or uneasiness, excite not any degree, or but a small one, of the passion
of love or hatred towards the actors; it will be necessary to shew,
wherein consists the pleasure or uneasiness of many objects, which we
find by experience to produce these passions.
According to the preceding system there is always required a double
relation of impressions and ideas betwixt the cause and effect, in order
to produce either love or hatred. But though this be universally true,
it is remarkable that the passion of love may be excited by only one
relation of a different kind, viz, betwixt ourselves and the object; or
more properly speaking, that this relation is always attended with both
the others. Whoever is united to us by any connexion is always sure of a
share of our love, proportioned to the connexion, without enquiring into
his other qualities. Thus the relation of blood produces the strongest
tie the mind is capable of in the love of parents to their children, and
a lesser degree of the same affection, as the relation lessens. Nor
has consanguinity alone this effect, but any other relation without
exception. We love our country-men, our neighbours, those of the same
trade, profession, and even name with ourselves. Every one of these
relations is esteemed some tie, and gives a title to a share of our
affection.
There is another phænomenon, which is parallel to this, viz, that
acquaintance, without any kind of relation, gives rise to love and
kindness. When we have contracted a habitude and intimacy with any
person; though in frequenting his company we have not been able to
discover any very valuable quality, of which he is possessed; yet we
cannot forebear preferring him to strangers, of whose superior merit we
are fully convinced. These two phaenomena of the effects of relation
and acquaintance will give mutual light to each other, and may be both
explained from the same principle.
Those, who take a pleasure in declaiming against human nature, have
observed, that man is altogether insufficient to support himself; and
that when you loosen all the holds, which he has of external objects,
he immediately drops down into the deepest melancholy and despair.
From this, say they, proceeds that continual search after amusement
in gaming, in hunting, in business; by which we endeavour to forget
ourselves, and excite our spirits from the languid state, into which
they fall, when not sustained by some brisk and lively emotion. To
this method of thinking I so far agree, that I own the mind to be
insufficient, of itself, to its own entertainment, and that it naturally
seeks after foreign objects, which may produce a lively sensation, and
agitate the spirits. On the appearance of such an object it awakes, as
it were, from a dream: The blood flows with a new tide: The heart is
elevated: And the whole man acquires a vigour, which he cannot command
in his solitary and calm moments. Hence company is naturally so
rejoicing, as presenting the liveliest of all objects, viz, a rational
and thinking Being like ourselves, who communicates to us all the
actions of his mind; makes us privy to his inmost sentiments and
affections; and lets us see, in the very instant of their production,
all the emotions, which are caused by any object. Every lively idea
is agreeable, but especially that of a passion, because such an idea
becomes a kind of passion, and gives a more sensible agitation to the
mind, than any other image or conception.
This being once admitted, all the rest is easy. For as the company
of strangers is agreeable to us for a short time, by inlivening our
thought; so the company of our relations and acquaintance must be
peculiarly agreeable, because it has this effect in a greater degree,
and is of more durable influence. Whatever is related to us is conceived
in a lively manner by the easy transition from ourselves to the related
object. Custom also, or acquaintance facilitates the entrance, and
strengthens the conception of any object. The first case is parallel to
our reasonings from cause and effect; the second to education. And as
reasoning and education concur only in producing a lively and strong
idea of any object; so is this the only particular, which is common
to relation and acquaintance. This must, therefore, be the influencing
quality, by which they produce all their common effects; and love or
kindness being one of these effects, it must be from the force and
liveliness of conception, that the passion is derived. Such a conception
is peculiarly agreeable, and makes us have an affectionate regard for
every thing, that produces it, when the proper object of kindness and
goodwill.
It is obvious, that people associate together according to their
particular tempers and dispositions, and that men of gay tempers
naturally love the gay; as the serious bear an affection to the serious.
This not only happens, where they remark this resemblance betwixt
themselves and others, but also by the natural course of the
disposition, and by a certain sympathy, which always arises betwixt
similar characters. Where they remark the resemblance, it operates after
the manner of a relation, by producing a connexion of ideas. Where
they do not remark it, it operates by some other principle; and if this
latter principle be similar to the former, it must be received as a
confirmation of the foregoing reasoning.
The idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us, and conveys a
sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any other object, to which we
are related. This lively idea changes by degrees into a real impression;
these two kinds of perception being in a great measure the same, and
differing only in their degrees of force and vivacity. But this change
must be produced with the greater ease, that our natural temper gives
us a propensity to the same impression, which we observe in others,
and makes it arise upon any slight occasion. In that case resemblance
converts the idea into an impression, not only by means of the relation,
and by transfusing the original vivacity into the related idea; but also
by presenting such materials as take fire from the least spark. And as
in both cases a love or affection arises from the resemblance, we may
learn that a sympathy with others is agreeable only by giving an emotion
to the spirits, since an easy sympathy and correspondent emotions are
alone common to RELATION, ACQUAINTANCE, and RESEMBLANCE.
The great propensity men have to pride may be considered as another
similar phænomenon. It often happens, that after we have lived a
considerable time in any city; however at first it might be disagreeable
to us; yet as we become familiar with the objects, and contact an
acquaintance, though merely with the streets and buildings, the aversion
diminishes by degrees, and at last changes into the opposite passion.
The mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view of objects, to which
it is accustomed, and naturally prefers them to others, which, though,
perhaps, in themselves more valuable, are less known to it. By the same
quality of the mind we are seduced into a good opinion of ourselves, and
of all objects, that belong to us. They appear in a stronger light; are
more agreeable; and consequently fitter subjects of pride and vanity,
than any other.
It may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear our
acquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty curious phaenomena,
which attend it. It is easy to remark in common life, that children
esteem their relation to their mother to be weakened, in a great
measure, by her second marriage, and no longer regard her with the same
eye, as if she had continued in her state of widow-hood. Nor does this
happen only, when they have felt any inconveniences from her second
marriage, or when her husband is much her inferior; but even without
any of these considerations, and merely because she has become part of
another family. This also takes place with regard to the second marriage
of a father; but in a much less degree: And it is certain the ties of
blood are not so much loosened in the latter case as by the marriage of
a mother. These two phaenomena are remarkable in themselves, but much
more so when compared.
In order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, it is
requisite, not only that the imagination be conveyed from one to the
other by resemblance, contiguity or causation, but also that it return
back from the second to the first with the same ease and facility. At
first sight this may seem a necessary and unavoidable consequence. If
one object resemble another, the latter object must necessarily resemble
the former. If one object be the cause of another, the second object is
effect to its cause. It is the same case with contiguity: And therefore
the relation being always reciprocal, it may be thought, that the return
of the imagination from the second to the first must also, in every
case, be equally natural as its passage from the first to the second.
But upon farther examination we shall easily discover our mistake.
For supposing the second object, beside its reciprocal relation to the
first, to have also a strong relation to a third object; in that case
the thought, passing from the first object to the second, returns not
back with the same facility, though the relation continues the same; but
is readily carryed on to the third object, by means of the new relation,
which presents itself, and gives a new impulse to the imagination. This
new relation, therefore, weakens the tie betwixt the first and second
objects. The fancy is by its very nature wavering and inconstant; and
considers always two objects as more strongly related together, where it
finds the passage equally easy both in going and returning, than where
the transition is easy only in one of these motions. The double motion
is a kind of a double tie, and binds the objects together in the closest
and most intimate manner.
The second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation of child and
parent; and that relation suffices to convey my imagination from myself
to her with the greatest ease and facility. But after the imagination is
arrived at this point of view, it finds its object to be surrounded with
so many other relations, which challenge its regard, that it knows not
which to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch upon. The
ties of interest and duty bind her to another family, and prevent that
return of the fancy from her to myself, which is necessary to support
the union. The thought has no longer the vibration, requisite to set it
perfectly at ease, and indulge its inclination to change. It goes with
facility, but returns with difficulty; and by that interruption finds
the relation much weakened from what it would be were the passage open
and easy on both sides.
Now to give a reason, why this effect follows not in the same degree
upon the second marriage of a father: we may reflect on what has been
proved already, that though the imagination goes easily from the view of
a lesser object to that of a greater, yet it returns not with the same
facility from the greater to the less. When my imagination goes from
myself to my father, it passes not so readily from him to his second
wife, nor considers him as entering into a different family, but as
continuing the head of that family, of which I am myself a part. His
superiority prevents the easy transition of the thought from him to his
spouse, but keeps the passage still open for a return to myself along
the same relation of child and parent. He is not sunk in the new
relation he acquires; so that the double motion or vibration of thought
is still easy and natural. By this indulgence of the fancy in its
inconstancy, the tie of child and parent still preserves its full force
and influence. A mother thinks not her tie to a son weakened, because it
is shared with her husband: Nor a son his with a parent, because it is
shared with a brother. The third object is here related to the first, as
well as to the second; so that the imagination goes and comes along all
of them with the greatest facility.
SECT. V OF OUR ESTEEM FOR THE RICH AND POWERFUL
Nothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for any person, than
his power and riches; or a contempt, than his poverty and meanness:
And as esteem and contempt are to be considered as species of love and
hatred, it will be proper in this place to explain these phaenomena.
Here it happens most fortunately, that the greatest difficulty is not to
discover a principle capable of producing such an effect, but to choose
the chief and predominant among several, that present themselves. The
satisfaction we take in the riches of others, and the esteem we have for
the possessors may be ascribed to three different causes. FIRST, To the
objects they possess; such as houses, gardens, equipages; which, being
agreeable in themselves, necessarily produce a sentiment of pleasure
in every one; that either considers or surveys them. SECONDLY, To the
expectation of advantage from the rich and powerful by our sharing
their possessions. THIRDLY, To sympathy, which makes us partake of the
satisfaction of every one, that approaches us. All these principles may
concur in producing the present phænomenon. The question is, to which
of them we ought principally to ascribe it.
It is certain, that the first principle, viz, the reflection on
agreeable objects, has a greater influence, than what, at first sight,
we may be apt to imagine. We seldom reflect on what is beautiful or
ugly, agreeable or disagreeable, without an emotion of pleasure or
uneasiness; and though these sensations appear not much in our common
indolent way of thinking, it is easy, either in reading or conversation,
to discover them. Men of wit always turn the discourse on subjects that
are entertaining to the imagination; and poets never present any objects
but such as are of the same nature. Mr Philips has chosen CYDER for the
subject of an excellent poem. Beer would not have been so proper, as
being neither so agreeable to the taste nor eye. But he would certainly
have preferred wine to either of them, could his native country have
afforded him so agreeable a liquor. We may learn from thence, that
every thing, which is agreeable to the senses, is also in some measure
agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to the thought an image of that
satisfaction, which it gives by its real application to the bodily
organs.
But though these reasons may induce us to comprehend this delicacy of
the imagination among the causes of the respect, which we pay the
rich and powerful, there are many other reasons, that may keep us from
regarding it as the sole or principal. For as the ideas of pleasure
can have an influence only by means of their vivacity, which makes them
approach impressions, it is most natural those ideas should have that
influence, which are favoured by most circumstances, and have a natural
tendency to become strong and lively; such as our ideas of the passions
and sensations of any human creature. Every human creature resembles
ourselves, and by that means has an advantage above any other object, in
operating on the imagination.
Besides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the great
influence which all relations have upon it, we shall easily be
persuaded, that however the ideas of the pleasant wines, music, or
gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may become lively and agreeable, the
fancy will not confine itself to them, but will carry its view to the
related objects; and in particular, to the person, who possesses them.
And this is the more natural, that the pleasant idea or image produces
here a passion towards the person, by means of his relation to the
object; so that it is unavoidable but he must enter into the original
conception, since he makes the object of the derivative passion: But if
he enters into the original conception, and is considered as enjoying
these agreeable objects, it is sympathy, which is properly the cause of
the affection; and the third principle is more powerful and universal
than the first.
Add to this, that riches and power alone, even though unemployed,
naturally cause esteem and respect: And consequently these passions
arise not from the idea of any beautiful or agreeable objects. It is
true; money implies a kind of representation of such objects, by the
power it affords of obtaining them; and for that reason may still be
esteemed proper to convey those agreeable images, which may give rise
to the passion. But as this prospect is very distant, it is more natural
for us to take a contiguous object, viz, the satisfaction, which this
power affords the person, who is possest of it. And of this we shall be
farther satisfyed, if we consider, that riches represent the goods of
life, only by means of the will; which employs them; and therefore imply
in their very nature an idea of the person, and cannot be considered
without a kind of sympathy with his sensations and enjoyments.
This we may confirm by a reflection, which to some will, perhaps,
appear too subtile and refined. I have already observed, that power,
as distinguished from its exercise, has either no meaning at all, or
is nothing but a possibility or probability of existence; by which any
object approaches to reality, and has a sensible influence on the mind.
I have also observed, that this approach, by an illusion of the fancy,
appears much greater, when we ourselves are possest of the power, than
when it is enjoyed by another; and that in the former case the objects
seem to touch upon the very verge of reality, and convey almost an equal
satisfaction, as if actually in our possession. Now I assert, that where
we esteem a person upon account of his riches, we must enter into this
sentiment of the proprietor, and that without such a sympathy the idea
of the agreeable objects, which they give him the power to produce,
would have but a feeble influence upon us. An avaricious man is
respected for his money, though he scarce is possest of a power; that
is, there scarce is a probability or even possibility of his employing
it in the acquisition of the pleasures and conveniences of life. To
himself alone this power seems perfect and entire; and therefore we must
receive his sentiments by sympathy, before we can have a strong intense
idea of these enjoyments, or esteem him upon account of them.
Thus we have found, that the first principle, viz, the agreeable idea of
those objects, which riches afford the enjoyment of; resolves itself in
a great measure into the third, and becomes a sympathy with the person
we esteem or love. Let us now examine the second principle, viz, the
agreeable expectation of advantage, and see what force we may justly
attribute to it.
It is obvious, that though riches and authority undoubtedly give
their owner a power of doing us service, yet this power is not to be
considered as on the same footing with that, which they afford him, of
pleasing himself, and satisfying his own appetites. Self-love approaches
the power and exercise very near each other in the latter case; but
in order to produce a similar effect in the former, we must suppose a
friendship and good-will to be conjoined with the riches. Without that
circumstance it is difficult to conceive on what we can found our hope
of advantage from the riches of others, though there is nothing more
certain, than that we naturally esteem and respect the rich, even before
we discover in them any such favourable disposition towards us.
But I carry this farther, and observe, not only that we respect the rich
and powerful, where they shew no inclination to serve us, but also when
we lie so much out of the sphere of their activity, that they cannot
even be supposed to be endowed with that power. Prisoners of war are
always treated with a respect suitable to their condition; and it is
certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any person.
If birth and quality enter for a share, this still affords us an
argument of the same kind. For what is it we call a man of birth,
but one who is descended from a long succession of rich and powerful
ancestors, and who acquires our esteem by his relation to persons whom
we esteem? His ancestors, therefore, though dead, are respected, in some
measure, on account of their riches, and consequently without any kind
of expectation.
But not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to find instances
of this disinterested esteem for riches, let us observe with a
little attention those phaenomena that occur to us in common life and
conversation. A man, who is himself of a competent fortune, upon coming
into a company of strangers, naturally treats them with different
degrees of respect and deference, as he is informed of their different
fortunes and conditions; though it is impossible he can ever propose,
and perhaps would not accept of any advantage from them. A traveller is
always admitted into company, and meets with civility, in proportion as
his train and equipage speak him a man of great or moderate fortune. In
short, the different ranks of men are, in a great measure, regulated
by riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as inferiors,
strangers as well as acquaintance.
There is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn from the influence
of general rules. It may be pretended, that being accustomed to expect
succour and protection from the rich and powerful, and to esteem them
upon that account, we extend the same sentiments to those, who
resemble them in their fortune, but from whom we can never hope for any
advantage. The general rule still prevails, and by giving a bent to the
imagination draws along the passion, in the same manner as if its proper
object were real and existent.
But that this principle does not here take place, will easily appear,
if we consider, that in order to establish a general rule, and extend it
beyond its proper bounds, there is required a certain uniformity in
our experience, and a great superiority of those instances, which are
conformable to the rule, above the contrary. But here the case is quite
otherwise. Of a hundred men of credit and fortune I meet with, there
is not, perhaps, one from whom I can expect advantage; so that it is
impossible any custom can ever prevail in the present case.
Upon the whole, there remains nothing, which can give us an esteem for
power and riches, and a contempt for meanness and poverty, except the
principle of sympathy, by which we enter into the sentiments of the
rich and poor, and partake of their pleasure and uneasiness. Riches give
satisfaction to their possessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to
the beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea resembling
the original impression in force and vivacity. This agreeable idea or
impression is connected with love, which is an agreeable passion. It
proceeds from a thinking conscious being, which is the very object of
love. From this relation of impressions, and identity of ideas, the
passion arises, according to my hypothesis.
The best method of reconciling us to this opinion is to take a general
survey of the universe, and observe the force of sympathy through the
whole animal creation, and the easy communication of sentiments from one
thinking being to another. In all creatures, that prey not upon others,
and are not agitated with violent passions, there appears a remarkable
desire of company, which associates them together, without any
advantages they can ever propose to reap from their union. This is still
more conspicuous in man, as being the creature of the universe, who
has the most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by the most
advantages. We can form no wish, which has not a reference to society.
A perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can suffer.
Every pleasure languishes when enjoyed a-part from company, and every
pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. Whatever other passions we may
be actuated by; pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust;
the soul or animating principle of them all is sympathy; nor would
they have any force, were we to abstract entirely from the thoughts and
sentiments of others. Let all the powers and elements of nature conspire
to serve and obey one man: Let the sun rise and set at his command: The
sea and rivers roll as he pleases, and the earth furnish spontaneously
whatever may be useful or agreeable to him: He will still be miserable,
till you give him some one person at least, with whom he may share his
happiness, and whose esteem and friendship he may enjoy.
This conclusion from a general view of human nature, we may confirm by
particular instances, wherein the force of sympathy is very remarkable.
Most kinds of beauty are derived from this origin; and though our first
object be some senseless inanimate piece of matter, it is seldom we rest
there, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational
creatures. A man, who shews us any house or building, takes particular
care among other things to point out the convenience of the apartments,
the advantages of their situation, and the little room lost in the
stairs, antichambers and passages; and indeed it is evident, the chief
part of the beauty consists in these particulars. The observation of
convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a beauty. But after
what manner does it give pleasure? It is certain our own interest is
not in the least concerned; and as this is a beauty of interest, not of
form, so to speak, it must delight us merely by communication, and by
our sympathizing with the proprietor of the lodging. We enter into his
interest by the force of imagination, and feel the same satisfaction,
that the objects naturally occasion in him.
This observation extends to tables, chairs, scritoires, chimneys,
coaches, sadles, ploughs, and indeed to every work of art; it being an
universal rule, that their beauty is chiefly derived from their utility,
and from their fitness for that purpose, to which they are destined.
But this is an advantage, that concerns only the owner, nor is there any
thing but sympathy, which can interest the spectator.
It is evident, that nothing renders a field more agreeable than its
fertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament or situation will
be able to equal this beauty. It is the same case with particular trees
and plants, as with the field on which they grow. I know not but a
plain, overgrown with furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful
as a hill covered with vines or olive-trees; though it will never appear
so to one, who is acquainted with the value of each. But this is a
beauty merely of imagination, and has no foundation in what appears to
the senses. Fertility and value have a plain reference to use; and
that to riches, joy, and plenty; in which though we have no hope of
partaking, yet we enter into them by the vivacity of the fancy, and
share them, in some measure, with the proprietor.
There is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of ballancing the
figures, and placing them with the greatest exactness on their proper
centers of gravity. A figure, which is not justly ballanced, is
disagreeable; and that because it conveys the ideas of its fall, of
harm, and of pain: Which ideas are painful, when by sympathy they
acquire any degree of force and vivacity.
Add to this, that the principal part of personal beauty is an air
of health and vigour, and such a construction of members as promises
strength and activity. This idea of beauty cannot be accounted for but
by sympathy.
In general we may remark, that the minds of men are mirrors to one
another, not only because they reflect each others emotions, but also
because those rays of passions, sentiments and opinions may be often
reverberated, and may decay away by insensible degrees. Thus the
pleasure, which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown
upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem; which sentiments again,
being perceived and sympathized with, encrease the pleasure of the
possessor; and being once more reflected, become a new foundation for
pleasure and esteem in the beholder. There is certainly an original
satisfaction in riches derived from that power, which they bestow, of
enjoying all the pleasures of life; and as this is their very nature and
essence, it must be the first source of all the passions, which arise
from them. One of the most considerable of these passions is that of
love or esteem in others, which therefore proceeds from a sympathy with
the pleasure of the possessor. But the possessor has also a secondary
satisfaction in riches arising from the love and esteem he acquires by
them, and this satisfaction is nothing but a second reflexion of
that original pleasure, which proceeded from himself. This secondary
satisfaction or vanity becomes one of the principal recommendations
of riches, and is the chief reason, why we either desire them for
ourselves, or esteem them in others. Here then is a third rebound of the
original pleasure; after which it is difficult to distinguish the images
and reflexions, by reason of their faintness and confusion.
SECT. VI OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER
Ideas may be compared to the extension and solidity of matter, and
impressions, especially reflective ones, to colours, tastes, smells and
other sensible qualities. Ideas never admit of a total union, but are
endowed with a kind of impenetrability, by which they exclude each
other, and are capable of forming a compound by their conjunction,
not by their mixture. On the other hand, impressions and passions are
susceptible of an entire union; and like colours, may be blended so
perfectly together, that each of them may lose itself, and contribute
only to vary that uniform impression, which arises from the whole. Some
of the most curious phaenomena of the human mind are derived from this
property of the passions.
In examining those ingredients, which are capable of uniting with love
and hatred, I begin to be sensible, in some measure, of a misfortune,
that has attended every system of philosophy, with which the world has
been yet acquainted. It is commonly found, that in accounting for the
operations of nature by any particular hypothesis; among a number
of experiments, that quadrate exactly with the principles we would
endeavour to establish; there is always some phænomenon, which is more
stubborn, and will not so easily bend to our purpose. We need not be
surprized, that this should happen in natural philosophy. The essence
and composition of external bodies are so obscure, that we must
necessarily, in our reasonings, or rather conjectures concerning
them, involve ourselves in contradictions and absurdities. But as
the perceptions of the mind are perfectly known, and I have used all
imaginable caution in forming conclusions concerning them, I have always
hoped to keep clear of those contradictions, which have attended every
other system. Accordingly the difficulty, which I have at present in
my eye, is nowise contrary to my system; but only departs a little from
that simplicity, which has been hitherto its principal force and beauty.
The passions of love and hatred are always followed by, or rather
conjoined with benevolence and anger. It is this conjunction, which
chiefly distinguishes these affections from pride and humility. For
pride and humility are pure emotions in the soul, unattended with any
desire, and not immediately exciting us to action. But love and hatred
are not compleated within themselves, nor rest in that emotion, which
they produce, but carry the mind to something farther. Love is always
followed by a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an
aversion to his misery: As hatred produces a desire of the misery and
an aversion to the happiness of the person hated. So remarkable a
difference betwixt these two sets of passions of pride and humility,
love and hatred, which in so many other particulars correspond to each
other, merits our attention.
The conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and hatred may be
accounted for by two different hypotheses. The first is, that love and
hatred have not only a cause, which excites them, viz, pleasure and
pain; and an object, to which they are directed, viz, a person or
thinking being; but likewise an end, which they endeavour to attain,
viz, the happiness or misery of the person beloved or hated; all which
views, mixing together, make only one passion. According to this system,
love is nothing but the desire of happiness to another person, and
hatred that of misery. The desire and aversion constitute the very
nature of love and hatred. They are not only inseparable but the same.
But this is evidently contrary to experience. For though it is certain
we never love any person without desiring his happiness, nor hate any
without wishing his misery, yet these desires arise only upon the ideas
of the happiness or misery of our friend or enemy being presented by the
imagination, and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred. They
are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affections, but not
the only ones. The passions may express themselves in a hundred ways,
and may subsist a considerable time, without our reflecting on the
happiness or misery of their objects; which clearly proves, that these
desires are not the same with love and hatred, nor make any essential
part of them.
We may, therefore, infer, that benevolence and anger are passions
different from love and hatred, and only conjoined with them, by the
original constitution of the mind. As nature has given to the body
certain appetites and inclinations, which she encreases, diminishes,
or changes according to the situation of the fluids or solids; she
has proceeded in the same manner with the mind. According as we are
possessed with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of the happiness
or misery of the person, who is the object of these passions, arises
in the mind, and varies with each variation of these opposite passions.
This order of things, abstractedly considered, is not necessary. Love
and hatred might have been unattended with any such desires, or their
particular connexion might have been entirely reversed. If nature had
so pleased, love might have had the same effect as hatred, and hatred as
love. I see no contradiction in supposing a desire of producing misery
annexed to love, and of happiness to hatred. If the sensation of the
passion and desire be opposite, nature could have altered the sensation
without altering the tendency of the desire, and by that means made them
compatible with each other.
SECT. VII OF COMPASSION
But though the desire of the happiness or misery of others, according to
the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary and original instinct
implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on many
occasions, and may arise from secondary principles. Pity is a concern
for, and malice a joy in the misery of others, without any friendship or
enmity to occasion this concern or joy. We pity even strangers, and
such as are perfectly indifferent to us: And if our ill-will to another
proceed from any harm or injury, it is not, properly speaking, malice,
but revenge. But if we examine these affections of pity and malice we
shall find them to be secondary ones, arising from original affections,
which are varied by some particular turn of thought and imagination.
It will be easy to explain the passion of pity, from the precedent
reasoning concerning sympathy. We have a lively idea of every thing
related to us. All human creatures are related to us by resemblance.
Their persons, therefore, their interests, their passions, their pains
and pleasures must strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an
emotion similar to the original one; since a lively idea is easily
converted into an impression. If this be true in general, it must be
more so of affliction and sorrow. These have always a stronger and more
lasting influence than any pleasure or enjoyment.
A spectator of a tragedy passes through a long train of grief, terror,
indignation, and other affections, which the poet represents in the
persons he introduces. As many tragedies end happily, and no excellent
one can be composed without some reverses of fortune, the spectator must
sympathize with all these changes, and receive the fictitious joy as
well as every other passion. Unless, therefore, it be asserted, that
every distinct passion is communicated by a distinct original
quality, and is not derived from the general principle of sympathy
above-explained, it must be allowed, that all of them arise from
that principle. To except any one in particular must appear highly
unreasonable. As they are all first present in the mind of one person,
and afterwards appear in the mind of another; and as the manner of their
appearance, first as an idea, then as an impression, is in every case
the same, the transition must arise from the same principle. I am
at least sure, that this method of reasoning would be considered as
certain, either in natural philosophy or common life.
Add to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on the contiguity,
and even sight of the object; which is a proof, that it is derived from
the imagination. Not to mention that women and children are most subject
to pity, as being most guided by that faculty. The same infirmity, which
makes them faint at the sight of a naked sword, though in the hands of
their best friend, makes them pity extremely those, whom they find in
any grief or affliction. Those philosophers, who derive this passion
from I know not what subtile reflections on the instability of fortune,
and our being liable to the same miseries we behold, will find this
observation contrary to them among a great many others, which it were
easy to produce.
There remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable phænomenon
of this passion; which is, that the communicated passion of sympathy
sometimes acquires strength from the weakness of its original, and even
arises by a transition from affections, which have no existence.
Thus when a person obtains any honourable office, or inherits a great
fortune, we are always the more rejoiced for his prosperity, the
less sense he seems to have of it, and the greater equanimity and
indifference he shews in its enjoyment. In like manner a man, who is
not dejected by misfortunes, is the more lamented on account of his
patience; and if that virtue extends so far as utterly to remove all
sense of uneasiness, it still farther encreases our compassion. When a
person of merit falls into what is vulgarly esteemed a great misfortune,
we form a notion of his condition; and carrying our fancy from the cause
to the usual effect, first conceive a lively idea of his sorrow, and
then feel an impression of it, entirely over-looking that greatness of
mind, which elevates him above such emotions, or only considering it so
far as to encrease our admiration, love and tenderness for him. We find
from experience, that such a degree of passion is usually connected with
such a misfortune; and though there be an exception in the present
case, yet the imagination is affected by the general rule, and makes
us conceive a lively idea of the passion, or rather feel the passion
itself, in the same manner, as if the person were really actuated by it.
From the same principles we blush for the conduct of those, who behave
themselves foolishly before us; and that though they shew no sense of
shame, nor seem in the least conscious of their folly. All this proceeds
from sympathy; but it is of a partial kind, and views its objects only
on one side, without considering the other, which has a contrary effect,
and would entirely destroy that emotion, which arises from the first
appearance.
We have also instances, wherein an indifference and insensibility under
misfortune encreases our concern for the misfortunate, even though
the indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity. It is an
aggravation of a murder, that it was committed upon persons asleep and
in perfect security; as historians readily observe of any infant prince,
who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is the more worthy
of compassion the less sensible he is of his miserable condition. As we
ourselves are here acquainted with the wretched situation of the person,
it gives us a lively idea and sensation of sorrow, which is the passion
that generally attends it; and this idea becomes still more lively,
and the sensation more violent by a contrast with that security and
indifference, which we observe in the person himself. A contrast of any
kind never fails to affect the imagination, especially when presented by
the subject; and it is on the imagination that pity entirely depends.[6]
[6] To prevent all ambiguity, I must observe, that where I oppose the
imagination to the memory, I mean in general the faculty that presents our
fainter ideas. In all other places, and particularly when it is opposed to
the understanding, I understand the same faculty, excluding only our
demonstrative and probable reasonings.
SECT. VIII OF MALICE AND ENVY
We must now proceed to account for the passion of malice, which imitates
the effects of hatred, as pity does those of love; and gives us a joy in
the sufferings and miseries of others, without any offence or injury on
their part.
So little are men governed by reason in their sentiments and opinions,
that they always judge more of objects by comparison than from their
intrinsic worth and value. When the mind considers, or is accustomed
to, any degree of perfection, whatever falls short of it, though really
esteemable, has notwithstanding the same effect upon the passions; as
what is defective and ill. This is an original quality of the soul, and
similar to what we have every day experience of in our bodies. Let a man
heat one hand and cool the other; the same water will, at the same time,
seem both hot and cold, according to the disposition of the different
organs. A small degree of any quality, succeeding a greater, produces
the same sensation, as if less than it really is, and even sometimes as
the opposite quality. Any gentle pain, that follows a violent one, seems
as nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure; as on the other hand a violent
pain, succeeding a gentle one, is doubly grievous and uneasy.
This no one can doubt of with regard to our passions and sensations. But
there may arise some difficulty with regard to our ideas and objects.
When an object augments or diminishes to the eye or imagination from a
comparison with others, the image and idea of the object are still the
same, and are equally extended in the retina, and in the brain or organ
of perception. The eyes refract the rays of light, and the optic nerves
convey the images to the brain in the very same manner, whether a great
or small object has preceded; nor does even the imagination alter the
dimensions of its object on account of a comparison with others. The
question then is, how from the same impression and the same idea we can
form such different judgments concerning the same object, and at one
time admire its bulk, and at another despise its littleness. This
variation in our judgments must certainly proceed from a variation
in some perception; but as the variation lies not in the immediate
impression or idea of the object, it must lie in some other impression,
that accompanies it.
In order to explain this matter, I shall just touch upon two
principles, one of which shall be more fully explained in the progress
of this treatise; the other has been already accounted for. I believe
it may safely be established for a general maxim, that no object is
presented to the senses, nor image formed in the fancy, but what is
accompanyed with some emotion or movement of spirits proportioned to
it; and however custom may make us insensible of this sensation and
cause us to confound it with the object or idea, it will be easy, by
careful and exact experiments, to separate and distinguish them. For to
instance only in the cases of extension and number; it is evident, that
any very bulky object, such as the ocean, an extended plain, a vast
chain of mountains, a wide forest: or any very numerous collection of
objects, such as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in the mind a
sensible emotion; and that the admiration, which arises on the
appearance of such objects, is one of the most lively pleasures, which
human nature is capable of enjoying. Now as this admiration encreases
or diminishes by the encrease or diminution of the objects, we may
conclude, according to our foregoing[7] principles, that it is a
compound effect, proceeding from the conjunction of the several
effects, which arise from each part of the cause. Every part, then, of
extension, and every unite of number has a separate emotion attending
it; and though that emotion be not always agreeable, yet by its
conjunction with others, and by its agitating the spirits to a just
pitch, it contributes to the production of admiration, which is always
agreeable. If this be allowed with respect to extension and number, we
can make no difficulty with respect to virtue and vice, wit and folly,
riches and poverty, happiness and misery, and other objects of that
kind, which are always attended with an evident emotion.
[7] Book I. Part III. Sect. 15.
The second principle I shall take notice of is that of our adherence
to general rules; which has such a mighty influence on the actions and
understanding, and is able to impose on the very senses. When an object
is found by experience to be always accompanyed with another; whenever
the first object appears, though changed in very material circumstances;
we naturally fly to the conception of the second, and form an idea of it
in as lively and strong a manner, as if we had infered its existence by
the justest and most authentic conclusion of our understanding. Nothing
can undeceive us, not even our senses, which, instead of correcting this
false judgment, are often perverted by it, and seem to authorize its
errors.
The conclusion I draw from these two principles, joined to the influence
of comparison above-mentioned, is very short and decisive. Every object
is attended with some emotion proportioned to it; a great object with
a great emotion, a small object with a small emotion. A great object,
therefore, succeeding a small one makes a great emotion succeed a small
one. Now a great emotion succeeding a small one becomes still greater,
and rises beyond its ordinary proportion. But as there is a certain
degree of an emotion, which commonly attends every magnitude of an
object; when the emotion encreases, we naturally imagine that the object
has likewise encreased. The effect conveys our view to its usual cause,
a certain degree of emotion to a certain magnitude of the object; nor
do we consider, that comparison may change the emotion without changing
anything in the object. Those who are acquainted with the metaphysical
part of optics and know how we transfer the judgments and conclusions
of the understanding to the senses, will easily conceive this whole
operation.
But leaving this new discovery of an impression, that secretly attends
every idea; we must at least allow of that principle, from whence the
discovery arose, that objects appear greater or less by a comparison
with others. We have so many instances of this, that it is impossible
we can dispute its veracity; and it is from this principle I derive the
passions of malice and envy.
It is evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction or
uneasiness from reflecting on our own condition and circumstances,
in proportion as they appear more or less fortunate or unhappy,
in proportion to the degrees of riches, and power, and merit, and
reputation, which we think ourselves possest of. Now as we seldom judge
of objects from their intrinsic value, but form our notions of them
from a comparison with other objects; it follows, that according as we
observe a greater or less share of happiness or misery in others,
we must make an estimate of our own, and feel a consequent pain or
pleasure. The misery of another gives us a more lively idea of our
happiness, and his happiness of our misery. The former, therefore,
produces delight; and the latter uneasiness.
Here then is a kind of pity reverst, or contrary sensations arising
in the beholder, from those which are felt by the person, whom he
considers. In general we may observe, that in all kinds of comparison an
object makes us always receive from another, to which it is compared,
a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and
immediate survey. A small object makes a great one appear still greater.
A great object makes a little one appear less. Deformity of itself
produces uneasiness; but makes us receive new pleasure by its contrast
with a beautiful object, whose beauty is augmented by it; as on the
other hand, beauty, which of itself produces pleasure, makes us receive
a new pain by the contrast with any thing ugly, whose deformity it
augments. The case, therefore, must be the same with happiness and
misery. The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us
pleasure, and therefore produces pain when compared with our own. His
pain, considered in itself, is painful to us, but augments the idea of
our own happiness, and gives us pleasure.
Nor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reverst sensation from
the happiness and misery of others; since we find the same comparison
may give us a kind of malice against ourselves, and make us rejoice for
our pains, and grieve for our pleasures. Thus the prospect of past pain
is agreeable, when we are satisfyed with our present condition; as on
the other hand our past pleasures give us uneasiness, when we enjoy
nothing at present equal to them. The comparison being the same, as when
we reflect on the sentiments of others, must be attended with the same
effects.
Nay a person may extend this malice against himself, even to his present
fortune, and carry it so far as designedly to seek affliction, and
encrease his pains and sorrows. This may happen upon two occasions.
First, Upon the distress and misfortune of a friend, or person dear to
him. Secondly, Upon the feeling any remorses for a crime, of which he
has been guilty. It is from the principle of comparison that both these
irregular appetites for evil arise. A person, who indulges himself
in any pleasure, while his friend lies under affliction, feels the
reflected uneasiness from his friend more sensibly by a comparison with
the original pleasure, which he himself enjoys. This contrast, indeed,
ought also to inliven the present pleasure. But as grief is here
supposed to be the predominant passion, every addition falls to that
side, and is swallowed up in it, without operating in the least upon the
contrary affection. It is the same case with those penances, which men
inflict on themselves for their past sins and failings. When a criminal
reflects on the punishment he deserves, the idea of it is magnifyed by a
comparison with his present ease and satisfaction; which forces him,
in a manner, to seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so disagreeable a
contrast.
This reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well as of malice.
The only difference betwixt these passions lies in this, that envy
is excited by some present enjoyment of another, which by comparison
diminishes our idea of our own: Whereas malice is the unprovoked desire
of producing evil to another, in order to reap a pleasure from the
comparison. The enjoyment, which is the object of envy, is commonly
superior to our own. A superiority naturally seems to overshade us,
and presents a disagreeable comparison. But even in the case of an
inferiority, we still desire a greater distance, in order to augment,
still more the idea of ourself. When this distance diminishes, the
comparison is less to our advantage; and consequently gives us less
pleasure, and is even disagreeable. Hence arises that species of envy,
which men feel, when they perceive their inferiors approaching or
overtaking them in the pursuits of glory or happiness. In this envy we
may see the effects of comparison twice repeated. A man, who compares
himself to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the comparison: And
when the inferiority decreases by the elevation of the inferior, what
should only have been a decrease of pleasure, becomes a real pain, by a
new comparison with its preceding condition.
It is worthy of observation concerning that envy, which arises from a
superiority in others, that it is not the great disproportion betwixt
ourself and another, which produces it; but on the contrary, our
proximity. A common soldier bears no such envy to his general as to
his sergeant or corporal; nor does an eminent writer meet with so great
jealousy in common hackney scribblers, as in authors, that more
nearly approach him. It may, indeed, be thought, that the greater
the disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from the
comparison. But we may consider on the other hand, that the great
disproportion cuts off the relation, and either keeps us from comparing
ourselves with what is remote from us, or diminishes the effects of
the comparison. Resemblance and proximity always produce a relation of
ideas; and where you destroy these ties, however other accidents may
bring two ideas together; as they have no bond or connecting quality
to join them in the imagination; it is impossible they can remain long
united, or have any considerable influence on each other.
I have observed in considering the nature of ambition, that the great
feel a double pleasure in authority from the comparison of their own
condition with that of their slaves; and that this comparison has a
double influence, because it is natural, and presented by the subject.
When the fancy, in the comparison of objects, passes not easily from the
one object to the other, the action of the mind is, in a great measure,
broke, and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins, as it
were, upon a new footing. The impression, which attends every object,
seems not greater in that case by succeeding a less of the same kind;
but these two impressions are distinct, and produce their distinct
effects, without any communication together. The want of relation in the
ideas breaks the relation of the impressions, and by such a separation
prevents their mutual operation and influence.
To confirm this we may observe, that the proximity in the degree of
merit is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, but must be assisted
by other relations. A poet is not apt to envy a philosopher, or a poet
of a different kind, of a different nation, or of a different age. All
these differences prevent or weaken the comparison, and consequently the
passion.
This too is the reason, why all objects appear great or little, merely
by a comparison with those of the same species. A mountain neither
magnifies nor diminishes a horse in our eyes; but when a Flemish and
a Welsh horse are seen together, the one appears greater and the other
less, than when viewed apart.
From the same principle we may account for that remark of historians,
that any party in a civil war always choose to call in a foreign enemy
at any hazard rather than submit to their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin
applies this remark to the wars in Italy, where the relations betwixt
the different states are, properly speaking, nothing but of name,
language, and contiguity. Yet even these relations, when joined with
superiority, by making the comparison more natural, make it likewise
more grievous, and cause men to search for some other superiority, which
may be attended with no relation, and by that means may have a less
sensible influence on the imagination. The mind quickly perceives its
several advantages and disadvantages; and finding its situation to be
most uneasy, where superiority is conjoined with other relations, seeks
its repose as much as possible, by their separation, and by breaking
that association of ideas, which renders the comparison so much more
natural and efficacious. When it cannot break the association, it feels
a stronger desire to remove the superiority; and this is the reason why
travellers are commonly so lavish of their praises to the Chinese and
Persians, at the same time, that they depreciate those neighbouring
nations, which may stand upon a foot of rivalship with their native
country.
These examples from history and common experience are rich and curious;
but we may find parallel ones in the arts, which are no less remarkable.
should an author compose a treatise, of which one part was serious and
profound, another light and humorous, every one would condemn so strange
a mixture, and would accuse him of the neglect of all rules of art and
criticism. These rules of art are founded on the qualities of human
nature; and the quality of human nature, which requires a consistency in
every performance is that which renders the mind incapable of passing
in a moment from one passion and disposition to a quite different
one. Yet this makes us not blame Mr Prior for joining his Alma and his
Solomon in the same volume; though that admirable poet has succeeded
perfectly well in the gaiety of the one, as well as in the melancholy
of the other. Even supposing the reader should peruse these two
compositions without any interval, he would feel little or no difficulty
in the change of passions: Why, but because he considers these
performances as entirely different, and by this break in the ideas,
breaks the progress of the affections, and hinders the one from
influencing or contradicting the other?
An heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture, would be
monstrous; though we place two pictures of so opposite a character in
the same chamber, and even close by each other, without any scruple or
difficulty.
In a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by comparison, or by
the passions they separately produce, unless they be united together
by some relation, which may cause an easy transition of the ideas, and
consequently of the emotions or impressions, attending the ideas; and
may preserve the one impression in the passage of the imagination to the
object of the other. This principle is very remarkable, because it is
analogous to what we have observed both concerning the understanding and
the passions. Suppose two objects to be presented to me, which are not
connected by any kind of relation. Suppose that each of these objects
separately produces a passion; and that these two passions are in
themselves contrary: We find from experience, that the want of relation
in the objects or ideas hinders the natural contrariety of the passions,
and that the break in the transition of the thought removes the
affections from each other, and prevents their opposition. It is the
same case with comparison; and from both these phaenomena we may safely
conclude, that the relation of ideas must forward the transition of
impressions; since its absence alone is able to prevent it, and to
separate what naturally should have operated upon each other. When the
absence of an object or quality removes any usual or natural effect, we
may certainly conclude that its presence contributes to the production
of the effect.
SECT. IX OF THE MIXTURE OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER WITH COMPASSION AND MALICE
Thus we have endeavoured to account for pity and malice. Both these
affections arise from the imagination, according to the light, in which
it places its object. When our fancy considers directly the sentiments
of others, and enters deep into them, it makes us sensible of all the
passions it surveys, but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow. On
the contrary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our own, we
feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, viz. a joy from
the grief of others, and a grief from their joy. But these are only the
first foundations of the affections of pity and malice. Other passions
are afterwards confounded with them. There is always a mixture of love
or tenderness with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice. But it must
be confessed, that this mixture seems at first sight to be contradictory
to my system. For as pity is an uneasiness, and malice a joy, arising
from the misery of others, pity should naturally, as in all other cases,
produce hatred; and malice, love. This contradiction I endeavour to
reconcile, after the following manner.
In order to cause a transition of passions, there is required a double
relation of impressions and ideas, nor is one relation sufficient to
produce this effect. But that we may understand the full force of this
double relation, we must consider, that it is not the present sensation
alone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of
any passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning to
the end. One impression may be related to another, not only when
their sensations are resembling, as we have all along supposed in the
preceding cases; but also when their impulses or directions are similar
and correspondent. This cannot take place with regard to pride and
humility; because these are only pure sensations, without any direction
or tendency to action. We are, therefore, to look for instances of
this peculiar relation of impressions only in such affections, as are
attended with a certain appetite or desire; such as those of love and
hatred.
Benevolence or the appetite, which attends love, is a desire of the
happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery; as anger
or the appetite, which attends hatred, is a desire of the misery of the
person hated, and an aversion to his happiness. A desire, therefore,
of the happiness of another, and aversion to his misery, are similar to
benevolence; and a desire of his misery and aversion to his happiness
are correspondent to anger. Now pity is a desire of happiness to
another, and aversion to his misery; as malice is the contrary appetite.
Pity, then, is related to benevolence; and malice to anger: And as
benevolence has been already found to be connected with love, by a
natural and original quality, and anger with hatred; it is by this chain
the passions of pity and malice are connected with love and hatred.
This hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. A man, who from any
motives has entertained a resolution of performing an action, naturally
runs into every other view or motive, which may fortify that resolution,
and give it authority and influence on the mind. To confirm us in any
design, we search for motives drawn from interest, from honour, from
duty. What wonder, then, that pity and benevolence, malice, and anger,
being the same desires arising from different principles, should so
totally mix together as to be undistinguishable? As to the connexion
betwixt benevolence and love, anger and hatred, being original and
primary, it admits of no difficulty.
We may add to this another experiment, viz, that benevolence and anger,
and consequently love and hatred, arise when our happiness or misery
have any dependance on the happiness or misery of another person,
without any farther relation. I doubt not but this experiment will
appear so singular as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it.
Suppose, that two persons of the same trade should seek employment in a
town, that is not able to maintain both, it is plain the success of one
is perfectly incompatible with that of the other, and that whatever is
for the interest of either is contrary to that of his rival, and so vice
versa. Suppose again, that two merchants, though living in different
parts of the world, should enter into co-partnership together, the
advantage or loss of one becomes immediately the advantage or loss of
his partner, and the same fortune necessarily attends both. Now it
is evident, that in the first case, hatred always follows upon the
contrariety of interests; as in the second, love arises from their
union. Let us consider to what principle we can ascribe these passions.
It is plain they arise not from the double relations of impressions and
ideas, if we regard only the present sensation. For takeing the first
case of rivalship; though the pleasure and advantage of an antagonist
necessarily causes my pain and loss, yet to counter-ballance this, his
pain and loss causes my pleasure and advantage; and supposing him to be
unsuccessful, I may by this means receive from him a superior degree of
satisfaction. In the same manner the success of a partner rejoices me,
but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal proportion; and it
is easy to imagine, that the latter sentiment may in many cases
preponderate. But whether the fortune of a rival or partner be good or
bad, I always hate the former and love the latter.
This love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or connexion
betwixt us; in the same manner as I love a brother or countryman. A
rival has almost as close a relation to me as a partner. For as the
pleasure of the latter causes my pleasure, and his pain my pain; so the
pleasure of the former causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. The
connexion, then, of cause and effect is the same in both cases; and
if in the one case, the cause and effect have a farther relation of
resemblance, they have that of contrariety in the other; which, being
also a species of resemblance, leaves the matter pretty equal.
The only explication, then, we can give of this phænomenon is derived
from that principle of a parallel direction above-mentioned. Our concern
for our own interest gives us a pleasure in the pleasure, and a pain in
the pain of a partner, after the same manner as by sympathy we feel a
sensation correspondent to those, which appear in any person, who is
present with us. On the other hand, the same concern for our interest
makes us feel a pain in the pleasure, and a pleasure in the pain of a
rival; and in short the same contrariety of sentiments as arises from
comparison and malice. Since, therefore, a parallel direction of the
affections, proceeding from interest, can give rise to benevolence or
anger, no wonder the same parallel direction, derived from sympathy and
from comparison, should have the same effect.
In general we may observe, that it is impossible to do good to others,
from whatever motive, without feeling some touches of kindness and
good-will towards them; as the injuries we do, not only cause hatred in
the person, who suffers them, but even in ourselves. These phaenomena,
indeed, may in part be accounted for from other principles.
But here there occurs a considerable objection, which it will be
necessary to examine before we proceed any farther. I have endeavoured
to prove, that power and riches, or poverty and meanness; which give
rise to love or hatred, without producing any original pleasure or
uneasiness; operate upon us by means of a secondary sensation derived
from a sympathy with that pain or satisfaction, which they produce in
the person, who possesses them. From a sympathy with his pleasure there
arises love; from that with his uneasiness, hatred. But it is a maxim,
which I have just now established, and which is absolutely necessary to
the explication of the phaenomena of pity and malice, that it is not the
present sensation or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the
character of any passion, but the general bent or tendency of it from
the beginning to the end. For this reason, pity or a sympathy with
pain produces love, and that because it interests us in the fortunes of
others, good or bad, and gives us a secondary sensation correspondent
to the primary; in which it has the same influence with love and
benevolence. Since then this rule holds good in one case, why does it
not prevail throughout, and why does sympathy in uneasiness ever produce
any passion beside good-will and kindness? Is it becoming a philosopher
to alter his method of reasoning, and run from one principle to its
contrary, according to the particular phænomenon, which he would
explain?
I have mentioned two different causes, from which a transition of
passion may arise, viz, a double relation of ideas and impressions, and
what is similar to it, a conformity in the tendency and direction of any
two desires, which arise from different principles. Now I assert, that
when a sympathy with uneasiness is weak, it produces hatred or contempt
by the former cause; when strong, it produces love or tenderness by the
latter. This is the solution of the foregoing difficulty, which seems so
urgent; and this is a principle founded on such evident arguments, that
we ought to have established it, even though it were not necessary to
the explication of any phænomenon.
It is certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the present
moment, but that we often feel by communication the pains and pleasures
of others, which are not in being, and which we only anticipate by the
force of imagination. For supposing I saw a person perfectly unknown to
me, who, while asleep in the fields, was in danger of being trod under
foot by horses, I should immediately run to his assistance; and in this
I should be actuated by the same principle of sympathy, which makes me
concerned for the present sorrows of a stranger. The bare mention of
this is sufficient. Sympathy being nothing but a lively idea converted
into an impression, it is evident, that, in considering the future
possible or probable condition of any person, we may enter into it with
so vivid a conception as to make it our own concern; and by that means
be sensible of pains and pleasures, which neither belong to ourselves,
nor at the present instant have any real existence.
But however we may look forward to the future in sympathizing with any
person, the extending of our sympathy depends in a great measure upon
our sense of his present condition. It is a great effort of imagination,
to form such lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as
to feel these very sentiments; but it is impossible we could extend this
sympathy to the future, without being aided by some circumstance in
the present, which strikes upon us in a lively manner. When the present
misery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the
conception is not confined merely to its immediate object, but diffuses
its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion
of all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or
future; possible, probable or certain. By means of this lively notion
I am interested in them; take part with them; and feel a sympathetic
motion in my breast, conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I
diminish the vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that of the
related ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at
the fountain. By this diminution I destroy the future prospect, which is
necessary to interest me perfectly in the fortune of another. I may
feel the present impression, but carry my sympathy no farther, and never
transfuse the force of the first conception into my ideas of the related
objects. If it be another's misery, which is presented in this feeble
manner, I receive it by communication, and am affected with all the
passions related to it: But as I am not so much interested as to
concern myself in his good fortune, as well as his bad, I never feel the
extensive sympathy, nor the passions related to it.
Now in order to know what passions are related to these different kinds
of sympathy, we must consider, that benevolence is an original pleasure
arising from the pleasure of the person beloved, and a pain proceeding
from his pain: From which correspondence of impressions there arises a
subsequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his pain. In order,
then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence, it is requisite
we should feel these double impressions, correspondent to those of the
person, whom we consider; nor is any one of them alone sufficient for
that purpose. When we sympathize only with one impression, and that
a painful one, this sympathy is related to anger and to hatred, upon
account of the uneasiness it conveys to us. But as the extensive or
limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first sympathy; it
follows, that the passion of love or hatred depends upon the same
principle. A strong impression, when communicated, gives a double
tendency of the passions; which is related to benevolence and love by a
similarity of direction; however painful the first impression might have
been. A weak impression, that is painful, is related to anger and hatred
by the resemblance of sensations. Benevolence, therefore, arises from a
great degree of misery, or any degree strongly sympathized with: Hatred
or contempt from a small degree, or one weakly sympathized with; which
is the principle I intended to prove and explain.
Nor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle, but also
experience. A certain degree of poverty produces contempt; but a degree
beyond causes compassion and good-will. We may under-value a peasant
or servant; but when the misery of a beggar appears very great, or
is painted in very lively colours, we sympathize with him in his
afflictions; and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and
benevolence. The same object causes contrary passions according to its
different degrees. The passions, therefore, must depend upon principles,
that operate in such certain degrees, according to my hypothesis. The
encrease of the sympathy has evidently the same effect as the encrease
of the misery.
A barren or desolate country always seems ugly and disagreeable, and
commonly inspires us with contempt for the inhabitants. This deformity,
however, proceeds in a great measure from a sympathy with the
inhabitants, as has been already observed; but it is only a weak
one, and reaches no farther than the immediate sensation, which is
disagreeable. The view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent sentiments;
because we there enter so deep into the interests of the miserable
inhabitants, as to wish for their prosperity, as well as feel their
adversity.
But though the force of the impression generally produces pity and
benevolence, it is certain, that by being carryed too far it ceases
to have that effect. This, perhaps, may be worth our notice. When the
uneasiness is either small in itself, or remote from us, it engages not
the imagination, nor is able to convey an equal concern for the future
and contingent good, as for the present and real evil Upon its acquiring
greater force, we become so interested in the concerns of the person, as
to be sensible both of his good and had fortune; and from that compleat
sympathy there arises pity and benevolence. But it will easily be
imagined, that where the present evil strikes with more than ordinary
force, it may entirely engage our attention, and prevent that double
sympathy, above-mentioned. Thus we find, that though every one, but
especially women, are apt to contract a kindness for criminals, who go
to the scaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly handsome and
wellshaped; yet one, who is present at the cruel execution of the rack,
feels no such tender emotions; but is in a manner overcome with horror,
and has no leisure to temper this uneasy sensation by any opposite
sympathy.
But the instance, which makes the most clearly for my hypothesis, is
that wherein by a change of the objects we separate the double sympathy
even from a midling degree of the passion; in which case we find, that
pity, instead of producing love and tenderness as usual, always gives
rise to the contrary affection. When we observe a person in misfortunes,
we are affected with pity and love; but the author of that misfortune
becomes the object of our strongest hatred, and is the more detested in
proportion to the degree of our compassion. Now for what reason should
the same passion of pity produce love to the person, who suffers the
misfortune, and hatred to the person, who causes it; unless it be
because in the latter case the author bears a relation only to the
misfortune; whereas in considering the sufferer we carry our view on
every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well as are sensible of his
affliction?
I. shall just observe, before I leave the present subject, that this
phænomenon of the double sympathy, and its tendency to cause love, may
contribute to the production of the kindness, which we naturally bear
our relations and acquaintance. Custom and relation make us enter deeply
into the sentiments of others; and whatever fortune we suppose to attend
them, is rendered present to us by the imagination, and operates as if
originally our own. We rejoice in their pleasures, and grieve for their
sorrows, merely from the force of sympathy. Nothing that concerns them
is indifferent to us; and as this correspondence of sentiments is the
natural attendant of love, it readily produces that affection.
SECT. X OF RESPECT AND CONTEMPT
There now remains only to explain the passion of respect and contempt,
along with the amorous affection, in order to understand all the
passions which have any mixture of love or hatred. Let us begin with
respect and contempt.
In considering the qualities and circumstances of others, we may either
regard them as they really are in themselves; or may make a comparison
betwixt them and our own qualities and circumstances; or may join these
two methods of consideration. The good qualities of others, from the
first point of view, produce love; from the second, humility; and from
the third, respect; which is a mixture of these two passions. Their
bad qualities, after the same manner, cause either hatred, or pride, or
contempt, according to the light in which we survey them.
That there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of humility
in respect, is, I think, too evident, from their very feeling or
appearance, to require any particular proof. That this mixture arises
from a tacit comparison of the person contemned or respected with
ourselves is no less evident. The same man may cause either respect,
love, or contempt by his condition and talents, according as the person,
who considers him, from his inferior becomes his equal or superior. In
changing the point of view, though the object may remain the same,
its proportion to ourselves entirely alters; which is the cause of an
alteration in the passions. These passions, therefore, arise from our
observing the proportion; that is, from a comparison.
I have already observed, that the mind has a much stronger propensity
to pride than to humility, and have endeavoured, from the principles
of human nature, to assign a cause for this phænomenon. Whether my
reasoning be received or not, the phænomenon is undisputed, and appears
in many instances. Among the rest, it is the reason why there is a much
greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility in respect, and
why we are more elevated with the view of one below us, than mortifyed
with the presence of one above us. Contempt or scorn has so strong a
tincture of pride, that there scarce is any other passion discernable:
Whereas in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable ingredient
than humility. The passion of vanity is so prompt, that it rouzes at the
least call; while humility requires a stronger impulse to make it exert
itself.
But here it may reasonably be asked, why this mixture takes place only
in some cases, and appears not on every occasion. All those objects,
which cause love, when placed on another person, are the causes of
pride, when transfered to ourselves; and consequently ought to be causes
of humility, as well as love, while they belong to others, and are only
compared to those, which we ourselves possess. In like manner every
quality, which, by being directly considered, produces hatred, ought
always to give rise to pride by comparison, and by a mixture of these
passions of hatred and pride ought to excite contempt or scorn. The
difficulty then is, why any objects ever cause pure love or hatred, and
produce not always the mixt passions of respect and contempt.
I have supposed all along, that the passions of love and pride, and
those of humility and hatred are similar in their sensations, and that
the two former are always agreeable, and the two latter painful.
But though this be universally true, it is observable, that the two
agreeable, as well as the two painful passions, have some difference,
and even contrarieties, which distinguish them. Nothing invigorates and
exalts the mind equally with pride and vanity; though at the same time
love or tenderness is rather found to weaken and infeeble it. The same
difference is observable betwixt the uneasy passions. Anger and hatred
bestow a new force on all our thoughts and actions; while humility and
shame deject and discourage us. Of these qualities of the passions, it
will be necessary to form a distinct idea. Let us remember, that pride
and hatred invigorate the soul; and love and humility infeeble it.
From this it follows, that though the conformity betwixt love and hatred
in the agreeableness of their sensation makes them always be excited by
the same objects, yet this other contrariety is the reason, why they are
excited in very different degrees. Genius and learning are pleasant
and magnificent objects, and by both these circumstances are adapted to
pride and vanity; but have a relation to love by their pleasure only.
Ignorance and simplicity are disagreeable and mean, which in the same
manner gives them a double connexion with humility, and a single one
with hatred. We may, therefore, consider it as certain, that though
the same object always produces love and pride, humility and hatred,
according to its different situations, yet it seldom produces either the
two former or the two latter passions, in the same proportion.
It is here we must seek for a solution of the difficulty
above-mentioned, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, and
does not always produce respect or contempt, by a mixture of humility
or pride. No quality in another gives rise to humility by comparison,
unless it would have produced pride by being placed in ourselves; and
vice versa no object excites pride by comparison, unless it would have
produced humility by the direct survey. This is evident, objects always
produce by comparison a sensation directly contrary to their original
one. Suppose, therefore, an object to be presented, which is peculiarly
fitted to produce love, but imperfectly to excite pride; this object,
belonging to another, gives rise directly to a great degree of love, but
to a small one of humility by comparison; and consequently that latter
passion is scarce felt in the compound, nor is able to convert the love
into respect. This is the case with good nature, good humour, facility,
generosity, beauty, and many other qualities. These have a peculiar
aptitude to produce love in others; but not so great a tendency to
excite pride in ourselves: For which reason the view of them, as
belonging to another person, produces pure love, with but a small
mixture of humility and respect. It is easy to extend the same reasoning
to the opposite passions.
Before we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to account for a
pretty curious phænomenon, viz, why we commonly keep at a distance such
as we contemn, and allow not our inferiors to approach too near even
in place and situation. It has already been observed, that almost every
kind of idea is attended with some emotion, even the ideas of number
and extension, much more those of such objects as are esteemed of
consequence in life, and fix our attention. It is not with entire
indifference we can survey either a rich man or a poor one, but must
feel some faint touches at least, of respect in the former case, and of
contempt in the latter. These two passions are contrary to each other;
but in order to make this contrariety be felt, the objects must be
someway related; otherwise the affections are totally separate and
distinct, and never encounter. The relation takes place wherever the
persons become contiguous; which is a general reason why we are uneasy
at seeing such disproportioned objects, as a rich man and a poor one, a
nobleman and a porter, in that situation.
This uneasiness, which is common to every spectator, must be more
sensible to the superior; and that because the near approach of the
inferior is regarded as a piece of ill-breeding, and shews that he is not
sensible of the disproportion, and is no way affected by it. A sense
of superiority in another breeds in all men an inclination to keep
themselves at a distance from him, and determines them to redouble the
marks of respect and reverence, when they are obliged to approach him;
and where they do not observe that conduct, it is a proof they are not
sensible of his superiority. From hence too it proceeds, that any great
difference in the degrees of any quality is called a distance by a
common metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear, is founded on
natural principles of the imagination. A great difference inclines us to
produce a distance. The ideas of distance and difference are, therefore,
connected together. Connected ideas are readily taken for each other;
and this is in general the source of the metaphor, as we shall have
occasion to observe afterwards.
SECT. XI OF THE AMOROUS PASSION, OR LOVE BETWIXT THE SEXES
Of all the compound passions, which proceed from a mixture of love and
hatred with other affections, no one better deserves our attention, than
that love, which arises betwixt the sexes, as well on account of its
force and violence, as those curious principles of philosophy, for
which it affords us an uncontestable argument. It is plain, that this
affection, in its most natural state, is derived from the conjunction
of three different impressions or passions, viz. The pleasing sensation
arising from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous
kindness or good-will. The origin of kindness from beauty may be
explained from the foregoing reasoning. The question is how the bodily
appetite is excited by it.
The appetite of generation, when confined to a certain degree, is
evidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong connexion with, all the
agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth, vanity, and kindness are all incentives
to this desire; as well as music, dancing, wine, and good cheer. On the
other hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are destructive of it.
From this quality it is easily conceived why it should be connected with
the sense of beauty.
But there is another principle that contributes to the same effect.
I have observed that the parallel direction of the desires is a real
relation, and no less than a resemblance in their sensation, produces
a connexion among them. That we may fully comprehend the extent of this
relation, we must consider, that any principal desire may be attended
with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to which if
other desires are parallel, they are by that means related to the
principal one. Thus hunger may oft be considered as the primary
inclination of the soul, and the desire of approaching the meat as the
secondary one; since it is absolutely necessary to the satisfying that
appetite. If an object, therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines
us to approach the meat, it naturally encreases our appetite; as on the
contrary, whatever inclines us to set our victuals at a distance, is
contradictory to hunger, and diminishes our inclination to them. Now
it is plain that beauty has the first effect, and deformity the second:
Which is the reason why the former gives us a keener appetite for our
victuals, and the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most savoury
dish that cookery has invented. All this is easily applicable to the
appetite for generation.
From these two relations, viz, resemblance and a parallel desire,
there arises such a connexion betwixt the sense of beauty, the bodily
appetite, and benevolence, that they become in a manner inseparable: And
we find from experience that it is indifferent which of them advances
first; since any of them is almost sure to be attended with the related
affections. One, who is inflamed with lust, feels at least a momentary
kindness towards the object of it, and at the same time fancies her more
beautiful than ordinary; as there are many, who begin with kindness and
esteem for the wit and merit of the person, and advance from that to the
other passions. But the most common species of love is that which first
arises from beauty, and afterwards diffuses itself into kindness and
into the bodily appetite. Kindness or esteem, and the appetite to
generation, are too remote to unite easily together. The one is,
perhaps, the most refined passion of the soul; the other the most gross
and vulgar. The love of beauty is placed in a just medium betwixt them,
and partakes of both their natures: From whence it proceeds, that it is
so singularly fitted to produce both.
This account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is unavoidable
on any hypothesis. The three affections, which compose this passion,
are evidently distinct, and has each of them its distinct object. It is
certain, therefore, that it is only by their relation they produce
each other. But the relation of passions is not alone sufficient. It is
likewise necessary, there should be a relation of ideas. The beauty
of one person never inspires us with love for another. This then is a
sensible proof of the double relation of impressions and ideas. From one
instance so evident as this we may form a judgment of the rest.
This may also serve in another view to illustrate what I have insisted
on concerning the origin of pride and humility, love and hatred. I have
observed, that though self be the object of the first set of passions,
and some other person of the second, yet these objects cannot alone be
the causes of the passions; as having each of them a relation to two
contrary affections, which must from the very first moment destroy
each other. Here then is the situation of the mind, as I have already
described it. It has certain organs naturally fitted to produce a
passion; that passion, when produced, naturally turns the view to a
certain object. But this not being sufficient to produce the passion,
there is required some other emotion, which by a double relation of
impressions and ideas may set these principles in action, and bestow on
them their first impulse. This situation is still more remarkable with
regard to the appetite of generation. Sex is not only the object, but
also the cause of the appetite. We not only turn our view to it, when
actuated by that appetite; but the reflecting on it suffices to excite
the appetite. But as this cause loses its force by too great frequency,
it is necessary it should be quickened by some new impulse; and that
impulse we find to arise from the beauty of the person; that is, from a
double relation of impressions and ideas. Since this double relation is
necessary where an affection has both a distinct cause, and object,
how much more so, where it has only a distinct object, without any
determinate cause?
SECT. XII OF THE LOVE AND HATRED OF ANIMALS
But to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and from their
mixtures and compositions, as they appear in man, to the same
affections, as they display themselves in brutes; we may observe, not
only that love and hatred are common to the whole sensitive creation,
but likewise that their causes, as above-explained, are of so simple a
nature, that they may easily be supposed to operate on mere animals.
There is no force of reflection or penetration required. Every thing
is conducted by springs and principles, which are not peculiar to man,
or any one species of animals. The conclusion from this is obvious in
favour of the foregoing system.
Love in animals, has not for its only object animals of the same
species, but extends itself farther, and comprehends almost every
sensible and thinking being. A dog naturally loves a man above his own
species, and very commonly meets with a return of affection.
As animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures or pains
of the imagination, they can judge of objects only by the sensible
good or evil, which they produce, and from that must regulate their
affections towards them. Accordingly we find, that by benefits or
injuries we produce their love or hatred; and that by feeding and
cherishing any animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating
and abusing him we never fail to draw on us his enmity and ill-will.
Love in beasts is not caused so much by relation, as in our species;
and that because their thoughts are not so active as to trace relations,
except in very obvious instances. Yet it is easy to remark, that on some
occasions it has a considerable influence upon them. Thus acquaintance,
which has the same effect as relation, always produces love in animals
either to men or to each other. For the same reason any likeness among
them is the source of affection. An ox confined to a park with horses,
will naturally join their company, if I may so speak, but always leaves
it to enjoy that of his own species, where he has the choice of both.
The affection of parents to their young proceeds from a peculiar
instinct in animals, as well as in our species.
It is evident, that sympathy, or the communication of passions, takes
place among animals, no less than among men. Fear, anger, courage, and
other affections are frequently communicated from one animal to another,
without their knowledge of that cause, which produced the original
passion. Grief likewise is received by sympathy; and produces almost all
the same consequences, and excites the same emotions as in our species.
The howlings and lamentations of a dog produce a sensible concern in
his fellows. And it is remarkable, that though almost all animals use in
play the same member, and nearly the same action as in fighting; a lion,
a tyger, a cat their paws; an ox his horns; a dog his teeth; a horse
his heels: Yet they most carefully avoid harming their companion,
even though they have nothing to fear from his resentment; which is
an evident proof of the sense brutes have of each other's pain and
pleasure.
Every one has observed how much more dogs are animated when they hunt in
a pack, than when they pursue their game apart; and it is evident this
can proceed from nothing but from sympathy. It is also well known to
hunters, that this effect follows in a greater degree, and even in
too great a degree, where two packs, that are strangers to each other,
are joined together. We might, perhaps, be at a loss to explain this
phænomenon, if we had not experience of a similar in ourselves.
Envy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals. They are
perhaps more common than pity; as requiring less effort of thought and
imagination.
PART III OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS
SECT. I OF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY
We come now to explain the direct passions, or the impressions, which
arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. Of this kind
are, desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear.
Of all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure, there is none more
remarkable than the WILL; and though properly speaking, it be not
comprehended among the passions, yet as the full understanding of its
nature and properties, is necessary to the explanation of them, we shall
here make it the subject of our enquiry. I desire it may be observed,
that by the will, I mean nothing but the internal impression we feel and
are conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to any new motion of our
body, or new perception of our mind. This impression, like the preceding
ones of pride and humility, love and hatred, it is impossible to define,
and needless to describe any farther; for which reason we shall cut off
all those definitions and distinctions, with which philosophers are wont
to perplex rather than dear up this question; and entering at first
upon the subject, shall examine that long disputed question concerning
liberty and necessity; which occurs so naturally in treating of the
will.
It is universally acknowledged, that the operations of external bodies
are necessary, and that in the communication of their motion, in their
attraction, and mutual cohesion, there are nor the least traces of
indifference or liberty. Every object is determined by an absolute fate
to a certain degree and direction of its motion, and can no more depart
from that precise line, in which it moves, than it can convert itself
into an angel, or spirit, or any superior substance. The actions,
therefore, of matter are to be regarded as instances of necessary
actions; and whatever is in this respect on the same footing with
matter, must be acknowledged to be necessary. That we may know whether
this be the case with the actions of the mind, we shall begin with
examining matter, and considering on what the idea of a necessity in its
operations are founded, and why we conclude one body or action to be the
infallible cause of another.
It has been observed already, that in no single instance the ultimate
connexion of any objects is discoverable, either by our senses or
reason, and that we can never penetrate so far into the essence and
construction of bodies, as to perceive the principle, on which their
mutual influence depends. It is their constant union alone, with which
we are acquainted; and it is from the constant union the necessity
arises. If objects had nor an uniform and regular conjunction with each
other, we should never arrive at any idea of cause and effect; and even
after all, the necessity, which enters into that idea, is nothing but
a determination of the mind to pass from one object to its usual
attendant, and infer the existence of one from that of the other. Here
then are two particulars, which we are to consider as essential to
necessity, viz, the constant union and the inference of the mind; and
wherever we discover these we must acknowledge a necessity. As the
actions of matter have no necessity, but what is derived from these
circumstances, and it is not by any insight into the essence of bodies
we discover their connexion, the absence of this insight, while
the union and inference remain, will never, in any case, remove the
necessity. It is the observation of the union, which produces the
inference; for which reason it might be thought sufficient, if we prove
a constant union in the actions of the mind, in order to establish the
inference, along with the necessity of these actions. But that I
may bestow a greater force on my reasoning, I shall examine these
particulars apart, and shall first prove from experience that
our actions have a constant union with our motives, tempers, and
circumstances, before I consider the inferences we draw from it.
To this end a very slight and general view of the common course of human
affairs will be sufficient. There is no light, in which we can take
them, that does nor confirm this principle. Whether we consider mankind
according to the difference of sexes, ages, governments, conditions,
or methods of education; the same uniformity and regular operation
of natural principles are discernible. Like causes still produce like
effects; in the same manner as in the mutual action of the elements and
powers of nature.
There are different trees, which regularly produce fruit, whose relish
is different from each other; and this regularity will be admitted as
an instance of necessity and causes in external bodies. But are the
products of Guienne and of Champagne more regularly different than the
sentiments, actions, and passions of the two sexes, of which the one are
distinguished by their force and maturity, the other by their delicacy
and softness?
Are the changes of our body from infancy to old age more regular and
certain than those of our mind and conduct? And would a man be more
ridiculous, who would expect that an infant of four years old will raise
a weight of three hundred pound, than one, who from a person of the
same age would look for a philosophical reasoning, or a prudent and
well-concerted action?
We must certainly allow, that the cohesion of the parts of matter arises
from natural and necessary principles, whatever difficulty we may find
in explaining them: And for a reason we must allow, that human society
is founded on like principles; and our reason in the latter case, is
better than even that in the former; because we not only observe, that
men always seek society, but can also explain the principles, on which
this universal propensity is founded. For is it more certain, that two
flat pieces of marble will unite together, than that two young savages
of different sexes will copulate? Do the children arise from this
copulation more uniformly, than does the parents care for their safety
and preservation? And after they have arrived at years of discretion
by the care of their parents, are the inconveniencies attending their
separation more certain than their foresight of these inconveniencies
and their care of avoiding them by a close union and confederacy?
The skin, pores, muscles, and nerves of a day-labourer are different
from those of a man of quality: So are his sentiments, actions and
manners. The different stations of life influence the whole fabric,
external and internal; and different stations arise necessarily, because
uniformly, from the necessary and uniform principles of human nature.
Men cannot live without society, and cannot be associated without
government. Government makes a distinction of property, and establishes
the different ranks of men. This produces industry, traffic,
manufactures, law-suits, war, leagues, alliances, voyages, travels,
cities, fleets, ports, and all those other actions and objects, which
cause such a diversity, and at the same time maintain such an uniformity
in human life.
Should a traveller, returning from a far country, tell us, that he had
seen a climate in the fiftieth degree of northern latitude, where all
the fruits ripen and come to perfection in the winter, and decay in the
summer, after the same manner as in England they are produced and decay
in the contrary seasons, he would find few so credulous as to believe
him. I am apt to think a travellar would meet with as little credit, who
should inform us of people exactly of the same character with those in
Plato's republic on the one hand, or those in Hobbes's Leviathan on the
other. There is a general course of nature in human actions, as well as
in the operations of the sun and the climate. There are also characters
peculiar to different nations and particular persons, as well as
common to mankind. The knowledge of these characters is founded on the
observation of an uniformity in the actions, that flow from them; and
this uniformity forms the very essence of necessity.
I can imagine only one way of eluding this argument, which is by denying
that uniformity of human actions, on which it is founded. As long as
actions have a constant union and connexion with the situation and
temper of the agent, however we may in words refuse to acknowledge the
necessity, we really allow the thing. Now some may, perhaps, find a
pretext to deny this regular union and connexion. For what is more
capricious than human actions? What more inconstant than the desires of
man? And what creature departs more widely, not only from right reason,
but from his own character and disposition? An hour, a moment is
sufficient to make him change from one extreme to another, and overturn
what cost the greatest pain and labour to establish. Necessity is
regular and certain. Human conduct is irregular and uncertain. The one,
therefore, proceeds not from the other.
To this I reply, that in judging of the actions of men we must proceed
upon the same maxims, as when we reason concerning external objects.
When any phaenomena are constantly and invariably conjoined together,
they acquire such a connexion in the imagination, that it passes from
one to the other, without any doubt or hesitation. But below this there
are many inferior degrees of evidence and probability, nor does one
single contrariety of experiment entirely destroy all our reasoning. The
mind ballances the contrary experiments, and deducting the inferior from
the superior, proceeds with that degree of assurance or evidence, which
remains. Even when these contrary experiments are entirely equal, we
remove not the notion of causes and necessity; but supposing that the
usual contrariety proceeds from the operation of contrary and concealed
causes, we conclude, that the chance or indifference lies only in
our judgment on account of our imperfect knowledge, not in the things
themselves, which are in every case equally necessary, though to
appearance not equally constant or certain. No union can be more
constant and certain, than that of some actions with some motives and
characters; and if in other cases the union is uncertain, it is no more
than what happens in the operations of body, nor can we conclude any
thing from the one irregularity, which will not follow equally from the
other.
It is commonly allowed that mad-men have no liberty. But were we to
judge by their actions, these have less regularity and constancy than
the actions of wise-men, and consequently are farther removed from
necessity. Our way of thinking in this particular is, therefore,
absolutely inconsistent; but is a natural consequence of these confused
ideas and undefined terms, which we so commonly make use of in our
reasonings, especially on the present subject.
We must now shew, that as the union betwixt motives and actions has the
same constancy, as that in any natural operations, so its influence
on the understanding is also the same, in determining us to infer the
existence of one from that of another. If this shall appear, there is no
known circumstance, that enters into the connexion and production of the
actions of matter, that is not to be found in all the operations of
the mind; and consequently we cannot, without a manifest absurdity,
attribute necessity to the one, and refuse into the other.
There is no philosopher, whose judgment is so riveted to this
fantastical system of liberty, as not to acknowledge the force of moral
evidence, and both in speculation and practice proceed upon it, as upon
a reasonable foundation. Now moral evidence is nothing but a conclusion
concerning the actions of men, derived from the consideration of their
motives, temper and situation. Thus when we see certain characters or
figures described upon paper, we infer that the person, who produced
them, would affirm such facts, the death of Caesar, the success of
Augustus, the cruelty of Nero; and remembering many other concurrent
testimonies we conclude, that those facts were once really existant, and
that so many men, without any interest, would never conspire to deceive
us; especially since they must, in the attempt, expose themselves to the
derision of all their contemporaries, when these facts were asserted to
be recent and universally known. The same kind of reasoning runs through
politics, war, commerce, economy, and indeed mixes itself so entirely
in human life, that it is impossible to act or subsist a moment without
having recourse to it. A prince, who imposes a tax upon his subjects,
expects their compliance. A general, who conducts an army, makes account
of a certain degree of courage. A merchant looks for fidelity and skill
in his factor or super-cargo. A man, who gives orders for his dinner,
doubts not of the obedience of his servants. In short, as nothing
more nearly interests us than our own actions and those of others, the
greatest part of our reasonings is employed in judgments concerning
them. Now I assert, that whoever reasons after this manner, does ipso
facto believe the actions of the will to arise from necessity, and that
he knows not what he means, when he denies it.
All those objects, of which we call the one cause and the other effect,
considered in themselves, are as distinct and separate from each other,
as any two things in nature, nor can we ever, by the most accurate
survey of them, infer the existence of the one from that of the other.
It is only from experience and the observation of their constant
union, that we are able to form this inference; and even after all, the
inference is nothing but the effects of custom on the imagination. We
must not here be content with saying, that the idea of cause and effect
arises from objects constantly united; but must affirm, that it is
the very same with the idea of those objects, and that the necessary
connexion is not discovered by a conclusion of the understanding, but
is merely a perception of the mind. Wherever, therefore, we observe the
same union, and wherever the union operates in the same manner upon the
belief and opinion, we have the idea of causes and necessity, though
perhaps we may avoid those expressions. Motion in one body in all past
instances, that have fallen under our observation, is followed upon
impulse by motion in another. It is impossible for the mind to penetrate
farther. From this constant union it forms the idea of cause and
effect, and by its influence feels the necessity. As there is the same
constancy, and the same influence in what we call moral evidence, I ask
no more. What remains can only be a dispute of words.
And indeed, when we consider how aptly natural and moral evidence cement
together, and form only one chain of argument betwixt them, we shall
make no scruple to allow, that they are of the same nature, and
derived from the same principles. A prisoner, who has neither money nor
interest, discovers the impossibility of his escape, as well from the
obstinacy of the goaler, as from the walls and bars with which he is
surrounded; and in all attempts for his freedom chuses rather to work
upon the stone and iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature of
the other. The same prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold, foresees
his death as certainly from the constancy and fidelity of his guards
as from the operation of the ax or wheel. His mind runs along a certain
train of ideas: The refusal of the soldiers to consent to his escape,
the action of the executioner; the separation of the head and body;
bleeding, convulsive motions, and death. Here is a connected chain of
natural causes and voluntary actions; but the mind feels no difference
betwixt them in passing from one link to another; nor is less certain of
the future event than if it were connected with the present impressions
of the memory and senses by a train of causes cemented together by what
we are pleased to call a physical necessity. The same experienced union
has the same effect on the mind, whether the united objects be motives,
volitions and actions; or figure and motion. We may change the names of
things; but their nature and their operation on the understanding never
change.
I dare be positive no one will ever endeavour to refute these reasonings
otherwise than by altering my definitions, and assigning a different
meaning to the terms of cause, and effect, and necessity, and liberty,
and chance. According to my definitions, necessity makes an essential
part of causation; and consequently liberty, by removing necessity,
removes also causes, and is the very same thing with chance. As chance
is commonly thought to imply a contradiction, and is at least directly
contrary to experience, there are always the same arguments against
liberty or free-will. If any one alters the definitions, I cannot
pretend to argue with him, until I know the meaning he assigns to these
terms.
SECT. II THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUed
I believe we may assign the three following reasons for the prevalance
of the doctrine of liberty, however absurd it may be in one sense, and
unintelligible in any other. First, After we have performed any action;
though we confess we were influenced by particular views and motives; it
is difficult for us to persuade ourselves we were governed by necessity,
and that it was utterly impossible for us to have acted otherwise; the
idea of necessity seeming to imply something of force, and violence,
and constraint, of which we are not sensible. Few are capable of
distinguishing betwixt the liberty of spontaniety, as it is called in
the schools, and the liberty of indifference; betwixt that which is
opposed to violence, and that which means a negation of necessity and
causes. The first is even the most common sense of the word; and as it
is only that species of liberty, which it concerns us to preserve,
our thoughts have been principally turned towards it, and have almost
universally confounded it with the other.