, and increase
our desire and aversion to the object. Thus, a suit of fine clothes
produces pleasure from their beauty; and this pleasure produces the
direct passions, or the impressions of volition and desire. Again,
when these clothes are considered as belonging to ourself, the double
relation conveys to us the sentiment of pride, which is an indirect
passion; and the pleasure which attends that passion returns back to
the direct affections, and gives new force to our desire or volition,
joy or hope.
When good is certain or probable, it produces _joy_. When evil is in
the same situation, there arises _grief or sorrow_.
When either good or evil is uncertain, it gives rise to _fear_ or
_hope_, according to the degrees of uncertainty on the one side or the
other.
_Desire_ arises from good considered simply; and _aversion_ is derived
from evil. The _will_ exerts itself, when either the good or the
absence of the evil may be attained by any action of the mind or body.
Beside good and evil, or, in other words, pain and pleasure, the direct
passions frequently arise from a natural impulse or instinct, which is
perfectly unaccountable. Of this kind is the desire of punishment to
our enemies, and of happiness to our friends; hunger, lust, and a few
other bodily appetites. These passions, properly speaking, produce
good and evil, and proceed not from them, like the other affections.
None of the direct affections seem to merit our particular attention,
except hope and fear, which we shall here endeavour to account for.
'Tis evident that the very same event, which, by its certainty,
would produce grief or joy, gives always rise to fear or hope, when
only probable and uncertain. In order, therefore, to understand the
reason why this circumstance makes such a considerable difference, we
must reflect on what I have already advanced in the preceding book
concerning the nature of probability.
Probability arises from an opposition of contrary chances or causes, by
which the mind is not allowed to fix on either side, but is incessantly
tost from one to another, and at one moment is determined to consider
an object as existent, and at another moment as the contrary. The
imagination or understanding, call it which you please, fluctuates
betwixt the opposite views; and though perhaps it may be oftener turned
to the one side than the other, 'tis impossible for it, by reason of
the opposition of causes or chances, to rest on either. The _pro_ and
_con_ of the question alternately prevail; and the mind, surveying the
object in its opposite principles, finds such a contrariety as utterly
destroys all certainty and established opinion.
Suppose, then, that the object, concerning whose reality we are
doubtful, is an object either of desire or aversion, 'tis evident
that, according as the mind turns itself either to the one side or
the other, it must feel a momentary impression of joy or sorrow. An
object, whose existence we desire, gives satisfaction, when we reflect
on those causes which produce it; and, for the same reason, excites
grief or uneasiness from the opposite consideration: so that as the
understanding, in all probable questions, is divided betwixt the
contrary points of view, the affections must in the same manner be
divided betwixt opposite emotions.
Now, if we consider the human mind, we shall find, that, with regard
to the passions, 'tis not of the nature of a wind-instrument of music,
which, in running over all the notes, immediately loses the sound
after the breath ceases; but rather resembles, a string-instrument,
where, after each stroke, the vibrations still retain some sound, which
gradually and insensibly decays. The imagination is extremely quick
and agile; but the passions are slow and restive: for which reason,
when any object is presented that affords a variety of views to the
one, and emotions to the other, though the fancy may change its views
with great celerity, each stroke will not produce a clear and distinct
note of passion, but the one passion will always be mixt and confounded
with the other. According as the probability inclines to good or evil,
the passion of joy or sorrow predominates in the composition: because
the nature of probability is to cast a superior number of views or
chances on one side; or, which is the same thing, a superior number of
returns of one passion; or, since the dispersed passions are collected
into one, a superior degree of that passion. That is, in other words,
the grief and joy being intermingled with each other, by means of
the contrary views of the imagination, produce, by their union, the
passions of hope and fear.
Upon this head there may be started a very curious question concerning
that contrariety of passions which is our present subject. 'Tis
observable, that where the objects of contrary passions are presented
at once, beside the increase of the predominant passion (which has
been already explained, and commonly arises at their first shock
or rencounter), it sometimes happens that both the passions exist
successively, and by short intervals; sometimes, that they destroy each
other, and neither of them takes place; and sometimes that both of them
remain united in the mind. It may therefore be asked, by what theory
we can explain these variations, and to what general principle we can
reduce them.
When the contrary passions arise from objects entirely different, they
take place alternately, the want of relation in the ideas separating
the impressions from each other, and preventing their opposition. Thus,
when a man is afflicted for the loss of a lawsuit, and joyful for the
birth of a son, the mind running from the agreeable to the calamitous
object, with whatever celerity it may perform this motion, can scarcely
temper the one affection with the other, and remain betwixt them in a
state of indifference.
It more easily attains that calm situation, when the same event is of
a mixt nature, and contains something adverse and something prosperous
in its different circumstances. For in that case, both the passions,
mingling with each other by means of the relation, become mutually
destructive, and leave the mind in perfect tranquillity.
But suppose, in the third place, that the object is not a compound
of good or evil, but is considered as probable or improbable in any
degree; in that case I assert, that the contrary passions will both
of them be present at once in the soul, and, instead of destroying
and tempering each other, will subsist together, and produce a third
impression or affection by their union. Contrary passions are not
capable of destroying each other, except when their contrary movements
exactly rencounter, and are opposite in their direction, as well as
in the sensation they produce. This exact rencounter depends upon the
relations of those ideas from which they are derived, and is more or
less perfect, according to the degrees of the relation. In the case
of probability, the contrary chances are so far related that they
determine concerning the existence or non-existence of the same object.
But this relation is far from being perfect, since some of the chances
lie on the side of existence, and others on that of non-existence,
which are objects altogether incompatible. 'Tis impossible, by one
steady view, to survey the opposite chances, and the events dependent
on them; but 'tis necessary that the imagination should run alternately
from the one to the other. Each view of the imagination produces its
peculiar passion, which decays away by degrees, and is followed by a
sensible vibration after the stroke. The incompatibility of the views
keeps the passions from shocking in a direct line, if that expression
may be allowed; and yet their relation is sufficient to mingle their
fainter emotions. 'Tis after this manner that hope and fear arise from
the different mixture of these opposite passions of grief and joy, and
from their imperfect union and conjunction.
Upon the whole, contrary passions succeed each other alternately, when
they arise from different objects; they mutually destroy each other,
when they proceed from different parts of the same; and they subsist,
both of them, and mingle together, when they are derived from the
contrary and incompatible chances or possibilities on which any one
object depends. The influence of the relations of ideas is plainly
seen in this whole affair. If the objects of the contrary passions
be totally different, the passions are like two opposite liquors in
different bottles, which have no influence on each other. If the
objects be intimately connected, the passions are like an _alkali_ and
an _acid_, which, being mingled, destroy each other. If the relation
be more imperfect, and consists in the contradictory views of the same
object, the passions are like oil and vinegar, which, however mingled,
never perfectly unite and incorporate.
As the hypothesis concerning hope and fear carries its own evidence
along with it, we shall be the more concise in our proofs. A few strong
arguments are better than many weak ones.
The passions of fear and hope may arise when the chances are equal on
both sides, and no superiority can be discovered in the one above the
other. Nay, in this situation the passions are rather the strongest, as
the mind has then the least foundation to rest upon, and is tossed with
the greatest uncertainty. Throw in a superior degree of probability to
the side of grief, you immediately see that passion diffuse itself over
the composition, and tincture it into fear. Increase the probability,
and by that means the grief, the fear prevails still more and more,
till at last it runs insensibly, as the joy continually diminishes,
into pure grief. After you have brought it to this situation, diminish
the grief, after the same manner that you increased it, by diminishing
the probability on that side, and you'll see the passion clear every
moment, 'till it changes insensibly into hope; which again runs, after
the same manner, by slow degrees, into joy, as you increase that part
of the composition by the increase of the probability. Are not these
as plain proofs, that the passions of fear and hope are mixtures of
grief and joy, as in optics 'tis a proof, that a coloured ray of the
sun passing through a prism, is a composition of two others, when, as
you diminish or increase the quantity of either, you find it prevail
proportionably more or less in the composition? I am sure neither
natural nor moral philosophy admits of stronger proofs.
Probability is of two kinds, either when the object is really in itself
uncertain, and to be determined by chance; or when, though the object
be already certain, yet 'tis uncertain to our judgment, which finds
a number of proofs on each side of the question. Both these kinds of
probabilities cause fear and hope; which can only proceed from that
property, in which they agree, viz. the uncertainty and fluctuation
they bestow on the imagination by the contrariety of views which is
common to both.
'Tis a probable good or evil that commonly produces hope or fear;
because probability, being a wavering and unconstant method of
surveying an object, causes naturally a like mixture and uncertainty
of passion. But we may observe, that wherever, from other causes, this
mixture can be produced, the passions of fear and hope will arise,
even though there be no probability; which must be allowed to be a
convincing proof of the present hypothesis.
We find that an evil, barely conceived as _possible_, does sometimes
produce fear; especially if the evil be very great. A man cannot think
of excessive pains and tortures without trembling, if he be in the
least danger of suffering them. The smallness of the probability is
compensated by the greatness of the evil; and the sensation is equally
lively, as if the evil were more probable. One view or glimpse of the
former has the same effect as several of the latter.
But they are not only possible evils that cause fear, but even some
allowed to be _impossible_; as when we tremble on the brink of a
precipice, though we know ourselves to be in perfect security, and
have it in our choice whether we will advance a step farther. This
proceeds from the immediate presence of the evil, which influences the
imagination in the same manner as the certainty of it would do; but
being encountered by the reflection on our security, is immediately
retracted, and causes the same kind of passion, as when, from a
contrariety of chances, contrary passions are produced.
Evils that are _certain_ have sometimes the same effect in producing
fear, as the possible or impossible. Thus, a man in a strong prison
well-guarded, without the least means of escape, trembles at the
thought of the rack, to which he is sentenced. This happens only when
the certain evil is terrible and confounding; in which case the mind
continually rejects it with horror, while it continually presses in
upon the thought. The evil is there fixed and established, but the mind
cannot endure to fix upon it; from which fluctuation and uncertainty
there arises a passion of much the same appearance with fear.
But 'tis not only where good or evil is uncertain, as to its
_existence_, but also as to its _kind_, that fear or hope arises. Let
one be told by a person, whose veracity he cannot doubt of, that one
of his sons is suddenly killed, 'tis evident the passion this event
would occasion, would not settle into pure grief, till he got certain
information which of his sons he had lost. Here there is an evil
certain, but the kind of it uncertain: consequently the fear we feel on
this occasion is without the least mixture of joy, and arises merely
from the fluctuation of the fancy betwixt its objects. And though each
side of the question produces here the same passion, yet that passion
cannot settle, but receives from the imagination a tremulous and
unsteady motion, resembling in its cause, as well as in its sensation,
the mixture and contention of grief and joy.
From these principles we may account for a phenomenon in the passions,
which at first sight seems very extraordinary, viz. that surprise is
apt to change into fear, and every thing that is unexpected affrights
us. The most obvious conclusion from this is, that human nature is
in general pusillanimous; since, upon the sudden appearance of any
object, we immediately conclude it to be an evil, and, without waiting
till we can examine its nature, whether it be good or bad, are at
first affected with fear. This, I say, is the most obvious conclusion;
but upon farther examination, we shall find that the phenomenon is
otherwise to be accounted for. The suddenness and strangeness of an
appearance naturally excite a commotion in the mind, like every thing
for which we are not prepared, and to which we are not accustomed. This
commotion, again, naturally produces a curiosity or inquisitiveness,
which, being very violent, from the strong and sudden impulse of
the object, becomes uneasy, and resembles in its fluctuation and
uncertainty, the sensation of fear, or the mixed passions of grief and
joy. This image of fear naturally converts into the thing itself, and
gives us a real apprehension of evil, as the mind always forms its
judgments more from its present disposition than from the nature of its
objects.
Thus all kinds of uncertainty have a strong connexion with fear, even
though they do not cause any opposition of passions by the opposite
views and considerations they present to us. A person who has left his
friend in any malady, will feel more anxiety upon his account, than if
he were present, though perhaps he is not only incapable of giving him
assistance, but likewise of judging of the event of his sickness. In
this case, though the principle object of the passion, viz. the life or
death of his friend, be to him equally uncertain when present as when
absent; yet there are, a thousand little circumstances of his friend's
situation and condition, the knowledge of which fixes the idea, and
prevents that fluctuation and uncertainty so nearly allied to fear.
Uncertainty is, indeed, in one respect, as nearly allied to hope as to
fear, since it makes an essential part in the composition of the former
passion; but the reason why it inclines not to that side, is, that
uncertainty alone is uneasy, and has a relation of impressions to the
uneasy passions.
'Tis thus our uncertainty concerning any minute circumstance relating
to a person, increases our apprehensions of his death or misfortune.
Horace has remarked this phenomenon:
Ut assidens implumibus pullus avis
Serpentium allapsus timet,
Magis relictis; non, ut adsit, auxili
Latura plus presentibus.
But this principle of the connexion of fear with uncertainty I carry
farther, and observe, that any doubt produces that passion, even
though it presents nothing to us on any side but what is good and
desirable. A virgin, on her bridal-night goes to bed full of fears and
apprehensions, though she expects nothing but pleasure of the highest
kind, and what she has long wished for. The newness and greatness of
the event, the confusion of wishes and joys, so embarrass the mind,
that it knows not on what passion to fix itself; from whence arises
a fluttering or unsettledness of the spirits, which being, in some
degree, uneasy, very naturally degenerates into fear.
Thus we still find, that whatever causes any fluctuation or mixture of
passions, with any degree of uneasiness, always produces fear, or at
least a passion so like it, that they are scarcely to be distinguished.
I have here confined myself to the examination of hope and fear in
their most simple and natural situation, without considering all the
variations they may receive from the mixture of different views and
reflections. _Terror, consternation, astonishment, anxiety_, and
other passions of that kind, are nothing but different species and
degrees of fear. 'Tis easy to imagine how a different situation of the
object, or a different turn of thought, may change even the sensation
of a passion; and this may in general account for all the particular
subdivisions of the other affections, as well as of fear. Love may
show itself in the shape of _tenderness, friendship, intimacy, esteem,
good-will_, and in many other appearances; which at the bottom are the
same affections, and arise from the same causes, though with a small
variation, which it is not necessary to give any particular account of.
'Tis for this reason I have all along confined myself to the principal
passion.
The same care of avoiding prolixity is the reason why I waive the
examination of the will and direct passions, as they appear in animals;
since nothing is more evident, than that they are of the same nature,
and excited by the same causes as in human creatures. I leave this to
the reader's own observation, desiring him at the same time to consider
the additional force this bestows on the present system.
SECTION X.
OF CURIOSITY, OR THE LOVE OF TRUTH.
But methinks we have been not a little inattentive to run over so
many different parts of the human mind, and examine so many passions,
without taking once into consideration that love of truth, which was
the first source of all our inquiries. 'Twill therefore be proper,
before we leave this subject, to bestow a few reflections on that
passion, and show its origin in human nature. 'Tis an affection of so
peculiar a kind, that it would have been impossible to have treated of
it under any of those heads, which we have examined, without danger of
obscurity and confusion.
Truth is of two kinds, consisting either in the discovery of the
proportions of ideas, considered as such, or in the conformity of our
ideas of objects to their real existence. 'Tis certain that the former
species of truth is not desired merely as truth, and that 'tis not the
justness of our conclusions, which alone gives the pleasure. For these
conclusions are equally just, when we discover the equality of two
bodies by a pair of compasses, as when we learn it by a mathematical
demonstration; and though in the one case the proofs be demonstrative,
and in the other only sensible, yet generally speaking, the mind
acquiesces with equal assurance in the one as in the other. And in
an arithmetical operation, where both the truth and the assurance are
of the same nature, as in the most profound algebraical problem, the
pleasure is very inconsiderable, if rather it does not degenerate
into pain: which is an evident proof, that the satisfaction, which we
sometimes receive from the discovery of truth, proceeds not from it,
merely as such, but only as endowed with certain qualities.
The first and most considerable circumstance requisite to render
truth agreeable, is the genius and capacity which is employed in its
invention and discovery. What is easy and obvious is never valued;
and even what is _in itself_ difficult, if we come to the knowledge
of it without difficulty, and without any stretch of thought or
judgment, is but little regarded. We love to trace the demonstrations
of mathematicians; but should receive small entertainment from a person
who should barely inform us of the proportions of lines and angles,
though we reposed the utmost confidence both in his judgment and
veracity. In this case 'tis sufficient to have ears to learn the truth.
We never are obliged to fix our attention or exert our genius; which of
all other exercises of the mind is the most pleasant and agreeable.
But though the exercise of genius be the principal source of that
satisfaction we receive from the sciences, yet I doubt if it be alone
sufficient to give us any considerable enjoyment. The truth we discover
must also be of some importance. 'Tis easy to multiply algebraical
problems to infinity, nor is there any end in the discovery of the
proportions of conic sections; though few mathematicians take any
pleasure in these researches, but turn their thoughts to what is
more useful and important. Now the question is, after what manner
this utility and importance operate upon us? The difficulty on this
head arises from hence, that many philosophers have consumed their
time, have destroyed their health, and neglected their fortune, in
the search of such truths, as they esteemed important and useful to
the world, though it appeared from their whole conduct and behaviour,
that they were not endowed with any share of public spirit, nor had
any concern for the interests of mankind. Were they convinced that
their discoveries were of no consequence, they would entirely lose all
relish for their studies, and that though the consequences be entirely
indifferent to them; which seems to be a contradiction.
To remove this contradiction, we must consider, that there are certain
desires and inclinations, which go no farther than the imagination,
and are rather the faint shadows and images of passions, than any
real affections. Thus, suppose a man, who takes a survey of the
fortifications of any city; considers their strength and advantages,
natural or acquired; observes the disposition and contrivance of the
bastions, ramparts, mines, and other military works; 'tis plain that,
in proportion as all these are fitted to attain their ends, he will
receive a suitable pleasure and satisfaction. This pleasure, as it
arises from the utility, not the form of the objects, can be no other
than a sympathy with the inhabitants, for whose security all this art
is employed; though 'tis possible that this person, as a stranger or
an enemy, may in his heart have no kindness for them, or may even
entertain a hatred against them.
It may indeed be objected, that such a remote sympathy is a very slight
foundation for a passion, and that so much industry and application,
as we frequently observe in philosophers, can never be derived from so
inconsiderable an original. But here I return to what I have already
remarked, that the pleasure of study consists chiefly in the action
of the mind, and the exercise of the genius and understanding in the
discovery or comprehension of any truth. If the importance of the truth
be requisite to complete the pleasure, 'tis not on account of any
considerable addition which of itself it brings to our enjoyment, but
only because 'tis in some measure requisite to fix our attention. When
we are careless and inattentive, the same action of the understanding
has no effect upon us, nor is able to convey any of that satisfaction
which arises from it when we are in another disposition.
But beside the action of the mind, which is the principal foundation
of the pleasure, there is likewise required a degree of success in
the attainment of the end, or the discovery of that truth we examine.
Upon this head I shall make a general remark, which may be useful
on many occasions, viz. that where the mind pursues any end with
passion, though that passion be not derived originally from the end,
but merely from the action and pursuit, yet, by the natural course
of the affections, we acquire a concern for the end itself, and are
uneasy under any disappointment we meet with in the pursuit of it.
This proceeds from the relation and parallel direction of the passions
above-mentioned.
To illustrate all this by a similar instance, I shall observe, that
there cannot be two passions more nearly resembling each other than
those of hunting and philosophy, whatever disproportion may at first
sight appear betwixt them. 'Tis evident, that the pleasure of hunting
consists in the action of the mind and body; the motion, the attention,
the difficulty, and the uncertainty. 'Tis evident, likewise, that these
actions must be attended with an idea of utility, in order to their
having any effect upon us. A man of the greatest fortune, and the
farthest removed from avarice, though he takes a pleasure in hunting
after partridges and pheasants, feels no satisfaction in shooting crows
and magpies; and that because he considers the first as fit for the
table, and the other as entirely useless. Here 'tis certain, that the
utility or importance of itself causes no real passion, but is only
requisite to support the imagination; and the same person who overlooks
a ten times greater profit in any other subject, is pleased to bring
home half a dozen woodcocks or plovers, after having employed several
hours in hunting after them. To make the parallel betwixt hunting and
philosophy more complete, we may observe, that though in both cases
the end of our action may in itself be despised, yet, in the heat of
the action, we acquire such an attention to this end, that we are very
uneasy under any disappointments, and are sorry when we either miss our
game, or fall into any error in our reasoning.
If we want another parallel to these affections, we may consider the
passion of gaming, which affords a pleasure from the same principles
as hunting and philosophy. It has been remarked, that the pleasure of
gaming arises not from interest alone, since many leave a sure gain for
this entertainment; neither is it derived from the game alone, since
the same persons have no satisfaction when they play for nothing; but
proceeds from both these causes united, though separately they have
no effect. 'Tis here, as in certain chemical preparations, where the
mixture of two clear and transparent liquids produces a third, which is
opaque and coloured.
The interest which we have in any game engages our attention, without
which we can have no enjoyment, either in that or in any other action.
Our attention being once engaged, the difficulty, variety, and sudden
reverses of fortune; still farther interest us; and 'tis from that
concern our satisfaction arises. Human life is so tiresome a scene, and
men generally are of such indolent dispositions, that whatever amuses
them, though by a passion mixed with pain, does in the main give them a
sensible pleasure. And this pleasure is here increased by the nature of
the objects, which, being sensible and of a narrow compass, are entered
into with facility, and are agreeable to the imagination.
The same theory that accounts for the love of truth in mathematics
and algebra, may be extended to morals, politics, natural philosophy,
and other studies, where we consider not the abstract relations of
ideas, but their real connexions and existence. But beside the love of
knowledge which displays itself in the sciences, there is a certain
curiosity implanted in human nature, which is a passion derived from
a quite different principle. Some people have an insatiable desire of
knowing the actions and circumstances of their neighbours, though their
interest be no way concerned in them, and they must entirely depend on
others for their information; in which case there is no room for study
or application. Let us search for the reason of this phenomenon.
It has been proved at large, that the influence of belief is at once
to enliven and infix any idea in the imagination, and prevent all kind
of hesitation and uncertainty about it. Both these circumstances are
advantageous. By the vivacity of the idea we interest the fancy, and
produce, though in a lesser degree, the same pleasure which arises from
a moderate passion. As the vivacity of the idea gives pleasure, so its
certainty prevents uneasiness, by fixing one particular idea in the
mind, and keeping it from wavering in the choice of its objects. 'Tis a
quality of human nature which is conspicuous on many occasions, and is
common both to the mind and body, that too sudden and violent a change
is unpleasant to us, and that, however any objects may in themselves be
indifferent, yet their alteration gives uneasiness. As 'tis the nature
of doubt to cause a variation in the thought, and transport us suddenly
from one idea to another, it must of consequence be the occasion of
pain. This pain chiefly takes place where interest, relation, or the
greatness and novelty of any event interests us in it. 'Tis not every
matter of fact of which we have a curiosity to be informed; neither are
they such only as we have an interest to know. 'Tis sufficient if the
idea strikes on us with such force, and concerns us so nearly, as to
give us an uneasiness in its instability and inconstancy. A stranger,
when he arrives first at any town, may be entirely indifferent about
knowing the history and adventures of the inhabitants; but as he
becomes farther acquainted with them, and has lived any considerable
time among them, he acquires the same curiosity as the natives. When
we are reading the history of a nation, we may have an ardent desire
of clearing up any doubt or difficulty that occurs in it; but become
careless in such researches, when the ideas of these events are, in a
great measure, obliterated.
BOOK III.
OF MORALS.
PART I.
OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL.
SECTION I.
MORAL DISTINCTIONS NOT DERIVED FROM REASON.
There is an inconvenience which attends all abstruse reasoning, that
it may silence, without convincing an antagonist, and requires the
same intense study to make us sensible of its force, that was at first
requisite for its invention. When we leave our closet, and engage
in the common affairs of life, its conclusions seem to vanish like
the phantoms of the night on the appearance of the morning; and 'tis
difficult for us to retain even that conviction which we had attained
with difficulty. This is still more conspicuous in a long chain of
reasoning, where we must preserve to the end the evidence of the first
propositions, and where we often lose sight of all the most received
maxims, either of philosophy or common life. I am not, however, without
hopes, that the present system of philosophy will acquire new force
as it advances; and that our reasonings concerning _morals_ will
corroborate whatever has been said concerning the _understanding_ and
the _passions_. Morality is a subject that interests us above all
others; we fancy the peace of society to be at stake in every decision
concerning it; and 'tis evident, that this concern must make our
speculations appear more real and solid, than where the subject is in
a great measure indifferent to us. What affects us, we conclude can
never be a chimera; and, as our passion is engaged on the one side
or the other, we naturally think that the question lies within human
comprehension; which, in other cases of this nature, we are apt to
entertain some doubt of. Without this advantage, I never should have
ventured upon a third volume of such abstruse philosophy, in an age
wherein the greatest part of men seem agreed to convert reading into
an amusement, and to reject every thing that requires any considerable
degree of attention to be comprehended.
It has been observed, that nothing is ever present to the mind but its
perceptions; and that all the actions of seeing, hearing, judging,
loving, hating, and thinking, fall under this denomination. The mind
can never exert itself in any action which we may not comprehend
under the term of _perception_; and consequently that term is no less
applicable to those judgments by which we distinguish moral good and
evil, than to every other operation of the mind. To approve of one
character, to condemn another, are only so many different perceptions.
Now, as perceptions resolve themselves into two kinds, viz.
_impressions_ and _ideas_, this distinction gives rise to a question,
with which we shall open up our present inquiry concerning morals,
_whether 'tis by means of our ideas or impressions we distinguish
betwixt vice and virtue, and pronounce an action blameable or
praiseworthy_? This will immediately cut off all loose discourses and
declamations, and reduce us to something precise and exact on the
present subject.
Those who affirm that virtue is nothing but a conformity to reason;
that there are eternal fitnesses and unfitnesses of things, which
are the same to every rational being that considers them; that the
immutable measures of right and wrong impose an obligation, not
only on human creatures, but also on the Deity himself: all these
systems concur in the opinion, that morality, like truth, is discerned
merely by ideas, and by their juxtaposition and comparison. In order,
therefore, to judge of these systems, we need only consider, whether it
be possible, from reason alone, to distinguish betwixt moral good and
evil, or whether there must concur some other principles to enable us
to make that distinction.
If morality had naturally no influence on human passions and actions,
'twere in vain to take such pains to inculcate it; and nothing would be
more fruitless than that multitude of rules and precepts with which all
moralists abound. Philosophy is commonly divided into _speculative_ and
_practical_; and as morality is always comprehended under the latter
division, 'tis supposed to influence our passions and actions, and to
go beyond the calm and indolent judgments of the understanding. And
this is confirmed by common experience, which informs us, that men are
often governed by their duties, and are deterred from some actions by
the opinion of injustice, and impelled to others by that of obligation.
Since morals, therefore, have an influence on the actions and
affections, it follows, that they cannot be derived from reason; and
that because reason alone, as we have already proved, can never have
any such influence. Morals excite passions, and produce or prevent
actions. Reason of itself is utterly impotent in this particular. The
rules of morality, therefore, are not conclusions of our reason.
No one, I believe, will deny the justness of this inference; nor is
there any other means of evading it, than by denying that principle,
on which it is founded. As long as it is allowed, that reason has
no influence on our passions and actions, 'tis in vain to pretend
that morality is discovered only by a deduction of reason. An
active principle can never be founded on an inactive; and it reason
be inactive in itself, it must remain so in all its shapes and
appearances, whether it exerts itself in natural or moral subjects,
whether it considers the powers of external bodies, or the actions of
rational beings.
It would be tedious to repeat all the arguments, by which I have
proved,[1] that reason is perfectly inert, and can never either prevent
or produce any action or affection. 'Twill be easy to recollect what
has been said upon that subject. I shall only recall on this occasion
one of these arguments, which I shall endeavour to render still more
conclusive, and more applicable to the present subject.
Reason is the discovery of truth or falsehood. Truth or falsehood
consists in an agreement or disagreement either to the _real_ relations
of ideas, or to _real_ existence and matter of fact. Whatever therefore
is not susceptible of this agreement or disagreement, is incapable of
being true or false, and can never be an object of our reason. Now,
'tis evident our passions, volitions, and actions, are not susceptible
of any such agreement or disagreement; being original facts and
realities, complete in themselves, and implying no reference to other
passions, volitions, and actions. 'Tis impossible, therefore, they
can be pronounced either true or false, and be either contrary or
conformable to reason.
This argument is of double advantage to our present purpose. For it
proves _directly_, that actions do not derive their merit from a
conformity to reason, nor their blame from a contrariety to it; and it
proves the same truth more _indirectly_, by showing us, that as reason
can never immediately prevent or produce any action by contradicting or
approving of it, it cannot be the source of moral good and evil, which
are found to have that influence. Actions may be laudable or blameable;
but they cannot be reasonable or unreasonable: laudable or blameable,
therefore, are not the same with reasonable or unreasonable. The merit
and demerit of actions frequently contradict, and sometimes control
our natural propensities. But reason has no such influence. Moral
distinctions, therefore, are not the offspring of reason. Reason is
wholly inactive, and can never be the source of so active a principle
as conscience, or a sense of morals.
But perhaps it may be said, that though no will or action can
be immediately contradictory to reason, yet we may find such a
contradiction in some of the attendants of the action, that is, in
its causes or effects. The action may cause a judgment, or may be
_obliquely_ caused by one, when the judgment concurs with a passion;
and by an abusive way of speaking, which philosophy will scarce allow
of, the same contrariety may, upon that account, be ascribed to the
action. How far this truth or falsehood may be the source of morals,
'twill now be proper to consider.
It has been observed, that reason, in a strict and philosophical sense,
can have an influence on our conduct only after two ways: either when
it excites a passion, by informing us of the existence of something
which is a proper object of it; or when it discovers the connexion of
causes and effects, so as to afford us means of exerting any passion.
These are the only kinds of judgment which can accompany our actions,
or can be said to produce them in any manner; and it must be allowed,
that these judgments may often be false and erroneous. A person may be
affected with passion, by supposing a pain or pleasure to lie in an
object, which has no tendency to produce either of these sensations, or
which produces the contrary to what is imagined. A person may also take
false measures for the attaining of his end, and may retard, by his
foolish conduct, instead of forwarding the execution of any project.
These false judgments may be thought to affect the passions and
actions, which are connected with them, and may be said to render them
unreasonable, in a figurative and improper way of speaking. But though
this be acknowledged, 'tis easy to observe, that these errors are so
far from being the source of all immorality, that they are commonly
very innocent, and draw no manner of guilt upon the person who is so
unfortunate as to fall into them. They extend not beyond a mistake of
_fact_, which moralists have not generally supposed criminal, as being
perfectly involuntary. I am more to be lamented than blamed, if I am
mistaken with regard to the influence of objects in producing pain or
pleasure, or if I know not the proper means of satisfying my desires.
No one can ever regard such errors as a defect in my moral character.
A fruit, for instance, that is really disagreeable, appears to me
at a distance, and, through mistake, I fancy it to be pleasant and
delicious. Here is one error. I choose certain means of reaching this
fruit, which are not proper for my end. Here is a second error; nor is
there any third one, which can ever possibly enter into our reasonings
concerning actions. I ask, therefore, if a man in this situation, and
guilty of these two errors, is to be regarded as vicious and criminal,
however unavoidable they might have been? Or if it be possible to
imagine, that such errors are the sources of all immorality?
And here it may be proper to observe, that if moral distinctions be
derived from the truth or falsehood of those judgments, they must take
place wherever we form the judgments; nor will there be any difference,
whether the question be concerning an apple or a kingdom, or whether
the error be avoidable or unavoidable.
For as the very essence of morality is supposed to consist in an
agreement or disagreement to reason, the other circumstances are
entirely arbitrary, and can never either bestow on any action the
character of virtuous or vicious, or deprive it of that character. To
which we may add, that this agreement or disagreement, not admitting of
degrees, all virtues and vices would of course be equal.
Should it be pretended, that though a mistake of _fact_ be not
criminal, yet a mistake of _right_ often is; and that this may be
the source of immorality: I would answer, that 'tis impossible such
a mistake can ever be the original source of immorality, since it
supposes a real right and wrong; that is, a real distinction in morals,
independent of these judgments. A mistake, therefore, of right, may
become a species of immorality; but 'tis only a secondary one, and is
founded on some other antecedent to it.
As to those judgments which are the _effects_ of our actions, and
which, when false, give occasion to pronounce the actions contrary
to truth and reason; we may observe, that our actions never cause
any judgment, either true or false, in ourselves, and that 'tis only
on others they have such an influence. 'Tis certain that an action,
on many occasions, may give rise to false conclusions in others;
and that a person, who, through a window, sees any lewd behaviour of
mine with my neighbour's wife, may be so simple as to imagine she is
certainly my own. In this respect my action resembles somewhat a lie or
falsehood; only with this difference, which is material, that I perform
not the action with any intention of giving rise to a false judgment
in another, but merely to satisfy my lust and passion. It causes,
however, a mistake and false judgment by accident; and the falsehood of
its effects may be ascribed, by some odd figurative way of speaking,
to the action itself. But still I can see no pretext of reason for
asserting, that the tendency to cause such an error is the first spring
or original source of all immorality.[2]
Thus, upon the whole, 'tis impossible that the distinction betwixt
moral good and evil can be made by reason; since that distinction has
an influence upon our actions, of which reason alone is incapable.
Reason and judgment may, indeed, be the mediate cause of an action, by
prompting or by directing a passion; but it is not pretended that a
judgment of this kind, either in its truth or falsehood, is attended
with virtue or vise. And as to the judgments, which are caused by our
judgments, they can still less bestow those moral qualities on the
actions which are their causes.
But, to be more particular, and to show that those eternal immutable
fitnesses and unfitnesses of things cannot be defended by sound
philosophy, we may weigh the following considerations.
If the thought and understanding were alone capable of fixing the
boundaries of right and wrong, the character of virtuous and vicious
either must lie in some relations of objects, or must be a matter
of fact which is discovered by our reasoning. This consequence is
evident. As' the operations of human understanding divide themselves
into two kinds, the comparing of ideas, and the inferring of matter
of fact, were virtue discovered by the understanding, it must be an
object of one of these operations; nor is there any third operation
of the understanding which can discover it. There has been an opinion
very industriously propagated by certain philosophers, that morality
is susceptible of demonstration; and though no one has ever been able
to advance a single step in those demonstrations, yet tis taken for
granted that this science may be brought to an equal certainty with
geometry or algebra. Upon this supposition, vice and virtue must
consist in some relations; since 'tis allowed on all hands, that no
matter of fact is capable of being demonstrated. Let us therefore
begin with examining this hypothesis, and endeavour, if possible,
to fix those moral qualities which have been so long the objects of
our fruitless researches; point out distinctly the relations which
constitute morality or obligation, that we may know wherein they
consist, and after what manner we must judge of them.
If you assert that vice and virtue consist in relations susceptible
of certainty and demonstration, you must confine yourself to those
_four_ relations which alone admit of that degree of evidence; and in
that case you run into absurdities from which you will never be able
to extricate yourself. For as you make the very essence of morality to
lie in the relations, and as there is no one of these relations but
what is applicable, not only to an irrational but also to an inanimate
object, it follows, that even such objects must be susceptible of
merit or demerit. _Resemblance, contrariety, degrees in quality_, and
_proportions in quantity and number_; all these relations belong as
properly to matter, as to our actions, passions, and volitions. 'Tis
unquestionable, therefore, that morality lies not in any of these
relations, nor the sense of it in their discovery.[3]
Should it be asserted, that the sense of morality consists in
the discovery of some relation distinct from these, and that our
enumeration was not complete when we comprehended all demonstrable
relations under four general heads; to this I know not what to reply,
till some one be so good as to point out to me this new relation. 'Tis
impossible to refute a system which has never yet been explained. In
such a manner of fighting in the dark, a man loses his blows in the
air, and often places them where the enemy is not present.
I must therefore, on this occasion, rest contented with requiring the
two following conditions of any one that would undertake to clear up
this system. _First_, as moral good and evil belong only to the actions
of the mind, and are derived from our situation with regard to external
objects, the relations from which these moral distinctions arise must
lie only betwixt internal actions and external objects, and must not be
applicable either to internal actions, compared among themselves, or to
external objects, when placed in opposition to other external objects.
For as morality is supposed to attend certain relations, if these
relations could belong to internal actions considered singly, it would
follow, that we might be guilty of crimes in ourselves, and independent
of our situation with respect to the universe; and in like manner, if
these moral relations could be applied to external objects, it would
follow, that even inanimate beings would be susceptible of moral beauty
and deformity. Now, it seems difficult to imagine that any relation can
be discovered betwixt our passions, volitions and actions, compared
to external objects, which relation might not belong either to these
passions and volitions, or to these external objects, compared among
_themselves_.
But it will be still more difficult to fulfil the _second_ condition,
requisite to justify this system. According to the principles of those
who maintain an abstract rational difference betwixt moral good and
evil, and a natural fitness and unfitness of things, 'tis not only
supposed, that these relations, being eternal and immutable, are the
same, when considered by every rational creature, but their _effects_
are also supposed to be necessarily the same; and 'tis concluded they
have no less, or rather a greater, influence in directing the will
of the Deity, than in governing the rational and virtuous of our own
species. These two particulars are evidently distinct. 'Tis one thing
to know virtue, and another to conform the will to it. In order,
therefore, to prove that the measures of right and wrong are eternal
laws, _obligatory_ on every rational mind, 'tis not sufficient to show
the relations upon which they are founded: we must also point out the
connexion betwixt the relation and the will; and must prove that this
connexion is so necessary, that in every well-disposed mind, it must
take place and have its influence; though the difference betwixt these
minds be in other respects immense and infinite. Now, besides what I
have already proved, that even in human nature no relation can ever
alone produce any action; besides this, I say, it has been shown, in
treating of the understanding, that there is no connexion of cause and
effect, such as this is supposed to be, which is discoverable otherwise
than by experience, and of which we can pretend to have any security by
the simple consideration of the objects. All beings in the universe,
considered in themselves, appear entirely loose and independent of each
other. 'Tis only by experience we learn their influence and connexion;
and this influence we ought never to extend beyond experience.
Thus it will be impossible to fulfil the _first_ condition required to
the system of eternal rational measures of right and wrong; because it
is impossible to show those relations, upon which such a distinction
may be founded: and 'tis as impossible to fulfil the _second_
condition; because we cannot prove _a priori_, that these relations, if
they really existed and were perceived, would be universally forcible
and obligatory.
But to make these general reflections more clear and convincing, we may
illustrate them by some particular instances, wherein this character
of moral good or evil is the most universally acknowledged. Of all
crimes that human creatures are capable of committing, the most horrid
and unnatural is ingratitude, especially when it is committed against
parents, and appears in the more flagrant instances of wounds and
death. This is acknowledged by all mankind, philosophers as well as
the people; the question only arises among philosophers, whether the
guilt or moral deformity of this action be discovered by demonstrative
reasoning, or be felt by an internal sense, and by means of some
sentiment, which the reflecting on such an action naturally occasions.
This question will soon be decided against the former opinion, if we
can show the same relations in other objects, without the notion of
any guilt or iniquity attending them. Reason or science is nothing but
the comparing of ideas, and the discovery of their relations; and if
the same relations have different characters, it must evidently follow,
that those characters are not discovered merely by reason. To put the
affair, therefore, to this trial, let us choose any inanimate object,
such as an oak or elm; and let us suppose, that, by the dropping of
its seed, it produces a sapling below it, which, springing up by
degrees, at last overtops and destroys the parent tree: I ask, if, in
this instance, there be wanting any relation which is discoverable
in parricide or ingratitude? Is not the one tree the cause of the
other's existence; and the latter the cause of the destruction of the
former, in the same manner as when a child murders his parent? 'Tis
not sufficient to reply, that a choice or will is wanting. For in
the case of parricide, a will does not give rise to any _different_
relations, but is only the cause from which the action is derived; and
consequently produces the _same_ relations, that in the oak or elm
arise from some other principles. 'Tis a will or choice that determines
a man to kill his parent: and they are the laws of matter and motion,
that determine a sapling to destroy the oak from which it sprung. Here
then the same relations have different causes; but still the relations
are the same: and as their discovery is not in both cases attended with
a notion of immorality, it follows, that that notion does not arise
from such a discovery.
But to choose an instance still more resembling; I would fain ask any
one, why incest in the human species is criminal, and why the very
same action, and the same relations in animals, have not the smallest
moral turpitude and deformity? If it be answered, that this action
is innocent in animals, because they have not reason sufficient to
discover its turpitude; but that man, being endowed with that faculty,
which _ought_ to restrain him to his duty, the same action instantly
becomes criminal to him. Should this be said, I would reply, that this
is evidently arguing in a circle. For, before reason can perceive this
turpitude, the turpitude must exist; and consequently is independent
of the decisions of our reason, and is their object more properly than
their effect. According to this system, then, every animal that has
sense and appetite and will, that is, every animal must be susceptible
of all the same virtues and vices, for which we ascribe praise and
blame to human creatures. All the difference is, that our superior
reason may serve to discover the vice or virtue, and by that means
may augment the blame or praise: but still this discovery supposes
a separate being in these moral distinctions, and a being which
depends only on the will and appetite, and which, both in thought and
reality, may be distinguished from reason. Animals are susceptible of
the same relations with respect to each other as the human species,
and therefore would also be susceptible of the same morality, if the
essence of morality consisted in these relations. Their want of a
sufficient degree of reason may hinder them from perceiving the duties
and obligations of morality, but can never hinder these duties from
existing; since they must antecedently exist, in order to their being
perceived. Reason must find them, and can never produce them. This
argument deserves to be weighed, as being, in my opinion, entirely
decisive.
Nor does this reasoning only prove, that morality consists not in any
relations that are the objects of science; but if examined, will prove
with equal certainty, that it consists not in any _matter of fact_,
which can be discovered by the understanding. This is the _second_ part
of our argument; and if it can be made evident, we may conclude, that
morality is not an object of reason. But can there be any difficulty in
proving, that vice and virtue are not matters of fact, whose existence
we can infer by reason? Take any action allowed to be vicious; wilful
murder, for instance. Examine it in all lights, and see if you can
find that matter of fact, or real existence, which you call _vice_. In
whichever way you take it, you find only certain passions, motives,
volitions and thoughts. There is no other matter of fact in the case.
The vice entirely escapes you, as long as you consider the object.
You never can find it, till you turn your reflection into your own
breast, and find a sentiment of disapprobation, which arises in you,
towards this action. Here is a matter of fact; but 'tis the object of
feeling, not of reason. It lies in yourself, not in the object. So
that when you pronounce any action or character to be vicious, you
mean nothing, but that from the constitution of your nature you have a
feeling or sentiment of blame from the contemplation of it. Vice and
virtue, therefore, may be compared to sounds, colours, heat and cold,
which, according to modern philosophy, are not qualities in objects,
but perceptions in the mind: and this discovery in morals, like that
other in physics, is to be regarded as a considerable advancement of
the speculative sciences; though, like that too, it has little or no
influence on practice. Nothing can be more real, or concern us more,
than our own sentiments of pleasure and uneasiness; and if these
be favourable to virtue, and unfavourable to vice, no more can be
requisite to the regulation of our conduct and behaviour.
I cannot forbear adding to these reasonings an observation, which may,
perhaps, be found of some importance. In every system of morality
which I have hitherto met with, I have always remarked, that the
author proceeds for some time in the ordinary way of reasoning, and
establishes the being of a God, or makes observations concerning human
affairs; when of a sudden I am surprised to find, that instead of the
usual copulations of propositions, _is_, and _is not_, I meet with no
proposition that is not connected with an _ought_, or an _ought not_.
This change is imperceptible; but is, however, of the last consequence.
For as this _ought_, or _ought not_, expresses some new relation or
affirmation, 'tis necessary that it should be observed and explained;
and at the same time that a reason should be given, for what seems
altogether inconceivable, how this new relation can be a deduction from
others, which are entirely different from it. But as authors do not
commonly use this precaution, I shall presume to recommend it to the
readers; and am persuaded, that this small attention would subvert all
the vulgar systems of morality, and let us see, that the distinction of
vice and virtue is not founded merely on the relations of objects, nor
is perceived by reason.
[1] Book II. Part III. Sect. 3
[2] One might think it were entirely superfluous to prove this, if a
late author, who has had the good fortune to obtain some reputation,
had not seriously affirmed, that such a falsehood is the foundation of
all guilt and moral deformity. That we may discover the fallacy of his
hypothesis, we need only consider, that a false conclusion is drawn
from an action, only by means of an obscurity of natural principles,
which makes a cause be secretly interrupted in its operation, by
contrary causes, and renders the connexion betwixt two objects
uncertain and variable. Now, as a like uncertainty and variety of
causes take place, even in natural objects, and produce a like error in
our judgment, if that tendency to produce error were the very essence
of vice and immorality, it should follow, that even inanimate objects
might be vicious and immoral.
'Tis in vain to urge, that inanimate objects act without liberty and
choice. For as liberty and choice are not necessary to make an action
produce in us an erroneous conclusion, they can be, in no respect,
essential to morality; and I do not readily perceive, upon this system,
how they can ever come to be regarded by it. If the tendency to cause
error be the origin of immorality, that tendency and immorality would
in every case be inseparable.
Add to this, that if I had used the precaution of shutting the windows,
while I indulged myself in those liberties with my neighbour's wife, I
should have been guilty of no immorality; and that because my action,
being perfectly concealed, would have had no tendency to produce any
false conclusion.
For the same reason, a thief, who steals in by a ladder at a window,
and takes all imaginable care to cause no disturbance, is in no
respect criminal. For either he will not be perceived, or if he be,
'tis impossible he can produce any error, nor will any one, from these
circumstances, take him to be other than what he really is.
'Tis well known, that those who are squint-sighted do very readily
cause mistakes in others, and that we imagine they salute or are
talking to one person, while they address themselves to another. Are
they, therefore, upon that account, immoral?
Besides, we may easily observe, that in all those arguments there is
an evident reasoning in a circle. A person who takes possession of
_another's_ goods, and uses them as his _own_, in a manner declares
them to be his own; and this falsehood is the source of the immorality
of injustice. But is property, or right, or obligation, intelligible
without an antecedent morality?
A man that is ungrateful to his benefactor, in a manner affirms that
he never received any favours from him. But in what manner? Is it
because 'tis his duty to be grateful? But this supposes that there is
some antecedent rule of duty and morals. Is it because human nature is
generally grateful, and makes us conclude that a man who does any harm,
never received any favour from the person he harmed? But human nature
is not so generally grateful as to justify such a conclusion; or, if it
were, is an exception to a general rule in every case criminal, for no
other reason than because it is an exception?
But what may suffice entirely to destroy this whimsical system is,
that it leaves us under the same difficulty to give a reason why truth
is virtuous and falsehood vicious, as to account for the merit or
turpitude of any other action. I shall allow, if you please, that all
immorality is derived from this supposed falsehood in action, provided
you can give me any plausible reason why such a falsehood is immoral.
If you consider rightly of the matter, you will find yourself in the
same difficulty as at the beginning.
This last argument is very conclusive; because, if there be not
an evident merit or turpitude annexed to this species of truth or
falsehood, it can never have any influence upon our actions. For who
ever thought of forbearing any action, because others might possibly
draw false conclusions from it? Or who ever performed any, that he
might give rise to true conclusions?
[3] As a proof how confused our way of thinking on this subject
commonly is, we may observe, that those who assert that morality is
demonstrable, do not say that morality lies in the relations, and
that the relations are distinguishable by reason. They only say, that
reason can discover such an action, in such relations, to be virtuous,
and such another vicious. It seems they thought it sufficient if they
could bring the word Relation into the proposition, without troubling
themselves whether it was to the purpose or not. But here, I think, is
plain argument. Demonstrative reason discovers only relations. But that
reason, according to this hypothesis, discovers also vice and virtue.
These moral qualities, therefore, must be relations. When we blame any
action, in any situation, the whole complicated object of action and
situation must form certain relations, wherein the essence of vice
consists. This hypothesis is not otherwise intelligible. For what
does reason discover, when it pronounces any action vicious? Does it
discover a relation or a matter of fact? These questions are decisive,
and must not be eluded.
SECTION II.
MORAL DISTINCTIONS DERIVED FROM A MORAL SENSE.
Thus the course of the argument leads us to conclude, that since vice
and virtue are not discoverable merely by reason, or the comparison
of ideas, it must be by means of some impression or sentiment they
occasion, that we are able to mark the difference betwixt them. Our
decisions concerning moral rectitude and depravity are evidently
perceptions; and as all perceptions are either impressions or ideas,
the exclusion of the one is a convincing argument for the other.
Morality, therefore, is more properly felt than judged of; though this
feeling or sentiment is commonly so soft and gentle that we are apt to
confound it with an idea, according to our common custom of taking all
things for the same which have any near resemblance to each other.
The next question is, of what nature are these impressions, and after
what manner do they operate upon us? Here we cannot remain long in
suspense, but must pronounce the impression arising from virtue to be
agreeable, and that proceeding from vice to be uneasy. Every moment's
experience must convince us of this. There is no spectacle so fair and
beautiful as a noble and generous action; nor any which gives us more
abhorrence than one that is cruel and treacherous. No enjoyment equals
the satisfaction we receive from the company of those we love and
esteem; as the greatest of all punishments is to be obliged to pass our
lives with those we hate or contemn. A very play or romance may afford
us instances of this pleasure which virtue conveys to us; and pain,
which arises from vice.
Now, since the distinguishing impressions by which moral good or evil
is known, are nothing but _particular_ pains or pleasures, it follows,
that in all inquiries concerning these moral distinctions, it will be
sufficient to show the principles which make us feel a satisfaction or
uneasiness from the survey of any character, in order to satisfy us
why the character is laudable or blameable. An action, or sentiment,
or character, is virtuous or vicious; why? because its view causes
a pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind. In giving a reason,
therefore, for the pleasure or uneasiness, we sufficiently explain
the vice or virtue. To have the sense of virtue, is nothing but to
_feel_ a satisfaction of a particular kind from the contemplation of a
character. The very _feeling_ constitutes our praise or admiration. We
go no farther; nor do we inquire into the cause of the satisfaction.
We do not infer a character to be virtuous, because it pleases; but in
feeling that it pleases after such a particular manner, we in effect
feel that it is virtuous. The case is the same as in our judgments
concerning all kinds of beauty, and tastes, and sensations. Our
approbation is implied in the immediate pleasure they convey to us.
I have objected to the system which establishes eternal rational
measures of right and wrong, that 'tis impossible to show, in the
actions of reasonable creatures, any relations which are not found in
external objects; and therefore, if morality always attended these
relations, 'twere possible for inanimate matter to become virtuous
or vicious. Now it may, in like manner, be objected to the present
system, that if virtue and vice be determined by pleasure and pain,
these qualities must, in every case, arise from the sensations; and
consequently any object, whether animate or inanimate, rational or
irrational, might become morally good or evil, provided it can excite a
satisfaction or uneasiness. But though this objection seems to be the
very same, it has by no means the same force in the one case as in the
other. For, _first_, 'tis evident that, under the term _pleasure_, we
comprehend sensations, which are very different from each other, and
which have only such a distant resemblance as is requisite to, make
them be expressed by the same abstract term. A good composition of
music and a bottle of good wine equally produce pleasure; and, what is
more, their goodness is determined merely by the pleasure. But shall we
say, upon that account, that the wine is harmonious, or the music of a
good flavour? In like manner, an inanimate object, and the character
or sentiments of any person, may, both of them, give satisfaction;
but, as the satisfaction is different, this keeps our sentiments
concerning them from being confounded, and makes us ascribe virtue to
the one and not to the other. Nor is every sentiment of pleasure or
pain which arises from characters and actions, of that _peculiar_ kind
which makes us praise or condemn. The good qualities of an enemy are
hurtful to us, but may, still command our esteem and respect. 'Tis
only when a character is considered in general, without reference to
our particular interest, that it causes such a feeling or sentiment as
denominates it morally good or evil. 'Tis true, those sentiments from
interest and morals are apt to be confounded, and naturally run into
one another. It seldom happens that we do not think an enemy vicious,
and can distinguish betwixt his opposition to our interest and real
villany or baseness. But this hinders not but that the sentiments are
in themselves distinct; and a man of temper and judgment may preserve
himself from these illusions. In like manner, though 'tis certain a
musical voice is nothing but one that naturally gives a _particular_
kind of pleasure; yet 'tis difficult for a man to be sensible that the
voice of an enemy is agreeable, or to allow it to be musical. But a
person of a fine ear, who has the command of himself, can separate
these feelings, and give praise to what deserves it.
_Secondly_, we may call to remembrance the preceding system of the
passions, in order to remark a still more considerable difference
among our pains and pleasures. Pride and humility, love and hatred,
are excited, when there is any thing presented to us that both bears
a relation to the object of the passion, and produces a separate
sensation, related to the sensation of the passion. Now, virtue and
vice are attended with these circumstances. They must necessarily be
placed either in ourselves or others, and excite either pleasure or
uneasiness; and therefore must give rise to one of these four passions,
which clearly distinguishes them from the pleasure and pain arising
from inanimate objects, that often bear no relation to us; and this is,
perhaps, the most considerable effect that virtue and vice have upon
the human mind.
It may now be asked, _in general_ concerning this pain or pleasure that
distinguishes moral good and evil, _From what principle is it derived,
and whence does it arise in the human mind_? To this I reply, _first_,
that 'tis absurd to imagine that, in every particular instance,
these sentiments are produced by an _original_ quality and _primary_
constitution. For as the number of our duties is in a manner infinite,
'tis impossible that our original instincts should extend to each of
them, and from our very first infancy impress on the human mind all
that multitude of precepts which are contained in the completest system
of ethics. Such a method of proceeding is not conformable to the usual
maxims by which nature is conducted, where a few principles produce all
that variety we observe in the universe, and every thing is carried on
in the easiest and most simple manner. 'Tis necessary, therefore, to
abridge these primary impulses, and find some more general principles
upon which all our notions of morals are founded.
But, in the _second_ place, should it be asked, whether we ought to
search for these principles in _nature_, or whether we must look for
them in some other origin? I would reply, that our answer to this
question depends upon the definition of the word Nature, than which
there is none more ambiguous and equivocal. If _nature_ be opposed to
miracles, not only the distinction betwixt vice and virtue is natural,
but also every event which has ever happened in the world, _excepting
those miracles on which our religion is founded_. In saying, then, that
the sentiments of vice and virtue are natural in this sense, we make no
very extraordinary discovery.
But _nature_ may also be opposed to rare and unusual; and in this sense
of the word, which is the common one, there may often arise disputes
concerning what is natural or unnatural; and one may in general affirm,
that we are not possessed of any very precise standard by which these
disputes can be decided. Frequent and rare depend upon the number of
examples we have observed; and as this number may gradually increase
or diminish, 'twill be impossible to fix any exact boundaries betwixt
them. We may only affirm on this head, that if ever there was any thing
which could be called natural in this sense, the sentiments of morality
certainly may; since there never was any nation of the world, nor any
single person in any nation, who was utterly deprived of them, and
who never, in any instance, showed the least approbation or dislike
of manners. These sentiments are so rooted in our constitution and
temper, that, without entirely confounding the human mind by disease or
madness, 'tis impossible to extirpate and destroy them.
But _nature_ may also be opposed to artifice, as well as to what is
rare and unusual; and in this sense it may be disputed, whether the
notions of virtue be natural or not. We readily forget, that the
designs and projects and views of men are principles as necessary in
their operation as heat and cold, moist and dry; but, taking them to be
free and entirely our own, 'tis usual for us to set them in opposition
to the other principles of nature. Should it therefore be demanded,
whether the sense of virtue be natural or artificial, I am of opinion
that 'tis impossible for me at present to give any precise answer to
this question. Perhaps it will appear afterwards that our sense of some
virtues is artificial, and that of others natural. The discussion of
this question will be more proper, when we enter upon an exact detail
of each particular vice and virtue.[4]
Mean while, it may not be amiss to observe, from these definitions of
_natural_ and _unnatural_, that nothing can be more unphilosophical
than those systems which assert, that virtue is the same with what
is natural, and vice with what is unnatural. For, in the first sense
of the word, nature, as opposed to miracles, both vice and virtue
are equally natural; and, in the second sense, as opposed to what is
unusual, perhaps virtue will be found to be the most unnatural. At
least it must be owned, that heroic virtue, being as unusual, is as
little natural as the most brutal barbarity. As to the third sense of
the word, 'tis certain that both vice and virtue are equally artificial
and out of nature. For, however it may be disputed, whether the notion
of a merit or demerit in certain actions, be natural or artificial,
'tis evident that the actions themselves are artificial, and are
performed with a certain design and intention; otherwise they could
never be ranked under any of these denominations. 'Tis impossible,
therefore, that the character of natural and unnatural can ever, in any
sense, mark the boundaries of vice and virtue.
Thus we are still brought back to our first position, that virtue is
distinguished by the pleasure, and vice by the pain, that any action,
sentiment, or character, gives us by the mere view and contemplation.
This decision is very commodious; because it reduces us to, this
simple question, _Why any action or sentiment, upon the general view
or survey, gives a certain satisfaction or uneasiness_, in order to
show the origin of its moral rectitude or depravity, without looking
for any incomprehensible relations and qualities, which never did exist
in nature, nor even in our imagination, by any clear and distinct
conception? I flatter myself I have executed a great part of my present
design by a state of the question, which appears to me so free from
ambiguity and obscurity.
[4] In the following discourse, _natural_ is also opposed sometimes to
_civil_, sometimes to _moral_. The opposition will always discover the
sense in which it is taken.
PART II.
OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE.
SECTION I.
JUSTICE, WHETHER A NATURAL OR ARTIFICIAL VIRTUE?
I have already hinted, that our sense of every kind of virtue is not
natural; but that there are some virtues that produce pleasure and
approbation by means of an artifice or contrivance, which arises from
the circumstances and necessity of mankind. Of this kind I assert
_justice_ to be; and shall endeavour to defend this opinion by a short,
and, I hope, convincing argument, before I examine the nature of the
artifice, from which the sense of that virtue is derived.
'Tis evident that, when we praise any actions, we regard only the
motives that produced them, and consider the actions as signs or
indications of certain principles in the mind and temper. The external
performance has no merit. We must look within to find the moral
quality. This we cannot do directly; and therefore fix our attention on
actions, as on external signs. But these actions are still considered
as signs; and the ultimate object of our praise and approbation is the
motive that produced them.
After the same manner, when we require any action, or blame a person
for not performing it, we always suppose that one in that situation
should be influenced by the proper motive of that action, and we
esteem it vicious in him to be regardless of it. If we find, upon
inquiry, that the virtuous motive was still powerful over his breast,
though checked in its operation by some circumstances unknown to us,
we retract our blame, and have the same esteem for him, as if he had
actually performed the action which we require of him.
It appears, therefore, that all virtuous actions derive their merit
only from virtuous motives, and are considered merely as signs of
those motives. From this principle I conclude, that the first virtuous
motive which bestows a merit on any action, can never be a regard
to the virtue of that action, but must be some other natural motive
or principle. To suppose, that the mere regard to the virtue of the
action, may be the first motive which produced the action, and rendered
it virtuous, is to reason in a circle. Before we can have such a
regard, the action must be really virtuous; and this virtue must be
derived from some virtuous motive: and consequently, the virtuous
motive must be different from the regard to the virtue of the action.
A virtuous motive is requisite to render an action virtuous. An action
must be virtuous before we can have a regard to its virtue. Some
virtuous motive, therefore, must be antecedent to that regard.
Nor is this merely a metaphysical subtilty; but enters into all our
reasonings in common life, though perhaps we may not be able to
place it in such distinct philosophical terms. We blame a father
for neglecting his child. Why? because it shows a want of natural
affection, which is the duty of every parent. Were not natural
affection a duty, the care of children could not be a duty; and 'twere
impossible we could have the duty in our eye in the attention we give
to our offspring. In this case, therefore, all men suppose a motive to
the action distinct from a sense of duty.
Here is a man that does many benevolent actions; relieves the
distressed, comforts the afflicted, and extends his bounty even to the
greatest strangers. No character can be more amiable and virtuous. We
regard these actions as proofs of the greatest humanity. This humanity
bestows a merit on the actions. A regard to this merit is, therefore, a
secondary consideration, and derived from the antecedent principles of
humanity, which is meritorious and laudable.
In short, it may be established as an undoubted maxim, _that no action
can be virtuous, or morally good, unless there be in human nature some
motive to produce it distinct from the sense of its morality_.
But may not the sense of morality or duty produce an action, without
any other motive? I answer, it may; but this is no objection to the
present doctrine. When any virtuous motive or principle is common in
human nature, a person who feels his heart devoid of that motive, may
hate himself upon that account, and may perform the action without the
motive, from a certain sense of duty, in order to acquire, by practice,
that virtuous principle, or at least to disguise to himself, as much
as possible, his want of it. A man that really feels no gratitude in
his temper, is still pleased to perform grateful actions, and thinks
he has, by that means, fulfilled his duty. Actions are at first only
considered as signs of motives: but 'tis usual, in this case, as in
all others, to fix our attention on the signs, and neglect, in some
measure, the thing signified. But though, on some occasions, a person
may perform an action merely out of regard to its moral obligation, yet
still this supposes in human nature some distinct principles, which are
capable of producing the action, and whose moral beauty renders the
action meritorious.
Now, to apply all this to the present case; I suppose a person to have
lent me a sum of money, on condition that it be restored in a few days;
and also suppose, that after the expiration of the term agreed on,
he demands the sum: I ask, _What reason or motive have I to restore
the money_? It will perhaps be said, that my regard to justice, and
abhorrence of villany and knavery, are sufficient reasons for me, if
I have the least grain of honesty, or sense of duty and obligation.
And this answer, no doubt, is just and satisfactory to man in his
civilized state, and when trained up according to a certain discipline
and education. But in his rude and more natural condition, if you are
pleased to call such a condition natural, this answer would be rejected
as perfectly unintelligible and sophistical. For one in that situation
would immediately ask you, _Wherein consists this honesty and justice,
which you find in restoring a loan, and abstaining from the property
of others_? It does not surely lie in the external action. It must,
therefore, be placed in the motive from which the external action
is derived. This motive can never be a regard to the honesty of the
action. For 'tis a plain fallacy to say, that a virtuous motive is
requisite to render an action honest, and, at the same time, that a
regard to the honesty is the motive of the action. We can never have a
regard to the virtue of an action, unless the action be antecedently
virtuous. No action can be virtuous, but so far as it proceeds from a
virtuous motive. A virtuous motive, therefore, must precede the regard
to the virtue; and 'tis impossible that the virtuous motive and the
regard to the virtue can be the same.
'Tis requisite, then, to find some motive to acts of justice and
honesty, distinct from our regard to the honesty; and in this lies the
great difficulty. For should we say, that a concern for our private
interest or reputation, is the legitimate motive to all honest actions:
it would follow, that wherever that concern ceases, honesty can no
longer have place. But 'tis certain that self-love, when it acts at its
liberty, instead of engaging us to honest actions, is the source of all
injustice and violence; nor can a man ever correct those vices, without
correcting and restraining the _natural_ movements of that appetite.
But should it be affirmed, that the reason or motive of such actions
is the _regard to public interest_, to which nothing is more contrary
than examples of injustice and dishonesty; should this be said, I
would propose the three following considerations as worthy of our
attention. _First_, Public interest is not naturally attached to the
observation of the rules of justice; but is only connected with it,
after an artificial convention for the establishment of these rules,
as shall be shown more at large hereafter. _Secondly_, If we suppose
that the loan was secret, and that it is necessary for the interest
of the person, that the money be restored in the same manner (as when
the lender would conceal his riches), in that case the example ceases,
and the public is no longer interested in the actions of the borrower;
though I suppose there is no moralist who will affirm that the duty
and obligation ceases. _Thirdly_, Experience sufficiently proves that
men, in the ordinary conduct of life, look not so far as the public
interest, when they pay their creditors, perform their promises, and
abstain from theft, and robbery, and injustice of every kind. That is a
motive too remote and too sublime to affect the generality of mankind,
and operate with any force in actions so contrary to private interest
as are frequently those of justice and common honesty.
In general, it may be affirmed, that there is no such passion in
human minds as the love of mankind, merely as such, independent of
personal qualities, of services, or of relation to ourself. 'Tis true,
there is no human, and indeed no sensible creature, whose happiness
or misery does not, in some measure, affect us, when brought near
us, and represented in lively colours: but this proceeds merely from
sympathy, and is no proof of such an universal affection to mankind,
since this concern extends itself beyond our own species. An affection
betwixt the sexes is a passion evidently implanted in human nature; and
this passion not only appears in its peculiar symptoms, but also in
inflaming every other principle of affection, and raising a stronger
love from beauty, wit, kindness, than what would otherwise flow from
them. Were there an universal love among all human creatures, it would
appear after the same manner. Any degree of a good quality would cause
a stronger affection than the same degree of a bad quality would cause
hatred; contrary to what we find by experience. Men's tempers are
different, and some have a propensity to the tender, and others to
the rougher affections: but in the main, we may affirm, that man in
general, or human nature, is nothing but the object both of love and
hatred, and requires some other cause, which, by a double relation
of impressions and ideas, may excite these passions. In vain would
we endeavour to elude this hypothesis. There are no phenomena that
point out any such kind affection to men, independent of their merit,
and every other circumstance. We love company in general; but 'tis as
we love any other amusement. An Englishman in Italy is a friend; a
European in China; and perhaps a man would be beloved as such, were we
to meet him in the moon. But this proceeds only from the relation to
ourselves; which in these cases gathers force by being confined to a
few persons.
If public benevolence, therefore, or a regard to the interests of
mankind, cannot be the original motive to justice, much less can
_private benevolence_, or a _regard to the interests of the party
concerned_, be this motive. For what if he be my enemy, and has given
me just cause to hate him? What if he be a vicious man, and deserves
the hatred of all mankind? What if he be a miser, and can make no use
of what I would deprive him of? What if he be a profligate debauchee,
and would rather receive harm than benefit from large possessions? What
if I be in necessity, and have urgent motives to acquire something to
my family? In all these cases, the original motive to justice would
fail; and consequently the justice itself, and along with it all
property, right, and obligation.
A rich man lies under a moral obligation to communicate to those in
necessity a share of his superfluities. Were private benevolence the
original motive to justice, a man would not be obliged to leave others
in the possession of more than he is obliged to give them. At least,
the difference would be very inconsiderable. Men generally fix their
affections more on what they are possessed of, than on what they never
enjoyed: for this reason, it would be greater cruelty to dispossess a
man of any thing, than not to give it him. But who will assert, that
this is the only foundation of justice?
Besides, we must consider, that the chief reason why men attach
themselves so much to their possessions, is, that they consider them
as their property, and as secured to them inviolably by the laws of
society. But this is a secondary consideration, and dependent on the
preceding notions of justice and property.
A man's property is supposed to be fenced against every mortal, in
every possible case. But private benevolence is, and ought to be,
weaker in some persons than in others; and in many, or indeed in most
persons, must absolutely fail. Private benevolence, therefore, is not
the original motive of justice.
From all this it follows, that we have no real or universal motive for
observing the laws of equity, but the very equity and merit of that
observance; and as no action can be equitable or meritorious, where
it cannot arise from some separate motive, there is here an evident
sophistry and reasoning in a circle. Unless, therefore, we will allow
that nature has established a sophistry, and rendered it necessary and
unavoidable, we must allow, that the sense of justice and injustice is
not derived from nature, but arises artificially, though necessarily,
from education, and human conventions.
I shall add, as a corollary to this reasoning, that since no action can
be laudable or blameable, without some motives or impelling passions,
distinct from the sense of morals, these distinct passions must have a
great influence on that sense. 'Tis according to their general force
in human nature that we blame or praise. In judging of the beauty of
animal bodies, we always carry in our eye the economy of a certain
species; and where the limbs and features observe that proportion which
is common to the species, we pronounce them handsome and beautiful.
In like manner, we always consider the _natural_ and _usual_ force of
the passions, when we determine concerning vice and virtue; and if the
passions depart very much from the common measures on either side, they
are always disapproved as vicious. A man naturally loves his children
better than his nephews, his nephews better than his cousins, his
cousins better than strangers, where every thing else is equal. Hence
arise our common measures of duty, in preferring the one to the other.
Our sense of duty always follows the common and natural course of our
passions.
To avoid giving offence, I must here observe, that when I deny justice
to be a natural virtue, I make use of the word _natural_, only as
opposed to _artificial_. In another sense of the word, as no principle
of the human mind is more natural than a sense of virtue, so no virtue
is more natural than justice. Mankind is an inventive species; and
where an invention is obvious and absolutely necessary, it may as
properly be said to be natural as any thing that proceeds immediately
from original principles, without the intervention of thought or
reflection. Though the rules of justice be _artificial_, they are not
_arbitrary_. Nor is the expression improper to call them _Laws of
Nature_; if by natural we understand what is common to any species, or
even if we confine it to mean what is inseparable from the species.