The Theory of Moral Sentiments .......................................................................................................................1

Adam Smith.............................................................................................................................................1

Part I. Of the Propriety of Action .....................................................................................................................2

Section I Of the Sense of Propriety ........................................................................................................2

Chap. I Of Sympathy ................................................................................................................2

Chap. II Of the Pleasure of mutual Sympathy ..........................................................................4

Chap. III Of the manner in which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of the

affections of other men, by their concord or dissonance with our own. ...................................6

Chap. IV The same subject continued ......................................................................................8

Chap. V Of the amiable and respectable virtues .....................................................................10

Section II Of the Degrees of the different Passions which are consistent with Propriety ..................12

Chap. I Of the Passions which take their origin from the body ..............................................13

Chap. II Of those Passions which take their origin from a particular turn or habit of the

Imagination ..............................................................................................................................15

Chap. III Of the unsocial Passions ..........................................................................................17

Chap. IV Of the social Passions ..............................................................................................19

Chap. V Of the selfish Passions ..............................................................................................20

Section III Of the Effects of Prosperity and Adversity upon the Judgment of Mankind with

regard to the Propriety of Action; and why it is more easy to obtain their Approbation in the one

state than in the other ...........................................................................................................................22

Chap. I That though our sympathy with sorrow is generally a more lively sensation than

our sympathy with joy, it commonly falls much more short of the violence of what is

naturally felt by the person principally concerned ..................................................................22

Chap. II Of the origin of Ambition, and of the distinction of Ranks .....................................26

Chap. III Of the corruption of our moral sentiments, which is occasioned by this

disposition to admire the rich and the great, and to despise or neglect persons of poor

and mean condition ..................................................................................................................31

Chap. III Of the manner in which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of the affections

Section II Of the Degrees of the different Passions which are consistent with Propriety

Chap. II Of those Passions which take their origin from a particular turn or habit of the

Section III Of the Effects of Prosperity and Adversity upon the Judgment of Mankind with regard to

the Propriety of Action; and why it is more easy to obtain their Approbation in the one state than in

Chap. I That though our sympathy with sorrow is generally a more lively sensation than our

sympathy with joy, it commonly falls much more short of the violence of what is naturally

Chap. III Of the corruption of our moral sentiments, which is occasioned by this disposition

to admire the rich and the great, and to despise or neglect persons of poor and mean

How selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some principles in his nature, which interest

him in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him, though he derives nothing from it

except the pleasure of seeing it. Of this kind is pity or compassion, the emotion which we feel for the misery

of others, when we either see it, or are made to conceive it in a very lively manner. That we often derive

sorrow from the sorrow of others, is a matter of fact too obvious to require any instances to prove it; for this

sentiment, like all the other original passions of human nature, is by no means confined to the virtuous and

humane, though they perhaps may feel it with the most exquisite sensibility. The greatest ruffian, the most

As we have no immediate experience of what other men feel, we can form no idea of the manner in which

they are affected, but by conceiving what we ourselves should feel in the like situation. Though our brother is

upon the rack, as long as we ourselves are at our ease, our senses will never inform us of what he suffers.

They never did, and never can, carry us beyond our own person, and it is by the imagination only that we can

form any conception of what are his sensations. Neither can that faculty help us to this any other way, than by

representing to us what would be our own, if we were in his case. It is the impressions of our own senses

only, not those of his, which our imaginations copy. By the imagination we place ourselves in his situation,

we conceive ourselves enduring all the same torments, we enter as it were into his body, and become in some

measure the same person with him, and thence form some idea of his sensations, and even feel something

which, though weaker in degree, is not altogether unlike them. His agonies, when they are thus brought home

to ourselves, when we have thus adopted and made them our own, begin at last to affect us, and we then

tremble and shudder at the thought of what he feels. For as to be in pain or distress of any kind excites the

most excessive sorrow, so to conceive or to imagine that we are in it, excites some degree of the same

That this is the source of our fellowfeeling for the misery of others, that it is by changing places in fancy

with the sufferer, that we come either to conceive or to be affected by what he feels, may be demonstrated by

many obvious observations, if it should not be thought sufficiently evident of itself. When we see a stroke

aimed and just ready to fall upon the leg or arm of another person, we naturally shrink and draw back our

own leg or our own arm; and when it does fall, we feel it in some measure, and are hurt by it as well as the

sufferer. The mob, when they are gazing at a dancer on the slack rope, naturally writhe and twist and balance

their own bodies, as they see him do, and as they feel that they themselves must do if in his situation. Persons

of delicate fibres and a weak constitution of body complain, that in looking on the sores and ulcers which are

exposed by beggars in the streets, they are apt to feel an itching or uneasy sensation in the correspondent part

of their own bodies. The horror which they conceive at the misery of those wretches affects that particular

part in themselves more than any other; because that horror arises from conceiving what they themselves

would suffer, if they really were the wretches whom they are looking upon, and if that particular part in

themselves was actually affected in the same miserable manner. The very force of this conception is

sufficient, in their feeble frames, to produce that itching or uneasy sensation complained of. Men of the most

robust make, observe that in looking upon sore eyes they often feel a very sensible soreness in their own,

which proceeds from the same reason; that organ being in the strongest man more delicate, than any other

Neither is it those circumstances only, which create pain or sorrow, that call forth our fellowfeeling.

Whatever is the passion which arises from any object in the person principally concerned, an analogous

emotion springs up, at the thought of his situation, in the breast of every attentive spectator. Our joy for the

deliverance of those heroes of tragedy or romance who interest us, is as sincere as our grief for their distress,

and our fellowfeeling with their misery is not more real than that with their happiness. We enter into their

gratitude towards those faithful friends who did not desert them in their difficulties; and we heartily go along

with their resentment against those perfidious traitors who injured, abandoned, or deceived them. In every

passion of which the mind of man is susceptible, the emotions of the bystander always correspond to hat, by

bringing the case home to himself, he imagines should be the sentiments of the sufferer.

Pity and compassion are words appropriated to signify our fellowfeeling with the sorrow of others.

Sympathy, though its meaning was, perhaps, originally the same, may now, however, without much

impropriety, be made use of to denote our fellowfeeling with any passion whatever.

Upon some occasions sympathy may seen to arise merely from the view of a certain emotion in another

person. The passions, upon some occasions, may seem to be transfused from one man to another,

instantaneously and antecedent to any knowledge of what excited them in the person principally concerned.

Grief and joy, for example, strongly expressed in the look and gestures of any one, at once affect the

spectator with some degree of a like painful or agreeable emotion. A smiling face is, to every body that sees

it, a cheerful object; as a sorrowful countenance, on the other hand, is a melancholy one.

This, however, does not hold universally, or with regard to every passion. There are some passions of which

the expressions excite no sort of sympathy, but before we are acquainted with what gave occasion to them,

serve rather to disgust and provoke us against them. The furious behaviour of an angry man is more likely to

exasperate us against himself than against his enemies. As we are unacquainted with his provocation, we

cannot bring his case home to ourselves, nor conceive any thing like the passions which it excites. But we

plainly see what is the situation of those with whom he is angry, and to what violence they may be exposed

from so enraged an adversary. We readily, therefore, sympathize with their fear or resentment, and are

immediately disposed to take part against the man from whom they appear to be in so much danger.

If the very appearances of grief and joy inspire us with some degree of the like emotions, it is because they

suggest to us the general idea of some good or bad fortune that has befallen the person in whom we observe

them: and in these passions this is sufficient to have some little influence upon us. The effects of grief and joy

terminate in the person who feels those emotions, of which the expressions do not, like those of resentment,

suggest to us the idea of any other person for whom we are concerned, and whose interests are opposite to

his. The general idea of good or bad fortune, therefore, creates some concern for the person who has met with

it, but the general idea of provocation excites no sympathy with the anger of the man who has received it.

Nature, it seems, teaches us to be more averse to enter into this passion, and, till informed of its cause, to be

Even our sympathy with the grief or joy of another, before we are informed of the cause of either, is always

extremely imperfect. General lamentations, which express nothing but the anguish of the sufferer, create

rather a curiosity to inquire into his situation, along with some disposition to sympathize with him, than any

actual sympathy that is very sensible. The first question which we ask is, What has befallen you? Till this be

answered, though we are uneasy both from the vague idea of his misfortune, and still more from torturing

ourselves with conjectures about what it may be, yet our fellowfeeling is not very considerable.

Sympathy, therefore, does not arise so much from the view of the passion, as from that of the situation which

excites it. We sometimes feel for another, a passion of which he himself seems to be altogether incapable;

because, when we put ourselves in his case, that passion arises in our breast from the imagination, though it

does not in his from the reality. We blush for the impudence and rudeness of another, though he himself

appears to have no sense of the impropriety of his own behaviour; because we cannot help feeling with what

Of all the calamities to which the condition of mortality exposes mankind, the loss of reason appears, to those

who have the least spark of humanity, by far the most dreadful, and they behold that last stage of human

wretchedness with deeper commiseration than any other. But the poor wretch, who is in it, laughs and sings

perhaps, and is altogether insensible of his own misery. The anguish which humanity feels, therefore, at the

sight of such an object, cannot be the reflection of any sentiment of the sufferer. The compassion of the

spectator must arise altogether from the consideration of what he himself would feel if he was reduced to the

same unhappy situation, and, what perhaps is impossible, was at the same time able to regard it with his

What are the pangs of a mother, when she hears the moanings of her infant that during the agony of disease

cannot express what it feels? In her idea of what it suffers, she joins, to its real helplessness, her own

consciousness of that helplessness, and her own terrors for the unknown consequences of its disorder; and out

of all these, forms, for her own sorrow, the most complete image of misery and distress. The infant, however,

feels only the uneasiness of the present instant, which can never be great. With regard to the future, it is

perfectly secure, and in its thoughtlessness and want of foresight, possesses an antidote against fear and

anxiety, the great tormentors of the human breast, from which reason and philosophy will, in vain, attempt to

We sympathize even with the dead, and overlooking what is of real importance in their situation, that awful

futurity which awaits them, we are chiefly affected by those circumstances which strike our senses, but can

have no influence upon their happiness. It is miserable, we think, to be deprived of the light of the sun; to be

shut out from life and conversation; to be laid in the cold grave, a prey to corruption and the reptiles of the

earth; to be no more thought of in this world, but to be obliterated, in a little time, from the affections, and

almost from the memory, of their dearest friends and relations. Surely, we imagine, we can never feel too

much for those who have suffered so dreadful a calamity. The tribute of our fellowfeeling seems doubly due

to them now, when they are in danger of being forgot by every body; and, by the vain honours which we pay

to their memory, we endeavour, for our own misery, artificially to keep alive our melancholy remembrance of

their misfortune. That our sympathy can afford them no consolation seems to be an addition to their calamity;

and to think that all we can do is unavailing, and that, what alleviates all other distress, the regret, the love,

and the lamentations of their friends, can yield no comfort to them, serves only to exasperate our sense of

their misery. The happiness of the dead, however, most assuredly, is affected by none of these circumstances;

nor is it the thought of these things which can ever disturb the profound security of their repose. The idea of

that dreary and endless melancholy, which the fancy naturally ascribes to their condition, arises altogether

from our joining to the change which has been produced upon them, our own consciousness of that change,

from our putting ourselves in their situation, and from our lodging, if I may be allowed to say so, our own

living souls in their inanimated bodies, and thence conceiving what would be our emotions in this case. It is

from this very illusion of the imagination, that the foresight of our own dissolution is so terrible to us, and

that the idea of those circumstances, which undoubtedly can give us no pain when we are dead, makes us

miserable while we are alive. And from thence arises one of the most important principles in human nature,

the dread of death, the great poison to the happiness, but the great restraint upon the injustice of mankind,

which, while it afflicts and mortifies the individual, guards and protects the society.

But whatever may be the cause of sympathy, or however it may be excited, nothing pleases us more than to

observe in other men a fellowfeeling with all the emotions of our own breast; nor are we ever so much

shocked as by the appearance of the contrary. Those who are fond of deducing all our sentiments from certain

refinements of selflove, think themselves at no loss to account, according to their own principles, both for

this pleasure and this pain. Man, say they, conscious of his own weakness, and of the need which he has for

the assistance of others, rejoices whenever he observes that they adopt his own passions, because he is then

assured of that assistance; and grieves whenever he observes the contrary, because he is then assured of their

opposition. But both the pleasure and the pain are always felt so instantaneously, and often upon such

frivolous occasions, that it seems evident that neither of them can be derived from any such selfinterested

consideration. A man is mortified when, after having endeavoured to divert the company, he looks round and

sees that nobody laughs at his jests but himself. On the contrary, the mirth of the company is highly agreeable

to him, and he regards this correspondence of their sentiments with his own as the greatest applause.

Neither does his pleasure seem to arise altogether from the additional vivacity which his mirth may receive

from sympathy with theirs, nor his pain from the disappointment he meets with when he misses this pleasure;

though both the one and the other, no doubt, do in some measure. When we have read a book or poem so

often that we can no longer find any amusement in reading it by ourselves, we can still take pleasure in

reading it to a companion. To him it has all the graces of novelty; we enter into the surprise and admiration

which it naturally excites in him, but which it is no longer capable of exciting in us; we consider all the ideas

which it presents rather in the light in which they appear to him, than in that in which they appear to

ourselves, and we are amused by sympathy with his amusement which thus enlivens our own. On the

contrary, we should be vexed if he did not seem to be entertained with it, and we could no longer take any

pleasure in reading it to him. It is the same case here. The mirth of the company, no doubt, enlivens our own

mirth, and their silence, no doubt, disappoints us. But though this may contribute both to the pleasure which

we derive from the one, and to the pain which we feel from the other, it is by no means the sole cause of

either; and this correspondence of the sentiments of others with our own appears to be a cause of pleasure,

and the want of it a cause of pain, which cannot be accounted for in this manner. The sympathy, which my

friends express with my joy, might, indeed, give me pleasure by enlivening that joy: but that which they

express with my grief could give me none, if it served only to enliven that grief. Sympathy, however,

enlivens joy and alleviates grief. It enlivens joy by presenting another source of satisfaction; and it alleviates

grief by insinuating into the heart almost the only agreeable sensation which it is at that time capable of

It is to be observed accordingly, that we are still more anxious to communicate to our friends our disagreeable

than our agreeable passions, that we derive still more satisfaction from their sympathy with the former than

from that with the latter, and that we are still more shocked by the want of it.

How are the unfortunate relieved when they have found out a person to whom they can communicate the

cause of their sorrow? Upon his sympathy they seem to disburthen themselves of a part of their distress: he is

not improperly said to share it with them. He not only feels a sorrow of the same kind with that which they

feel, but as if he had derived a part of it to himself, what he feels seems to alleviate the weight of what they

feel. Yet by relating their misfortunes they in some measure renew their grief. They awaken in their memory

the remembrance of those circumstances which occasioned their affliction. Their tears accordingly flow faster

than before, and they are apt to abandon themselves to all the weakness of sorrow. They take pleasure,

however, in all this, and, it is evident, are sensibly relieved by it; because the sweetness of his sympathy more

than compensates the bitterness of that sorrow, which, in order to excite this sympathy, they had thus

enlivened and renewed. The cruelest insult, on the contrary, which can be offered to the unfortunate, is to

appear to make light of their calamities. To seem not to be affected with the joy of our companions is but

want of politeness; but not to wear a serious countenance when they tell us their afflictions, is real and gross

Love is an agreeable; resentment, a disagreeable passion; and accordingly we are not half so anxious that our

friends should adopt our friendships, as that they should enter into our resentments. We can forgive them

though they seem to be little affected with the favours which we may have received, but lose all patience if

they seem indifferent about the injuries which may have been done to us: nor are we half so angry with them

for not entering into our gratitude, as for not sympathizing with our resentment. They can easily avoid being

friends to our friends, but can hardly avoid being enemies to those with whom we are at variance. We seldom

resent their being at enmity with the first, though upon that account we may sometimes affect to make an

awkward quarrel with them; but we quarrel with them in good earnest if they live in friendship with the last.

The agreeable passions of love and joy can satisfy and support the heart without any auxiliary pleasure. The

bitter and painful emotions of grief and resentment more strongly require the healing consolation of

As the person who is principally interested in any event is pleased with our sympathy, and hurt by the want of

it, so we, too, seem to be pleased when we are able to sympathize with him, and to be hurt when we are

unable to do so. We run not only to congratulate the successful, but to condole with the afflicted; and the

pleasure which we find in the conversation of one whom in all the passions of his heart we can entirely

sympathize with, seems to do more than compensate the painfulness of that sorrow with which the view of

his situation affects us. On the contrary, it is always disagreeable to feel that we cannot sympathize with him,

and instead of being pleased with this exemption from sympathetic pain, it hurts us to find that we cannot

share his uneasiness. If we hear a person loudly lamenting his misfortunes, which, however, upon bringing

the case home to ourselves, we feel, can produce no such violent effect upon us, we are shocked at his grief;

and, because we cannot enter into it, call it pusillanimity and weakness. It gives us the spleen, on the other

hand, to see another too happy or too much elevated, as we call it, with any little piece of good fortune. We

are disobliged even with his joy; and, because we cannot go along with it, call it levity and folly. We are even

put out of humour if our companion laughs louder or longer at a joke than we think it deserves; that is, than

When the original passions of the person principally concerned are in perfect concord with the sympathetic

emotions of the spectator, they necessarily appear to this last just and proper, and suitable to their objects;

and, on the contrary, when, upon bringing the case home to himself, he finds that they do not coincide with

what he feels, they necessarily appear to him unjust and improper, and unsuitable to the causes which excite

them. To approve of the passions of another, therefore, as suitable to their objects, is the same thing as to

observe that we entirely sympathize with them; and not to approve of them as such, is the same thing as to

observe that we do not entirely sympathize with them. The man who resents the injuries that have been done

to me, and observes that I resent them precisely as he does, necessarily approves of my resentment. The man

whose sympathy keeps time to my grief, cannot but admit the reasonableness of my sorrow. He who admires

the same poem, or the same picture, and admires them exactly as I do, must surely allow the justness of my

admiration. He who laughs at the same joke, and laughs along with me, cannot well deny the propriety of my

laughter. On the contrary, the person who, upon these different occasions, either feels no such emotion as that

which I feel, or feels none that bears any proportion to mine, cannot avoid disapproving my sentiments on

account of their dissonance with his own. If my animosity goes beyond what the indignation of my friend can

correspond to; if my grief exceeds what his most tender compassion can go along with; if my admiration is

either too high or too low to tally with his own; if I laugh loud and heartily when he only smiles, or, on the

contrary, only smile when he laughs loud and heartily; in all these cases, as soon as he comes from

considering the object, to observe how I am affected by it, according as there is more or less disproportion

between his sentiments and mine, I must incur a greater or less degree of his disapprobation: and upon all

occasions his own sentiments are the standards and measures by which he judges of mine.

To approve of another man's opinions is to adopt those opinions, and to adopt them is to approve of them. If

the same arguments which convince you convince me likewise, I necessarily approve of your conviction; and

Chap. III Of the manner in which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of the affections of other men, by their concord or dissonance with our own. 6

if they do not, I necessarily disapprove of it: neither can I possibly conceive that I should do the one without

the other. To approve or disapprove, therefore, of the opinions of others is acknowledged, by every body, to

mean no more than to observe their agreement or disagreement with our own. But this is equally the case

with regard to our approbation or disapprobation of the sentiments or passions of others.

There are, indeed, some cases in which we seem to approve without any sympathy or correspondence of

sentiments, and in which, consequently, the sentiment of approbation would seem to be different from the

perception of this coincidence. A little attention, however, will convince us that even in these cases our

approbation is ultimately founded upon a sympathy or correspondence of this kind. I shall give an instance in

things of a very frivolous nature, because in them the judgments of mankind are less apt to be perverted by

wrong systems. We may often approve of a jest, and think the laughter of the company quite just and proper,

though we ourselves do not laugh, because, perhaps, we are in a grave humour, or happen to have our

attention engaged with other objects. We have learned, however, from experience, what sort of pleasantry is

upon most occasions capable of making us laugh, and we observe that this is one of that kind. We approve,

therefore, of the laughter of the company, and feel that it is natural and suitable to its object; because, though

in our present mood we cannot easily enter into it, we are sensible that upon most occasions we should very

The same thing often happens with regard to all the other passions. A stranger passes by us in the street with

all the marks of the deepest affliction; and we are immediately told that he has just received the news of the

death of his father. It is impossible that, in this case, we should not approve of his grief. Yet it may often

happen, without any defect of humanity on our part, that, so far from entering into the violence of his sorrow,

we should scarce conceive the first movements of concern upon his account. Both he and his father, perhaps,

are entirely unknown to us, or we happen to be employed about other things, and do not take time to picture

out in our imagination the different circumstances of distress which must occur to him. We have learned,

however, from experience, that such a misfortune naturally excites such a degree of sorrow, and we know

that if we took time to consider his situation, fully and in all its parts, we should, without doubt, most

sincerely sympathize with him. It is upon the consciousness of this conditional sympathy, that our

approbation of his sorrow is founded, even in those cases in which that sympathy does not actually take

place; and the general rules derived from our preceding experience of what our sentiments would commonly

correspond with, correct upon this, as upon many other occasions, the impropriety of our present emotions.

The sentiment or affection of the heart from which any action proceeds, and upon which its whole virtue or

vice must ultimately depend, may be considered under two different aspects, or in two different relations;

first, in relation to the cause which excites it, or the motive which gives occasion to it; and secondly, in

In the suitableness or unsuitableness, in the proportion or disproportion which the affection seems to bear to

the cause or object which excites it, consists the propriety or impropriety, the decency or ungracefulness of

In the beneficial or hurtful nature of the effects which the affection aims at, or tends to produce, consists the

merit or demerit of the action, the qualities by which it is entitled to reward, or is deserving of punishment.

Philosophers have, of late years, considered chiefly the tendency of affections, and have given little attention

to the relation which they stand in to the cause which excites them. In common life, however, when we judge

of any person's conduct, and of the sentiments which directed it, we constantly consider them under both

these aspects. When we blame in another man the excesses of love, of grief, of resentment, we not only

consider the ruinous effects which they tend to produce, but the little occasion which was given for them. The

merit of his favourite, we say, is not so great, his misfortune is not so dreadful, his provocation is not so

extraordinary, as to justify so violent a passion. We should have indulged, we say; perhaps, have approved of

Chap. III Of the manner in which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of the affections of other men, by their concord or dissonance with our own. 7

the violence of his emotion, had the cause been in any respect proportioned to it.

When we judge in this manner of any affection, as proportioned or disproportioned to the cause which excites

it, it is scarce possible that we should make use of any other rule or canon but the correspondent affection in

ourselves. If, upon bringing the case home to our own breast, we find that the sentiments which it gives

occasion to, coincide and tally with our own, we necessarily approve of them as proportioned and suitable to

their objects; if otherwise, we necessarily disapprove of them, as extravagant and out of proportion.

Every faculty in one man is the measure by which he judges of the like faculty in another. I judge of your

sight by my sight, of your ear by my ear, of your reason by my reason, of your resentment by my resentment,

of your love by my love. I neither have, nor can have, any other way of judging about them.

We may judge of the propriety or impropriety of the sentiments of another person by their correspondence or

disagreement with our own, upon two different occasions; either, first, when the objects which excite them

are considered without any peculiar relation, either to ourselves or to the person whose sentiments we judge

of; or, secondly, when they are considered as peculiarly affecting one or other of us.

1. With regard to those objects which are considered without any peculiar relation either to ourselves or to the

person whose sentiments we judge of; wherever his sentiments entirely correspond with our own, we ascribe

to him the qualities of taste and good judgment. The beauty of a plain, the greatness of a mountain, the

ornaments of a building, the expression of a picture, the composition of a discourse, the conduct of a third

person, the proportions of different quantities and numbers, the various appearances which the great machine

of the universe is perpetually exhibiting, with the secret wheels and springs which product them; all the

general subjects of science and taste, are what we and our companion regard as having no peculiar relation to

either of us. We both look at them from the same point of view, and we have no occasion for sympathy, or for

that imaginary change of situations from which it arises, in order to produce, with regard to these, the most

perfect harmony of sentiments and affections. If, notwithstanding, we are often differently affected, it arises

either from the different degrees of attention, which our different habits of life allow us to give easily to the

several parts of those complex objects, or from the different degrees of natural acuteness in the faculty of the

When the sentiments of our companion coincide with our own in things of this kind, which are obvious and

easy, and in which, perhaps, we never found a single person who differed from us, though we, no doubt, must

approve of them, yet he seems to deserve no praise or admiration on account of them. But when they not only

coincide with our own, but lead and direct our own; when in forming them he appears to have attended to

many things which we had overlooked, and to have adjusted them to all the various circumstances of their

objects; we not only approve of them, but wonder and are surprised at their uncommon and unexpected

acuteness and comprehensiveness, and he appears to deserve a very high degree of admiration and applause.

For approbation heightened by wonder and surprise, constitutes the sentiment which is properly called

admiration, and of which applause is the natural expression. The decision of the man who judges that

exquisite beauty is preferable to the grossest deformity, or that twice two are equal to four, must certainly be

approved of by all the world, but will not, surely, be much admired. It is the acute and delicate discernment of

the man of taste, who distinguishes the minute, and scarce perceptible differences of beauty and deformity; it

is the comprehensive accuracy of the experienced mathematician, who unravels, with ease, the most intricate

and perplexed proportions; it is the great leader in science and taste, the man who directs and conducts our

own sentiments, the extent and superior justness of whose talents astonish us with wonder and surprise, who

excites our admiration, and seems to deserve our applause: and upon this foundation is grounded the greater

part of the praise which is bestowed upon what are called the intellectual virtues.

The utility of those qualities, it may be thought, is what first recommends them to us; and, no doubt, the

consideration of this, when we come to attend to it, gives them a new value. Originally, however, we approve

of another man's judgment, not as something useful, but as right, as accurate, as agreeable to truth and reality:

and it is evident we attribute those qualities to it for no other reason but because we find that it agrees with

our own. Taste, in the same manner, is originally approved of, not as useful, but as just, as delicate, and as

precisely suited to its object. The idea of the utility of all qualities of this kind, is plainly an afterthought,

2. With regard to those objects, which affect in a particular manner either ourselves or the person whose

sentiments we judge of, it is at once more difficult to preserve this harmony and correspondence, and at the

same time, vastly more important. My companion does not naturally look upon the misfortune that has

befallen me, or the injury that has been done me, from the same point of view in which I consider them. They

affect me much more nearly. We do not view them from the same station, as we do a picture, or a poem, or a

system of philosophy, and are, therefore, apt to be very differently affected by them. But I can much more

easily overlook the want of this correspondence of sentiments with regard to such indifferent objects as

concern neither me nor my companion, than with regard to what interests me so much as the misfortune that

has befallen me, or the injury that has been done me. Though you despise that picture, or that poem, or even

that system of philosophy, which I admire, there is little danger of our quarrelling upon that account. Neither

of us can reasonably be much interested about them. They ought all of them to be matters of great

indifference to us both; so that, though our opinions may be opposite, our affections may still be very nearly

the same. But it is quite otherwise with regard to those objects by which either you or I are particularly

affected. Though your judgments in matters of speculation, though your sentiments in matters of taste, are

quite opposite to mine, I can easily overlook this opposition; and if I have any degree of temper, I may still

find some entertainment in your conversation, even upon those very subjects. But if you have either no

fellowfeeling for the misfortunes I have met with, or none that bears any proportion to the grief which

distracts me; or if you have either no indignation at the injuries I have suffered, or none that bears any

proportion to the resentment which transports me, we can no longer converse upon these subjects. We

become intolerable to one another. I can neither support your company, nor you mine. You are confounded at

my violence and passion, and I am enraged at your cold insensibility and want of feeling.

In all such cases, that there may be some correspondence of sentiments between the spectator and the person

principally concerned, the spectator must, first of all, endeavour, as much as he can, to put himself in the

situation of the other, and to bring home to himself every little circumstance of distress which can possibly

occur to the sufferer. He must adopt the whole case of his companion with all its minutest incidents; and

strive to render as perfect as possible, that imaginary change of situation upon which his sympathy is

After all this, however, the emotions of the spectator will still be very apt to fall short of the violence of what

is felt by the sufferer. Mankind, though naturally sympathetic, never conceive, for what has befallen another,

that degree of passion which naturally animates the person principally concerned. That imaginary change of

situation, upon which their sympathy is founded, is but momentary. The thought of their own safety, the

thought that they themselves are not really the sufferers, continually intrudes itself upon them; and though it

does not hinder them from conceiving a passion somewhat analogous to what is felt by the sufferer, hinders

them from conceiving any thing that approaches to the same degree of violence. The person principally

concerned is sensible of this, and at the same time passionately desires a more complete sympathy. He longs

for that relief which nothing can afford him but the entire concord of the affections of the spectators with his

own. To see the emotions of their hearts, in every respect, beat time to his own, in the violent and

disagreeable passions, constitutes his sole consolation. But he can only hope to obtain this by lowering his

passion to that pitch, in which the spectators are capable of going along with him. He must flatten, if I may be

allowed to say so, the sharpness of its natural tone, in order to reduce it to harmony and concord with the

emotions of those who are about him. What they feel, will, indeed, always be, in some respects, different

from what he feels, and compassion can never be exactly the same with original sorrow; because the secret

consciousness that the change of situations, from which the sympathetic sentiment arises, is but imaginary,

not only lowers it in degree, but, in some measure, varies it in kind, and gives it a quite different

modification. These two sentiments, however, may, it is evident, have such a correspondence with one

another, as is sufficient for the harmony of society. Though they will never be unisons, they may be concords,

In order to produce this concord, as nature teaches the spectators to assume the circumstances of the person

principally concerned, so she teaches this last in some measure to assume those of the spectators. As they are

continually placing themselves in his situation, and thence conceiving emotions similar to what he feels; so

he is as constantly placing himself in theirs, and thence conceiving some degree of that coolness about his

own fortune, with which he is sensible that they will view it. As they are constantly considering what they

themselves would feel, if they actually were the sufferers, so he is as constantly led to imagine in what

manner he would be affected if he was only one of the spectators of his own situation. As their sympathy

makes them look at it, in some measure, with his eyes, so his sympathy makes him look at it, in some

measure, with theirs, especially when in their presence and acting under their observation: and as the

reflected passion, which he thus conceives, is much weaker than the original one, it necessarily abates the

violence of what he felt before he came into their presence, before he began to recollect in what manner they

would be affected by it, and to view his situation in this candid and impartial light.

The mind, therefore, is rarely so disturbed, but that the company of a friend will restore it to some degree of

tranquillity and sedateness. The breast is, in some measure, calmed and composed the moment we come into

his presence. We are immediately put in mind of the light in which he will view our situation, and we begin

to view it ourselves in the same light; for the effect of sympathy is instantaneous. We expect less sympathy

from a common acquaintance than from a friend: we cannot open to the former all those little circumstances

which we can unfold to the latter: we assume, therefore, more tranquillity before him, and endeavour to fix

our thoughts upon those general outlines of our situation which he is willing to consider. We expect still less

sympathy from an assembly of strangers, and we assume, therefore, still more tranquillity before them, and

always endeavour to bring down our passion to that pitch, which the particular company we are in may be

expected to go along with. Nor is this only an assumed appearance: for if we are at all masters of ourselves,

the presence of a mere acquaintance will really compose us, still more than that of a friend; and that of an

Society and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful remedies for restoring the mind to its tranquillity,

if, at any time, it has unfortunately lost it; as well as the best preservatives of that equal and happy temper,

which is so necessary to selfsatisfaction and enjoyment. Men of retirement and speculation, who are apt to

sit brooding at home over either grief or resentment, though they may often have more humanity, more

generosity, and a nicer sense of honour, yet seldom possess that equality of temper which is so common

Upon these two different efforts, upon that of the spectator to enter into the sentiments of the person

principally concerned, and upon that of the person principally concerned, to bring down his emotions to what

the spectator can go along with, are founded two different sets of virtues. The soft, the gentle, the amiable

virtues, the virtues of candid condescension and indulgent humanity, are founded upon the one: the great, the

awful and respectable, the virtues of selfdenial, of selfgovernment, of that command of the passions which

subjects all the movements of our nature to what our own dignity and honour, and the propriety of our own

How amiable does he appear to be, whose sympathetic heart seems to reecho all the sentiments of those with

whom he converses, who grieves for their calamities, who resents their injuries, and who rejoices at their

good fortune! When we bring home to ourselves the situation of his companions, we enter into their gratitude,

and feel what consolation they must derive from the tender sympathy of so affectionate a friend. And for a

contrary reason, how disagreeable does he appear to be, whose hard and obdurate heart feels for himself only,

but is altogether insensible to the happiness or misery of others! We enter, in this case too, into the pain

which his presence must give to every mortal with whom he converses, to those especially with whom we are

On the other hand, what noble propriety and grace do we feel in the conduct of those who, in their own case,

exert that recollection and selfcommand which constitute the dignity of every passion, and which bring it

down to what others can enter into! We are disgusted with that clamorous grief, which, without any delicacy,

calls upon our compassion with sighs and tears and importunate lamentations. But we reverence that

reserved, that silent and majestic sorrow, which discovers itself only in the swelling of the eyes, in the

quivering of the lips and cheeks, and in the distant, but affecting, coldness of the whole behaviour. It imposes

the like silence upon us. We regard it with respectful attention, and watch with anxious concern over our

whole behaviour, lest by any impropriety we should disturb that concerted tranquillity, which it requires so

The insolence and brutality of anger, in the same manner, when we indulge its fury without check or restraint,

is, of all objects, the most detestable. But we admire that noble and generous resentment which governs its

pursuit of the greatest injuries, not by the rage which they are apt to excite in the breast of the sufferer, but by

the indignation which they naturally call forth in that of the impartial spectator; which allows no word, no

gesture, to escape it beyond what this more equitable sentiment would dictate; which never, even in thought,

attempts any greater vengeance, nor desires to inflict any greater punishment, than what every indifferent

And hence it is, that to feel much for others and little for ourselves, that to restrain our selfish, and to indulge

our benevolent affections, constitutes the perfection of human nature; and can alone produce among mankind

that harmony of sentiments and passions in which consists their whole grace and propriety. As to love our

neighbour as we love ourselves is the great law of Christianity, so it is the great precept of nature to love

ourselves only as we love our neighbour, or what comes to the same thing, as our neighbour is capable of

As taste and good judgment, when they are considered as qualities which deserve praise and admiration, are

supposed to imply a delicacy of sentiment and an acuteness of understanding not commonly to be met with;

so the virtues of sensibility and selfcommand are not apprehended to consist in the ordinary, but in the

uncommon degrees of those qualities. The amiable virtue of humanity requires, surely, a sensibility, much

beyond what is possessed by the rude vulgar of mankind. The great and exalted virtue of magnanimity

undoubtedly demands much more than that degree of selfcommand, which the weakest of mortals is capable

of exerting. As in the common degree of the intellectual qualities, there is no abilities; so in the common

degree of the moral, there is no virtue. Virtue is excellence, something uncommonly great and beautiful,

which rises far above what is vulgar and ordinary. The amiable virtues consist in that degree of sensibility

which surprises by its exquisite and unexpected delicacy and tenderness. The awful and respectable, in that

degree of selfcommand which astonishes by its amazing superiority over the most ungovernable passions of

There is, in this respect, a considerable difference between virtue and mere propriety; between those qualities

and actions which deserve to be admired and celebrated, and those which simply deserve to be approved of.

Upon many occasions, to act with the most perfect propriety, requires no more than that common and

ordinary degree of sensibility or selfcommand which the most worthless of mankind are possest of, and

sometimes even that degree is not necessary. Thus, to give a very low instance, to eat when we are hungry, is

certainly, upon ordinary occasions, perfectly right and proper, and cannot miss being approved of as such by

On the contrary, there may frequently be a considerable degree of virtue in those actions which fall short of

the most perfect propriety; because they may still approach nearer to perfection than could well be expected

upon occasions in which it was so extremely difficult to attain it: and this is very often the case upon those

occasions which require the greatest exertions of selfcommand. There are some situations which bear so

hard upon human nature, that the greatest degree of selfgovernment, which can belong to so imperfect a

creature as man, is not able to stifle, altogether, the voice of human weakness, or reduce the violence of the

passions to that pitch of moderation, in which the impartial spectator can entirely enter into them. Though in

those cases, therefore, the behaviour of the sufferer fall short of the most perfect propriety, it may still

deserve some applause, and even in a certain sense, may be denominated virtuous. It may still manifest an

effort of generosity and magnanimity of which the greater part of men are incapable; and though it fails of

absolute perfection, it may be a much nearer approximation towards perfection, than what, upon such trying

In cases of this kind, when we are determining the degree of blame or applause which seems due to any

action, we very frequently make use of two different standards. The first is the idea of complete propriety and

perfection, which, in those difficult situations, no human conduct ever did, or ever can come, up to; and in

comparison with which the actions of all men must for ever appear blameable and imperfect. The second is

the idea of that degree of proximity or distance from this complete perfection, which the actions of the greater

part of men commonly arrive at. Whatever goes beyond this degree, how far soever it may be removed from

absolute perfection, seems to deserve applause; and whatever falls short of it, to deserve blame.

It is in the same manner that we judge of the productions of all the arts which address themselves to the

imagination. When a critic examines the work of any of the great masters in poetry or painting, he may

sometimes examine it by an idea of perfection, in his own mind, which neither that nor any other human work

will ever come up to; and as long as he compares it with this standard, he can see nothing in it but faults and

imperfections. But when he comes to consider the rank which it ought to hold among other works of the same

kind, he necessarily compares it with a very different standard, the common degree of excellence which is

usually attained in this particular art; and when he judges of it by this new measure, it may often appear to

deserve the highest applause, upon account of its approaching much nearer to perfection than the greater part

he propriety of every passion excited by objects peculiarly related to ourselves, the pitch which the spectator

can go along with, must lie, it is evident, in a certain mediocrity. If the passion is too high, or if it is too low,

he cannot enter into it. Grief and resentment for private misfortunes and injuries may easily, for example, be

too high, and in the greater part of mankind they are so. They may likewise, though this more rarely happens,

be too low. We denominate the excess, weakness and fury: and we call the defect stupidity, insensibility, and

want of spirit. We can enter into neither of them, but are astonished and confounded to see them.

This mediocrity, however, in which the point of propriety consists, is different in different passions. It is high

in some, and low in others. There are some passions which it is indecent to express very strongly, even upon

those occasions, in which it is acknowledged that we cannot avoid feeling them in the highest degree. And

Section II Of the Degrees of the different Passions which are consistent with Propriety 12

there are others of which the strongest expressions are upon many occasions extremely graceful, even though

the passions themselves do not, perhaps, arise so necessarily. The first are those passions with which, for

certain reasons, there is little or no sympathy: the second are those with which, for other reasons, there is the

greatest. And if we consider all the different passions of human nature, we shall find that they are regarded as

decent, or indecent, just in proportion as mankind are more or less disposed to sympathize with them.

1. It is indecent to express any strong degree of those passions which arise from a certain situation or

disposition of the body; because the company, not being in the same disposition, cannot be expected to

sympathize with them. Violent hunger, for example, though upon many occasions not only natural, but

unavoidable, is always indecent, and to eat voraciously is universally regarded as a piece of ill manners.

There is, however, some degree of sympathy, even with hunger. It is agreeable to see our companions eat

with a good appetite, and all expressions of loathing are offensive. The disposition of body which is habitual

to a man in health, makes his stomach easily keep time, if I may be allowed so coarse an expression, with the

one, and not with the other. We can sympathize with the distress it in the which excessive hunger occasions

when we read the description of journal of a siege, or of a sea voyage. We imagine ourselves in the situation

of the sufferers, and thence readily conceive the grief, the fear and consternation, which must necessarily

distract them. We feel, ourselves, some degree of those passions, and therefore sympathize with them: but as

we do not grow hungry by reading the description, we cannot properly, even in this case, be said to

It is the same case with the passion by which Nature unites the two sexes. Though naturally the most furious

of all the passions, all strong expressions of it are upon every occasion indecent, even between persons in

whom its most complete indulgence is acknowledged by all laws, both human and divine, to be perfectly

innocent. There seems, however, to be some degree of sympathy even with this passion. To talk to a woman

as we would to a man is improper: it is expected that their company should inspire us with more gaiety, more

pleasantry, and more attention; and an intire insensibility to the fair sex, renders a man contemptible in some

Such is our aversion for all the appetites which take their origin from the body: all strong expressions of them

are loathsome and disagreeable. According to some ancient philosophers, these are the passions which we

share in common with the brutes, and which having no connexion with the characteristical qualities of human

nature, are upon that account beneath its dignity. But there are many other passions which we share in

common with the brutes, such as resentment, natural affection, even gratitude, which do not, upon that

account, appear to be so brutal. The true cause of the peculiar disgust which we conceive for the appetites of

the body when we see them in other men, is that we cannot enter into them. To the person himself who feels

them, as soon as they are gratified, the object that excited them ceases to be agreeable: even its presence often

becomes offensive to him; he looks round to no purpose for the charm which transported him the moment

before, and he can now as little enter into his own passion as another person. When we have dined, we order

the covers to be removed; and we should treat in the same manner the objects of the most ardent and

passionate desires, if they were the objects of no other passions but those which take their origin from the

In the command of those appetites of the body consists that virtue which is properly called temperance. To

restrain them within those bounds, which regard to health and fortune prescribes, is the part of prudence. But

to confine them within those limits, which grace, which propriety, which delicacy, and modesty require, is the

2. It is for the same reason that to cry out with bodily pain, how intolerable soever, appears always unmanly

and unbecoming. There is, however, a good deal of sympathy even with bodily pain. If, as has already been

observed, I see a stroke aimed, and just ready to fall upon the leg, or arm, of another person, I naturally shrink

and draw back my own leg, or my own arm: and when it does fall, I feel it in some measure, and am hurt by it

as well as the sufferer. My hurt, however, is, no doubt, excessively slight, and, upon that account, if he makes

any violent outcry, as I cannot go along with him, I never fail to despise him. And this is the case of all the

passions which take their origin from the body: they excite either no sympathy at all, or such a degree of it, as

It is quite otherwise with those passions which take their origin from the imagination. The frame of my body

can be but little affected by the alterations which are brought about upon that of my companion: but my

imagination is more ductile, and more readily assumes, if I may say so, the shape and configuration of the

imaginations of those with whom I am familiar. A disappointment in love, or ambition, will, upon this

account, call forth more sympathy than the greatest bodily evil. Those passions arise altogether from the

imagination. The person who has lost his whole fortune, if he is in health, feels nothing in his body. What he

suffers is from the imagination only, which represents to him the loss of his dignity, neglect from his friends,

contempt from his enemies, dependance, want, and misery, coming fast upon him; and we sympathize with

him more strongly upon this account, because our imaginations can more readily mould themselves upon his

The loss of a leg may generally be regarded as a more real calamity than the loss of a mistress. It would be a

ridiculous tragedy, however, of which the catastrophe was to turn upon a loss of that kind. A misfortune of

the other kind, how frivolous soever it may appear to be, has given occasion to many a fine one.

Nothing is so soon forgot as pain. The moment it is gone the whole agony of it is over, and the thought of it

can no longer give us any sort of disturbance. We ourselves cannot then enter into the anxiety and anguish

which we had before conceived. An unguarded word from a friend will occasion a more durable uneasiness.

The agony which this creates is by no means over with the word. What at first disturbs us is not the object of

the senses, but the idea of the imagination. As it is an idea, therefore, which occasions our uneasiness, till

time and other accidents have in some measure effaced it from our memory, the imagination continues to fret

Pain never calls forth any very lively sympathy unless it is accompanied with danger. We sympathize with

the fear, though not with the agony of the sufferer. Fear, however, is a passion derived altogether from the

imagination, which represents, with an uncertainty and fluctuation that increases our anxiety, not what we

really feel, but what we may hereafter possibly suffer. The gout or the toothach, though exquisitely painful,

excite very little sympathy; more dangerous diseases, though accompanied with very little pain, excite the

Some people faint and grow sick at the sight of a chirurgical operation, and that bodily pain which is

occasioned by tearing the flesh, seems, in them, to excite the most excessive sympathy. We conceive in a

much more lively and distinct manner the pain which proceeds from an external cause, than we do that which

arises from an internal disorder. I can scarce form an idea of the agonies of my neighbour when he is tortured

with the gout, or the stone; but I have the clearest conception of what he must suffer from an incision, a

wound, or a fracture. The chief cause, however, why such objects produce such violent effects upon us, is

their novelty. One who has been witness to a dozen dissections, and as many amputations, sees, ever after, all

operations of this kind with great indifference, and often with perfect insensibility. Though we have read or

seen represented more than five hundred tragedies, we shall seldom feel so entire an abatement of our

In some of the Greek tragedies there is an attempt to excite compassion, by the representation of the agonies

of bodily pain. Philoctetes cries out and faints from the extremity of his sufferings. Hippolytus and Hercules

are both introduced as expiring under the severest tortures, which, it seems, even the fortitude of Hercules

was incapable of supporting. In all these cases, however, it is not the pain which interests us, but some other

circumstances. It is not the sore foot, but the solitude, of Philoctetes which affects us, and diffuses over that

charming tragedy, that romantic wildness, which is so agreeable to the imagination. The agonies of Hercules

and Hippolytus are interesting only because we foresee that death is to be the consequence. If those heroes

were to recover, we should think the representation of their sufferings perfectly ridiculous. What a tragedy

would that be of which the distress consisted in a colic. Yet no pain is more exquisite. These attempts to

excite compassion by the representation of bodily pain, may be regarded as among the greatest breaches of

The little sympathy which we feel with bodily pain is the foundation of the propriety of constancy and

patience in enduring it. The man, who under the severest tortures allows no weakness to escape him, vents no

groan, gives way to no passion which we do not entirely enter into, commands our highest admiration. His

firmness enables him to keep time with our indifference and insensibility. We admire and entirely go along

with the magnanimous effort which he makes for this purpose. We approve of his behaviour, and from our

experience of the common weakness of human nature, we are surprised, and wonder how he should be able to

act so as to deserve approbation. Approbation, mixed and animated by wonder and surprise, constitutes the

sentiment which is properly called admiration, of which, applause is the natural expression, as has already

Even of the passions derived from the imagination, those which take their origin from a peculiar turn or habit

it has acquired, though they may be acknowledged to be perfectly natural, are, however, but little

sympathized with. The imaginations of mankind, not having acquired that particular turn, cannot enter into

them; and such passions, though they may be allowed to be almost unavoidable in some part of life, are

always, in some measure, ridiculous. This is the case with that strong attachment which naturally grows up

between two persons of different sexes, who have long fixed their thoughts upon one another. Our

imagination not having run in the same channel with that of the lover, we cannot enter into the eagerness of

his emotions. If our friend has been injured, we readily sympathize with his resentment, and grow angry with

the very person with whom he is angry. If he has received a benefit, we readily enter into his gratitude, and

have a very high sense of the merit of his benefactor. But if he is in love, though we may think his passion

just as reasonable as any of the kind, yet we never think ourselves bound to conceive a passion of the same

kind, and for the same person for whom he has conceived it. The passion appears to every body, but the man

who feels it, entirely disproportioned to the value of the object; and love, though it is pardoned in a certain

age because we know it is natural, is always laughed at, because we cannot enter into it. All serious and

strong expressions of it appear ridiculous to a third person; and though a lover may be good company to his

mistress, he is so to nobody else. He himself is sensible of this; and as long as he continues in his sober

senses, endeavours to treat his own passion with raillery and ridicule. It is the only style in which we care to

hear of it; because it is the only style in which we ourselves are disposed to talk of it. We grow weary of the

grave, pedantic, and longsentenced love of Cowley and Petrarca, who never have done with exaggerating

the violence of their attachments; but the gaiety of Ovid, and the gallantry of Horace, are always agreeable.

But though we feel no proper sympathy with an attachment of this kind, though we never approach even in

imagination towards conceiving a passion for that particular person, yet as we either have conceived, or may

be disposed to conceive, passions of the same kind, we readily enter into those high hopes of happiness which

are proposed from its gratification, as well as into that exquisite distress which is feared from its

disappointment. It interests us not as a passion, but as a situation that gives occasion to other passions which

interest us; to hope, to fear, and to distress of every kind: in the same manner as in a description of a sea

voyage, it is not the hunger which interests us, but the distress which that hunger occasions. Though we do

Chap. II Of those Passions which take their origin from a particular turn or habit of the Imagination 15

not properly enter into the attachment of the lover, we readily go along with those expectations of romantic

happiness which he derives from it. We feel how natural it is for the mind, in a certain situation, relaxed with

indolence, and fatigued with the violence of desire, to long for serenity and quiet, to hope to find them in the

gratification of that passion which distracts it, and to frame to itself the idea of that life of pastoral tranquillity

and retirement which the elegant, the tender, and the passionate Tibullus takes so much pleasure in

describing; a life like what the poets describe in the Fortunate Islands, a life of friendship, liberty, and repose;

free from labour, and from care, and from all the turbulent passions which attend them. Even scenes of this

kind interest us most, when they are painted rather as what is hoped, than as what is enjoyed. The grossness

of that passion, which mixes with, and is, perhaps, the foundation of love, disappears when its gratification is

far off and at a distance; but renders the whole offensive, when described as what is immediately possessed.

The happy passion, upon this account, interests us much less than the fearful and the melancholy. We tremble

for whatever can disappoint such natural and agreeable hopes: and thus enter into all the anxiety, and

Hence it is, that, in some modern tragedies and romances, this passion appears so wonderfully interesting. It

is not so much the love of Castalio and Monimia which attaches us in the Orphan, as the distress which that

love occasions. The author who should introduce two lovers, in a scene of perfect security, expressing their

mutual fondness for one another, would excite laughter, and not sympathy. If a scene of this kind is ever

admitted into a tragedy, it is always, in some measure, improper, and is endured, not from any sympathy with

the passion that is expressed in it, but from concern for the dangers and difficulties with which the audience

The reserve which the laws of society impose upon the fair sex, with regard to this weakness, renders it more

peculiarly distressful in them, and, upon that very account, more deeply interesting. We are charmed with the

love of Phaedra, as it is expressed in the French tragedy of that name, notwithstanding all the extravagance

and guilt which attend it. That very extravagance and guilt may be said, in some measure, to recommend it to

us. Her fear, her shame, her remorse, her horror, her despair, become thereby more natural and interesting.

All the secondary passions, if I may be allowed to call them so, which arise from the situation of love,

become necessarily more furious and violent; and it is with these secondary passions only that we can

Of all the passions, however, which are so extravagantly disproportioned to the value of their objects, love is

the only one that appears, even to the weakest minds, to have any thing in it that is either graceful or

agreeable. In itself, first of all, though it may be ridiculous, it is not naturally odious; and though its

consequences are often fatal and dreadful, its intentions are seldom mischievous. And then, though there is

little propriety in the passion itself, there is a good deal in some of those which always accompany it. There is

in love a strong mixture of humanity, generosity, kindness, friendship, esteem; passions with which, of all

others, for reasons which shall be explained immediately, we have the greatest propensity to sympathize,

even notwithstanding we are sensible that they are, in some measure, excessive. The sympathy which we feel

with them, renders the passion which they accompany less disagreeable, and supports it in our imagination,

notwithstanding all the vices which commonly go along with it; though in the one sex it necessarily leads to

the last ruin and infamy; and though in the other, where it is apprehended to be least fatal, it is almost always

attended with an incapacity for labour, a neglect of duty, a contempt of fame, and even of common

reputation. Notwithstanding all this, the degree of sensibility and generosity with which it is supposed to be

accompanied, renders it to many the object of vanity. and they are fond of appearing capable of feeling what

It is for a reason of the same kind, that a certain reserve is necessary when we talk of our own friends, our

own studies, our own professions. All these are objects which we cannot expect should interest our

companions in the same degree in which they interest us. And it is for want of this reserve, that the one half

of mankind make bad company to the other. A philosopher is company to a philosopher, only. the member of

Chap. II Of those Passions which take their origin from a particular turn or habit of the Imagination 16

There is another set of passions, which, though derived from the imagination, yet before we can enter into

them, or regard them as graceful or becoming, must always be brought down to a pitch much lower than that

to which undisciplined nature would raise them. These are, hatred and resentment, with all their different

modifications. With regard to all such passions, our sympathy is divided between the person who feels them,

and the person who is the object of them. The interests of these two are directly opposite. What our sympathy

with the person who feels them would prompt us to wish for, our fellowfeeling with the other would lead us

to fear. As they are both men, we are concerned for both, and our fear for what the one may suffer, damps our

resentment for what the other has suffered. Our sympathy, therefore, with the man who has received the

provocation, necessarily falls short of the passion which naturally animates him, not only upon account of

those general causes which render all sympathetic passions inferior to the original ones, but upon account of

that particular cause which is peculiar to itself, our opposite sympathy with another person. Before

resentment, therefore, can become graceful and agreeable, it must be more humbled and brought down below

Mankind, at the same time, have a very strong sense of the injuries that are done to another. The villain, in a

tragedy or romance, is as much the object of our indignation, as the hero is that of our sympathy and

affection. We detest Iago as much as we esteem Othello; and delight as much in the punishment of the one, as

we are grieved at the distress of the other. But though mankind have so strong a fellowfeeling with the

injuries that are done to their brethren, they do not always resent them the more that the sufferer appears to

resent them. Upon most occasions, the greater his patience, his mildness, his humanity, provided it does not

appear that he wants spirit, or that fear was the motive of his forbearance, the higher their resentment against

the person who injured him. The amiableness of the character exasperates their sense of the atrocity of the

Those passions, however, are regarded as necessary parts of the character of human nature. A person

becomes contemptible who tamely sits still, and submits to insults, without attempting either to repel or to

revenge them. We cannot enter into his indifference and insensibility. we call his behaviour

meanspiritedness, and are as really provoked by it as by the insolence of his adversary. Even the mob are

enraged to see any man submit patiently to affronts and ill usage. They desire to see this insolence resented,

and resented by the person who suffers from it. They cry to him with fury, to defend, or to revenge himself. If

his indignation rouses at last, they heartily applaud, and sympathize with it. It enlivens their own indignation

against his enemy, whom they rejoice to see him attack in his turn, and are as really gratified by his revenge,

But though the utility of those passions to the individual, by rendering it dangerous to insult or injure him, be

acknowledged; and though their utility to the public, as the guardians of justice, and of the equality of its

administration, be not less considerable, as shall be shewn hereafter; yet there is still something disagreeable

in the passions themselves, which makes the appearance of them in other men the natural object of our

aversion. The expression of anger towards any body present, if it exceeds a bare intimation that we are

sensible of his ill usage, is regarded not only as an insult to that particular person, but as a rudeness to the

whole company. Respect for them ought to have restrained us from giving way to so boisterous and offensive

an emotion. It is the remote effects of these passions which are agreeable; the immediate effects are mischief

to the person against whom they are directed. But it is the immediate, and not the remote effects of objects

which render them agreeable or disagreeable to the imagination. A prison is certainly more useful to the

public than a palace; and the person who founds the one is generally directed by a much juster spirit of

patriotism, than he who builds the other. But the immediate effects of a prison, the confinement of the

wretches shut up in it, are disagreeable; and the imagination either does not take time to trace out the remote

ones, or sees them at too great a distance to be much affected by them. A prison, therefore, will always be a

disagreeable object; and the fitter it is for the purpose for which it was intended, it will be the more so. A

palace, on the contrary, will always be agreeable; yet its remote effects may often be inconvenient to the

public. It may serve to promote luxury, and set the example of the dissolution of manners. Its immediate

effects, however, the conveniency, the pleasure, and the gaiety of the people who live in it, being all

agreeable, and suggesting to the imagination a thousand agreeable ideas, that faculty generally rests upon

them, and seldom goes further in tracing its more distant consequences. Trophies of the instruments of music

or of agriculture, imitated in painting or in stucco, make a common and an agreeable ornament of our halls

and diningrooms. A trophy of the same kind, composed of the instruments of surgery, of dissecting and

amputationknives, of saws for cutting the bones, of trepanning instruments, etc. would be absurd and

shocking. Instruments of surgery, however, are always more finely polished, and generally more nicely

adapted to the purposes for which they are intended, than instruments of agriculture. The remote effects of

them too, the health of the patient, is agreeable; yet as the immediate effect of them is pain and suffering, the

sight of them always displeases us. Instruments of war are agreeable, though their immediate effect may seem

to be in the same manner pain and suffering. But then it is the pain and suffering of our enemies, with whom

we have no sympathy. With regard to us, they are immediately connected with the agreeable ideas of

courage, victory, and honour. They are themselves, therefore, supposed to make one of the noblest parts of

dress, and the imitation of them one of the finest ornaments of architecture. It is the same case with the

qualities of the mind. The ancient stoics were of opinion, that as the world was governed by the allruling

providence of a wise, powerful, and good God, every single event ought to be regarded, as making a

necessary part of the plan of the universe, and as tending to promote the general order and happiness of the

whole: that the vices and follies of mankind, therefore, made as necessary a part of this plan as their wisdom

or their virtue; and by that eternal art which educes good from ill, were made to tend equally to the prosperity

and perfection of the great system of nature. No speculation of this kind, however, how deeply soever it

might be rooted in the mind, could diminish our natural abhorrence for vice, whose immediate effects are so

destructive, and whose remote ones are too distant to be traced by the imagination.

It is the same case with those passions we have been just now considering. Their immediate effects are so

disagreeable, that even when they are most justly provoked, there is still something about them which

disgusts us. These, therefore, are the only passions of which the expressions, as I formerly observed, do not

dispose and prepare us to sympathize with them, before we are informed of the cause which excites them.

The plaintive voice of misery, when heard at a distance, will not allow us to be indifferent about the person

from whom it comes. As soon as it strikes our ear, it interests us in his fortune, and, if continued, forces us

almost involuntarily to fly to his assistance. The sight of a smiling countenance, in the same manner, elevates

even the pensive into that gay and airy mood, which disposes him to sympathize with, and share the joy

which it expresses; and he feels his heart, which with thought and care was before that shrunk and depressed,

instantly expanded and elated. But it is quite otherwise with the expressions of hatred and resentment. The

hoarse, boisterous, and discordant voice of anger, when heard at a distance, inspires us either with fear or

aversion. We do not fly towards it, as to one who cries out with pain and agony. Women, and men of weak

nerves, tremble and are overcome with fear, though sensible that themselves are not the objects of the anger.

They conceive fear, however, by putting themselves in the situation of the person who is so. Even those of

stouter hearts are disturbed; not indeed enough to make them afraid, but enough to make them angry; for

anger is the passion which they would feel in the situation of the other person. It is the same case with hatred.

Mere expressions of spite inspire it against nobody, but the man who uses them. Both these passions are by

nature the objects of our aversion. Their disagreeable and boisterous appearance never excites, never

prepares, and often disturbs our sympathy. Grief does not more powerfully engage and attract us to the person

in whom we observe it, than these, while we are ignorant of their cause, disgust and detach us from him. It

was, it seems, the intention of Nature, that those rougher and more unamiable emotions, which drive men

When music imitates the modulations of grief or joy, it either actually inspires us with those passions, or at

least puts us in the mood which disposes us to conceive them. But when it imitates the notes of anger, it

inspires us with fear. Joy, grief, love, admiration, devotion, are all of them passions which are naturally

musical. Their natural tones are all soft, clear, and melodious; and they naturally express themselves in

periods which are distinguished by regular pauses, and which upon that account are easily adapted to the

regular returns of the correspondent airs of a tune. The voice of anger, on the contrary, and of all the passions

which are akin to it, is harsh and discordant. Its periods too are all irregular, sometimes very long, and

sometimes very short, and distinguished by no regular pauses. It is with difficulty, therefore, that music can

imitate any of those passions; and the music which does imitate them is not the most agreeable. A whole

entertainment may consist, without any impropriety, of the imitation of the social and agreeable passions. It

would be a strange entertainment which consisted altogether of the imitations of hatred and resentment.

If those passions are disagreeable to the spectator, they are not less so to the person who feels them. Hatred

and anger are the greatest poison to the happiness of a good mind. There is, in the very feeling of those

passions, something harsh, jarring, and convulsive, something that tears and distracts the breast, and is

altogether destructive of that composure and tranquillity of mind which is so necessary to happiness, and

which is best promoted by the contrary passions of gratitude and love. It is not the value of what they lose by

the perfidy and ingratitude of those they live with, which the generous and humane are most apt to regret.

Whatever they may have lost, they can generally be very happy without it. What most disturbs them is the

idea of perfidy and ingratitude exercised towards themselves; and the discordant and disagreeable passions

which this excites, constitute, in their own opinion, the chief part of the injury which they suffer.

How many things are requisite to render the gratification of resentment completely agreeable, and to make

the spectator thoroughly sympathize with our revenge? The provocation must first of all be such that we

should become contemptible, and be exposed to perpetual insults, if we did not, in some measure, resent it.

Smaller offences are always better neglected; nor is there any thing more despicable than that froward and

captious humour which takes fire upon every slight occasion of quarrel. We should resent more from a sense

of the propriety of resentment, from a sense that mankind expect and require it of us, than because we feel in

ourselves the furies of that disagreeable passion. There is no passion, of which the human mind is capable,

concerning whose justness we ought to be so doubtful, concerning whose indulgence we ought so carefully to

consult our natural sense of propriety, or so diligently to consider what will be the sentiments of the cool and

impartial spectator. Magnanimity, or a regard to maintain our own rank and dignity in society, is the only

motive which can ennoble the expressions of this disagreeable passion. This motive must characterize our

whole stile and deportment. These must be plain, open, and direct; determined without positiveness, and

elevated without insolence; not only free from petulance and low scurrility, but generous, candid, and full of

all proper regards, even for the person who has offended us. It must appear, in short, from our whole manner,

without our labouring affectedly to express it, that passion has not extinguished our humanity; and that if we

yield to the dictates of revenge, it is with reluctance, from necessity, and in consequence of great and repeated

provocations. When resentment is guarded and qualified in this manner, it may be admitted to be even

As it is a divided sympathy which renders the whole set of passions just now mentioned, upon most

occasions, so ungraceful and disagreeable; so there is another set opposite to these, which a redoubled

sympathy renders almost always peculiarly agreeable and becoming. Generosity, humanity, kindness,

compassion, mutual friendship and esteem, all the social and benevolent affections, when expressed in the

countenance or behaviour, even towards those who are not peculiarly connected with ourselves, please the

indifferent spectator upon almost every occasion. His sympathy with the person who feels those passions,

exactly coincides with his concern for the person who is the object of them. The interest, which, as a man, he

is obliged to take in the happiness of this last, enlivens his fellowfeeling with the sentiments of the other,

whose emotions are employed about the same object. We have always, therefore, the strongest disposition to

sympathize with the benevolent affections. They appear in every respect agreeable to us. We enter into the

satisfaction both of the person who feels them, and of the person who is the object of them. For as to be the

object of hatred and indignation gives more pain than all the evil which a brave man can fear from his

enemies; so there is a satisfaction in the consciousness of being beloved, which, to a person of delicacy and

sensibility, is of more importance to happiness, than all the advantage which he can expect to derive from it.

What character is so detestable as that of one who takes pleasure to sow dissension among friends, and to turn

their most tender love into mortal hatred? Yet wherein does the atrocity of this so much abhorred injury

consist? Is it in depriving them of the frivolous good offices, which, had their friendship continued, they

might have expected from one another? It is in depriving them of that friendship itself, in robbing them of

each other's affections, from which both derived so much satisfaction; it is in disturbing the harmony of their

hearts, and putting an end to that happy commerce which had before subsisted between them. These

affections, that harmony, this commerce, are felt, not only by the tender and the delicate, but by the rudest

vulgar of mankind, to be of more importance to happiness than all the little services which could be expected

The sentiment of love is, in itself, agreeable to the person who feels it. It sooths and composes the breast,

seems to favour the vital motions, and to promote the healthful state of the human constitution; and it is

rendered still more delightful by the consciousness of the gratitude and satisfaction which it must excite in

him who is the object of it. Their mutual regard renders them happy in one another, and sympathy, with this

mutual regard, makes them agreeable to every other person. With what pleasure do we look upon a family,

through the whole of which reign mutual love and esteem, where the parents and children are companions for

one another, without any other difference than what is made by respectful affection on the one side, and kind

indulgence on the other. where freedom and fondness, mutual raillery and mutual kindness, show that no

opposition of interest divides the brothers, nor any rivalship of favour sets the sisters at variance, and where

every thing presents us with the idea of peace, cheerfulness, harmony, and contentment? On the contrary,

how uneasy are we made when we go into a house in which jarring contention sets one half of those who

dwell in it against the other; where amidst affected smoothness and complaisance, suspicious looks and

sudden starts of passion betray the mutual jealousies which burn within them, and which are every moment

ready to burst out through all the restraints which the presence of the company imposes?

Those amiable passions, even when they are acknowledged to be excessive, are never regarded with aversion.

There is something agreeable even in the weakness of friendship and humanity. The too tender mother, the

too indulgent father, the too generous and affectionate friend, may sometimes, perhaps, on account of the

softness of their natures, be looked upon with a species of pity, in which, however, there is a mixture of love,

but can never be regarded with hatred and aversion, nor even with contempt, unless by the most brutal and

worthless of mankind. It is always with concern, with sympathy and kindness, that we blame them for the

extravagance of their attachment. There is a helplessness in the character of extreme humanity which more

than any thing interests our pity. There is nothing in itself which renders it either ungraceful or disagreeable.

We only regret that it is unfit for the world, because the world is unworthy of it, and because it must expose

the person who is endowed with it as a prey to the perfidy and ingratitude of insinuating falsehood, and to a

thousand pains and uneasinesses, which, of all men, he the least deserves to feel, and which generally too he

is, of all men, the least capable of supporting. It is quite otherwise with hatred and resentment. Too violent a

propensity to those detestable passions, renders a person the object of universal dread and abhorrence, who,

Besides those two opposite sets of passions, the social and unsocial, there is another which holds a sort of

middle place between them; is never either so graceful as is sometimes the one set, nor is ever so odious as is

sometimes the other. Grief and joy, when conceived upon account of our own private good or bad fortune,

constitute this third set of passions. Even when excessive, they are never so disagreeable as excessive

resentment, because no opposite sympathy can ever interest us against them: and when most suitable to their

objects, they are never so agreeable as impartial humanity and just benevolence; because no double sympathy

can ever interest us for them. There is, however, this difference between grief and joy, that we are generally

most disposed to sympathize with small joys and great sorrows. The man who, by some sudden revolution of

fortune, is lifted up all at once into a condition of life, greatly above what he had formerly lived in, may be

assured that the congratulations of his best friends are not all of them perfectly sincere. An upstart, though of

the greatest merit, is generally disagreeable, and a sentiment of envy commonly prevents us from heartily

sympathizing with his joy. If he has any judgment, he is sensible of this, and instead of appearing to be elated

with his good fortune, he endeavours, as much as he can, to smother his joy, and keep down that elevation of

mind with which his new circumstances naturally inspire him. He affects the same plainness of dress, and the

same modesty of behaviour, which became him in his former station. He redoubles his attention to his old

friends, and endeavours more than ever to be humble, assiduous, and complaisant. And this is the behaviour

which in his situation we most approve of; because we expect, it seems, that he should have more sympathy

with our envy and aversion to his happiness, than we have with his happiness. It is seldom that with all this

he succeeds. We suspect the sincerity of his humility, and he grows weary of this constraint. In a little time,

therefore, he generally leaves all his old friends behind him, some of the meanest of them excepted, who

may, perhaps, condescend to become his dependents: nor does he always acquire any new ones; the pride of

his new connections is as much affronted at finding him their equal, as that of his old ones had been by his

becoming their superior: and it requires the most obstinate and persevering modesty to atone for this

mortification to either. He generally grows weary too soon, and is provoked, by the sullen and suspicious

pride of the one, and by the saucy contempt of the other, to treat the first with neglect, and the second with

petulance, till at last he grows habitually insolent, and forfeits the esteem of all. If the chief part of human

happiness arises from the consciousness of being beloved, as I believe it does, those sudden changes of

fortune seldom contribute much to happiness. He is happiest who advances more gradually to greatness,

whom the public destines to every step of his preferment long before he arrives at it, in whom, upon that

account, when it comes, it can excite no extravagant joy, and with regard to whom it cannot reasonably create

either any jealousy in those he overtakes, or any envy in those he leaves behind.

Mankind, however, more readily sympathize with those smaller joys which flow from less important causes.

It is decent to be humble amidst great prosperity; but we can scarce express too much satisfaction in all the

little occurrences of common life, in the company with which we spent the evening last night, in the

entertainment that was set before us, in what was said and what was done, in all the little incidents of the

present conversation, and in all those frivolous nothings which fill up the void of human life. Nothing is more

graceful than habitual cheerfulness, which is always founded upon a peculiar relish for all the little pleasures

which common occurrences afford. We readily sympathize with it: it inspires us with the same joy, and

makes every trifle turn up to us in the same agreeable aspect in which it presents itself to the person endowed

with this happy disposition. Hence it is that youth, the season of gaiety, so easily engages our affections. That

propensity to joy which seems even to animate the bloom, and to sparkle from the eyes of youth and beauty,

though in a person of the same sex, exalts, even the aged, to a more joyous mood than ordinary. They forget,

for a time, their infirmities, and abandon themselves to those agreeable ideas and emotions to which they

have long been strangers, but which, when the presence of so much happiness recalls them to their breast,

take their place there, like old acquaintance, from whom they are sorry to have ever been parted, and whom

It is quite otherwise with grief. Small vexations excite no sympathy, but deep affliction calls forth the

greatest. The man who is made uneasy by every little disagreeable incident, who is hurt if either the cook or

the butler have failed in the least article of their duty, who feels every defect in the highest ceremonial of

politeness, whether it be shewn to himself or to any other person, who takes it amiss that his intimate friend

did not bid him goodmorrow when they met in the forenoon, and that his brother hummed a tune all the

time he himself was telling a story; who is put out of humour by the badness of the weather when in the

country, by the badness of the roads when upon a journey, and by the want of company, and dulness of all

public diversions when in town; such a person, I say, though he should have some reason, will seldom meet

with much sympathy. Joy is a pleasant emotion, and we gladly abandon ourselves to it upon the slightest

occasion. We readily, therefore, sympathize with it in others, whenever we are not prejudiced by envy. But

grief is painful, and the mind, even when it is our own misfortune, naturally resists and recoils from it. We

would endeavour either not to conceive it at all, or to shake it off as soon as we have conceived it. Our

aversion to grief will not, indeed, always hinder us from conceiving it in our own case upon very trifling

occasions, but it constantly prevents us from sympathizing with it in others when excited by the like frivolous

causes: for our sympathetic passions are always less irresistible than our original ones. There is, besides, a

malice in mankind, which not only prevents all sympathy with little uneasinesses, but renders them in some

measure diverting. Hence the delight which we all take in raillery, and in the small vexation which we

observe in our companion, when he is pushed, and urged, and teased upon all sides. Men of the most ordinary

goodbreeding dissemble the pain which any little incident may give them; and those who are more

thoroughly formed to society, turn, of their own accord, all such incidents into raillery, as they know their

companions will do for them. The habit which a man, who lives in the world, has acquired of considering

how every thing that concerns himself will appear to others, makes those frivolous calamities turn up in the

same ridiculous light to him, in which he knows they will certainly be considered by them.

Our sympathy, on the contrary, with deep distress, is very strong and very sincere. It is unnecessary to give an

instance. We weep even at the feigned representation of a tragedy. If you labour, therefore, under any signal

calamity, if by some extraordinary misfortune you are fallen into poverty, into diseases, into disgrace and

disappointment; even though your own fault may have been, in part, the occasion, yet you may generally

depend upon the sincerest sympathy of all your friends, and, as far as interest and honour will permit, upon

their kindest assistance too. But if your misfortune is not of this dreadful kind, if you have only been a little

baulked in your ambition, if you have only been jilted by your mistress, or are only henpecked by your wife,

ur sympathy with sorrow, though not more real, has been more taken notice of than our sympathy with joy.

The word sympathy, in its most proper and primitive signification, denotes our fellowfeeling with the

sufferings, not that with the enjoyments, of others. A late ingenious and subtile philosopher thought it

necessary to prove, by arguments, that we had a real sympathy with joy, and that congratulation was a

principle of human nature. Nobody, I believe, ever thought it necessary to prove that compassion was such.

First of all, our sympathy with sorrow is, in some sense, more universal than that with joy. Though sorrow is

excessive, we may still have some fellowfeeling with it. What we feel does not, indeed, in this case, amount

to that complete sympathy, to that perfect harmony and correspondence of sentiments which constitutes

approbation. We do not weep, and exclaim, and lament, with the sufferer. We are sensible, on the contrary, of

his weak ness and of the extravagance of his passion, and yet often feel a very sensible concern upon his

Section III Of the Effects of Prosperity and Adversity upon the Judgment of Mankind with regard to the Propriety of Action; and why it is more easy to obtain their Approbation in the one state than in the other 22

account. But if we do not entirely enter into, and go along with, the joy of another, we have no sort of regard

or fellowfeeling for it. The man who skips and dances about with that intemperate and senseless joy which

Pain besides, whether of mind or body, is a more pungent sensation than pleasure, and our sympathy with

pain, though it falls greatly short of what is naturally felt by the sufferer, is generally a more lively and

distinct perception than our sympathy with pleasure, though this last often approaches more nearly, as I shall

Over and above all this, we often struggle to keep down our sympathy with the sorrow of others. Whenever

we are not under the observation of the sufferer, we endeavour, for our own sake, to suppress it as much as

we can, and we are not always successful. The opposition which we make to it, and the reluctance with which

we yield to it, necessarily oblige us to take more particular notice of it. But we never have occasion to make

this opposition to our sympathy with joy. If there is any envy in the case, we never feel the least propensity

towards it; and if there is none, we give way to it without any reluctance.*1 On the contrary, as we are always

ashamed of our own envy, we often pretend, and sometimes really wish to sympathize with the joy of others,

when by that disagreeable sentiment we are disqualified from doing so. We are glad, we say on account of

our neighbour's good fortune, when in our hearts, perhaps, we are really sorry. We often feel a sympathy with

sorrow when we would wish to be rid of it; and we often miss that with joy when we would be glad to have

it. The obvious observation, therefore, which it naturally falls in our way to make, is, that our propensity to

sympathize with sorrow must be very strong, and our inclination to sympathize with joy very weak.

Notwithstanding this prejudice, however, I will venture to affirm, that, when there is no envy in the case, our

propensity to sympathize with joy is much stronger than our propensity to sympathize with sorrow; and that

our fellowfeeling for the agreeable emotion approaches much more nearly to the vivacity of what is

naturally felt by the persons principally concerned, than that which we conceive for the painful one.

We have some indulgence for that excessive grief which we cannot entirely go along with. We know what a

prodigious effort is requisite before the sufferer can bring down his emotions. to complete harmony and

concord with those of the spectator. Though he fails, therefore, we easily pardon him. But we have no such

indulgence for the intemperance of joy; because we are not conscious that any such vast effort is requisite to

bring it down to what we can entirely enter into. The man who, under the greatest calamities, can command

his sorrow, seems worthy of the highest admiration; but he who, in the fulness of prosperity, can in the same

manner master his joy, seems hardly to deserve any praise. We are sensible that there is a much wider interval

in the one case than in the other, between what is naturally felt by the person principally concerned, and what

What can he added to the happiness of the man who is in health, who is out of debt, and has a clear

conscience? To one in this situation, all accessions of fortune may properly be said to be superfluous; and if

he is much elevated upon account of them, it must be the effect of the most frivolous levity. This situation,

however, may very well be called the natural and ordinary state of mankind. Notwithstanding the present

misery and depravity of the world, so justly lamented, this really is the state of the greater part of men. The

greater part of men, therefore, cannot find any great difficulty in elevating themselves to all the joy which any

But though little can be added to this state, much may be taken from it. Though between this condition and

the highest pitch of human prosperity, the interval is but a trifle; between it and the lowest depth of misery

the distance is immense and prodigious. Adversity, on this account, necessarily depresses the mind of the

sufferer much more below its natural state, than prosperity can elevate him above it. The spectator therefore,

must find it much more difficult to sympathize entirely, and keep perfect time, with his sorrow, than

thoroughly to enter into his joy, and must depart much further from his own natural and ordinary temper of

mind in the one case than in the other. It is on this account, that though our sympathy with sorrow is often a

more pungent sensation than our sympathy with joy, it always falls much more short of the violence of what

It is agreeable to sympathize with, joy; and wherever envy does not oppose it, our heart abandons itself with

satisfaction to the highest transports of that delightful sentiment. But it is painful to go along with grief, and

we always enter into it with reluctance.(*) When we attend to the representation of a tragedy, we struggle

against that sympathetic sorrow which the entertainment inspires as long as we can, and we give way to it at

last only when we can no longer avoid it: we even then endeavour to cover our concern from the company. If

we shed any tears, we carefully conceal them, and are afraid, lest the spectators, not entering into this

excessive tenderness, should regard it as effeminacy and weakness. The wretch whose misfortunes call upon

our compassion feels with what reluctance we are likely to enter into his sorrow, and therefore proposes his

grief to us with fear and hesitation: he even smothers the half of it, and is ashamed, upon account of this

hardheartedness of mankind, to give vent to the fulness of his affliction. It is otherwise with the man who

riots in joy and success. Wherever envy does not interest us against him, he expects our completest sympathy.

He does not fear, therefore, to announce himself with shouts of exultation, in full confidence that we are

Why should we be more ashamed to weep than to laugh before company? We may often have as real

occasion to do the one as to do the other. but we always feel that the spectators are more likely to go along

with us in the agreeable, than in the painful emotion. It is always miserable to complain, even when we are

oppressed by the most dreadful calamities. But the triumph of victory is not always ungraceful. Prudence,

indeed, would often advise us to bear our prosperity with more moderation; because prudence would teach us

to avoid that envy which this very triumph is, more than any thing, apt to excite.

How hearty are the acclamations of the mob, who never bear any envy to their superiors, at a triumph or a

public entry? And how sedate and moderate is commonly their grief at an execution? Our sorrow at a funeral

generally amounts to no more than an affected gravity. but our mirth at a christening or a marriage, is always

from the heart, and without any affectation. Upon these, and all such joyous occasions, our satisfaction,

though not so durable, is often as lively as that of the persons principally concerned. Whenever we cordially

congratulate our friends, which, however, to the disgrace of human nature, we do but seldom, their joy

literally becomes our joy. we are, for the moment, as happy as they are: our heart swells and overflows with

real pleasure: joy and complacency sparkle from our eyes, and animate every feature of our countenance, and

But, on the contrary, when we condole with our friends in their afflictions, how little do we feel, in

comparison of what they feel? We sit down by them, we look at them, and while they relate to us the

circumstances of their misfortune, we listen to them with gravity and attention. But while their narration is

every moment interrupted by those natural bursts of passion which often seem almost to choak them in the

midst of it; how far are the languid emotions of our hearts from keeping time to the transports of theirs? We

may be sensible, at the same time, that their passion is natural, and no greater than what we ourselves might

feel upon the like occasion. We may even inwardly reproach ourselves with our own want of sensibility, and

perhaps, on that account, work ourselves up into an artificial sympathy, which, however, when it is raised, is

always the slightest and most transitory imaginable; and generally, as soon as we have left the room,

vanishes, and is gone for ever. Nature, it seems, when she loaded us with our own sorrows, thought that they

were enough, and therefore did not command us to take any further share in those of others, than what was

It is on account of this dull sensibility to the afflictions of others, that magnanimity amidst great distress

appears always so divinely graceful. His behaviour is genteel and agreeable who can maintain his

cheerfulness amidst a number of frivolous disasters. But he appears to be more than mortal who can support

in the same manner the most dreadful calamities. We feel what an immense effort is requisite to silence those

violent emotions which naturally agitate and distract those in his situation. We are amazed to find that he can

command himself so entirely. His firmness, at the same time, perfectly coincides with our insensibility. He

makes no demand upon us for that more exquisite degree of sensibility which we find, and which we are

mortified to find, that we do not possess. There is the most perfect correspondence between his sentiments

and ours, and on that account the most perfect propriety in his behaviour. It is a propriety too, which, from

our experience of the usual weakness of human nature, we could not reasonably have expected he should be

able to maintain. We wonder with surprise and astonishment at that strength of mind which is capable of so

noble and generous an effort. The sentiment of complete sympathy and approbation, mixed and animated

with wonder and surprise, constitutes what is properly called admiration, as has already been more than once

taken notice of Cato, surrounded on all sides by his enemies, unable to resist them, disdaining to submit to

them, and reduced, by the proud maxims of that age, to the necessity of destroying himself; yet never

shrinking from his misfortunes, never supplicating with the lamentable voice of wretchedness, those

miserable sympathetic tears which we are always so unwilling to give; but on the contrary, arming himself

with manly fortitude, and the moment before he executes his fatal resolution, giving, with his usual

tranquillity, all necessary orders for the safety of his friends; appears to Seneca, that great preacher of

insensibility, a spectacle which even the gods themselves might behold with pleasure and admiration.

Whenever we meet, in common life, with any examples of such heroic magnanimity, we are always

extremely affected. We are more apt to weep and shed tears for such as, in this manner, seem to feel nothing

for them. and in selves, than for those who give way to all the weakness of sorrow: this particular case, the

sympathetic grief of the spectator appears to go beyond the original passion in the person principally

concerned. The friends of Socrates all wept when he drank the last potion, while he himself expressed the

gayest and most cheerful tranquillity. Upon all such occasions the spectator makes no effort, and has no

occasion to make any, in order to conquer his sympathetic sorrow. He is under no fear that it will transport

him to any thing that is extravagant and improper; he is rather pleased with the sensibility of his own heart,

and gives way to it with complacence and selfapprobation. He gladly indulges, therefore, the most

melancholy views which can naturally occur to him, concerning the calamity of his friend, for whom,

perhaps, he never felt so exquisitely before, the tender and tearful passion of love. But it is quite otherwise

with the person principally concerned. He is obliged, as much as possible, to turn away his eyes from

whatever is either naturally terrible or disagreeable in his situation. Too serious an attention to those

circumstances, he fears, might make so violent an impression upon him, that he could no longer keep within

the bounds of moderation, or render himself the object of the complete sympathy and approbation of the

spectators. He fixes his thoughts, therefore, upon those only which are agreeable, the applause and admiration

which he is about to deserve by the heroic magnanimity of his behaviour. To feel that he is capable of so

noble and generous an effort, to feel that in this dreadful situation he can still act as he would desire to act,

animates and transports him with joy, and enables him to support that triumphant gaiety which seems to exult

On the contrary, he always appears, in some measure, mean and despicable, who is sunk in sorrow and

dejection upon account of any calamity of his own. We cannot bring ourselves to feel for him what he feels

for himself, and what, perhaps, we should feel for ourselves if in his situation: we, therefore, despise him;

unjustly, perhaps, if any sentiment could be regarded as unjust, to which we are by nature irresistibly

determined. The weakness of sorrow never appears in any respect agreeable, except when it arises from what

we feel for others more than from what we feel for ourselves. A son, upon the death of an indulgent and

respectable father, may give way to it without much blame. His sorrow is chiefly founded upon a sort of

sympathy with his departed parent and we readily enter into this humane emotion. But if he should indulge

the same weakness upon account of any misfortune which affected himself only, he would no longer meet

with any such indulgence. If he should be reduced to beggary and ruin, if he should be exposed to the most

dreadful dangers, if he should even be led out to a public execution, and there shed one single tear upon the

scaffold, he would disgrace himself for ever in the opinion of all the gallant and generous part of mankind.

Their compassion for him, however, would be very strong, and very sincere; but as it would still fall short of

this excessive weakness, they would have no pardon for the man who could thus expose himself in the eyes

of the world. His behaviour would affect them with shame rather than with sorrow; and the dishonour which

he had thus brought upon himself would appear to them the most lamentable circumstance in his misfortune.

How did it disgrace the memory of the intrepid Duke of Biron, who had so often braved death in the field,

that he wept upon the scaffold, when he beheld the state to which he was fallen, and remembered the favour

It is because mankind are disposed to sympathize more entirely with our joy than with our sorrow, that we

make parade of our riches, and conceal our poverty. Nothing is so mortifying as to be obliged to expose our

distress to the view of the public, and to feel, that though our situation is open to the eyes of all mankind, no

mortal conceives for us the half of what we suffer. Nay, it is chiefly from this regard to the sentiments of

mankind, that we pursue riches and avoid poverty. For to what purpose is all the toil and bustle of this world?

what is the end of avarice and ambition, of the pursuit of wealth, of power, and preheminence? Is it to supply

the necessities of nature? The wages of the meanest labourer can supply them. We see that they afford him

food and clothing, the comfort of a house, and of a family. If we examined his oeconomy with rigour, we

should find that he spends a great part of them upon conveniencies, which may be regarded as superfluities,

and that, upon extraordinary occasions, he can give something even to vanity and distinction. What then is

the cause of our aversion to his situation, and why should those who have been educated in the higher ranks

of life, regard it as worse than death, to be reduced to live, even without labour, upon the same simple fare

with him, to dwell under the same lowly roof, and to be clothed in the same humble. attire? Do they imagine

that their stomach is better, or their sleep sounder in a palace than in a cottage? The contrary has been so

often observed, and, indeed, is so very obvious, though it had never been observed, that there is nobody

ignorant of it. From whence, then, arises that emulation which runs through all the different ranks of men,

and what are the advantages which we propose by that great purpose of human life which we call bettering

our condition? To be observed, to be attended to, to be taken notice of with sympathy, complacency, and

approbation, are all the advantages which we can propose to derive from it. It is the vanity, not the ease, or

the pleasure, which interests us. But vanity is always founded upon the belief of our being the object of

attention and approbation. The rich man glories in his riches, because he feels that they naturally draw upon

him the attention of the world, and that mankind are disposed to go along with him in all those agreeable

emotions with which the advantages of his situation so readily inspire him. At the thought of this, his heart

seems to swell and dilate itself within him, and he is fonder of his wealth, upon this account, than for all the

other advantages it procures him. The poor man, on the contrary, is ashamed of his poverty. He feels that it

either places him out of the sight of mankind, or, that if they take any notice of him, they have, however,

scarce any fellowfeeling with the misery and distress which he suffers. He is mortified upon both accounts.

for though to be overlooked, and to be disapproved of, are things entirely different, yet as obscurity covers us

from the daylight of honour and approbation, to feel that we are taken no notice of, necessarily damps the

most agreeable hope, and disappoints the most ardent desire, of human nature. The poor man goes out and

comes in unheeded, and when in the midst of a crowd is in the same obscurity as if shut up in his own hovel.

Those humble cares and painful attentions which occupy those in his situation, afford no amusement to the

dissipated and the gay. They turn away their eyes from him, or if the extremity of his distress forces them to

look at him, it is only to spurn so disagreeable an object from among them. The fortunate and the proud

wonder at the insolence of human wretchedness, that it should dare to present itself before them, and with the

loathsome aspect of its misery presume to disturb the serenity of their happiness. The man of rank and

distinction, on the contrary, is observed by all the world. Every body is eager to look at him, and to conceive,

at least by sympathy, that joy and exultation with which his circumstances naturally inspire him. His actions

are the objects of the public care. Scarce a word, scarce a gesture, can fall from him that is altogether

neglected. In a great assembly he is the person upon whom all direct their eyes; it is upon him that their

passions seem all to wait with expectation, in order to receive that movement and direction which he shall

impress upon them; and if his behaviour is not altogether absurd, he has, every moment, an opportunity of

interesting mankind, and of rendering himself the object of the observation and fellowfeeling of every body

about him. It is this, which, notwithstanding the restraint it imposes, notwithstanding the loss of liberty with

which it is attended, renders greatness the object of envy, and compensates, in the opinion of all those

mortifications which must mankind, all that toil, all that anxiety, be undergone in the pursuit of it; and what is

of yet more consequence, all that leisure, all that ease, all that careless security, which are forfeited for ever

When we consider the condition of the great, in those delusive colours in which the imagination is apt to

paint it. it seems to be almost the abstract idea of a perfect and happy state. It is the very state which, in all

our waking dreams and idle reveries, we had sketched out to ourselves as the final object of all our desires.

We feel, therefore, a peculiar sympathy with the satisfaction of those who are in it. We favour all their

inclinations, and forward all their wishes. What pity, we think, that any thing should spoil and corrupt so

agreeable a situation! We could even wish them immortal; and it seems hard to us, that death should at last

put an end to such perfect enjoyment. It is cruel, we think, in Nature to compel them from their exalted

stations to that humble, but hospitable home, which she has provided for all her children. Great King, live for

ever! is the compliment, which, after the manner of eastern adulation, we should readily make them, if

experience did not teach us its absurdity. Every calamity that befals them, every injury that is done them,

excites in the breast of the spectator ten times more compassion and resentment than he would have felt, had

the same things happened to other men. It is the misfortunes of Kings only which afford the proper subjects

for tragedy. They resemble, in this respect, the misfortunes of lovers. Those two situations are the chief which

interest us upon the theatre; because, in spite of all that reason and experience can tell us to the contrary, the

prejudices of the imagination attach to these two states a happiness superior to any other. To disturb, or to put

an end to such perfect enjoyment, seems to be the most atrocious of all injuries. The traitor who conspires

against the life of his monarch, is thought a greater monster than any other murderer. All the innocent blood

that was shed in the civil wars, provoked less indignation than the death of Charles I. A stranger to human

nature, who saw the indifference of men about the misery of their inferiors, and the regret and indignation

which they feel for the misfortunes and sufferings of those above them, would be apt to imagine, that pain

must be more agonizing, and the convulsions of death more terrible to persons of higher rank, than to those of

Upon this disposition of mankind, to go along with all the passions of the rich and the powerful, is founded

the distinction of ranks, and the order of society. Our obsequiousness to our superiors more frequently arises

from our admiration for the advantages of their situation, than from any private expectations of benefit from

their goodwill. Their benefits can extend but to a few. but their fortunes interest almost every body. We are

eager to assist them in completing a system of happiness that approaches so near to perfection; and we desire

to serve them for their own sake, without any other recompense but the vanity or the honour of obliging them.

Neither is our deference to their inclinations founded chiefly, or altogether, upon a regard to the utility of

such submission, and to the order of society, which is best supported by it. Even when the order of society

seems to require that we should oppose them, we can hardly bring ourselves to do it. That kings are the

servants of the people, to be obeyed, resisted, deposed, or punished, as the public conveniency may require, is

the doctrine of reason and philosophy; but it is not the doctrine of Nature. Nature would teach us to submit to

them for their own sake, to tremble and bow down before their exalted station, to regard their smile as a

reward sufficient to compensate any services, and to dread their displeasure, though no other evil were to

follow from it, as the severest of all mortifications. To treat them in any respect as men, to reason and dispute

with them upon ordinary occasions, requires such resolution, that there are few men whose magnanimity can

support them in it, unless they are likewise assisted by familiarity and acquaintance. The strongest motives,

the most furious passions, fear, hatred, and resentment, are scarce sufficient to balance this natural disposition

to respect them: and their conduct must, either justly or unjustly, have excited the highest degree of all those

passions, before the bulk of the people can be brought to oppose them with violence, or to desire to see them

either punished or deposed. Even when the people have been brought this length, they are apt to relent every

moment, and easily relapse into their habitual state of deference to those whom they have been accustomed to

look upon as their natural superiors. They cannot stand the mortification of their monarch. Compassion soon

takes the place of resentment, they forget all past provocations, their old principles of loyalty revive, and they

run to reestablish the ruined authority of their old masters, with the same violence with which they had

opposed it. The death of Charles I. brought about the Restoration of the royal family. Compassion for James

II. when he was seized by the populace in making his escape on shipboard, had almost prevented the

Do the great seem insensible of the easy price at which they may acquire the public admiration; or do they

seem to imagine that to them, as to other men, it must be the purchase either of sweat or of blood? By what

important accomplishments is the young nobleman instructed to support the dignity of his rank, and to render

himself worthy of that superiority over his fellowcitizens, to which the virtue of his ancestors had raised

them? Is it by knowledge, by industry, by patience, by selfdenial, or by virtue of any kind? As all his words,

as all his motions are attended to, he learns an habitual regard to every circumstance of ordinary behaviour,

and studies to perform all those small duties with the most exact propriety. As he is conscious how much he

is observed, and how much mankind are disposed to favour all his inclinations, he acts, upon the most

indifferent occasions, with that freedom and elevation which the thought of this naturally inspires. His air, his

manner, his deportment, all mark that elegant and graceful sense of his own superiority, which those who are

born to inferior stations can hardly ever arrive at. These are the arts by which he proposes to make mankind

more easily submit to his authority, and to govern their inclinations according to his own pleasure: and in this

he is seldom disappointed. These arts, supported by rank and preheminence, are, upon ordinary occasions,

sufficient to govern the world. Lewis XIV. during the greater part of his reign, was regarded, not only in

France, but over all Europe, as the most perfect model of a great prince. But what were the talents and virtues

by which he acquired this great reputation? Was it by the scrupulous and inflexible justice of all his

undertakings, by the immense dangers and difficulties with which they were attended, or by the unwearied

and unrelenting application with which he pursued them? Was it by his extensive knowledge, by his exquisite

judgment, or by his heroic valour? It was by none of these qualities. But he was, first of all, the most

powerful prince in Europe, and consequently held the highest rank among kings; and then, says his historian,

'he surpassed all his courtiers in the gracefulness of his shape, and the majestic beauty of his features. The

sound of his voice, noble and affecting, gained those hearts which his presence intimidated. He had a step and

a deportment which could suit only him and his rank, and which would have been ridiculous in any other

person. The embarrassment which he occasioned to those who spoke to him, flattered that secret satisfaction

with which he felt his own superiority. The old officer, who was confounded and faultered in asking him a

favour, and not being able to conclude his discourse, said to him: Sir, your majesty, I hope, will believe that I

do not tremble thus before your enemies: had no difficulty to obtain what he demanded.' These frivolous

accomplishments, supported by his rank, and, no doubt too, by a degree of other talents and virtues, which

seems, however, not to have been much above mediocrity, established this prince in the esteem of his own

age, and have drawn, even from posterity, a good deal of respect for his memory. Compared with these, in his

own times, and in his own presence, no other virtue, it seems, appeared to have any merit. Knowledge,

industry, valour, and beneficence, trembled, were abashed, and lost all dignity before them.

But it is not by accomplishments of this kind, that the man of inferior rank must hope to distinguish himself.

Politeness is so much the virtue of the great, that it will do little honour to any body but themselves. The

coxcomb, who imitates their manner, and affects to be eminent by the superior propriety of his ordinary

behaviour, is rewarded with a double share of contempt for his folly and presumption. Why should the man,

whom nobody thinks it worth while to look at, be very anxious about the manner in which he holds up his

head, or disposes of his arms while he walks through a room? He is occupied surely with a very superfluous

attention, and with an attention too that marks a sense of his own importance, which no other mortal can go

along with. The most perfect modesty and plainness, joined to as much negligence as is consistent with the

respect due to the company, ought to be the chief characteristics of the behaviour of a private man. If ever he

hopes to distinguish himself, it must be by more important virtues. He must acquire dependants to balance the

dependants of the great, and he has no other fund to pay them from, but the labour of his body, and the

activity of his mind. He must cultivate these therefore: he must acquire superior knowledge in his profession,

and superior industry in the exercise of it. He must be patient in labour, resolute in danger, and firm in

distress. These talents he must bring into public view, by the difficulty, importance, and, at the same time,

good judgment of his undertakings, and by the severe and unrelenting application with which he pursues

them. Probity and prudence, generosity and frankness, must characterize his behaviour upon all ordinary

occasions; and he must, at the same time, be forward to engage in all those situations, in which it requires the

greatest talents and virtues to act with propriety, but in which the greatest applause is to be acquired by those

who can acquit themselves with honour. With what impatience does the man of spirit and ambition, who is

depressed by his situation, look round for some great opportunity to distinguish himself? No circumstances,

which can afford this, appear to him undesirable. He even looks forward with satisfaction to the prospect of

foreign war, or civil dissension; and, with secret transport and delight, sees through all the confusion and

bloodshed which attend them, the probability of those wishedfor occasions presenting themselves, in which

he may draw upon himself the attention and admiration of mankind. The man of rank and distinction, on the

contrary, whose whole glory consists in the propriety of his ordinary behaviour, who is contented with the

humble renown which this can afford him, and has no talents to acquire any other, is unwilling to embarrass

himself with what can be attended either with difficulty or distress. To figure at a ball is his great triumph,

and to succeed in an intrigue of gallantry, his highest exploit. He has an aversion to all public confusions, not

from the love of mankind, for the great never look upon their inferiors as their fellowcreatures; nor yet from

want of courage, for in that he is seldom defective; but from a consciousness that he possesses none of the

virtues which are required in such situations, and that the public attention will certainly be drawn away from

him by others. He may be willing to expose himself to some little danger, and to make a campaign when it

happens to be the fashion. But he shudders with horror at the thought of any situation which demands the

continual and long exertion of patience, industry, fortitude, and application of thought. These virtues are

hardly ever to be met with in men who are born to those high stations. In all governments accordingly, even

in monarchies, the highest offices are generally possessed, and the whole detail of the administration

conducted, by men who were educated in the middle and inferior ranks of life, who have been carried

forward by their own industry and abilities, though loaded with the jealousy, and opposed by the resentment,

of all those who were born their superiors, and to whom the great, after having regarded them first with

contempt, and afterwards with envy, are at last contented to truckle with the same abject meanness with

It is the loss of this easy empire over the affections of mankind which renders the fall from greatness so

insupportable. When the family of the king of Macedon was led in triumph by Paulus Aemilius, their

misfortunes, it is said, made them divide with their conqueror the attention of the Roman people. The sight of

the royal children, whose tender age rendered them insensible of their situation, struck the spectators, amidst

the public rejoicings and prosperity, with the tenderest sorrow and compassion. The king appeared next in the

procession; and seemed like one confounded and astonished, and bereft of all sentiment, by the greatness of

his calamities. His friends and ministers followed after him. As they moved along, they often cast their eyes

upon their fallen sovereign, and always burst into tears at the sight; their whole behaviour demonstrating that

they thought not of their own misfortunes, but were occupied entirely by the superior greatness of his. The

generous Romans, on the contrary, beheld him with disdain and indignation, and regarded as unworthy of all

compassion the man who could be so meanspirited as to bear to live under such calamities. Yet what did

those calamities amount to? According to the greater part of historians, he was to spend the remainder of his

days, under the protection of a powerful and humane people, in a state which in itself should seem worthy of

envy, a state of plenty, ease, leisure, and security, from which it was impossible for him even by his own folly

to fall. But he was no longer to be surrounded by that admiring mob of fools, flatterers, and dependants, who

had formerly been accustomed to attend upon all his motions. He was no longer to be gazed upon by

multitudes, nor to have it in his power to render himself the object of their respect, their gratitude, their love,

their admiration. The passions of nations were no longer to mould themselves upon his inclinations. This was

that insupportable calamity which bereaved the king of all sentiment; which made his friends forget their own

misfortunes; and which the Roman magnanimity could scarce conceive how any man could be so

'Love,' says my Lord Rochfaucault, 'is commonly succeeded by ambition; but ambition is hardly ever

succeeded by love.' That passion, when once it has got entire possession of the breast, will admit neither a

rival nor a successor. To those who have been accustomed to the possession, or even to the hope of public

admiration, all other pleasures sicken and decay. Of all the discarded statesmen who for their own ease have

studied to get the better of ambition, and to despise those honours which they could no longer arrive at, how

few have been able to succeed? The greater part have spent their time in the most listless and insipid

indolence, chagrined at the thoughts of their own insignificancy, incapable of being interested i n the

occupations of private life, without enjoyment, except when they talked of their former greatness, and

without satisfaction, except when they were employed in some vain project to recover it. Are you in earnest

resolved never to barter your liberty for the lordly servitude of a court, but to live free, fearless, and

independent? There seems to be one way to continue in that virtuous resolution; and perhaps but one. Never

enter the place from whence so few have been able to return; never come within the circle of ambition; nor

ever bring yourself into comparison with those masters of the earth who have already engrossed the attention

Of such mighty importance does it appear to be, in the imaginations of men, to stand in that situation which

sets them most in the view of general sympathy and attention. And thus, place, that great object which

divides the wives of aldermen, is the end of half the labours of human life; and is the cause of all the tumult

and bustle, all the rapine and injustice, which avarice and ambition have introduced into this world. People of

sense, it is said, indeed despise place; that is, they despise sitting at the head of the table, and are indifferent

who it is that is pointed out to the company by that frivolous circumstance, which the smallest advantage is

capable of overbalancing. But rank, distinction preeminence, no man despises, unless he is either raised

very much above, or sunk very much below, the ordinary standard of human nature; unless he is either so

confirmed in wisdom and real philosophy, as to be satisfied that, while the propriety of his conduct renders

him the just object of approbation, it is of little consequence though he be neither attended to, nor approved

of; or so habituated to the idea of his own meanness, so sunk in slothful and sottish indifference, as entirely to

As to become the natural object of the joyous congratulations and sympathetic attentions of mankind is, in

this manner, the circumstance which gives to prosperity all its dazzling splendour; so nothing darkens so

much the gloom of adversity as to feel that our misfortunes are the objects, not of the fellowfeeling, but of

the contempt and aversion of our brethren. It is upon this account that the most dreadful calamities are not

always those which it is most difficult to support. It is often more mortifying to appear in public under small

disasters, than under great misfortunes. The first excite no sympathy; but the second, though they may excite

none that approaches to the anguish of the sufferer, call forth, however, a very lively compassion. The

sentiments of the spectators are, in this last case, less wide of those of the sufferer, and their imperfect

fellowfeeling lends him some assistance in supporting his misery. Before a gay assembly, a gentleman

would be more mortified to appear covered with filth and rags than with blood and wounds. This last

situation would interest their pity; the other would provoke their laughter. The judge who orders a criminal to

be set in the pillory, dishonours him more than if he had condemned him to the scaffold. The great prince,

who, some years ago, caned a general officer at the head of his army, disgraced him irrecoverably. The

punishment would have been much less had he shot him through the body. By the laws of honour, to strike

with a cane dishonours, to strike with a sword does not, for an obvious reason. Those slighter punishments,

when inflicted on a gentleman, to whom dishonour is the greatest of all evils, come to be regarded among a

humane and generous people, as the most dreadful of any. With regard to persons of that rank, therefore, they

are universally laid aside, and the law, while it takes their life upon many occasions, respects their honour

upon almost all. To scourge a person of quality, or to set him in the pillory, upon account of any crime

whatever, is a brutality of which no European government, except that of Russia, is capable.

A brave man is not rendered contemptible by being brought to the scaffold; he is, by being set in the pillory.

His behaviour in the one situation may gain him universal esteem and admiration. No behaviour in the other

can render him agreeable. The sympathy of the spectators supports him in the one case, and saves him from

that shame, that consciousness that his misery is felt by himself only, which is of all sentiments the most

unsupportable. There is no sympathy in the other; or, if there is any, it is not with his pain, which is a trifle,

but with his consciousness of the want of sympathy with which this pain is attended. It is with his shame, not

with his sorrow. Those who pity him, blush and hang down their heads for him. He droops in the same

manner, and feels himself irrecoverably degraded by the punishment, though not by the crime. The man, on

the contrary, who dies with resolution, as he is naturally regarded with the erect aspect of esteem and

approbation, so he wears himself the same undaunted countenance; and, if the crime does not deprive him of

the respect of others, the punishment never will. He has no suspicion that his situation is the object of

contempt or derision to any body, and he can, with propriety, assume the air, not only of perfect serenity, but

'Great dangers,' says the Cardinal de Retz, 'have their charms, because there is some glory to be got, even

when we miscarry. But moderate dangers have nothing but what is horrible, because the loss of reputation

always attends the want of success.' His maxim has the same foundation with what we have been just now

Human virtue is superior to pain, to poverty, to danger, and to death; nor does it even require its utmost

efforts do despise them. But to have its misery exposed to insult and derision, to be led in triumph, to be set

up for the hand of scorn to point at, is a situation in which its constancy is much more apt to fail. Compared

This disposition to admire, and almost to worship, the rich and the powerful, and to despise, or, at least, to

neglect persons of poor and mean condition, though necessary both to establish and to maintain the

distinction of ranks and the order of society, is, at the same time, the great and most universal cause of the

corruption of our moral sentiments. That wealth and greatness are often regarded with the respect and

admiration which are due only to wisdom and virtue; and that the contempt, of which vice and folly are the

only proper objects, is often most unjustly bestowed upon poverty and weakness, has been the complaint of

We desire both to be respectable and to be respected. We dread both to be contemptible and to be contemned.

But, upon coming into the world, we soon find that wisdom and virtue are by no means the sole objects of

respect; nor vice and folly, of contempt. We frequently see the respectful attentions of the world more

strongly directed towards the rich and the great, than towards the wise and the virtuous. We see frequently the

vices and follies of the powerful much less despised than the poverty and weakness of the innocent. To

deserve, to acquire, and to enjoy the respect and admiration of mankind, are the great objects of ambition and

emulation. Two different roads are presented to us, equally leading to the attainment of this so much desired

object; the one, by the study of wisdom and the practice of virtue; the other, by the acquisition of wealth and

greatness. Two different characters are presented to our emulation; the one, of proud ambition and

ostentatious avidity. the other, of humble modesty and equitable justice. Two different models, two different

pictures, are held out to us, according to which we may fashion our own character and behaviour; the one

more gaudy and glittering in its colouring; the other more correct and more exquisitely beautiful in its

outline: the one forcing itself upon the notice of every wandering eye; the other, attracting the attention of

scarce any body but the most studious and careful observer. They are the wise and the virtuous chiefly, a

Chap. III Of the corruption of our moral sentiments, which is occasioned by this disposition to admire the rich and the great, and to despise or neglect persons of poor and mean condition 31

select, though, I am afraid, but a small party, who are the real and steady admirers of wisdom and virtue. The

great mob of mankind are the admirers and worshippers, and, what may seem more extraordinary, most

The respect which we feel for wisdom and virtue is, no doubt, different from that which we conceive for

wealth and greatness; and it requires no very nice discernment to distinguish the difference. But,

notwithstanding this difference, those sentiments bear a very considerable resemblance to one another. In

some particular features they are, no doubt, different, but, in the general air of the countenance, they seem to

be so very nearly the same, that inattentive observers are very apt to mistake the one for the other.

In equal degrees of merit there is scarce any man who does not respect more the rich and the great, than the

poor and the humble. With most men the presumption and vanity of the former are much more admired, than

the real and solid merit of the latter. It is scarce agreeable to good morals, or even to good language, perhaps,

to say, that mere wealth and greatness, abstracted from merit and virtue, deserve our respect. We must

acknowledge, however, that they almost constantly obtain it; and that they may, therefore, be considered as,

in some respects, the natural objects of it. Those exalted stations may, no doubt, be completely degraded by

vice and folly. But the vice and folly must be very great, before they can operate this complete degradation.

The profligacy of a man of fashion is looked upon with much less contempt and aversion, than that of a man

of meaner condition. In the latter, a single transgression of the rules of temperance and propriety, is

commonly more resented, than the constant and avowed contempt of them ever is in the former.

In the middling and inferior stations of life, the road to virtue and that to fortune, to such fortune, at least, as

men in such stations can reasonably expect to acquire, are, happily in most cases, very nearly the same. In all

the middling and inferior professions, real and solid professional abilities, joined to prudent, just, firm, and

temperate conduct, can very seldom fail of success. Abilities will even sometimes prevail where the conduct

is by no means correct. Either habitual imprudence, however, or injustice, or weakness, or profligacy, will

always clouD, and sometimes Depress altogether, the most splendid professional abilities. Men in the inferior

and middling stations of life, besides, can never be great enough to be above the law, which must generally

overawe them into some sort of respect for, at least, the more important rules of justice. The success of such

people, too, almost always depends upon the favour and good opinion of their neighbours and equals; and

without a tolerably regular conduct these can very seldom be obtained. The good old proverb, therefore, That

honesty is the best policy, holds, in such situations, almost always perfectly true. In such situations, therefore,

we may generally expect a considerable degree of virtue; and, fortunately for the good morals of society,

In the superior stations of life the case is unhappily not always the same. In the courts of princes, in the

drawingrooms of the great, where success and preferment depend, not upon the esteem of intelligent and

wellinformed equals, but upon the fanciful and foolish favour of ignorant, presumptuous, and proud

superiors; flattery and falsehood too often prevail over merit and abilities. In such societies the abilities to

please, are more regarded than the abilities to serve. In quiet and peaceable times, when the storm is at a

distance, the prince, or great man, wishes only to be amused, and is even apt to fancy that he has scarce any

occasion for the service of any body, or that those who amuse him are sufficiently able to serve him. The

external graces, the frivolous accomplishments of that impertinent and foolish thing called a man of fashion,

are commonly more admired than the solid and masculine virtues of a warrior, a statesman, a philosopher, or

a legislator. All the great and awful virtues, all the virtues which can fit, either for the council, the senate, or

the field, are, by the insolent and insignificant flatterers, who commonly figure the most in such corrupted

societies, held in the utmost contempt and derision. When the duke of Sully was called upon by Lewis the

Thirteenth, to give his advice in some great emergency, he observed the favourites and courtiers whispering

to one another, and smiling at his unfashionable appearance. 'Whenever your majesty's father,' said the old

warrior and statesman, 'did me the honour to consult me, he ordered the buffoons of the court to retire into the

Chap. III Of the corruption of our moral sentiments, which is occasioned by this disposition to admire the rich and the great, and to despise or neglect persons of poor and mean condition 32

It is from our disposition to admire, and consequently to imitate, the rich and the great, that they are enabled

to set, or to lead what is called the fashion. Their dress is the fashionable dress; the language of their

conversation, the fashionable style; their air and deportment, the fashionable behaviour. Even their vices and

follies are fashionable; and the greater part of men are proud to imitate and resemble them in the very

qualities which dishonour and degrade them. Vain men often give themselves airs of a fashionable profligacy,

which, in their hearts, they do not approve of, and of which, perhaps, they are really not guilty. They desire to

be praised for what they themselves do not think praiseworthy, and are ashamed of unfashionable virtues

which they sometimes practise in secret, and for which they have secretly some degree of real veneration.

There are hypocrites of wealth and greatness, as well as of religion and virtue; and a vain man is as apt to

pretend to be what he is not, in the one way, as a cunning man is in the other. He assumes the equipage and

splendid way of living of his superiors, without considering that whatever may be praiseworthy in any of

these, derives its whole merit and propriety from its suitableness to that situation and fortune which both

require and can easily support the expence. Many a poor man places his glory in being thought rich, without

considering that the duties (if one may call such follies by so very venerable a name) which that reputation

imposes upon him, must soon reduce him to beggary, and render his situation still more unlike that of those

To attain to this envied situation, the candidates for fortune too frequently abandon the paths of virtue; for

unhappily, the road which leads to the one, and that which leads to the other, lie sometimes in very opposite

directions. But the ambitious man flatters himself that, in the splendid situation to which he advances, he will

have so many means of commanding the respect and admiration of mankind, and will be enabled to act with

such superior propriety and grace, that the lustre of his future conduct will entirely cover, or efface, the

foulness of the steps by which he arrived at that elevation. In many governments the candidates for the

highest stations are above the law; and, if they can attain the object of their ambition, they have no fear of

being called to account for the means by which they acquired it. They often endeavour, therefore, not only by

fraud and falsehood, the ordinary and vulgar arts of intrigue and cabal; but sometimes by the perpetration of

the most enormous crimes, by murder and assassination, by rebellion and civil war, to supplant and destroy

those who oppose or stand in the way of their greatness. They more frequently miscarry than succeed; and

commonly gain nothing but the disgraceful punishment which is due to their crimes. But, though they should

be so lucky as to attain that wishedfor greatness, they are always most miserably disappointed in the

happiness which they expect to enjoy in it. It is not ease or pleasure, but always honour, of one kind or

another, though frequently an honour very ill understood, that the ambitious man really pursues. But the

honour of his exalted station appears, both in his own eyes and in those of other people, polluted and defiled

by the baseness of the means through which he rose to it. Though by the profusion of every liberal expence;

though by excessive indulgence in every profligate pleasure, the wretched, but usual, resource of ruined

characters; though by the hurry of public business, or by the prouder and more dazzling tumult of war, he

may endeavour to efface, both from his own memory and from that of other people, the remembrance of what

he has done; that remembrance never fails to pursue him. He invokes in vain the dark and dismal powers of

forgetfulness and oblivion. He remembers himself what he has done, and that remembrance tells him that

other people must likewise remember it. Amidst all the gaudy pomp of the most ostentatious greatness;

amidst the venal and vile adulation of the great and of the learned; amidst the more innocent, though more

foolish, acclamations of the common people; amidst all the pride of conquest and the triumph of successful

war, he is still secretly pursued by the avenging furies of shame and remorse; and, while glory seems to

surround him on all sides, he himself, in his own imagination, sees black and foul infamy fast pursuing him,

and every moment ready to overtake him from behind. Even the great Caesar, though he had the magnanimity

to dismiss his guards, could not dismiss his suspicions. The remembrance of Pharsalia still haunted and

pursued him. When, at the request of the senate, he had the generosity to pardon Marcellus, he told that

assembly, that he was not unaware of the designs which were carrying on against his life; but that, as he had

lived long enough both for nature and for glory, he was contented to die, and therefore despised all

conspiracies. He had, perhaps, lived long enough for nature. But the man who felt himself the object of such

deadly resentment, from those whose favour he wished to gain, and whom he still wished to consider as his

Chap. III Of the corruption of our moral sentiments, which is occasioned by this disposition to admire the rich and the great, and to despise or neglect persons of poor and mean condition 33

friends, had certainly lived too long for real glory; or for all the happiness which he could ever hope to enjoy

Chap. III Of the corruption of our moral sentiments, which is occasioned by this disposition to admire the rich and the great, and to despise or neglect persons of poor and mean condition 34

8. Chap. III Of the manner in which we judge of the propriety or impropriety of the affections of other men, by their concord or dissonance with our own. , page = 9

11. Section II Of the Degrees of the different Passions which are consistent with Propriety , page = 15

13. Chap. II Of those Passions which take their origin from a particular turn or habit of the Imagination , page = 18

17. Section III Of the Effects of Prosperity and Adversity upon the Judgment of Mankind with regard to the Propriety of Action; and why it is more easy to obtain their Approbation in the one state than in the other , page = 25

18. Chap. I That though our sympathy with sorrow is generally a more lively sensation than our sympathy with joy, it commonly falls much more short of the violence of what is naturally felt by the person principally concerned , page = 25

19. Chap. II Of the origin of Ambition, and of the distinction of Ranks , page = 29

20. Chap. III Of the corruption of our moral sentiments, which is occasioned by this disposition to admire the rich and the great, and to despise or neglect persons of poor and mean condition , page = 34