OF CHASTITY AND MODESTY.
If any difficulty attend this system concerning the laws of nature and
nations, 'twill be with regard to the universal approbation or blame
which follows their observance or transgression, and which some may not
think sufficiently explained from the general interests of society.
To remove, as far as possible, all scruples of this kind, I shall
here consider another set of duties, viz. the _modesty_ and _chastity_
which belong to the fair sex: and I doubt not but these virtues will be
found to be still more conspicuous instances of the operation of those
principles which I have insisted on.
There are some philosophers who attack the female virtues with great
vehemence, and fancy they have gone very far in detecting popular
errors, when they can show, that there is no foundation in nature for
all that exterior modesty which we require in the expressions, and
dress, and behaviour of the fair sex. I believe I may spare myself the
trouble of insisting on so obvious a subject, and may proceed, without
farther preparation, to examine after what manner such notions arise
from education, from the voluntary conventions of men, and from the
interest of society.
Whoever considers the length and feebleness of human infancy, with
the concern which both sexes naturally have for their offspring, will
easily perceive, that there must be an union of male and female for the
education of the young, and that this union must be of considerable
duration. But, in order to induce the men to impose on themselves this
restraint, and undergo cheerfully all the fatigues and expenses to
which it subjects them, they must believe that their children are their
own, and that their natural instinct is not directed to a wrong object,
when they give a loose to love and tenderness. Now, if we examine the
structure of the human body, we shall find, that this security is very
difficult to be attained on our part; and that since, in the copulation
of the sexes, the principle of generation goes from the man to the
woman, an error may easily take place on the side of the former, though
it be utterly impossible with regard to the latter. From this trivial
and anatomical observation is derived that vast difference betwixt the
education and duties of the two sexes.
Were a philosopher to examine the matter a _priori_, he would reason
after the following manner. Men are induced to labour for the
maintenance and education of their children, by the persuasion that
they are really their own; and therefore 'tis reasonable, and even
necessary, to give them some security in this particular. This security
cannot consist entirely in the imposing of severe punishments on any
transgressions of conjugal fidelity on the part of the wife; since
these public punishments cannot be inflicted without legal proof, which
'tis difficult to meet with in this subject. What restraint, therefore,
shall we impose on women, in order to counterbalance so strong a
temptation as they have to infidelity? There seems to be no restraint
possible, but in the punishment of bad fame or reputation; a punishment
which has a mighty influence on the human mind, and at the same time
is inflicted by the world upon surmises and conjectures, and proofs
that would never be received in any court of judicature. In order,
therefore, to impose a due restraint on the female sex, we must attach
a peculiar degree of shame to their infidelity, above what arises
merely from its injustice, and must bestow proportionable praises on
their chastity.
But though this be a very strong motive to fidelity, our philosopher
would quickly discover that it would not alone be sufficient to that
purpose. All human creatures, especially of the female sex, are apt
to overlook remote motives in favour of any present temptation: the
temptation is here the strongest imaginable; its approaches are
insensible and seducing; and a woman easily finds, or flatters
herself she shall find, certain means of securing her reputation, and
preventing all the pernicious consequences of her pleasures. 'Tis
necessary, therefore, that, beside the infamy attending such licenses,
there should be some preceding backwardness or dread, which may prevent
their first approaches, and may give the female sex a repugnance to
all expressions, and postures, and liberties, that have an immediate
relation to that enjoyment.
Such would be the reasonings of our speculative philosopher; but I am
persuaded that, if he had not a perfect knowledge of human nature, he
would be apt to regard them as mere chimerical speculations, and would
consider the infamy attending infidelity, and backwardness to all its
approaches, as principles that were rather to be wished than hoped
for in the world. For what means, would he say, of persuading mankind
that the transgressions of conjugal duty are more infamous than any
other kind of injustice, when 'tis evident they are more excusable,
upon account of the greatness of the temptation? And what possibility
of giving a backwardness to the approaches of a pleasure to which
nature has inspired so strong a propensity, and a propensity that 'tis
absolutely necessary in the end to comply with, for the support of the
species?
But speculative reasonings, which cost so much pains to philosophers,
are often formed by the world naturally, and without reflection; as
difficulties which seem unsurmountable in theory, are easily got over
in practice. Those who have an interest in the fidelity of women,
naturally disapprove of their infidelity, and all the approaches to it.
Those who have no interest are carried along with the stream. Education
takes possession of the ductile minds of the fair sex in their
infancy. And when a general rule of this kind is once established,
men are apt to extend it beyond those principles from which it first
arose. Thus, bachelors, however debauched, cannot choose but be shocked
with any instance of lewdness or impudence in woman. And though all
these maxims have a plain reference to generation, yet women past
child-bearing have no more privilege in this respect than those who
are in the flower of their youth and beauty. Men have undoubtedly an
implicit notion, that all those ideas of modesty and decency have a
regard to generation; since they impose not the same laws, _with the
same force_, on the male sex, where that reason takes not place. The
exception is there obvious and extensive, and founded on a remarkable
difference, which produces a clear separation and disjunction of ideas.
But as the case is not the same with regard to the different ages of
women, for this reason, though men know that these notions are founded
on the public interest, yet the general rule carries us beyond the
original principle, and makes us extend the notions of modesty over the
whole sex, from their earliest infancy to their extremest old age and
infirmity.
Courage, which is the point of honour among men, derives its merit in a
great measure from artifice, as well as the chastity of women; though
it has also some foundation in nature, as we shall see afterwards.
As to the obligations which the male sex lie under with regard to
chastity, we may observe that, according to the general notions of
the world, they bear nearly the same proportion to the obligations of
women, as the obligations of the law of nations do to those of the
law of nature. 'Tis contrary to the interest of civil society, that
men should have an _entire_ liberty of indulging their appetites
in venereal enjoyment; but as this interest is weaker than in the
case of the female sex, the moral obligation arising from it must be
proportionably weaker. And to prove this we need only appeal to the
practice and sentiments of all nations and ages.
PART III.
OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES.
SECTION I.
OF THE ORIGIN OF THE NATURAL VIRTUES AND VICES.
We come now to the examination of such virtues and vices as are
entirely natural, and have no dependence on the artifice and
contrivance of men. The examination of these will conclude this system
of morals.
The chief spring or actuating principle of the human mind is pleasure
or pain; and when these sensations are removed, both from our thought
and feeling, we are in a great measure incapable of passion or action,
of desire or volition. The most immediate effects of pleasure and pain
are the propense and averse motions of the mind; which are diversified
into volition, into desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear,
according as the pleasure or pain changes its situation, and becomes
probable or improbable, certain or uncertain, or is considered as out
of our power for the present moment. But when, along with this, the
objects that cause pleasure or pain acquire a relation to ourselves or
others, they still continue to excite desire and aversion, grief and
joy; but cause, at the same time, the indirect passions of pride or
humility, love or hatred, which in this case have a double relation of
impressions and ideas to the pain or pleasure.
We have already observed, that moral distinctions depend entirely on
certain peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure, and that whatever
mental quality in ourselves or others gives us a satisfaction, by the
survey or reflection, is of course virtuous; as every thing of this
nature that gives uneasiness is vicious. Now, since every quality
in ourselves or others which gives pleasure, always causes pride
or love, as every one that produces uneasiness excites humility or
hatred, it follows, that these two particulars are to be considered
as equivalent, with regard to our mental qualities, _virtue_ and the
power of producing love or pride, _vice_ and the power of producing
humility or hatred. In every case, therefore, we must judge of the one
by the other, and may pronounce any _quality_ of the mind virtuous
which causes love or pride, and any one vicious which causes hatred or
humility.
If any _action_ be either virtuous or vicious, 'tis only as a sign
of some quality or character. It must depend upon durable principles
of the mind, which extend over the whole conduct, and enter into
the personal character. Actions themselves, not proceeding from any
constant principle, have no influence on love or hatred, pride or
humility; and consequently are never considered in morality.
This reflection is self-evident, and deserves to be attended to, as
being of the utmost importance in the present subject. We are never
to consider any single action in our inquiries concerning the origin
of morals, but only the quality or character from which the action
proceeded. These alone are _durable_ enough to affect our sentiments
concerning the person. Actions are indeed better indications of a
character than words, or even wishes and sentiments; but 'tis only so
far as they are such indications, that they are attended with love or
hatred, praise or blame.
To discover the true origin of morals, and of that love or hatred which
arises from mental qualities, we must take the matter pretty deep, and
compare some principles which have been already examined and explained.
We may begin with considering anew the nature and force of _sympathy_.
The minds of all men are similar in their feelings and operations; nor
can any one be actuated by any affection of which all others are not
in some degree susceptible. As in strings equally wound up, the motion
of one communicates itself to the rest, so all the affections readily
pass from one person to another, and beget correspondent movements
in every human creature. When I see the _effects_ of passion in the
voice and gesture of any person, my mind immediately passes from these
effects to their causes, and forms such a lively idea of the passion as
is presently converted into the passion itself. In like manner, when I
perceive the causes of any emotion, my mind is conveyed to the effects,
and is actuated with a like emotion. Were I present at any of the more
terrible operations of surgery, 'tis certain that, even before it
begun, the preparation of the instruments, the laying of the bandages
in order, the heating of the irons, with all the signs of anxiety and
concern in the patient and assistants, would have a great effect upon
my mind, and excite the strongest sentiments of pity and terror. No
passion of another discovers itself immediately to the mind. We are
only sensible of its causes or effects. From _these_ we infer the
passion; and consequently _these_ give rise to our sympathy.
Our sense of beauty depends very much on this principle; and where
any object has a tendency to produce pleasure in its possessor, it is
always regarded as beautiful; as every object that has a tendency to
produce pain, is disagreeable and deformed. Thus, the conveniency of a
house, the fertility of a field, the strength of a horse, the capacity,
security, and swift-sailing of a vessel, form the principal beauty of
these several objects. Here the object, which is denominated beautiful,
pleases only by its tendency to produce a certain effect. That effect
is the pleasure or advantage of some other person. Now, the pleasure of
a stranger for whom we have no friendship, pleases us only by sympathy.
To this principle, therefore, is owing the beauty which we find in
every thing that is useful. How considerable a part this is of beauty
will easily appear upon reflection. Wherever an object has a tendency
to produce pleasure in the possessor, or, in other words, is the proper
_cause_ of pleasure, it is sure to please the spectator, by a delicate
sympathy with the possessor. Most of the works of art are esteemed
beautiful, in proportion to their fitness for the use of man; and even
many of the productions of nature derive their beauty from that source.
Handsome and beautiful, on most occasions, is not an absolute, but a
relative quality, and pleases us by nothing but its tendency to produce
an end that is agreeable.[1]
The same principle produces, in many instances, our sentiments of
morals, as well as those of beauty. No virtue is more esteemed than
justice, and no vice more detested than injustice; nor are there
any qualities which go farther to the fixing the character, either
as amiable or odious. Now justice is a moral virtue, merely because
it has that tendency to the good of mankind, and indeed is nothing
but an artificial invention to that purpose. The same may be said of
allegiance, of the laws of nations, of modesty, and of good manners.
All these are mere human contrivances for the interest of society. And
since there is a very strong sentiment of morals, which in all nations
and all ages has attended them, we must allow that the reflecting on
the tendency of characters and mental qualities is sufficient to give
us the sentiments of approbation and blame. Now, as the means to an
end can only be agreeable where the end is agreeable, and as the good
of society, where our own interest is not concerned, or that of our
friends, pleases only by sympathy, it follows, that sympathy is the
source of the esteem which we pay to all the artificial virtues.
Thus it appears, _that_ sympathy is a very powerful principle in
human nature, _that_ it has a great influence on our taste of beauty,
and _that_ it produces our sentiment of morals in all the artificial
virtues. From thence we may presume, that it also gives rise to many
of the other virtues, and that qualities acquire our approbation
because of their tendency to the good of mankind. This presumption
must become a certainty, when we find that most of those qualities
which we _naturally_ approve of, have actually that tendency, and
render a man a proper member of society; while the qualities which
we _naturally_ disapprove of have a contrary tendency, and render
any intercourse with the person dangerous or disagreeable. For having
found, that such tendencies have force enough to produce the strongest
sentiment of morals, we can never reasonably, in these cases, look for
any other cause of approbation or blame; it being an inviolable maxim
in philosophy, that where any particular cause is sufficient for an
effect, we ought to rest satisfied with it, and ought not to multiply
causes without necessity. We have happily attained experiments in the
artificial virtues, where the tendency of qualities to the good of
society is the _sole_ cause of our approbation, without any suspicion
of the concurrence of another principle. From thence we learn the force
of that principle. And where that principle may take place, and the
quality approved of is really beneficial to society, a true philosopher
will never require any other principle to account for the strongest
approbation and esteem.
That many of the natural virtues have this tendency to the good
of society, no one can doubt of. Meekness, beneficence, charity,
generosity, clemency, moderation, equity, bear the greatest figure
among the moral qualities, and are commonly denominated the _social_
virtues, to mark their tendency to the good of society. This goes so
far, that some philosophers have represented all moral distinctions
as the effect of artifice and education, when skilful politicians
endeavoured to restrain the turbulent passions of men, and make them
operate to the public good, by the notions of honour and shame. This
system, however, is not consistent with experience. For, _first_,
There are other virtues and vices beside those which have this
tendency to the public advantage and loss. _Secondly_, Had not men a
natural sentiment of approbation and blame, it could never be excited
by politicians, nor would the words _laudable_ and _praiseworthy,
blameable_ and _odious_, be any more intelligible than if they were
a language perfectly unknown to us, as we have already observed.
But though this system be erroneous, it may teach us that moral
distinctions arise in a great measure from the tendency of qualities
and characters to the interests of society, and that 'tis our concern
for that interest which makes us approve or disapprove of them. Now,
we have no such extensive concern for society, but from sympathy; and
consequently 'tis that principle which takes us so far out of ourselves
as to give us the same pleasure or uneasiness in the characters of
others, as if they had a tendency to our own advantage or loss.
The only difference betwixt the natural virtues and justice lies in
this, that the good which results from the former arises from every
single act, and is the object of some natural passion; whereas a
single act of justice, considered in itself, may often be contrary
to the public good; and 'tis only the concurrence of mankind, in a
general scheme or system of action, which is advantageous. When I
relieve persons in distress, my natural humanity is my motive; and so
far as my succour extends, so far have I promoted the happiness of my
fellow-creatures. But if we examine all the questions that come before
any tribunal of justice, we shall find that, considering each case
apart, it would as often be an instance of humanity to decide contrary
to the laws of justice as conformable to them. Judges take from a poor
man to give to a rich; they bestow on the dissolute the labour of the
industrious; and put into the hands of the vicious the means of harming
both themselves and others. The whole scheme, however, of law and
justice is advantageous to the society; and 'twas with a view to this
advantage that men, by their voluntary conventions, established it.
After it is once established by these conventions, it is _naturally_
attended with a strong sentiment of morals, which can proceed from
nothing but our sympathy with the interests of society. We need no
other explication of that esteem which attends such of the natural
virtues as have a tendency to the public good.
I must farther add, that there are several circumstances which render
this hypothesis much more probable with regard to the natural than
the artificial virtues. 'Tis certain, that the imagination is more
affected by what is particular, than by what is general; and that the
sentiments are always moved with difficulty, where their objects are
in any degree loose and undetermined. Now, every particular act of
justice is not beneficial to society, but the whole scheme or system;
and it may not perhaps be any individual person for whom we are
concerned, who receives benefit from justice, but the whole society
alike. On the contrary, every particular act of generosity, or relief
of the industrious and indigent, is beneficial, and is beneficial to
a particular person, who is not undeserving of it. 'Tis more natural,
therefore, to think that the tendencies of the latter virtue will
affect our sentiments, and command our approbation, than those of the
former; and therefore, since we find that the approbation of the former
arises from their tendencies, we may ascribe, with better reason, the
same cause to the approbation of the latter. In any number of similar
effects, if a cause can be discovered for one, we ought to extend
that cause to all the other effects which can be accounted for by
it; but much more, if these other effects be attended with peculiar
circumstances, which facilitate the operation of that cause.
Before I proceed farther, I must observe two remarkable circumstances
in this affair, which may seem objections to the present system. The
first may be thus explained. When any quality or character has a
tendency to the good of mankind, we are pleased with it, and approve
of it, because it presents the lively idea of pleasure; which idea
affects us by sympathy, and is itself a kind of pleasure. But as this
sympathy is very variable, it may be thought that our sentiments of
morals must admit of all the same variations. We sympathize more with
persons contiguous to us, than with persons remote from us; with our
acquaintance, than with strangers; with our countrymen, than with
foreigners. But notwithstanding this variation of our sympathy, we
give the same approbation to the same moral qualities in China as in
England. They appear equally virtuous, and recommend themselves equally
to the esteem of a judicious spectator. The sympathy varies without
a variation in our esteem. Our esteem, therefore, proceeds not from
sympathy.
To this I answer, the approbation of moral qualities most certainly
is not derived from reason, or any comparison of ideas; but proceeds
entirely from a moral taste, and from certain sentiments of pleasure
or disgust, which arise upon the contemplation and view of particular
qualities or characters. Now, 'tis evident that those sentiments,
whencever they are derived, must vary according to the distance or
contiguity of the objects; nor can I feel the same lively pleasure from
the virtues of a person who lived in Greece two thousand years ago,
that I feel from the virtues of a familiar friend and acquaintance.
Yet I do not say that I esteem the one more than the other; and
therefore, if the variation of the sentiment, without a variation of
the esteem, be an objection, it must have equal force against every
other system, as against that of sympathy. But to consider the matter
aright, it has no force at all; and 'tis the easiest matter in the
world to account for it. Our situation with regard both to persons and
things is in continual fluctuation; and a man that lies at a distance
from us, may in a little time become a familiar acquaintance. Besides,
every particular man has a peculiar position with regard to others;
and 'tis impossible we could ever converse together on any reasonable
terms, were each of us to consider characters and persons only as
they appear from his peculiar point of view. In order, therefore, to
prevent those continual _contradictions_, and arrive at a more _stable_
judgment of things, we fix on some _steady_ and _general_ points of
view, and always, in our thoughts, place ourselves in them, whatever
may be our present situation. In like manner, external beauty is
determined merely by pleasure; and 'tis evident a beautiful countenance
cannot give so much pleasure, when seen at a distance of twenty paces,
as when it is brought nearer us. We say not, however, that it appears
to us less beautiful; because we know what effect it will have in such
a position, and by that reflection we correct its momentary appearance.
In general, all sentiments of blame or praise are variable, according
to our situation of nearness or remoteness with regard to the person
blamed or praised, and according to the present disposition of our
mind. But these variations we regard not in our general decisions, but
still apply the terms expressive of our liking or dislike, in the same
manner as if we remained in one point of view. Experience soon teaches
us this method of correcting our sentiments, or at least of correcting
our language, where the sentiments are more stubborn and unalterable.
Our servant, if diligent and faithful, may excite stronger sentiments
of love and kindness than Marcus Brutus, as represented in history;
but we say not, upon that account, that the former character is more
laudable than the latter. We know that, were we to approach equally
near to that renowned patriot, he would command a much higher degree
of affection and admiration. Such corrections are common with regard
to all the senses; and indeed 'twere impossible we could ever make use
of language, or communicate our sentiments to one another, did we not
correct the momentary appearances of things, and overlook our present
situation.
'Tis therefore from the influence of characters and qualities upon
those who have an intercourse with any person, that we blame or praise
him. We consider not whether the persons affected by the qualities
be our acquaintance or strangers, countrymen or foreigners. Nay, we
overlook our own interest in those general judgments, and blame not a
man for opposing us in any of our pretensions, when his own interest
is particularly concerned. We make allowance for a certain degree of
selfishness in men, because we know it to be inseparable from human
nature, and inherent in our frame and constitution. By this reflection
we correct those sentiments of blame which so naturally arise upon any
opposition.
But however the general principle of our blame or praise may be
corrected by those other principles, 'tis certain they are not
altogether efficacious, nor do our passions often correspond entirely
to the present theory. 'Tis seldom men heartily love what lies at
a distance from them, and what no way redounds to their particular
benefit; as 'tis no less rare to meet with persons who can pardon
another any opposition he makes to their interest, however justifiable
that opposition may be by the general rules of morality. Here we are
contented with saying, that reason requires such an impartial conduct,
but that 'tis seldom we can bring ourselves to it, and that our
passions do not readily follow the determination of our judgment. This
language will be easily understood, if we consider what we formerly
said concerning that _reason_ which is able to oppose our passion, and
which we have found to be nothing but a general calm determination
of the passions, founded on some distant view or reflection. When
we form our judgments of persons merely from the tendency of their
characters to our own benefit, or to that of our friends, we find so
many contradictions to our sentiments in society and conversation, and
such an uncertainty from the incessant changes of our situation, that
we seek some other standard of merit and demerit, which may not admit
of so great variation. Being thus loosened from our first station, we
cannot afterwards fix ourselves so commodiously by any means as by a
sympathy with those who have any commerce with the person we consider.
This is far from being as lively as when our own interest is concerned,
or that of our particular friends; nor has it such an influence on our
love and hatred; but being equally conformable to our calm and general
principles, 'tis said to have an equal authority over our reason, and
to command our judgment and opinion. We blame equally a bad action
which we read of in history, with one performed in our neighbourhood
t'other day; the meaning of which is, that we know from reflection that
the former action would excite as strong sentiments of disapprobation
as the latter, were it placed in the same position.
I now proceed to the _second_ remarkable circumstance which I proposed
to take notice of. Where a person is possessed of a character that
in its natural tendency is beneficial to society, we esteem him
virtuous, and are delighted with the view of his character, even though
particular accidents prevent its operation, and incapacitate him from
being serviceable to his friends and country. Virtue in rags is still
virtue; and the love which it procures attends a man into a dungeon or
desart, where the virtue can no longer be exerted in action, and is
lost to all the world. Now, this may be esteemed an objection to the
present system. Sympathy interests us in the good of mankind; and if
sympathy were the source of our esteem for virtue, that sentiment of
approbation could only take place where the virtue actually attained
its end, and was beneficial to mankind. Where it fails of its end, 'tis
only an imperfect means; and therefore can never acquire any merit from
that end. The goodness of an end can bestow a merit on such means alone
as are complete, and actually produce the end.
To this we may reply, that where any object, in all its parts, is
fitted to attain any agreeable end, it naturally gives us pleasure,
and is esteemed beautiful, even though some external circumstances be
wanting to render it altogether effectual. 'Tis sufficient if every
thing be complete in the object itself. A house that is contrived
with great judgment for all the commodities of life, pleases us upon
that account; though perhaps we are sensible, that no one will ever
dwell in it. A fertile soil, and a happy climate, delight us by a
reflection on the happiness which they would afford the inhabitants,
though at present the country be desart and uninhabited. A man, whose
limbs and shape promise strength and activity, is esteemed handsome,
though condemned to perpetual imprisonment. The imagination has a set
of passions belonging to it, upon which our sentiments of beauty much
depend. These passions are moved by degrees of liveliness and strength,
which are inferior to _belief_, and independent of the real existence
of their objects. Where a character is, in every respect, fitted to be
beneficial to society, the imagination passes easily from the cause to
the effect, without considering that there are still some circumstances
wanting to render the cause a complete one. _General rules_ create a
species of probability, which sometimes influences the judgment, and
always the imagination.
'Tis true, when the cause is complete, and a good disposition is
attended with good fortune, which renders it really beneficial to
society, it gives a stronger pleasure to the spectator, and is attended
with a more lively sympathy. We are more affected by it; and yet we do
not say that it is more virtuous, or that we esteem it more. We know
that an alteration of fortune may render the benevolent disposition
entirely impotent; and therefore we separate, as much as possible, the
fortune from the disposition. The case is the same as when we correct
the different sentiments of virtue, which proceed from its different
distances from ourselves. The passions do not always follow our
corrections; but these corrections serve sufficiently to regulate our
abstract notions, and are alone regarded when we pronounce in general
concerning the degrees of vice and virtue.
'Tis observed by critics, that all words or sentences which are
difficult to the pronunciation, are disagreeable to the ear. There
is no difference, whether a man hear them pronounced, or read them
silently to himself. When I run over a book with my eye, I imagine
I hear it all; and also, by the force of imagination, enter into
the uneasiness which the delivery of it would give the speaker. The
uneasiness is not real; but, as such a composition of words has a
natural tendency to produce it, this is sufficient to affect the
mind with a painful sentiment, and render the discourse harsh and
disagreeable. 'Tis a similar case, where any real quality is, by
accidental circumstances, rendered impotent, and is deprived of its
natural influence on society.
Upon these principles we may easily remove any contradiction which
may appear to be betwixt the _extensive sympathy_, on which our
sentiments of virtue depend, and that _limited generosity_, which I
have frequently observed to be natural to men, and which justice and
property suppose, according to the precedent reasoning. My sympathy
with another may give me the sentiment of pain and disapprobation, when
any object is presented that has a tendency to give him uneasiness;
though I may not be willing to sacrifice any thing of my own interest,
or cross any of my passions, for his satisfaction. A house may
displease me by being ill-contrived for the convenience of the owner;
and yet I may refuse to give a shilling towards the rebuilding of it.
Sentiments must touch the heart to make them control our passions: but
they need not extend beyond the imagination, to make them influence
our taste. When a building seems clumsy and tottering to the eye, it is
ugly and disagreeable; though we may be fully assured of the solidity
of the workmanship. 'Tis a kind of fear which causes this sentiment
of disapprobation; but the passion is not the same with that which we
feel when obliged to stand under a wall that we really think tottering
and insecure. The _seeming tendencies_ of objects affect the mind:
and the emotions they excite are of a like species with those which
proceed from the _real consequences_ of objects, but their feeling is
different. Nay, these emotions are so different in their feeling, that
they may often be contrary, without destroying each other; as when the
fortifications of a city belonging to an enemy are esteemed beautiful
upon account of their strength, though we could wish that they were
entirely destroyed. The imagination adheres to the _general_ views of
things, and distinguishes the feelings they produce from those which
arise from our particular and momentary situation.
If we examine the panegyrics that are commonly made of great men, we
shall find, that most of the qualities which are attributed to them
may be divided into two kinds, viz. such as make them perform their
part in society; and such as render them serviceable to themselves, and
enable them to promote their own interest. Their _prudence, temperance,
frugality, industry, assiduity, enterprise, dexterity_, are celebrated,
as well as their _generosity_ and _humanity_. If we ever give an
indulgence to any quality that disables a man from making a figure in
life, 'tis to that of _indolence_, which is not supposed to deprive
one of his parts and capacity, but only suspends their exercise; and
that without any inconvenience to the person himself, since 'tis, in
some measure, from his own choice. Yet indolence is always allowed to
be a fault, and a very great one, if extreme: nor do a man's friends
ever acknowledge him to be subject to it, but in order to save his
character in more material articles. He could make a figure, say they,
if he pleased to give application: his understanding is sound, his
conception quick, and his memory tenacious; but he hates business, and
is indifferent about his fortune. And this a man sometimes may make
even a subject of vanity, though with the air of confessing a fault:
because he may think, that this incapacity for business implies much
more noble qualities; such as a philosophical spirit, a fine taste, a
delicate wit, or a relish for pleasure and society. But take any other
case: suppose a quality that, without being an indication of any other
good qualities, incapacitates a man _always_ for business, and is
destructive to his interest; such as a blundering understanding, and a
wrong judgment of every thing in life; inconstancy and irresolution; or
a want of address in the management of men and business: these are all
allowed to be imperfections in a character; and many men would rather
acknowledge the greatest crimes, than have it suspected that they are
in any degree subject to them.
'Tis very happy, in our philosophical researches, when we find the
same phenomenon diversified by a variety of circumstances; and by
discovering what is common among them, can the better assure ourselves
of the truth of any hypothesis we may make use of to explain it. Were
nothing esteemed virtue but what were beneficial to society, I am
persuaded that the foregoing explication of the moral sense ought still
to be received, and that upon sufficient evidence: but this evidence
must grow upon us, when we find other kinds of virtue which will not
admit of any explication except from that hypothesis. Here is a man
who is not remarkably defective in his social qualities; but what
principally recommends him is his dexterity in business, by which he
has extricated himself from the greatest difficulties, and conducted
the most delicate affairs with a singular address and prudence. I
find an esteem for him immediately to arise in me: his company is a
satisfaction to me; and before I have any farther acquaintance with
him, I would rather do him a service than another whose character is
in every other respect equal, but is deficient in that particular. In
this case, the qualities that please me are all considered as useful
to the person, and as having a tendency to promote his interest and
satisfaction. They are only regarded as means to an end, and please me
in proportion to their fitness for that end. The end, therefore must
be agreeable to me. But what makes the end agreeable? The person is a
stranger: I am no way interested in him, nor lie under any obligation
to him: his happiness concerns not me, farther than the happiness
of every human, and indeed of every sensible creature; that is, it
affects me only by sympathy. From that principle, whenever I discover
his happiness and good, whether in its causes or effects, I enter so
deeply into it, that it gives me a sensible emotion. The appearance
of qualities that have a _tendency_ to promote it, have an agreeable
effect upon my imagination, and command my love and esteem.
This theory may serve to explain, why the same qualities, in all cases,
produce both pride and love, humility and hatred; and the same man
is always virtuous or vicious, accomplished or despicable to others,
who is so to himself. A person in whom we discover any passion or
habit, which originally is only incommodious to himself, becomes always
disagreeable to us merely on its account; as, on the other hand, one
whose character is only dangerous and disagreeable to others, can
never be satisfied with himself, as long as he is sensible of that
disadvantage. Nor is this observable only with regard to characters and
manners, but may be remarked even in the most minute circumstances. A
violent cough in another gives us uneasiness; though in itself it does
not in the least affect us. A man will be mortified if you tell him he
has a stinking breath; though 'tis evidently no annoyance to himself.
Our fancy easily changes its situation; and, either surveying ourselves
as we appear to others, or considering others as they feel themselves,
we enter, by that means, into sentiments which no way belong to us,
and in which nothing but sympathy is able to interest us. And this
sympathy we sometimes carry so far, as even to be displeased with a
quality commodious to us, merely because it displeases others, and
makes us disagreeable in their eyes; though perhaps we never can have
any interest in rendering ourselves agreeable to them.
There have been many systems of morality advanced by philosophers
in all ages; but if they are strictly examined, they may be reduced
to two, which alone merit our attention. Moral good and evil are
certainly distinguished by our _sentiments_, not by _reason_: but these
sentiments may arise either from the mere species or appearance of
characters and passions, or from reflections on their tendency to the
happiness of mankind, and of particular persons. My opinion is, that
both these causes are intermixed in our judgments of morals; after the
same manner as they are in our decisions concerning most kinds of
external beauty: though I am also of opinion, that reflections on the
tendencies of actions have by far the greatest influence, and determine
all the great lines of our duty. There are, however, instances in cases
of less moment, wherein this immediate taste or sentiment produces our
approbation. Wit, and a certain easy and disengaged behaviour, are
qualities _immediately agreeable_ to others, and command their love
and esteem. Some of these qualities produce satisfaction in others
by particular _original_ principles of human nature, which cannot be
accounted for: odiers may be resolved into principles which are more
general. This will best appear upon a particular inquiry.
As some qualities acquire their merit from their being _immediately
agreeable_ to others, without any tendency to public interest; so some
are denominated virtuous from their being _immediately agreeable_
to the person himself, who possesses them. Each of the passions and
operations of the mind has a particular feeling, which must be either
agreeable or disagreeable. The first is virtuous, the second vicious.
This particular feeling constitutes the very nature of the passion; and
therefore needs not be accounted for.
But, however directly the distinction of vice and virtue may seem
to flow from the immediate pleasure or uneasiness, which particular
qualities cause to ourselves or others, 'tis easy to observe, that it
has also a considerable dependence on the principle of _sympathy_ so
often insisted on. We approve of a person who is possessed of qualities
_immediately agreeable_ to those with whom he has any commerce, though
perhaps we ourselves never reaped any pleasure from them. We also
approve of one who is possessed of qualities that are _immediately
agreeable_ to himself, though they be of no service to any mortal. To
account for this, we must have recourse to the foregoing principles.
Thus, to take a general review of the present hypothesis: Every quality
of the mind is denominated virtuous which gives pleasure by the mere
survey, as every quality which produces pain is called vicious. This
pleasure and this pain may arise from four different sources. For
we reap a pleasure from the view of a character which is naturally
fitted to be useful to others, or to the person himself, or which is
agreeable to others, or to the person himself. One may perhaps be
surprised, that, amidst all these interests and pleasures, we should
forget our own, which touch us so nearly on every other occasion. But
we shall easily satisfy ourselves on this head, when we consider, that
every particular person's pleasure and interest being different, 'tis
impossible men could ever agree in their sentiments and judgments,
unless they chose some common point of view, from which they might
survey their object, and which might cause it to appear the same to all
of them. Now, in judging of characters, the only interest or pleasure
which appears the same to every spectator, is that of the person
himself whose character is examined, or that of persons who have a
connexion with him. And, though such interests and pleasures touch us
more faintly than our own, yet, being more constant and universal, they
counterbalance the latter even in practice, and are alone admitted in
speculation as the standard of virtue and morality. They alone produce
that particular feeling or sentiment on which moral distinctions depend.
As to the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, 'tis an evident
consequence of the sentiments of pleasure or uneasiness. These
sentiments produce love or hatred; and love or hatred, by the original
constitution of human passion, is attended with benevolence or anger;
that is, with a desire of making happy the person we love, and
miserable the person we hate. We have treated of this more fully on
another occasion.
SECTION II.
OF GREATNESS OF MIND.
It may now be proper to illustrate this general system of morals, by
applying it to particular instances of virtue and vice, and showing how
their merit or demerit arises from the four sources here explained. We
shall begin with examining the passions of _pride_ and _humility_, and
shall consider the vice or virtue that lies in their excesses or just
proportion. An excessive pride or overweening conceit of ourselves,
is always esteemed vicious, and is universally hated, as modesty, or
a just sense of our weakness, is esteemed virtuous, and procures the
good will of every one. Of the four sources of moral distinctions, this
is to be ascribed to the _third_; viz. the immediate agreeableness and
disagreeableness of a quality to others, without any reflections on the
tendency of that quality.
In order to prove this, we must have recourse to two principles,
which are very conspicuous in human nature. The _first_ of these is
the _sympathy_ and communication of sentiments and passions above
mentioned. So close and intimate is the correspondence of human souls,
that no sooner any person approaches me, than he diffuses on me all
his opinions, and draws along my judgment in a greater or lesser
degree. And though, on many occasions, my sympathy with him goes not
so far as entirely to change my sentiments and way of thinking, yet it
seldom is so weak as not to disturb the easy course of my thought, and
give an authority to that opinion which is recommended to me by his
assent and approbation. Nor is it any way material upon what subject he
and I employ our thoughts. Whether we judge of an indifferent person,
or of my own character, my sympathy gives equal force to his decision:
and even his sentiments of his own merit make me consider him in the
same light in which he regards himself.
This principle of sympathy is of so powerful and insinuating a nature,
that it enters into most of our sentiments and passions, and often
takes place under the appearance of its contrary. For 'tis remarkable,
that when a person opposes me in any thing which I am strongly bent
upon, and rouses up my passion by contradiction, I have always a
degree of sympathy with him, nor does my commotion proceed from any
other origin. We may here observe an evident conflict or rencounter
of opposite principles and passions. On the one side, there is that
passion or sentiment which is natural to me; and 'tis observable, that
the stronger this passion is, the greater is the commotion. There must
also be some passion or sentiment on the other side; and this passion
can proceed from nothing but sympathy. The sentiments of others can
never affect us, but by becoming in some measure our own; in which case
they operate upon us, by opposing and increasing our passions, in the
very same manner as if they had been originally derived from our own
temper and disposition. While they remain concealed in the minds of
others, they can never have any influence upon us: and even when they
are known, if they went no farther than the imagination or conception,
that faculty is so accustomed to objects of every different kind, that
a mere idea, though contrary to our sentiments and inclinations, would
never alone be able to affect us.
The _second_ principle I shall take notice of is that of _comparison_,
or the variation of our judgments concerning objects, according to
the proportion they bear to those with which we compare them. We
judge more of objects by comparison than by their intrinsic worth and
value; and regard every thing as mean, when set in opposition to what
is superior of the same kind. But no comparison is more obvious than
that with ourselves; and hence it is, that on all occasions it takes
place, and mixes with most of our passions. This kind of comparison is
directly contrary to sympathy in its operation, as we have observed in
treating of _compassion and malice_.[2] _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. 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; but augments the idea
of our own happiness, and gives us pleasure_.
Since then those principles of sympathy, and a comparison with
ourselves, are directly contrary, it may be worth while to consider,
what general rules can be formed, beside the particular temper of
the person, for the prevalence of the one or the other. Suppose I am
now in safety at land, and would willingly reap some pleasure from
this consideration, I must think on the miserable condition of those
who are at sea in a storm, and must endeavour to render this idea as
strong and lively as possible, in order to make me more sensible of
my own happiness. But whatever pains I may take, the comparison will
never have an equal efficacy, as if I were really on the shore,[3] and
saw a ship at a distance tost by a tempest, and in danger every moment
of perishing on a rock or sand-bank. But suppose this idea to become
still more lively. Suppose the ship to be driven so near me, that I can
perceive distinctly the horror painted on the countenance of the seamen
and passengers, hear their lamentable cries, see the dearest friends
give their last adieu, or embrace with a resolution to perish in each
other's arms: no man has so savage a heart as to reap any pleasure from
such a spectacle, or withstand the motions of the tenderest compassion
and sympathy. 'Tis evident, therefore, there is a medium in this case;
and that, if the idea be too faint, it has no influence by comparison;
and on the other hand, if it be too strong, it operates on us entirely
by sympathy, which is the contrary to comparison. Sympathy being the
conversion of an idea into an impression, demands a greater force and
vivacity in the idea than is requisite to comparison.
All this is easily applied to the present subject. We sink very much
in our own eyes when in the presence of a great man, or one of a
superior genius; and this humility makes a considerable ingredient in
that _respect_ which we pay our superiors, according to our foregoing
reasonings on that passion.[4] Sometimes even envy and hatred arise
from the comparison; but in the greatest part of men, it rests at
respect and esteem. As sympathy has such a powerful influence on the
human mind, it causes pride to have in some measure the same effect as
merit; and, by making us enter into those elevated sentiments which the
proud man entertains of himself, presents that comparison, which is so
mortifying and disagreeable. Our judgment does not entirely accompany
him in the flattering conceit in which he pleases himself; but still
is so shaken as to receive the idea it presents, and to give it an
influence above the loose conceptions of the imagination. A man who,
in an idle humour, would form a notion of a person of a merit very
much superior to his own, would not be mortified by that fiction: but
when a man, whom we are really persuaded to be of inferior merit, is
presented to us; if we observe in him any extraordinary degree of pride
and self-conceit, the firm persuasion he has of his own merit, takes
hold of the imagination, and diminishes us in our own eyes, in the same
manner as if he were really possessed of all the good qualities which
he so liberally attributes to himself. Our idea is here precisely in
that medium which is requisite to make it operate on us by comparison.
Were it accompanied with belief, and did the person appear to have
the same merit which he assumes to himself, it would have a contrary
effect, and would operate on us by sympathy. The influence of that
principle would then be superior to that of comparison, contrary to
what happens where the person's merit seems below his pretensions.
The necessary consequence of these principles is, that pride, or
an overweening conceit of ourselves, must be vicious; since it
causes uneasiness in all men, and presents them every moment with a
disagreeable comparison. 'Tis a trite observation in philosophy, and
even in common life and conversation, that 'tis our own pride, which
makes us so much displeased with the pride of other people; and that
vanity becomes insupportable to us merely because we are vain. The gay
naturally associate themselves with the gay, and the amorous with the
amorous; but the proud never can endure the proud, and rather seek the
company of those who are of an opposite disposition. As we are all of
us proud in some degree, pride is universally blamed and condemned
by all mankind, as having a natural tendency to cause uneasiness in
others by means of comparison. And this effect must follow the more
naturally, that those, who have an ill-grounded conceit of themselves,
are for ever making those comparisons; nor have they any other method
of supporting their vanity. A man of sense and merit is pleased with
himself, independent of all foreign considerations; but a fool must
always find some person that is more foolish, in order to keep himself
in good humour with his own parts and understanding.
But though an overweening conceit of our own merit be vicious and
disagreeable, nothing can be more laudable than to have a value for
ourselves, where we really have qualities that are valuable. The
utility and advantage of any quality to ourselves is a source of
virtue, as well as its agreeableness to others; and 'tis certain, that
nothing is more useful to us in the conduct of life, than a due degree
of pride, which makes us sensible of our own merit, and gives us a
confidence and assurance in all our projects and enterprises. Whatever
capacity any one may be endowed with, 'tis entirely useless to him, if
he be not acquainted with it, and form not designs suitable to it. 'Tis
requisite on all occasions to know our own force; and were it allowable
to err on either side, 'twould be more advantageous to over-rate our
merit, than to form ideas of it below its just standard. Fortune
commonly favours the bold and enterprising; and nothing inspires us
with more boldness than a good opinion of ourselves.
Add to this, that though pride, or self-applause, be sometimes
disagreeable to others, 'tis always agreeable to ourselves; as, on the
other hand, modesty, though it give pleasure to every one who observes
it, produces often uneasiness in the person endowed with it. Now, it
has been observed, that our own sensations determine the vice and
virtue of any quality, as well as those sensations, which it may excite
in others.
Thus, self-satisfaction and vanity may not only be allowable, but
requisite in a character. 'Tis however certain, that good breeding and
decency require that we should avoid all signs and expressions, which
tend directly to show that passion. We have, all of us, a wonderful
partiality for ourselves, and were we always to give vent to our
sentiments in this particular, we should mutually cause the greatest
indignation in each other, not only by the immediate presence of so
disagreeable a subject of comparison, but also by the contrariety of
our judgments. In like manner, therefore, as we establish the _laws
of nature_, in order to secure property in society, and prevent the
opposition of self-interest, we establish the _rules of good breeding_,
in order to prevent the opposition of men's pride, and render
conversation agreeable and offensive. Nothing is more disagreeable than
a man's overweening conceit of himself. Every one almost has a strong
propensity to this vice. No one can well distinguish _in himself_
betwixt the vice and virtue, or be certain that his esteem of his
own merit is well-founded; for these reasons, all direct expressions
of this passion are condemned; nor do we make any exception to this
rule in favour of men of sense and merit. They are not allowed to do
themselves justice openly in words, no more than other people; and even
if they show a reserve and secret doubt in doing themselves justice
in their own thoughts, they will be more applauded. That impertinent,
and almost universal propensity of men, to overvalue themselves, has
given us such a _prejudice_ against self-applause, that we are apt to
condemn it by a _general rule_ wherever we meet with it; and 'tis with
some difficulty we give a privilege to men of sense, even in their
most secret thoughts. At least, it must be owned that some disguise in
this particular is absolutely requisite; and that, if we harbour pride
in our breasts, we must carry a fair outside, and have the appearance
of modesty and mutual deference in all our conduct and behaviour. We
must, on every occasion, be ready to prefer others to ourselves; to
treat them with a kind of deference, even though they be our equals; to
seem always the lowest and least in the company, where we are not very
much distinguished above them; and if we observe these rules in our
conduct, men will have more indulgence for our secret sentiments, when
we discover them in an oblique manner.
I believe no one who has any practice of the world, and can penetrate
into the inward sentiments of men, will assert that the humility which
good-breeding and decency require of us, goes beyond the outside,
or that a thorough sincerity in this particular is esteemed a real
part of our duty. On the contrary, we may observe, that a genuine and
hearty pride, or self-esteem, if well concealed and well founded, is
essential to the character of a man of honour, and that there is no
quality of the mind which is more indispensably requisite to procure
the esteem and approbation of mankind. There are certain deferences and
mutual submissions which custom requires of the different ranks of men
towards each other; and whoever exceeds in this particular, if through
interest, is accused of meanness, if through ignorance, of simplicity.
'Tis necessary, therefore, to know our rank and station in the world,
whether it be fixed by our birth, fortune, employments, talents, or
reputation. 'Tis necessary to feel the sentiment and passion of pride
in conformity to it, and to regulate our actions accordingly. And
should it be said, that prudence may suffice to regulate our actions in
this particular, without any real pride, I would observe, that here the
object of prudence is to conform our actions to the general usage and
custom; and that 'tis impossible those tacit airs of superiority should
ever have been established and authorized by custom, unless men were
generally proud, and unless that passion were generally approved, when
well-grounded.
If we pass from common life and conversation to history, this reasoning
acquires new force, when we observe, that all those great actions and
sentiments which have become the admiration of mankind, are founded on
nothing but pride and self-esteem. 'Go,' says Alexander the Great to
his soldiers, when they refused to follow him to the Indies, 'go tell
your countrymen, that you left Alexander completing the conquest of
the world.' This passage was always particularly admired by the prince
of Condé, as we learn from St Evremond. 'Alexander,' said that prince,
'abandoned by his soldiers, among barbarians not yet fully subdued,
felt in himself such a dignity and right of empire, that he could not
believe it possible any one could refuse to obey him. Whether in Europe
or in Asia, among Greeks or Persians, all was indifferent to him;
wherever he found men, he fancied he had found subjects.'
In general, we may observe, that whatever we call _heroic virtue_,
and admire under the character of greatness and elevation of mind, is
either nothing but a steady and well-established pride and self-esteem,
or partakes largely of that passion. Courage, intrepidity, ambition,
love of glory, magnanimity, and all the other shining virtues of that
kind, have plainly a strong mixture of self-esteem in them, and derive
a great part of their merit from that origin. Accordingly we find,
that many religious declaimers decry those virtues as purely pagan
and natural, and represent to us the excellency of the _Christian_
religion, which places humility in the rank of virtues, and corrects
the judgment of the world, and even of philosophers, who so generally
admire all the efforts of pride and ambition. Whether this virtue of
humility has been rightly understood, I shall not pretend to determine.
I am content with the concession, that the world naturally esteems a
well-regulated pride, which secretly animates our conduct, without
breaking out into such indecent expressions of vanity as may offend the
vanity of others.
The merit of pride or self-esteem is derived from two circumstances,
viz. its utility, and its agreeableness to ourselves; by which it
capacitates us for business, and at the same time gives us an immediate
satisfaction. When it goes beyond its just bounds, it loses the first
advantage, and even becomes prejudicial; which is the reason why we
condemn an extravagant pride and ambition, however regulated by the
decorums of good-breeding and politeness. But as such a passion is
still agreeable, and conveys an elevated and sublime sensation to the
person who is actuated by it, the sympathy with that satisfaction
diminishes considerably the blame which naturally attends its dangerous
influence on our conduct and behaviour. Accordingly we may observe,
that an excessive courage and magnanimity, especially when it displays
itself under the frowns of fortune, contributes in a great measure to
the character of a hero, and will render a person the admiration of
posterity, at the same time that it ruins his affairs, and leads him
into dangers and difficulties with which otherwise he would never have
been acquainted.
Heroism, or military glory, is much admired by the generality of
mankind. They consider it as the most sublime kind of merit. Men
of cool reflection are not so sanguine in their praises of it. The
infinite confusions and disorder which it has caused in the world,
diminish much of its merit in their eyes. When they would oppose the
popular notions on this head, they always paint out the evils which
this supposed virtue has produced in human society; the subversion of
empires, the devastation of provinces, the sack of cities. As long as
these are present to us, we are more inclined to hate than admire the
ambition of heroes. But when we fix our view on the person himself,
who is the author of all this mischief, there is something so dazzling
in his character, the mere contemplation of it so elevates the mind,
that we cannot refuse it our admiration. The pain which we receive from
its tendency to the prejudice of society, is overpowered by a stronger
and more immediate sympathy.
Thus, our explication of the merit or demerit which attends the
degrees of pride or self-esteem, may serve as a strong argument for
the preceding hypothesis, by showing the effects of those principles
above explained in all the variations of our judgments concerning
that passion. Nor will this reasoning be advantageous to us only by
showing, that the distinction of vice and virtue arises from the _four_
principles of the _advantage_ and of the _pleasure_ of the _person
himself_ and of _others_, but may also afford us a strong proof of some
under parts of that hypothesis.
No one who duly considers of this matter will make any scruple of
allowing, that any piece of ill-breeding, or any expression of pride
and haughtiness, is displeasing to us, merely because it shocks our
own pride, and leads us by sympathy into a comparison which causes the
disagreeable passion of humility. Now, as an insolence of this kind
is blamed even in a person who has always been civil to ourselves in
particular, nay, in one whose name is only known to us in history, it
follows that our disapprobation proceeds from a sympathy with others,
and from the reflection that such a character is highly displeasing
and odious to every one who converses or has any intercourse with
the person possest of it. We sympathize with those people in their
uneasiness; and as their uneasiness proceeds in part from a sympathy
with the person who insults them, we may here observe a double rebound
of the sympathy, which is a principle very similar to what we have
observed on another occasion.[5]
[1] Decentior equus cujus astricta sunt ilia; sed idem velocior.
Pulcher aspectu sit athleta, cujus lacertos exercitatio expressit; idem
certamini paratior. Nunquam vero _species ab utilitate_ dividitur. Sed
hoc quidem discernere, modici judicii est.--Quinct. lib. 8.
[2] Book II. Part II. Sect 8.
[3]
Suavi mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis E terra magnum alterius
spectare laborem; Non quia vexari quenquam est jucunda voluptas, Sed
quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suav'est.--_Lucret_.
[4] Book II. Part II. Sect 10.
SECTION III.
OF GOODNESS AND BENEVOLENCE.
Having thus explained the origin of that praise and approbation which
attends every thing we call _great_ in human affections, we now proceed
to give an account of their _goodness_, and show whence its merit is
derived.
When experience has once given us a competent knowledge of human
affairs, and has taught us the proportion they bear to human passion,
we perceive that the generosity of men is very limited, and that it
seldom extends beyond their friends and family, or, at most, beyond
their native country. Being thus acquainted with the nature of man,
we expect not any impossibilities from him; but confine our view to
that narrow circle in which any person moves, in order to form a
judgment of his moral character. When the natural tendency of his
passions leads him to be serviceable and useful within his sphere,
we approve of his character, and love his person, by a sympathy with
the sentiments of those who have a more particular connexion with
him. We are quickly obliged to forget get our own interest in our
judgments of this kind, by reason of the perpetual contradictions
we meet with in society and conversation, from persons that are not
placed in the same situation, and have not the same interest with
ourselves. The only point of view in which our sentiments concur with
those of others, is when we consider the tendency of any passion to
the advantage or harm of those who have any immediate connexion or
intercourse with the person possessed of it. And though this advantage
or harm be often very remote from ourselves, yet sometimes 'tis very
near us, and interests us strongly by sympathy. This concern we
readily extend to other cases that are resembling; and when these are
very remote, our sympathy is proportionably weaker, and our praise or
blame fainter and more doubtful. The case is here the same as in our
judgments concerning external bodies. All objects seem to diminish by
their distance; but though the appearance of objects to our senses
be the original standard by which we judge of them, yet we do not
say that they actually diminish by the distance; but, correcting the
appearance by reflection, arrive at a more constant and established
judgment concerning them. In like manner, though sympathy be much
fainter than our concern for ourselves, and a sympathy with persons
remote from us much fainter than that with persons near and contiguous,
yet we neglect all these differences in our calm judgments concerning
the characters of men. Besides that we ourselves often change our
situation in this particular, we every day meet with persons who are
in a different situation from ourselves, and who could never converse
with us on any reasonable terms, were we to remain constantly in that
situation and point of view which is peculiar to us. The intercourse
of sentiments, therefore, in society and conversation, makes us form
some general unalterable standard by which we may approve or disapprove
of characters and manners. And though the _heart_ does not always take
part with those general notions, or regulate its love and hatred by
them, yet are they sufficient for discourse, and serve all our purposes
in company, in the pulpit, on the theatre, and in the schools.
From these principles, we may easily account for that merit which is
commonly ascribed to _generosity, humanity, compassion, gratitude,
friendship, fidelity, zeal, disinterestedness, liberality_, and all
those other qualities which form the character of good and benevolent.
A propensity to the tender passions makes a man agreeable and useful
in all the parts of life, and gives a just direction to all his other
qualities, which otherwise may become prejudicial to society. Courage
and ambition, when not regulated by benevolence, are fit only to make
a tyrant and public robber. 'Tis the same case with judgment and
capacity, and all the qualities of that kind. They are indifferent in
themselves to the interests of society, and have a tendency to the
good or ill of mankind, according as they are directed by these other
passions.
As love is _immediately agreeable_ to the person who is actuated by it,
and hatred _immediately disagreeable_, this may also be a considerable
reason why we praise all the passions that partake of the former,
and blame all those that have any considerable share of the latter.
'Tis certain we are infinitely touched with a tender sentiment, as
well as with a great one. The tears naturally start in our eyes at
the conception of it; nor can we forbear giving a loose to the same
tenderness towards the person who exerts it. All this seems to me a
proof that our approbation has, in these cases, an origin different
from the prospect of utility and advantage, either to ourselves or
others. To which we may add, that men naturally, without reflection,
approve of that character which is most like their own. The man of a
mild disposition and tender affections, in forming a notion of the
most perfect virtue, mixes in it more of benevolence and humanity than
the man of courage and enterprise, who naturally looks upon a certain
elevation of the mind as the most accomplished character. This must
evidently proceed from an _immediate_ sympathy, which men have with
characters similar to their own. They enter with more warmth into such
sentiments, and feel more sensibly the pleasure which arises from them.
'Tis remarkable, that nothing touches a man of humanity more than
any instance of extraordinary delicacy in love or friendship, where
a person is attentive to the smallest concerns of his friend, and is
willing to sacrifice to them the most considerable interest of his own.
Such delicacies have little influence on society; because they make
us regard the greatest trifles: but they are the more engaging the
more minute the concern is, and are a proof of the highest merit in
any one who is capable of them. The passions are so contagious, that
they pass with the greatest facility from one person to another, and
produce correspondent movements in all human breasts. Where friendship
appears in very signal instances, my heart catches the same passion,
and is warmed by those warm sentiments that display themselves before
me. Such agreeable, movements must give me an affection to every one
that excites them. This is the case with every thing that is agreeable
in any person. The transition from pleasure to love is easy: but the
transition must here be still more easy; since the agreeable sentiment
which is excited by sympathy, is love itself; and there is nothing
required but to change the object.
Hence the peculiar merit of benevolence in all its shapes and
appearances. Hence even its weaknesses are virtuous and amiable; and a
person, whose grief upon the loss of a friend were excessive, would be
esteemed upon that account. His tenderness bestows a merit, as it does
a pleasure, on his melancholy.
We are not, however, to imagine that all the angry passions are
vicious, though they are disagreeable. There is a certain indulgence
due to human nature in this respect. Anger and hatred are passions
inherent in our very frame and constitution. The want of them, on some
occasions, may even be a proof of weakness and imbecility. And where
they appear only in a low degree, we not only excuse them because they
are natural, but even bestow our applauses on them, because they are
inferior to what appears in the greatest part of mankind.
Where these angry passions rise up to cruelty, they form the most
detested of all vices. All the pity and concern which we have for the
miserable sufferers by this vice, turns against the person guilty of
it, and produces a stronger hatred than we are sensible of on any other
occasion.
Even when the vice of inhumanity rises not to this extreme degree, our
sentiments concerning it are very much influenced by reflections on
the harm that results from it. And we may observe in general, that if
we can find any quality in a person, which renders him incommodious
to those who live and converse with him, we always allow it to be a
fault or blemish, without any farther examination. On the other hand,
when we enumerate the good qualities of any person, we always mention
those parts of his character which render him a safe companion, an easy
friend, a gentle master, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent father.
We consider him with all his relations in society; and love or hate
him, according as he affects those who have any immediate intercourse
with him. And 'tis a most certain rule, that if there be no relation
of life in which I could not wish to stand to a particular person, his
character must so far be allowed to be perfect. If he be as little
wanting to himself as to others, his character is entirely perfect.
This is the ultimate test of merit and virtue.
[5] Book II. Part II. Sect. 5.
SECTION IV.
OF NATURAL ABILITIES.
No distinction is more usual in all systems of ethics, than that
betwixt _natural abilities_ and _moral virtues_; where the former are
placed on the same footing with bodily endowments, and are supposed
to have no merit or moral worth annexed to them. Whoever considers
the matter accurately, will find, that a dispute upon this head would
be merely a dispute of words, and that, though these qualities are
not altogether of the same kind, yet they agree in the most material
circumstances. They are both of them equally mental qualities: and both
of them equally produce pleasure; and have of course an equal tendency
to procure the love and esteem of mankind. There are few who are not as
jealous of their character, with regard to sense and knowledge, as to
honour and courage; and much more than with regard to temperance and
sobriety. Men are even afraid of passing for good-natured, lest _that_
should be taken for want of understanding; and often boast of more
debauches than they have been really engaged in, to give themselves
airs of fire and spirit. In short, the figure a man makes in the
world, the reception he meets with in company, the esteem paid him
by his acquaintance; all these advantages depend almost as much upon
his good sense and judgment, as upon any other part of his character.
Let a man have the best intentions in the world, and be the farthest
from all injustice and violence, he will never be able to make himself
be much regarded, without a moderate share, at least, of parts and
understanding. Since then natural abilities, though perhaps inferior,
yet are on the same footing, both as to their causes and effects, with
those qualities which we call moral virtues, why should we make any
distinction betwixt them?
Though we refuse to natural abilities the title of virtues, we must
allow, that they procure the love and esteem of mankind; that they give
a new lustre to the other virtues; and that a man possessed of them is
much more entitled to our good will and services than one entirely void
of them. It may indeed be pretended, that the sentiment of approbation
which those qualities produce, besides its being _inferior_, is also
somewhat _different_ from that which attends the other virtues. But
this, in my opinion, is not a sufficient reason for excluding them
from the catalogue of virtues. Each of the virtues, even benevolence,
justice, gratitude, integrity, excites a different sentiment or
feeling in the spectator. The characters of Cæsar and Cato, as drawn by
Sallust, are both of them virtuous, in the strictest sense of the word,
but in a different way: nor are the sentiments entirely the same which
arise from them. The one produces love, the other esteem; the one is
amiable, the other awful: we could wish to meet with the one character
in a friend, the other character we would be ambitious of in ourselves.
In like manner, the approbation which attends natural abilities, may
be somewhat different to the feeling from that which arises from the
other virtues, without making them entirely of a different species. And
indeed we may observe, that the natural abilities, no more than the
other virtues, produce not, all of them, the same kind of approbation.
Good sense and genius beget esteem; wit and humour excite love.[6]
Those who represent the distinction betwixt natural abilities and
moral virtues as very material, may say, that the former are entirely
involuntary, and have therefore no merit attending them, as having no
dependence on liberty and free will. But to this I answer, _first_,
That many of those qualities which all moralists, especially the
ancients, comprehend under the title of moral virtues, are equally
involuntary and necessary with the qualities of the judgment and
imagination. Of this nature are constancy, fortitude, magnanimity;
and, in short, all the qualities which form the _great_ man. I might
say the same, in some degree, of the others; it being almost impossible
for the mind to change its character in any considerable article, or
cure itself of a passionate or splenetic temper, when they are natural
to it. The greater degree there is of these blameable qualities,
the more vicious they become, and yet they are the less voluntary.
_Secondly_, I would have any one give me a reason, why virtue and vice
may not be involuntary, as well as beauty and deformity. These moral
distinctions arise from the natural distinctions of pain and pleasure;
and when we receive those feelings from the general consideration
of any quality or character, we denominate it vicious or virtuous.
Now I believe no one will assert, that a quality can never produce
pleasure or pain to the person who considers it, unless it be perfectly
voluntary in the person who possesses it. _Thirdly_, As to free will,
we have shown that it has no place with regard to the actions, no more
than the qualities of men. It is not a just consequence, that what is
voluntary is free. Our actions are more voluntary than our judgments;
but we have not more liberty in the one than in the other.
But, though this distinction betwixt voluntary and involuntary, be not
sufficient to justify the distinction betwixt natural abilities and
moral virtues, yet the former distinction will afford us a plausible
reason, why moralists have invented the latter. Men have observed,
that, though natural abilities and moral qualities be in the main on
the same footing, there is, however, this difference betwixt them,
that the former are almost invariable by any art or industry; while
the latter, or at least the actions that proceed from them, may be
changed by the motives of rewards and punishment, praise and blame.
Hence legislators and divines and moralists have principally applied
themselves to the regulating these voluntary actions, and have
endeavoured to produce additional motives for being virtuous in that
particular. They knew, that to punish a man for folly, or exhort him to
be prudent and sagacious, would have but little effect; though the same
punishments and exhortations, with regard to justice and injustice,
might have a considerable influence. But as men, in common life and
conversation, do not carry those ends in view, but naturally praise
or blame whatever pleases or displeases them, they do not seem much
to regard this distinction, but consider prudence under the character
of virtue as well as benevolence, and penetration as well as justice.
Nay, we find that all moralists, whose judgment is not perverted by a
strict adherence to a system, enter into the same way of thinking; and
that the ancient moralists, in particular, made no scruple of placing
prudence at the head of the cardinal virtues. There is a sentiment
of esteem and approbation, which may be excited, in some degree, by
any faculty of the mind, in its perfect state and condition; and to
account for this sentiment is the business of _philosophers_. It
belongs to _grammarians_ to examine what qualities are entitled to the
denomination of _virtue_; nor will they find, upon trial, that this is
so easy a task as at first sight they may be apt to imagine.
The principal reason why natural abilities are esteemed, is because
of their tendency to be useful to the person who is possessed of
them. 'Tis impossible to execute any design with success, where it is
not conducted with prudence and discretion; nor will the goodness
of our intentions alone suffice to procure us a happy issue to our
enterprises. Men are superior to beasts principally by the superiority
of their reason; and they are the degrees of the same faculty, which
set such an infinite difference betwixt one man and another. All the
advantages of art are owing to human reason; and where fortune is not
very capricious, the most considerable part of these advantages must
fall to the share of the prudent and sagacious.
When it is asked, whether a quick or a slow apprehension be most
valuable? whether one, that at first view penetrates into a subject,
but can perform nothing upon study; or a contrary character, which must
work out every thing by dint of application? whether a clear head, or
a copious invention? whether a profound genius, or a sure judgment? in
short, what character, or peculiar understanding, is more excellent
than another? 'Tis evident we can answer none of these questions,
without considering which of those qualities capacitates a man best for
the world, and carries him farthest in any of his undertakings.
There are many other qualities of the mind, whose merit is derived
from the same origin. _Industry, perseverance, patience, activity,
vigilance, application, constancy_, with other virtues of that kind,
which 'twill be easy to recollect, are esteemed valuable upon no other
account than their advantage in the conduct of life. 'Tis the same case
with _temperance, frugality, economy, resolution_; as, on the other
hand, _prodigality, luxury, irresolution, uncertainty_, are vicious,
merely because they draw ruin upon us, and incapacitate us for business
and action.
As wisdom and good sense are valued because they are _useful_ to the
person possessed of them, so _wit_ and _eloquence_ are valued because
they are _immediately agreeable_ to others. On the other hand, _good
humour_ is loved and esteemed, because it is _immediately agreeable_ to
the person himself. 'Tis evident, that the conversation of a man of wit
is very satisfactory; as a cheerful good-humoured companion diffuses
a joy over the whole company, from a sympathy with his gaiety. These
qualities, therefore, being agreeable, they naturally beget love and
esteem, and answer to all the characters of virtue.
'Tis difficult to tell, on many occasions, what it is that renders one
man's conversation so agreeable and entertaining, and another's so
insipid and distasteful. As conversation is a transcript of the mind as
well as books, the same qualities which render the one valuable must
give us an esteem for the other. This we shall consider afterwards.
In the mean time, it may be affirmed in general, that all the merit
a man may derive from his conversation (which, no doubt, may be very
considerable) arises from nothing but the pleasure it conveys to those
who are present.
In this view, _cleanliness_ is also to be regarded as a virtue,
since it naturally renders us agreeable to others, and is a very
considerable source of love and affection. No one will deny that a
negligence in this particular is a fault; and as faults are nothing
but smaller vices, and this fault can have no other origin than the
uneasy sensation which it excites in others, we may in this instance,
seemingly so trivial, clearly discover the origin of the moral
distinction of vice and virtue in other instances.
Besides all those qualities which render a person lovely or valuable,
there is also a certain _je-ne-sçai-quoi_ of agreeable and handsome
that concurs to the same effect. In this case, as well as in that of
wit and eloquence, we must have recourse to a certain sense, which
acts without reflection, and regards not the tendencies of qualities
and characters. Some moralists account for all the sentiments of
virtue by this sense. Their hypothesis is very plausible. Nothing but
a particular inquiry can give the preference to any other hypothesis.
When we find that almost all the virtues have such particular
tendencies, and also find that these tendencies are sufficient alone to
give a strong sentiment of approbation, we cannot doubt, after this,
that qualities are approved of in proportion to the advantage which
results from them.
The _decorum_ or _indecorum_ of a quality, with regard to the age,
or character, or station, contributes also to its praise or blame.
This decorum depends in a great measure upon experience. 'Tis usual
to see men lose their levity as they advance in years. Such a degree
of gravity, therefore, and such years, are connected together in our
thoughts. When we observe, them separated in any person's character,
this imposes a kind of violence on our imagination, and is disagreeable.
That faculty of the soul which, of all others, is of the least
consequence to the character, and has the least virtue or vice in its
several degrees, at the same time that it admits of a great variety
of degrees, is the _memory_. Unless it rise up to that stupendous
height as to surprise us, or sink so low as in some measure to affect
the judgment, we commonly take no notice of its variations, nor ever
mention them to the praise or dispraise of any person. 'Tis so far
from being a virtue to have a good memory, that men generally affect
to complain of a bad one; and, endeavouring to persuade the world
that what they say is entirely of their own invention, sacrifice it
to the praise of genius and judgment. Yet, to consider the matter
abstractedly,'twould be difficult to give a reason why the faculty
of recalling past ideas with truth and clearness, should not have as
much merit in it as the faculty of placing our present ideas in such
an order as to form true propositions and opinions. The reason of the
difference certainly must be, that the memory is exerted without any
sensation of pleasure or pain, and in all its middling degrees serves
almost equally well in business and affairs. But the least variations
in the judgment are sensibly felt in their consequences; while at
the same time that faculty is never exerted in any eminent degree,
without an extraordinary delight and satisfaction. The sympathy with
this utility and pleasure bestows a merit on the understanding; and
the absence of it makes us consider the memory as a faculty very
indifferent to blame or praise.
Before I leave this subject of _natural abilities_, I must observe,
that perhaps one source of the esteem and affection which attends
them, is derived from the _importance_ and _weight_ which they bestow
on the person possessed of them. He becomes of greater consequence
in life. His resolutions and actions affect a greater number of his
fellow-creatures. Both his friendship and enmity are of moment. And
'tis easy to observe, that whoever is elevated, after this manner,
above the rest of mankind, must excite in us the sentiments of esteem
and approbation. Whatever is important engages our attention, fixes
our thought, and is contemplated with satisfaction. The histories of
kingdoms are more interesting than domestic stories; the histories of
great empires more than those of small cities and principalities; and
the histories of wars and revolutions more than those of peace and
order. We sympathize with the persons that suffer, in all the various
sentiments which belong to their fortunes. The mind is occupied by
the multitude of the objects, and by the strong passions that display
themselves. And this occupation or agitation of the mind is commonly
agreeable and amusing. The same theory accounts for the esteem and
regard we pay to men of extraordinary parts and abilities. The good
and ill of multitudes are connected with their actions. Whatever they
undertake is important, and challenges our attention. Nothing is to be
overlooked and despised that regards them. And where any person can
excite these sentiments, he soon acquires our esteem, unless other
circumstances of his character render him odious and disagreeable.
[6] Love and esteem are at the bottom the same passions, and arise from
like causes. The qualities that produce both are agreeable, and give
pleasure. But where this pleasure is severe and serious; or where its
object is great, and makes a strong impression; or where it produces
any degree of humility and awe: in all these cases, the passion which
arises from the pleasure is more properly denominated esteem than love.
Benevolence attends both; but is connected with love in a more eminent
degree.
SECTION V.
SOME FARTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING THE NATURAL VIRTUES.
It has been observed, in treating of the Passions, that pride
and humility, love and hatred, are excited by any advantages or
disadvantages of the _mind, body_, or _fortune_; and that these
advantages or disadvantages have that effect by producing a separate
impression of pain or pleasure. The pain or pleasure which arises from
the general survey or view of any action or quality of the _mind_,
constitutes its vice or virtue, and gives rise to our approbation
or blame, which is nothing but a fainter and more imperceptible love
or hatred. We have assigned four different sources of this pain and
pleasure; and, in order to justify more fully that hypothesis, it may
here be proper to observe, that the advantages or disadvantages of
the _body_ and of _fortune_, produce a pain or pleasure from the very
same principles. The tendency of any object to be _useful_ to the
person possessed of it, or to others; to convey _pleasure_ to him or
to others; all these circumstances convey an immediate pleasure to the
person who considers the object, and command his love and approbation.
To begin with the advantages of the _body_; we may observe a phenomenon
which might appear somewhat trivial and ludicrous, if any thing
could be trivial which fortified a conclusion of such importance, or
ludicrous, which was employed in a philosophical reasoning. 'Tis a
general remark, that those we call good _women's men_, who have either
signalized themselves by their amorous exploits, or whose make of body
promises any extraordinary vigour of that kind, are well received by
the fair sex, and naturally engage the affections even of those whose
virtue prevents any design of ever giving employment to those talents.
Here 'tis evident that the ability of such a person to give enjoyment,
is the real source of that love and esteem he meets with among the
females; at the same time that the women who love and esteem him have
no prospect of receiving that enjoyment themselves, and can only be
affected by means of their sympathy with one that has a commerce of
love with him. This instance is singular, and merits our attention.
Another source of the pleasure we receive from considering bodily
advantages, is their utility to the person himself who is possessed of
them. 'Tis certain, that a considerable part of the beauty of men, as
well as of other animals, consists in such a conformation of members as
we find by experience to be attended with strength and agility, and to
capacitate the creature for any action or exercise. Broad shoulders,
a lank belly, firm joints, taper legs; all these are beautiful in our
species, because they are signs of force and vigour, which, being
advantages we naturally sympathize with, they convey to the beholder a
share of that satisfaction they produce in the possessor.
So far as to the _utility_ which may attend any quality of the body.
As to the immediate _pleasure_, 'tis certain that an air of health, as
well as of strength and agility, makes a considerable part of beauty;
and that a sickly air in another is always disagreeable, upon account
of that idea of pain and uneasiness which it conveys to us. On the
other hand, we are pleased with the regularity of our own features,
though it be neither useful to ourselves nor others; and 'tis necessary
for us in some measure to set ourselves at a distance, to make it
convey to us any satisfaction. We commonly consider ourselves as we
appear in the eyes of others, and sympathize with the advantageous
sentiments they entertain with regard to us.
How far the advantages of _fortune_ produce esteem and approbation
from the same principles, we may satisfy ourselves by reflecting on
our precedent reasoning on that subject. We have observed, that our
approbation of those who are possessed of the advantages of fortune,
may be ascribed to three different causes. _First_, To that immediate
pleasure which a rich man gives us, by the view of the beautiful
clothes, equipage, gardens, or houses, which he possesses. _Secondly_,
To the advantage which we hope to reap from him by his generosity and
liberality. _Thirdly_, To the pleasure and advantage which he himself
reaps from his possessions, and which produce an agreeable sympathy
in us. Whether we ascribe our esteem of the rich and great to one or
all of these causes, we may clearly see the traces of those principles
which give rise to the sense of vice and virtue. I believe most people,
at first sight, will be inclined to ascribe our esteem of the rich
to self-interest and the prospect of advantage. But as 'tis certain
that our esteem or deference extends beyond any prospect of advantage
to ourselves, 'tis evident that that sentiment must proceed from a
sympathy with those who are dependent on the person we esteem and
respect, and who have an immediate connexion with him. We consider him
as a person capable of contributing to the happiness or enjoyment of
his fellow-creatures, whose sentiments with regard to him we naturally
embrace. And this consideration will serve to justify my hypothesis in
preferring the _third_ principle to the other two, and ascribing our
esteem of the rich to a sympathy with the pleasure and advantage which
they themselves receive from their possessions. For as even the other
two principles cannot operate to a due extent, or account for all the
phenomena without having recourse to a sympathy of one kind or other,
'tis much more natural to choose that sympathy which is immediate and
direct, than that which is remote and indirect. To which we may add,
that where the riches or power are very great, and render the person
considerable and important, in the world, tire esteem attending them
may in part be ascribed to another source, distinct from these three,
viz. their interesting the mind by a prospect of the multitude and
importance of their consequences; though, in order to account for the
operation of this principle, we must also have recourse to _sympathy_,
as we have observed in the preceding section.
It may not be amiss, on this occasion, to remark the flexibility of
our sentiments, and the several changes they so readily receive from
the objects with which they are conjoined. All the sentiments of
approbation which attend any particular species of objects, have a
great resemblance to each other, though derived from different sources;
and, on the other hand, those sentiments, when directed to different
objects, are different to the feeling, though derived from the same
source. Thus, the beauty of all visible objects causes a pleasure
pretty much the same, though it be sometimes derived from the mere
_species_ and appearance of the objects; sometimes from sympathy,
and an idea of their utility. In like manner, whenever we survey the
actions and characters of men, without any particular interest in them,
the pleasure or pain which arises from the survey (with some minute
differences) is in the main of the same kind, though perhaps there be
a great diversity in the causes from which it is derived. On the other
hand, a convenient house and a virtuous character cause not the same
feeling of approbation, even though the source of our approbation be
the same, and flow from sympathy and an idea of their utility. There
is something very inexplicable in this variation of our feelings; but
'tis what we have experience of with regard to all our passions and
sentiments.
SECTION VI.
CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK.
Thus, upon the whole, I am hopeful that nothing is wanting to an
accurate proof of this system of ethics. We are certain that sympathy
is a very powerful principle in human nature. We are also certain
that it has a great influence on our sense of beauty, when we regard
external objects, as well as when we judge of morals. We find that
it has force sufficient to give us the strongest sentiments of
approbation, when it operates alone, without the concurrence of any
other principle; as in the cases of justice, allegiance, chastity, and
good manners. We may observe, that all the circumstances requisite for
its operation are found in most of the virtues, which have, for the
most part, a tendency to the good of society, or to that of the person
possessed of them. If we compare all these circumstances, we shall
not doubt that sympathy is the chief source of moral distinctions;
especially when we reflect, that no objection can be raised against
this hypothesis in one case, which will not extend to all cases.
Justice is certainly approved of, for no other reason than because it
has a tendency to the public good; and the public good is indifferent
to us, except so far as sympathy interests us in it. We may presume the
like with regard to all the other virtues, which have a like tendency
to the public good. They must derive all their merit from our sympathy
with those who reap any advantage from them; as the virtues, which have
a tendency to the good of the person possessed of them, derive their
merit from our sympathy with him.
Most people will readily allow, that the useful qualities of the
mind are virtuous, because of their utility. This way of thinking is
so natural, and occurs on so many occasions, that few will make any
scruple of admitting it. Now, this being once admitted, the force of
sympathy must necessarily be acknowledged. Virtue is considered as
means to an end. Means to an end are only valued so far as the end is
valued. But the happiness of strangers affects us by sympathy alone.
To that principle, therefore, we are to ascribe the sentiment of
approbation which arises from the survey of all those virtues that are
useful to society, or to the person possessed of them. These form the
most considerable part of morality.
Were it proper, in such a subject, to bribe the reader's assent, or
employ any thing but solid argument, we are here abundantly supplied
with topics to engage the affections. All lovers of virtue (and such
we all are in speculation, however we may degenerate in practice)
must certainly be pleased to see moral distinctions derived from so
noble a source, which gives us a just notion both of the _generosity_
and _capacity_ of human nature. It requires but very little knowledge
of human affairs to perceive, that a sense of morals is a principle
inherent in the soul, and one of the most powerful that enters into
the composition. But this sense must certainly acquire new force when,
reflecting on itself, it approves of those principles from whence it is
derived, and finds nothing but what is great and good in its rise and
origin. Those who resolve the sense of morals into original instincts
of the human mind, may defend the cause of virtue with sufficient
authority, but want the advantage which those possess who account for
that sense by an extensive sympathy with mankind. According to their
system, not only virtue must be approved of, but also the sense of
virtue: and not only that sense, but also the principles from whence
it is derived. So that nothing is presented on any side but what is
laudable and good.
This observation may be extended to justice, and the other virtues of
that kind. Though justice be artificial, the sense of its morality is
natural. 'Tis the combination of men in a system of conduct, which
renders any act of justice beneficial to society. But when once it has
that tendency, we _naturally_ approve of it; and if we did not so,
'tis impossible any combination or convention could ever produce that
sentiment.
Most of the inventions of men are subject to change. They depend upon
humour and caprice. They have a vogue for a time, and then sink into
oblivion. It may perhaps be apprehended, that if justice were allowed
to be a human invention, it must be placed on the same footing. But the
cases are widely different. The interest on which justice is founded is
the greatest imaginable, and extends to all times and places. It cannot
possibly be served by any other invention. It is obvious, and discovers
itself on the very first formation of society. All these causes render
the rules of justice steadfast and immutable; at least, as immutable
as human nature. And if they were founded on original instincts, could
they have any greater stability?
The same system may help us to form a just notion of the _happiness_,
as well as of the _dignity_ of virtue, and may interest every principle
of our nature in the embracing and cherishing that noble quality. Who
indeed does not feel an accession of alacrity in his pursuits of
knowledge and ability of every kind, when he considers, that besides
the advantages which immediately result from these acquisitions, they
also give him a new lustre in the eyes of mankind, and are universally
attended with esteem and approbation? And who can think any advantages
of fortune a sufficient compensation for the least breach of the
_social_ virtues, when he considers, that not only his character with
regard to others, but also his peace and inward satisfaction entirely
depend upon his strict observance of them; and that a mind will never
be able to bear its own survey, that has been wanting in its parts to
mankind and society? But I forbear insisting on this subject. Such
reflections require a work apart, very different from the genius of
the present. The anatomist ought never to emulate the painter; nor
in his accurate dissections and portraitures of the smaller parts of
the human body, pretend to give his figures any graceful and engaging
attitude or expression. There is even something hideous, or at least
minute, in the views of things which he presents; and 'tis necessary
the objects should be set more at a distance, and be more covered
up from sight, to make them engaging to the eye and imagination. An
anatomist, however, is admirably fitted to give advice to a painter;
and 'tis even impracticable to excel in the latter art, without the
assistance of the former. We must have an exact knowledge of the parts,
their situation and connection, before we can design with any elegance
or correctness. And thus the most abstract speculations concerning
human nature, however cold and unentertaining, become subservient to
_practical morality_; and may render this latter science more correct
in its precepts, and more persuasive in its exhortations.
See Appendix at the end of the volume.
DIALOGUES
CONCERNING
NATURAL RELIGION
PAMPHILUS TO HERMIPPUS.
It has been remarked, my Hermippus, that though the ancient
philosophers conveyed most of their instruction in the form of
dialogue, this method of composition has been little practised in
later ages, and has seldom succeeded in the hands of those who have
attempted it. Accurate and regular argument, indeed, such as is now
expected of philosophical inquirers, naturally throws a man into the
methodical and didactic manner; where he can immediately, without
preparation, explain the point at which he aims; and thence proceed,
without interruption, to deduce the proofs on which it is established.
To deliver a *SYSTEM in conversation, scarcely appears natural; and
while the dialogue-writer desires, by departing from the direct style
of composition, to give a freer air to his performance, and avoid the
appearance of _Author_ and _Reader_, he is apt to run into a worse
inconvenience, and convey the image of _Pedagogue_ and _Pupil_. Or,
if he carries on the dispute in the natural spirit of good company,
by throwing in a variety of topics, and preserving a proper balance
among the speakers, he often loses so much time in preparations and
transitions, that the reader will scarcely think himself compensated,
by all the graces of dialogue, for the order, brevity and precision,
which are sacrificed to them.
There are some subjects, however, to which dialogue-writing is
peculiarly adapted, and where it is still preferable to the direct and
simple method of composition.
Any point of doctrine, which is so _obvious_ that it scarcely admits
of dispute, but at the same time so _important_ that it cannot be too
often inculcated, seems to require some such method of handling it;
where the novelty of the manner may compensate the triteness of the
subject; where the vivacity of conversation may enforce the precept;
and where the variety of lights, presented by various personages and
characters, may appear neither tedious nor redundant.
Any question of philosophy, on the other hand, which is so _obscure_
and _uncertain_, that human reason, can reach no fixed determination
with regard to it; if it should be treated at all, seems to lead us
naturally into the style of dialogue and conversation. Reasonable men
may be allowed to differ, where no one can reasonably be positive:
Opposite sentiments, even without any decision, afford an agreeable
amusement; and if the subject be curious and interesting, the book
carries us, in a manner, into company; and unites the two greatest and
purest pleasures of human life, study and society.
Happily, these circumstances are all to be found in the subject of
NATURAL RELIGION. What truth so obvious, so certain, as the being of a
God, which the most ignorant ages have acknowledged, for which the most
refined geniuses have ambitiously striven to produce new proofs and
arguments? What truth so important as this, which is the ground of all
our hopes, the surest foundation of morality, the firmest support of
society, and the only principle which ought never to be a moment absent
from our thoughts and meditations? But, in treating of this obvious and
important truth, what obscure questions occur concerning the nature of
that Divine Being, his attributes, his decrees, his plan of providence?
These have been always subjected to the disputations of men; concerning
these human reason has not reached any certain determination. But
these are topics so interesting, that we cannot restrain our restless
inquiry with regard to them; though nothing but doubt, uncertainty
and contradiction, have as yet been the result of our most accurate
researches.
This I had lately occasion to observe, while I passed, as usual,
part of the summer season with Cleanthes, and was present at those
conversations of his with Philo and Demea, of which I gave you lately
some imperfect account. Your curiosity, you then told me, was so
excited, that I must, of necessity, enter into a more exact detail of
their reasonings, and display those various systems which they advanced
with regard to so delicate a subject as that of natural religion. The
remarkable contrast in their characters still farther raised your
expectations; while you opposed the accurate philosophical turn of
Cleanthes to the careless scepticism of Philo, or compared either of
their dispositions with the rigid inflexible orthodoxy of Demea. My
youth rendered me a mere auditor of their disputes; and that curiosity,
natural to the early season of life, has so deeply imprinted in my
memory the whole chain and connexion of their arguments, that, I hope,
I shall not omit or confound any considerable part of them in the
recital.
PART I.
After I joined the company, whom I found sitting in Cleanthes's
library, Demea paid Cleanthes some compliments on the great care
which he took of my education, and on his unwearied perseverance and
constancy in all his friendships. The father of Pamphilus, said he, was
your intimate friend: The son is your pupil; and may indeed be regarded
as your adopted son, were we to judge by the pains which you bestow in
conveying to him every useful branch of literature and science. You
are no more wanting, I am persuaded, in prudence than in industry. I
shall, therefore, communicate to you a maxim, which I have observed
with regard to my own children, that I may learn how far it agrees with
your practice. The method I follow in their education is founded on
the saying of an ancient, 'That students of philosophy ought first to
learn logics, then ethics, next physics, last of all the nature of the
gods.'[1] This science of natural theology, according to him, being the
most profound and abstruse of any, required the maturest judgment in
its students; and none but a mind enriched with all the other sciences,
can safely be intrusted with it.
Are you so late, says Philo, in teaching your children the principles
of religion? Is there no danger of their neglecting, or rejecting
altogether those opinions of which they have heard so little during
the whole course of their education? It is only as a science, replied
Demea, subjected to human reasoning and disputation, that I postpone
the study of Natural Theology. To season their minds with early piety,
is my chief care; and by continual precept and instruction, and I hope
too by example, I imprint deeply on their tender minds an habitual
reverence for all the principles of religion. While they pass through
every other science, I still remark the uncertainty of each part;
the eternal disputations of men; the obscurity of all philosophy;
and the strange, ridiculous conclusions, which some of the greatest
geniuses have derived from the principles of mere human reason. Having
thus tamed their mind to a proper submission and self-diffidence, I
have no longer any scruple of opening to them the greatest mysteries
of religion; nor apprehend any danger from that assuming arrogance
of philosophy, which may lead them to reject the most established
doctrines and opinions.