OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY.
[SECTION I.]
DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT.
As all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into impressions and ideas, so the impressions admit of another division into original and secondary. This division of the impressions is the same with that which I formerly made use of[1] when I distinguished them into impressions of sensation and reflection. Original impressions, or impressions of sensation, are such as, without any antecedent perception, arise in the soul, from the constitution of the body, from the animal spirits, or from the application of objects to the external organs. Secondary, or reflective impressions, are such as proceed from some of these original ones, either immediately, or by the interposition of its idea. Of the first kind are all the impressions of the senses, and all bodily pains and pleasures: of the second are the passions, and other emotions resembling them.
'Tis certain that the mind, in its perceptions, must begin somewhere; and that since the impressions precede their correspondent ideas, there must be some impressions, which, without any introduction, make their appearance in the soul. As these depend upon natural and physical causes, the examination of them would lead me too far from my present subject, into the sciences of anatomy and natural philosophy. For this reason I shall here confine myself to those other impressions, which I have called secondary and reflective, as arising either from the original impressions, or from their ideas. Bodily pains and pleasures are the source of many passions, both when felt and considered by the mind; but arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you please to call it, without any preceding thought or perception. A fit of the gout produces a long train of passions, as grief, hope, fear; but is not derived immediately from any affection or idea.
The reflective impressions may be divided into two kinds, viz. the calm and the violent. Of the first kind is the sense of beauty and deformity in action, composition, and external objects. Of the second are the passions of love and hatred, grief and joy, pride and humility. This division is far from being exact. The raptures of poetry and music frequently rise to the greatest height; while those other impressions, properly called passions, may decay into so soft an emotion, as to become in a manner imperceptible. But as, in general, the passions are more violent than the emotions arising from beauty and deformity, these impressions have been commonly distinguished from each other. The subject of the human mind being so copious and various, I shall here take advantage of this vulgar and specious division, that I may proceed with the greater order; and, having said all I thought necessary concerning our ideas, shall now explain those violent emotions or passions, their nature, origin, causes and effects.
When we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a division of them into direct and indirect. By direct passions I understand such as arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. By indirect, such as proceed from the same principles, but by the conjunction of other qualities. This distinction I cannot at present justify or explain any farther. I can only observe in general, that under the indirect passions I comprehend pride, humility, ambition, vanity, love, hatred, envy, pity, malice, generosity, with their dependents. And under the direct passions, desire, aversion, grief, joy, hope, fear, despair, and security. I shall begin with the former.
[1] Book I. Part I. Sect. 2.
[SECTION II.]
OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY, THEIR OBJECTS AND CAUSES.
The passions of pride and humility being simple and uniform impressions, 'tis impossible we can ever, by a multitude of words, give a just definition of them, or indeed of any of the passions. The utmost we can pretend to is a description of them, by an enumeration of such circumstances as attend them: but as these words, pride and humility, are of general use, and the impressions they represent the most common of any, every one, of himself, will be able to form a just idea of them, without any danger of mistake. For which reason, not to lose time upon preliminaries, I shall immediately enter upon the examination of these passions.
'Tis evident, that pride and humility, though directly contrary, have yet the same object. This object is self, or that succession of related ideas and impressions, of which we have an intimate memory and consciousness. Here the view always fixes when we are actuated by either of these passions. According as our idea of ourself is more or less advantageous, we feel either of those opposite affections, and are elated by pride, or dejected with humility. Whatever other objects may be comprehended by the mind, they are always considered with a view to ourselves; otherwise they would never be able either to excite these passions, or produce the smallest increase or diminution of them. When self enters not into the consideration, there is no room either for pride or humility.
But though that connected succession of perceptions, which we call self be always the object of these two passions, 'tis impossible it can be their cause, or be sufficient alone to excite them. For as these passions are directly contrary, and have the same object in common; were their object also their cause, it could never produce any degree of the one passion, but at the same time it must excite an equal degree of the other; which opposition and contrariety must destroy both. 'Tis impossible a man can at the same time be both proud and humble; and where he has different reasons for these passions, as frequently happens, the passions either take place alternately, or, if they encounter, the one annihilates the other, as far as its strength goes, and the remainder only of that which is superior, continues to operate upon the mind. But in the present case neither of the passions could ever become superior; because, supposing it to be the view only of ourself which excited them, that being perfectly indifferent to either, must produce both in the very same proportion; or, in other words, can produce neither. To excite any passion, and at the same time raise an equal share of its antagonist, is immediately to undo what was done, and must leave the mind at last perfectly calm and indifferent.
We must therefore make a distinction betwixt the cause and the object of these passions; betwixt that idea which excites them, and that to which they direct their view when excited. Pride and humility, being once raised, immediately turn our attention to ourself, and regard that as their ultimate and final object; but there is something farther requisite in order to raise them: something, which is peculiar to one of the passions, and produces not both in the very same degree. The first idea that is presented to the mind is that of the cause or productive principle. This excites the passion connected with it; and that passion, when excited, turns our view to another idea, which is that of self. Here then is a passion placed betwixt two ideas, of which the one produces it, and the other is produced by it. The first idea therefore represents the cause, the second the object of the passion.
To begin with the causes of pride and humility; we may observe, that their most obvious and remarkable property is the vast variety of subjects on which they may be placed. Every valuable quality of the mind, whether of the imagination, judgment, memory or disposition; wit, good sense, learning, courage, justice, integrity; all these are the causes of pride, and their opposites of humility. Nor are these passions confined to the mind, but extend their view to the body likewise. A man may be proud of his beauty, strength, agility, good mien, address in dancing, riding, fencing, and of his dexterity in any manual business or manufacture. But this is not all. The passion, looking farther, comprehends whatever objects are in the least allied or related to us. Our country, family, children, relations, riches, houses, gardens, horses, dogs, clothes; any of these may become a cause either of pride or of humility.
From the consideration of these causes, it appears necessary we should make a new distinction in the causes of the passion, betwixt that quality which operates, and the subject on which it is placed. A man, for instance, is vain of a beautiful house which belongs to him, or which he has himself built and contrived. Here the object of the passion is himself, and the cause is the beautiful house: which cause again is subdivided into two parts, viz. the quality, which operates upon the passion, and the subject, in which the quality inheres. The quality is the beauty, and the subject is the house, considered as his property or contrivance. Both these parts are essential, nor is the distinction vain and chimerical. Beauty, considered merely as such, unless placed upon something related to us, never produces any pride or vanity; and the strongest relation alone, without beauty, or something else in its place, has as little influence on that passion. Since, therefore, these two particulars are easily separated, and there is a necessity for their conjunction, in order to produce the passion, we ought to consider them as component parts of the cause; and infix in our minds an exact idea of this distinction.
[SECTION III.]
WHENCE THESE OBJECTS AND CAUSES ARE DERIVED.
Being so far advanced as to observe a difference betwixt the object of the passions and their cause, and to distinguish in the cause the quality, which operates on the passions, from the subject, in which it inheres; we now proceed to examine what determines each of them to be what it is, and assigns such a particular object and quality, and subject to these affections. By this means we shall fully understand the origin of pride and humility.
'Tis evident, in the first place, that these passions are determined to have self for their object, not only by a natural, but also by an original property. No one can doubt but this property is natural, from the constancy and steadiness of its operations. 'Tis always self, which is the object of pride and humility; and whenever the passions look beyond, 'tis still with a view to ourselves; nor can any person or object otherwise have any influence upon us.
That this proceeds from an original quality or primary impulse, will likewise appear evident, if we consider that 'tis the distinguishing characteristic of these passions. Unless nature had given some original qualities to the mind, it could never have any secondary ones; because in that case it would have no foundation for action, nor could ever begin to exert itself. Now these qualities, which we must consider as original, are such as are most inseparable from the soul, and can be resolved into no other: and such is the quality which determines the object of pride and humility.
We may, perhaps, make it a greater question, whether the causes that produce the passion, be as natural as the object to which it is directed, and whether all that vast variety proceeds from caprice, or from the constitution of the mind. This doubt we shall soon remove, if we cast our eye upon human nature, and consider that, in all nations and ages, the same objects still give rise to pride and humility; and that upon the view even of a stranger, we can know pretty nearly what will either increase or diminish his passions of this kind. If there be any variation in this particular, it proceeds from nothing but a difference in the tempers and complexions of men, and is, besides, very inconsiderable. Can we imagine it possible, that while human nature remains the same, men will ever become entirely indifferent to their power, riches, beauty or personal merit, and that their pride and vanity will not be affected by these advantages?
But though the causes of pride and humility be plainly natural, we shall find, upon examination, that they are not original, and that 'tis utterly impossible they should each of them be adapted to these passions by a particular provision and primary constitution of nature. Beside their prodigious number, many of them are the effects of art, and arise partly from the industry, partly from the caprice, and partly from the good fortune of men. Industry produces houses, furniture, clothes. Caprice determines their particular kinds and qualities. And good fortune frequently contributes to all this, by discovering the effects that result from the different mixtures and combinations of bodies. 'Tis absurd therefore to imagine, that each of these was foreseen and provided for by nature, and that every new production of art, which causes pride or humility, instead of adapting itself to the passion by partaking of some general quality that naturally operates on the mind, is itself the object of an original principle, which till then lay concealed in the soul, and is only by accident at last brought to light. Thus the first mechanic that invented a fine scrutoire, produced pride in him who became possessed of it, by principles different from those which made him proud of handsome chairs and tables. As this appears evidently ridiculous, we must conclude, that each cause of pride and humility is not adapted to the passions by a distinct original quality, but that there are some one or more circumstances common to all of them, on which their efficacy depends.
Besides, we find in the course of nature, that though the effects be many, the principles from which they arise are commonly but few and simple, and that 'tis the sign of an unskilful naturalist to have recourse to a different quality, in order to explain every different operation. How much more must this be true with regard to the human mind, which, being so confined a subject, may justly be thought incapable of containing such a monstrous heap of principles, as would be necessary to excite the passions of pride and humility, were each distinct cause adapted to the passion by a distinct set of principles!
Here, therefore, moral philosophy is in the same condition as natural, with regard to astronomy before the time of Copernicus. The ancients, though sensible of that maxim, that Nature does nothing in vain, contrived such intricate systems of the heavens, as seemed inconsistent with true philosophy, and gave place at last to something more simple and natural. To invent without scruple a new principle to every new phenomenon, instead of adapting it to the old; to overload our hypothesis with a variety of this kind, are certain proofs that none of these principles is the just one, and that we only desire, by a number of falsehoods, to cover our ignorance of the truth.
[SECTION IV.]
OF THE RELATIONS OF IMPRESSIONS AND IDEAS.
Thus we have established two truths without any obstacle or difficulty, that 'tis from natural principles this variety of causes excite pride and humility, and that 'tis not by a different principle each different cause is adapted to its passion. We shall now proceed to inquire how we may reduce these principles to a lesser number, and find among the causes something common on which their influence depends.
In order to this, we must reflect on certain properties of human nature, which, though they have a mighty influence on every operation both of the understanding and passions, are not commonly much insisted on by philosophers. The first of these is the association of ideas, which I have so often observed and explained. 'Tis impossible for the mind to fix itself steadily upon one idea for any considerable time; nor can it by its utmost efforts ever arrive at such a constancy. But however changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without rule and method in their changes. The rule by which they proceed, is to pass from one object to what is resembling, contiguous to, or produced by it. When one idea is present to the imagination, any other, united by these relations naturally follows it, and enters with more facility by means of that introduction.
The second property I shall observe in the human mind is a like association of impressions. All resembling impressions are connected together, and no sooner one arises than the rest immediately follow. Grief and disappointment give rise to anger, anger to envy, envy to malice, and malice to grief again, till the whole circle be completed. In like manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws itself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other resembling affections. 'Tis difficult for the mind, when actuated by any passion, to confine itself to that passion alone, without any change or variation. Human nature is too inconstant to admit of any such regularity. Changeableness is essential to it. And to what can it so naturally change as to affections or emotions, which are suitable to the temper, and agree with that set of passions which then prevail? 'Tis evident then there is an attraction or association among impressions, as well as among ideas; though with this remarkable difference, that ideas are associated by resemblance, contiguity, and causation, and impressions only by resemblance.
In the third place, 'tis observable of these two kinds of association, that they very much assist and forward each other, and that the transition is more easily made where they both concur in the same object. Thus, a man who, by an injury from another, is very much discomposed and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred subjects of discontent, impatience, fear, and other uneasy passions, especially if he can discover these subjects in or near the person who was the cause of his first passion. Those principles which forward the transition of ideas here concur with those which operate on the passions; and both uniting in one action, bestow on the mind a double impulse. The new passion, therefore, must arise with so much greater violence, and the transition to it must be rendered so much more easy and natural.
Upon this occasion I may cite the authority of an elegant writer, who expresses himself in the following manner:—"As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange or beautiful, and is still more pleased the more it finds of these perfections in the same object, so it is capable of receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance of another sense. Thus, any continued sound, as the music of birds or a fall of waters, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the place that lie before him. Thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasure of the imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together than when they enter the mind separately: as the different colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one another, and receive an additional beauty from the advantage of the situation." In this phenomenon we may remark the association both of impressions and ideas, as well as the mutual assistance they lend each other.
[SECTION V.]
OF THE INFLUENCE OF THESE RELATIONS ON PRIDE AND HUMILITY.
These principles being established on unquestionable experience, I begin to consider how we shall apply them, by revolving over all the causes of pride and humility, whether these causes be regarded as the qualities that operate, or as the subjects on which the qualities are placed. In examining these qualities, I immediately find many of them to concur in producing the sensation of pain and pleasure, independent of those affections which I here endeavour to explain. Thus the beauty of our person, of itself, and by its very appearance, gives pleasure as well as pride; and its deformity, pain as well as humility. A magnificent feast delights us, and a sordid one displeases. What I discover to be true in some instances, I suppose to be so in all, and take it for granted at present, without any farther proof, that every cause of pride, by its peculiar qualities, produces a separate pleasure, and of humility a separate uneasiness.
Again, in considering the subjects, to which these qualities adhere, I make a new supposition, which also appears probable from many obvious instances, viz. that these subjects are either parts of ourselves, or something nearly related to us. Thus the good and bad qualities of our actions and manners constitute virtue and vice, and determine our personal character, than which nothing operates more strongly on these passions. In like manner, 'tis the beauty or deformity of our person, houses, equipage, or furniture, by which we are rendered either vain or humble. The same qualities, when transferred to subjects, which bear us no relation, influence not in the smallest degree either of these affections.
Having thus in a manner supposed two properties of the causes of these affections, viz. that the qualities produce a separate pain or pleasure, and that the subjects, on which the qualities are placed, are related to self; I proceed to examine the passions themselves, in order to find something in them correspondent to the supposed properties of their causes. First, I find, that the peculiar object of pride and humility is determined by an original and natural instinct, and that 'tis absolutely impossible, from the primary constitution of the mind, that these passions should ever look beyond self, or that individual person, of whose actions and sentiments each of us is intimately conscious. Here at last the view always rests, when we are actuated by either of these passions; nor can we, in that situation of mind, ever lose sight of this object. For this I pretend not to give any reason; but consider such a peculiar direction of the thought as an original quality.
The second quality which I discover in these passions, and which I likewise consider as an original quality, is their sensations, or the peculiar emotions they excite in the soul, and which constitute their very being and essence. Thus, pride is a pleasant sensation, and humility a painful; and upon the removal of the pleasure and pain, there is in reality no pride nor humility. Of this our very feeling convinces us; and beyond our feeling, 'tis here in vain to reason or dispute.
If I compare therefore these two established properties of the passions, viz. their object, which is self, and their sensation, which is either pleasant or painful, to the two supposed properties of the causes, viz. their relation to self, and their tendency to produce a pain or pleasure independent of the passion; I immediately find, that taking these suppositions to be just, the true system breaks in upon me with an irresistible evidence. That cause, which excites the passion, is related to the object, which nature has attributed to the passion; the sensation, which the cause separately produces, is related to the sensation of the passion: from this double relation of ideas and impressions, the passion is derived. The one idea is easily converted into its correlative; and the one impression into that which resembles and corresponds to it: with how much greater facility must this transition be made, where these movements mutually assist each other, and the mind receives a double impulse from the relations both of its impressions and ideas!
That we may comprehend this the better, we must suppose that nature has given to the organs of the human mind a certain disposition fitted to produce a peculiar impression or emotion, which we call pride: to this emotion she has assigned a certain idea, viz. that of self, which it never fails to produce. This contrivance of nature is easily conceived. We have many instances of such a situation of affairs. The nerves of the nose and palate are so disposed, as in certain circumstances to convey such peculiar sensations to the mind: the sensations of lust and hunger always produce in us the idea of those peculiar objects, which are suitable to each appetite. These two circumstances are united in pride. The organs are so disposed as to produce the passion; and the passion, after its production, naturally produces a certain idea. All this needs no proof. 'Tis evident we never should be possessed of that passion, were there not a disposition of mind proper for it; and 'tis as evident, that the passion always turns our view to ourselves, and makes us think of our own qualities and circumstances.
This being fully comprehended, it may now be asked, Whether nature produces the passion immediately of herself, or whether she must be assisted by the cooperation of other causes? For 'tis observable, that in this particular her conduct is different in the different passions and sensations. The palate must be excited by an external object, in order to produce any relish: but hunger arises internally, without the concurrence of any external object. But however the case may stand with other passions and impressions, 'tis certain that pride requires the assistance of some foreign object, and that the organs which produce it exert not themselves like the heart and arteries, by an original internal movement. For, first, daily experience convinces us, that pride requires certain causes to excite it, and languishes when unsupported by some excellency in the character, in bodily accomplishments, in clothes, equipage, or fortune. Secondly, 'tis evident pride would be perpetual if it arose immediately from nature, since the object is always the same, and there is no disposition of body peculiar to pride, as there is to thirst and hunger. Thirdly, humility is in the very same situation with pride; and therefore either must, upon this supposition, be perpetual likewise, or must destroy the contrary passion from the very first moment; so that none of them could ever make its appearance. Upon the whole, we may rest satisfied with the foregoing conclusion, that pride must have a cause as well as an object, and that the one has no influence without the other.
The difficulty, then, is only to discover this cause, and find what it is that gives the first motion to pride, and sets those organs in action which are naturally fitted to produce that emotion. Upon my consulting experience, in order to resolve this difficulty, I immediately find a hundred different causes that produce pride; and upon examining these causes, I suppose, what at first I perceive to be probable, that all of them concur in two circumstances, which are, that of themselves they produce an impression allied to the passion, and are placed on a subject allied to the object of the passion. When I consider after this the nature of relation, and its effects both on the passions and ideas, I can no longer doubt upon these suppositions, that 'tis the very principle which gives rise to pride, and bestows motion on those organs, which, being naturally disposed to produce that affection, require only a first impulse or beginning to their action. Any thing that gives a pleasant sensation, and is related to self, excites the passion of pride, which is also agreeable, and has self for its object.
What I have said of pride is equally true of humility. The sensation of humility is uneasy, as that of pride is agreeable; for which reason the separate sensation arising from the causes must be reversed, while the relation to self continues the same. Though pride and humility are directly contrary in their effects and in their sensations, they have notwithstanding the same object; so that 'tis requisite only to change the relation of impressions without making any change upon that of ideas. Accordingly we find, that a beautiful house belonging to ourselves produces pride; and that the same house, still belonging to ourselves, produces humility, when by any accident its beauty is changed into deformity, and thereby the sensation of pleasure, which corresponded to pride, is transformed into pain, which is related to humility. The double relation between the ideas and impressions subsists in both cases, and produces an easy transition from the one emotion to the other.
In a word, nature has bestowed a kind of attraction on certain impressions and ideas, by which one of them, upon its appearance, naturally introduces its correlative. If these two attractions or associations of impressions and ideas concur on the same object, they mutually assist each other, and the transition of the affections and of the imagination is made with the greatest ease and facility. When an idea produces an impression, related to an impression, which is connected with an idea related to the first idea, these two impressions must be in a manner inseparable, nor will the one in any case be unattended with the other. 'Tis after this manner that the particular causes of pride and humility are determined. The quality which operates on the passion produces separately an impression resembling it; the subject to which the quality adheres is related to self, the object of the passion: no wonder the whole cause, consisting of a quality and of a subject, does so unavoidably give rise to the passion.
To illustrate this hypothesis, we may compare it to that by which I have already explained the belief attending the judgments which we form from causation. I have observed, that in all judgments of this kind, there is always a present impression and a related idea; and that the present impression gives a vivacity to the fancy, and the relation conveys this vivacity, by an easy transition, to the related idea. Without the present impression, the attention is not fixed, nor the spirits excited. Without the relation, this attention rests on its first object, and has no farther consequence. There is evidently a great analogy betwixt that hypothesis, and our present one of an impression and idea, that transfuse themselves into another impression and idea by means of their double relation: which analogy must be allowed to be no despicable proof of both hypotheses.
[SECTION VI.]
LIMITATIONS OF THIS SYSTEM.
But before we proceed farther in this subject, and examine particularly all the causes of pride and humility, 'twill be proper to make some limitations to the general system, that all agreeable objects, related to ourselves by an association of ideas and of impressions, produce pride, and disagreeable ones, humility: and these limitations are derived from the very nature of the subject.
I. Suppose an agreeable object to acquire a relation to self, the first passion that appears on this occasion is joy; and this passion discovers itself upon a slighter relation than pride and vain-glory. We may feel joy upon being present at a feast, where our senses are regaled with delicacies of every kind: but 'tis only the master of the feast, who, beside the same joy, has the additional passion of self-applause and vanity. 'Tis true, men sometimes boast of a great entertainment, at which they have only been present; and by so small a relation convert their pleasure into pride: but however this must in general be owned, that joy arises from a more inconsiderable relation than vanity, and that many things, which are too foreign to produce pride, are yet able to give us a delight and pleasure. The reason of the difference may be explained thus. A relation is requisite to joy, in order to approach the object to us, and make it give us any satisfaction. But beside this, which is common to both passions, 'tis requisite to pride, in order to produce a transition from one passion to another, and convert the satisfaction into vanity. As it has a double task to perform, it must be endowed with double force and energy. To which we may add, that where agreeable objects bear not a very close relation to ourselves, they commonly do to some other person; and this latter relation not only excels, but even diminishes, and sometimes destroys the former, as we shall see afterwards.[2]
Here then is the first limitation we must make to our general position, that every thing related to us, which produces pleasure or pain, produces likewise pride or humility. There is not only a relation required, but a close one, and a closer than is required to joy.
II. The second limitation is, that the agreeable or disagreeable object be not only closely related, but also peculiar to ourselves, or at least common to us with a few persons. 'Tis a quality observable in human nature, and which we shall endeavour to explain afterwards, that every thing, which is often presented, and to which we have been long accustomed, loses its value in our eyes, and is in a little time despised and neglected. We likewise judge of objects more from comparison than from their real and intrinsic merit; and where we cannot by some contrast enhance their value, we are apt to overlook even what is essentially good in them. These qualities of the mind have an effect upon joy as well as pride; and 'tis remarkable, that goods, which are common to all mankind, and have become familiar to us by custom, give us little satisfaction, though perhaps of a more excellent kind than those on which, for their singularity, we set a much higher value. But though this circumstance operates on both these passions, it has a much greater influence on vanity. We are rejoiced for many goods, which, on account of their frequency, give us no pride. Health, when it returns after a long absence, affords us a very sensible satisfaction; but is seldom regarded as a subject of vanity, because 'tis shared with such vast numbers.
The reason why pride is so much more delicate in this particular than joy, I take to be as follows. In order to excite pride, there are always two objects we must contemplate, viz. the cause, or that object which produces pleasure; and self, which is the real object of the passion. But joy has only one object necessary to its production, viz. that which gives pleasure; and though it be requisite that this bear some relation to self, yet that is only requisite in order to render it agreeable; nor is self, properly speaking, the object of this passion. Since, therefore, pride has, in a manner, two objects to which it directs our view, it follows, that where neither of them have any singularity, the passion must be more weakened upon that account than a passion which has only one object. Upon comparing ourselves with others, as we are every moment apt to do, we find we are not in the least distinguished; and, upon comparing the object we possess, we discover still the same unlucky circumstance. By two comparisons so disadvantageous, the passion must be entirely destroyed.
III. The third limitation is, that the pleasant or painful object be very discernible and obvious, and that not only to ourselves but to others also. This circumstance, like the two foregoing, has an effect upon joy as well as pride. We fancy ourselves more happy, as well as more virtuous or beautiful, when we appear so to others; but are still more ostentatious of our virtues than of our pleasures. This proceeds from causes which I shall endeavour to explain afterwards.
IV. The fourth limitation is derived from the inconstancy of the cause of these passions, and from the short duration of its connexion with ourselves. What is casual and inconstant gives but little joy, and less pride. We are not much satisfied with the thing itself; and are still less apt to feel any new degrees of self-satisfaction upon its account. We foresee and anticipate its change by the imagination, which makes us little satisfied with the thing: we compare it to ourselves, whose existence is more durable, by which means its inconstancy appears still greater. It seems ridiculous to infer an excellency in ourselves from an object which is of so much shorter duration, and attends us during so small a part of our existence. 'Twill be easy to comprehend the reason why this cause operates not with the same force in joy as in pride; since the idea of self is not so essential to the former passion as to the latter.
V. I may add, as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement of this system, that general rules have a great influence upon pride and humility, as well as on all the other passions. Hence we form a notion of different ranks of men, suitable to the power or riches they are possessed of; and this notion we change not upon account of any peculiarities of the health or temper of the persons, which may deprive them of all enjoyment in their possessions. This may be accounted for from the same principles that explained the influence of general rules on the understanding. Custom readily carries us beyond the just bounds in our passions as well as in our reasonings.
It may not be amiss to observe on this occasion, that the influence of general rules and maxims on the passions very much contributes to facilitate the effects of all the principles, which we shall explain in the progress of this Treatise. For 'tis evident, that if a person, full grown, and of the same nature with ourselves, were on a sudden transported into our world, he would be very much embarrassed with every object, and would not readily find what degree of love or hatred, pride or humility, or any other passion he ought to attribute to it. The passions are often varied by very inconsiderable principles; and these do not always play with a perfect regularity, especially on the first trial. But as custom and practice have brought to light all these principles, and have settled the just value of every thing; this must certainly contribute to the easy production of the passions, and guide us, by means of general established maxims, in the proportions we ought to observe in preferring one object to another. This remark may, perhaps, serve to obviate difficulties that may arise concerning some causes which I shall hereafter ascribe to particular passions, and which may be esteemed too refined to operate so universally and certainly as they are found to do. I shall close this subject with a reflection derived from these five limitations. This reflection is, that the persons who are proudest, and who, in the eye of the world, have most reason for their pride, are not always the happiest; nor the most humble always the most miserable, as may at first sight be imagined from this system. An evil may be real, though its cause has no relation to us: it may be real, without being peculiar: it may be real without showing itself to others: it may be real, without being constant: and it may be real, without falling under the general rules. Such evils as these will not fail to render us miserable, though they have little tendency to diminish pride: and perhaps the most real and the most solid evils of life will be found of this nature.
[2] Part. II. Sect. 4.
[SECTION VII.]
OF VICE AND VIRTUE.
Taking these limitations along with us, let us proceed to examine the causes of pride and humility, and see whether in every case we can discover the double relations by which they operate on the passions. If we find that all these causes are related to self, and produce a pleasure or uneasiness separate from the passion, there will remain no farther scruple with regard to the present system. We shall principally endeavour to prove the latter point, the former being in a manner self-evident.
To begin with vice and virtue, which are the most obvious causes of these passions, 'twould be entirely foreign to my present purpose to enter upon the controversy, which of late years has so much excited the curiosity of the public, whether these moral distinctions be founded on natural and original principles, or arise from interest and education. The examination of this I reserve for the following book; and, in the mean time, shall endeavour to show, that my system maintains its ground upon either of these hypotheses, which will be a strong proof of its solidity.
For, granting that morality had no foundation in nature, it must still be allowed, that vice and virtue, either from self-interest or the prejudices of education, produce in us a real pain and pleasure; and this we may observe to be strenuously asserted by the defenders of that hypothesis. Every passion, habit, or turn of character (say they) which has a tendency to our advantage or prejudice, gives a delight or uneasiness; and 'tis from thence the approbation or disapprobation arises. We easily gain from the liberality of others, but are always in danger of losing by their avarice: courage defends us, but cowardice lays us open to every attack: justice is the support of society, but injustice, unless checked, would quickly prove its ruin: humility exalts, but pride mortifies us. For these reasons the former qualities are esteemed virtues, and the latter regarded as vices. Now, since 'tis granted there is a delight or uneasiness still attending merit or demerit of every kind, this is all that is requisite for my purpose.
But I go farther, and observe, that this moral hypothesis and my present system not only agree together, but also that, allowing the former to be just, 'tis an absolute and invincible proof of the latter. For if all morality be founded on the pain or pleasure which arises from the prospect of any loss or advantage that may result from our own characters, or from those of others, all the effects of morality must be derived from the same pain or pleasure, and, among the rest, the passions of pride and humility. The very essence of virtue, according to this hypothesis, is to produce pleasure, and that of vice to give pain. The virtue and vice must be part of our character, in order to excite pride or humility. What farther proof can we desire for the double relation of impressions and ideas?
The same unquestionable argument may be derived from the opinion of those who maintain that morality is something real, essential, and founded on nature. The most probable hypothesis, which has been advanced to explain the distinction betwixt vice and virtue, and the origin of moral rights and obligations, is, that from a primary constitution of nature, certain characters and passions, by the very view and contemplation, produce a pain, and others in like manner excite a pleasure. The uneasiness and satisfaction are not only inseparable from vice and virtue, but constitute their very nature and essence. To approve of a character is to feel an original delight upon its appearance. To disapprove of it is to be sensible of an uneasiness. The pain and pleasure therefore being the primary causes of vice and virtue, must also be the causes of all their effects, and consequently of pride and humility, which are the unavoidable attendants of that distinction.
But, supposing this hypothesis of moral philosophy should be allowed to be false, 'tis still evident that pain and pleasure, if not the causes of vice and virtue, are at least inseparable from them. A generous and noble character affords a satisfaction even in the survey; and when presented to us, though only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm and delight us. On the other hand, cruelty and treachery displease from their very nature; nor is it possible ever to reconcile us to these qualities, either in ourselves or others. Thus, one hypothesis of morality is an undeniable proof of the foregoing system, and the other at worst agrees with it.
But pride and humility arise not from these qualities alone of the mind, which, according to the vulgar systems of ethicks, have been comprehended as parts of moral duty, but from any other that has a connexion with pleasure and uneasiness. Nothing flatters our vanity more than the talent of pleasing by our wit, good humour, or any other accomplishment; and nothing gives us a more sensible mortification than a disappointment in any attempt of that nature. No one has ever been able to tell what wit is, and to show why such a system of thought must be received under that denomination, and such another rejected. 'Tis only by taste we can decide concerning it, nor are we possessed of any other standard, upon which we can form a judgment of this kind. Now, what is this taste, from which true and false wit in a manner receive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to either of these denominations? 'Tis plainly nothing but a sensation of pleasure from true wit, and of uneasiness from false, without our being able to tell the reasons of that pleasure or uneasiness. The power of bestowing these opposite sensations is, therefore, the very essence of true and false wit, and consequently the cause of that pride or humility which arises from them.
There may perhaps be some, who, being accustomed to the style of the schools and pulpit, and having never considered human nature in any other light, than that in which they place it, may here be surprised to hear me talk of virtue as exciting pride, which they look upon as a vice; and of vice as producing humility, which they have been taught to consider as a virtue. But not to dispute about words, I observe, that by pride I understand that agreeable impression, which arises in the mind, when the view either of our virtue, beauty, riches or power, makes us satisfied with ourselves; and that by humility I mean the opposite impression. 'Tis evident the former impression is not always vicious, nor the latter virtuous. The most rigid morality allows us to receive a pleasure from reflecting on a generous action; and 'tis by none esteemed a virtue to feel any fruitless remorses upon the thoughts of past villany and baseness. Let us, therefore, examine these impressions, considered in themselves; and inquire into their causes, whether placed on the mind or body, without troubling ourselves at present with that merit or blame, which may attend them.
[SECTION VIII.]
OF BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY.
Whether we consider the body as a part of ourselves, or assent to those philosophers, who regard it as something external, it must still be allowed to be near enough connected with us to form one of these double relations, which I have asserted to be necessary to the causes of pride and humility. Wherever, therefore, we can find the other relation of impressions to join to this of ideas, we may expect with assurance either of these passions, according as the impression is pleasant or uneasy. But beauty of all kinds gives us a peculiar delight and satisfaction; as deformity produces pain, upon whatever subject it may be placed, and whether surveyed in an animate or inanimate object. If the beauty or deformity, therefore, be placed upon our own bodies, this pleasure or uneasiness must be converted into pride or humility, as having in this case all the circumstances requisite to produce a perfect transition of impressions and ideas. These opposite sensations are related to the opposite passions. The beauty or deformity is closely related to self, the object of both these passions. No wonder, then, our own beauty becomes an object of pride, and deformity of humility.
But this effect of personal and bodily qualities is not only a proof of the present system, by showing that the passions arise not in this case without all the circumstances I have required, but may be employed as a stronger and more convincing argument. If we consider all the hypotheses which have been formed either by philosophy or common reason, to explain the difference betwixt beauty and deformity, we shall find that all of them resolve into this, that beauty is such an order and construction of parts, as, either by the primary constitution of our nature, by custom, or by caprice, is fitted to give a pleasure and satisfaction to the soul. This is the distinguishing character of beauty, and forms all the difference betwixt it and deformity, whose natural tendency is to produce uneasiness. Pleasure and pain, therefore, are not only necessary attendants of beauty and deformity, but constitute their very essence. And, indeed, if we consider that a great part of the beauty which we admire either in animals or in other objects is derived from the idea of convenience and utility, we shall make no scruple to assent to this opinion. That shape which produces strength is beautiful in one animal; and that which is a sign of agility, in another. The order and convenience of a palace are no less essential to its beauty than its mere figure and appearance. In like manner the rules of architecture require, that the top of a pillar should be more slender than its base, and that because such a figure conveys to us the idea of security, which is pleasant; whereas the contrary form gives us the apprehension of danger, which is uneasy. From innumerable instances of this kind, as well as from considering that beauty, like wit, cannot be defined, but is discerned only by a taste or sensation, we may conclude that beauty is nothing but a form, which produces pleasure, as deformity is a structure of parts which conveys pain; and since the power of producing pain and pleasure make in this manner the essence of beauty and deformity, all the effects of these qualities must be derived from the sensation; and among the rest pride and humility, which of all their effects are the most common and remarkable.
This argument I esteem just and decisive; but in order to give greater authority to the present reasoning, let us suppose it false for a moment, and see what will follow. 'Tis certain, then, that if the power of producing pleasure and pain forms not the essence of beauty and deformity, the sensations are at least inseparable from the qualities, and 'tis even difficult to consider them apart. Now, there is nothing common to natural and moral beauty (both of which are the causes of pride), but this power of producing pleasure; and as a common effect always supposes a common cause, 'tis plain that pleasure must in both cases be the real and influencing cause of the passion. Again, there is nothing originally different betwixt the beauty of our bodies and the beauty of external and foreign objects, but that the one has a near relation to ourselves, which is waiting in the other. This original difference, therefore, must be the cause of all their other differences, and, among the rest, of their different influence upon the passion of pride, which is excited by the beauty of our person, but is not affected in the least by that of foreign and external objects. Placing then these two conclusions together, we find they compose the preceding system betwixt them, viz. that pleasure, as a related or resembling impression, when placed on a related object, by a natural transition produces pride, and its contrary, humility. This system, then, seems already sufficiently confirmed by experience, though we have not yet exhausted all our arguments.
'Tis not the beauty of the body alone that produces pride, but also its strength and force. Strength is a kind of power, and therefore the desire to excel in strength is to be considered as an inferior species of ambition. For this reason the present phenomenon will be sufficiently accounted for in explaining that passion.
Concerning all other bodily accomplishments, we may observe, in general, that whatever in ourselves is either useful, beautiful or surprising, is an object of pride, and its contrary of humility. Now, 'tis obvious that every thing useful, beautiful or surprising, agrees in producing a separate pleasure, and agrees in nothing else. The pleasure, therefore, with relation to self, must be the cause of the passion.
Though it should not be questioned whether beauty be not something real, and different from the power of producing pleasure, it can never be disputed, that, as surprise is nothing but a pleasure arising from novelty, it is not, properly speaking, a quality in any object, but merely a passion or impression in the soul. It must therefore be from that impression that pride by a natural transition arises. And it arises so naturally, that there is nothing in us, or belonging to us, which produces surprise, that does not at the same time excite that other passion. Thus, we are vain of the surprising adventures we have met with, the escapes we have made, and dangers we have been exposed to. Hence the origin of vulgar lying; where men, without any interest, and merely out of vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events, which are either the fictions of their brain, or, if true, have at least no connexion with themselves. Their fruitful invention supplies them with a variety of adventures; and where that talent is wanting, they appropriate such as belong to others, in order to satisfy their vanity.
In this phenomenon are contained two curious experiments, which, if we compare them together, according to the known rules, by which we judge of cause and effect in anatomy, natural philosophy, and other sciences, will be an undeniable argument for that influence of the double relations above-mentioned. By one of these experiments we find, that an object produces pride merely by the interposition of pleasure; and that because the quality by which it produces pride, is in reality nothing but the power of producing pleasure. By the other experiment we find, that the pleasure produces the pride by a transition along related ideas; because when we cut off that relation, the passion is immediately destroyed. A surprising adventure, in which we have been ourselves engaged, is related to us, and by that means produces pride: but the adventures of others, though they may cause pleasure, yet, for want of this relation of ideas, never excite that passion. What farther proof can be desired for the present system?
There is only one objection to this system with regard to our body; which is, that though nothing be more agreeable than health, and more painful than sickness, yet commonly men are neither proud of the one, nor mortified with the other. This will easily be accounted for, if we consider the second and fourth limitations, proposed to our general system. It was observed, that no object ever produces pride or humility, if it has not something peculiar to ourself; as also, that every cause of that passion must be in some measure constant, and hold some proportion to the duration of ourself, which is its object. Now, as health and sickness vary incessantly to all men, and there is none who is solely or certainly fixed in either, these accidental blessings and calamities are in a manner separated from us, and are never considered as connected with our being and existence. And that this account is just, appears hence, that wherever a malady of any kind is so rooted in our constitution that we no longer entertain any hopes of recovery, from that moment it becomes an object of humility; as is evident in old men, whom nothing mortifies more than the consideration of their age and infirmities. They endeavour, as long as possible, to conceal their blindness and deafness, their rheums and gout; nor do they ever confess them without reluctance and uneasiness. And though young men are not ashamed of every headache or cold they fall into, yet no topic is so proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every moment of our lives subject to such infirmities. This sufficiently proves that bodily pain and sickness are in themselves proper causes of humility; though the custom of estimating every thing by comparison more than by its intrinsic worth and value, makes us overlook these calamities, which we find to be incident to every one, and causes us to form an idea of our merit and character independent of them.
We are ashamed of such maladies as affect others, and are either dangerous or disagreeable to them. Of the epilepsy, because it gives a horror to every one present; of the itch, because it is infectious; of the king's evil, because it commonly goes to posterity. Men always consider the sentiments of others in their judgment of themselves. This has evidently appeared in some of the foregoing reasonings, and will appear still more evidently, and be more fully explained afterwards.
[SECTION IX.]
OF EXTERNAL ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES.
But though pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body, that is self, for their natural and more immediate causes, we find by experience that there are many other objects which produce these affections, and that the primary one is, in some measure, obscured and lost by the multiplicity of foreign and extrinsic. We round a vanity upon houses, gardens, equipages, as well as upon personal merit and accomplishments; and though these external advantages be in themselves widely distant from thought or a person, yet they considerably influence even a passion, which is directed to that as its ultimate object. This happens when external objects acquire any particular relation to ourselves, and are associated or connected with us. A beautiful fish in the ocean, an animal in a desart, and indeed any thing that neither belongs, nor is related to us, has no manner of influence on our vanity, whatever extraordinary qualities it may be endowed with, and whatever degree of surprise and admiration it may naturally occasion. It must be some way associated with us in order to touch our pride. Its idea must hang in a manner upon that of ourselves; and the transition from the one to the other must be easy and natural.
But here 'tis remarkable, that though the relation of resemblance operates upon the mind in the same manner as contiguity and causation, in conveying us from one idea to another, yet 'tis seldom a foundation either of pride or of humility. If we resemble a person in any of the valuable parts of his character, we must, in some degree, possess the quality in which we resemble him; and this quality we always choose to survey directly in ourselves, rather than by reflection in another person, when we would found upon it any degree of vanity. So that though a likeness may occasionally produce that passion, by suggesting a more advantageous idea of ourselves, 'tis there the view, fixes at last, and the passion finds its ultimate and final cause.
There are instances, indeed, wherein men show a vanity in resembling a great man in his countenance, shape, air, or other minute circumstances, that contribute not in any degree to his reputation; but it must be confessed, that this extends not very far, nor is of any considerable moment in these affections. For this I assign the following reason. We can never have a vanity of resembling in trifles any person, unless he be possessed of very shining qualities, which give us a respect and veneration for him. These qualities, then, are, properly speaking, the causes of our vanity, by means of their relation to ourselves. Now, after what manner are they related to ourselves? They are parts of the person we value, and, consequently, connected with these trifles; which are also supposed to be parts of him. These trifles are connected with the resembling qualities in us; and these qualities in us, being parts, are connected with the whole; and, by that means, form a chain of several links betwixt ourselves and the shining qualities of the person we resemble. But, besides that this multitude of relations must weaken the connexion, 'tis evident the mind, in passing from the shining qualities to the trivial ones, must, by that contrast, the better perceive the minuteness of the latter, and be, in some measure, ashamed of the comparison and resemblance.
The relation, therefore, of contiguity, or that of causation, betwixt the cause and object of pride and humility, is alone requisite to give rise to these passions; and these relations are nothing else but qualities, by which the imagination is conveyed from one idea to another. Now, let us consider what effect these can possibly have upon the mind, and by what means they become so requisite to the production of the passions. 'Tis evident, that the association of ideas operates in so silent and imperceptible a manner, that we are scarce sensible of it, and discover it more by its effects than by any immediate feeling or perception. It produces no emotion, and gives rise to no new impression of any kind, but only modifies those ideas of which the mind was formerly possessed, and which it could recal upon occasion. From this reasoning, as well as from undoubted experience, we may conclude, that an association of ideas, however necessary, is not alone sufficient to give rise to any passion.
'Tis evident, then, that when the mind feels the passion, either of pride or humility, upon the appearance of a related object, there is, beside the relation or transition of thought, an emotion, or original impression, produced by some other principle. The question is, whether the emotion first produced be the passion itself, or some other impression related to it. This question we cannot be long in deciding. For, besides all the other arguments with which this subject abounds, it must evidently appear, that the relation of ideas, which experience shows to be so requisite a circumstance to the production of the passion, would be entirely superfluous, were it not to second a relation of affections, and facilitate the transition from one impression to another. If nature produced immediately the passion of pride or humility, it would be completed in itself, and would require no farther addition or increase from any other affection. But, supposing the first emotion to be only related to pride or humility, 'tis easily conceived to what purpose the relation of objects may serve, and how the two different associations of impressions and ideas, by uniting their forces, may assist each other's operation. This is not only easily conceived, but, I will venture to affirm, 'tis the only manner in which we can conceive this subject. An easy transition of ideas, which, of itself, causes no emotion, can never be necessary, or even useful to the passions, but by forwarding the transition betwixt some related impressions. Not to mention that the same object causes a greater or smaller degree of pride, not only in proportion to the increase or decrease of its qualities, but also to the distance or nearness of the relation, which is a clear argument for the transition of affections along the relation of ideas, since every change in the relation produces a proportionable change in the passion. Thus one part of the preceding system, concerning the relations of ideas, is a sufficient proof of the other, concerning that of impressions; and is itself so evidently founded on experience, that 'twould be lost time to endeavour farther to prove it.
This will appear still more evidently in particular instances. Men are vain of the beauty of their country, of their county, of their parish. Here the idea of beauty plainly produces a pleasure. This pleasure is related to pride. The object or cause of this pleasure is, by the supposition, related to self, or the object of pride. By this double relation of impressions and ideas, a transition is made from the one impression to the other.
Men are also vain of the temperature of the climate in which they were born; of the fertility of their native soil; of the goodness of the wines, fruits, or victuals, produced by it; of the softness or force of their language, with other particulars of that kind. These objects have plainly a reference to the pleasures of the senses, and are originally considered as agreeable to the feeling, taste, or hearing. How is it possible they could ever become objects of pride, except by means of that transition above explained?
There are some that discover a vanity of an opposite kind, and affect to depreciate their own country, in comparison of those to which they have travelled. These persons find, when they are at home, and surrounded with their countrymen, that the strong relation betwixt them and their own nation is shared with so many, that 'tis in a manner lost to them; whereas their distant relation to a foreign country, which is formed by their having seen it and lived in it, is augmented by their considering how few there are who have done the same. For this reason they always admire the beauty, utility, and rarity of what is abroad, above what is at home.
Since we can be vain of a country, climate, or any inanimate object which bears a relation to us, 'tis no wonder we are vain of the qualities of those who are connected with us by blood or friendship. Accordingly we find, that the very same qualities, which in ourselves produce pride, produce also, in a lesser degree, the same affection when discovered in persons related to us. The beauty, address, merit, credit, and honours of their kindred, are carefully displayed by the proud, as some of their most considerable sources of their vanity.
As we are proud of riches in ourselves, so, to satisfy our vanity, we desire that every one, who has any connexion with us, should likewise be possessed of them, and are ashamed of any one that is mean or poor among our friends and relations. For this reason we remove the poor as far from us as possible; and as we cannot prevent poverty in some distant collaterals, and our forefathers are taken to be our nearest relations, upon this account every one affects to be of a good family, and to be descended from a long succession of rich and honourable ancestors.
I have frequently observed, that those who boast of the antiquity of their families, are glad when they can join this circumstance, that their ancestors for many generations have been uninterrupted proprietors of the same portion of land, and that their family has never changed its possessions, or been transplanted into any other county or province. I have also observed, that 'tis an additional subject of vanity, when they can boast that these possessions have been transmitted through a descent composed entirely of males, and that the honours and fortune have never passed through any female. Let us endeavour to explain these phenomena by the foregoing system.
'Tis evident that, when any one boasts of the antiquity of his family, the subjects of his vanity are not merely the extent of time and number of ancestors, but also their riches and credit, which are supposed to reflect a lustre on himself on account of his relation to them. He first considers these objects; is affected by them in an agreeable manner; and then returning back to himself, through the relation of parent and child, is elevated with the passion of pride, by means of the double relation of impressions and ideas. Since, therefore, the passion depends on these relations, whatever strengthens any of the relations must also increase the passion, and whatever weakens the relations must diminish the passion. Now 'tis certain the identity of the possession strengthens the relation of ideas arising from blood and kindred, and conveys the fancy with greater facility from one generation to another, from the remotest ancestors to their posterity, who are both their heirs and their descendants. By this facility the impression is transmitted more entire, and excites a greater degree of pride and vanity.
The case is the same with the transmission of the honours and fortune through a succession of males without their passing through any female. 'Tis a quality of human nature, which we shall consider afterwards,[3] that the imagination naturally turns to whatever is important and considerable; and where two objects are presented to it, a small and a great one, usually leaves the former, and dwells entirely upon the latter. As in the society of marriage, the male sex has the advantage above the female, the husband first engages our attention; and whether we consider him directly, or reach him by passing through related objects, the thought both rests upon him with greater satisfaction, and arrives at him with greater facility than his consort. 'Tis easy to see, that this property must strengthen the child's relation to the father, and weaken that to the mother. For as all relations are nothing but a propensity to pass from one idea to another, whatever strengthens the propensity strengthens the relation; and as we have a stronger propensity to pass from the idea of the children to that of the father, than from the same idea to that of the mother, we ought to regard the former relation as the closer and more considerable. This is the reason why children commonly bear their father's name, and are esteemed to be of nobler or baser birth, according to his family. And though the mother should be possessed of a superior spirit and genius to the father, as often happens, the general rule prevails, notwithstanding the exception, according to the doctrine above explained. Nay, even when a superiority of any kind is so great, or when any other reasons have such an effect, as to make the children rather represent the mother's family than the father's, the general rule still retains such an efficacy, that it weakens the relation, and makes a kind of break in the line of ancestors. The imagination runs not along them with facility, nor is able to transfer the honour and credit of the ancestors to their posterity of the same name and family so readily, as when the transition is conformable to the general rules, and passes from father to son, or from brother to brother.
[3] Part II. Sect. 2.
[SECTION X.]
OF PROPERTY AND RICHES.
But the relation which is esteemed the closest, and which, of all others, produces most commonly the passion of pride, is that of property. This relation 'twill be impossible for me fully to explain before I come to treat of justice and the other moral virtues. 'Tis sufficient to observe on this occasion, that property may be defined, such a relation betwixt a person and an object as permits him, but forbids any other, the free use and possession of it, without violating the laws of justice and moral equity. If justice therefore be a virtue, which has a natural and original influence on the human mind, property may be looked upon as a particular species of causation; whether we consider the liberty it gives the proprietor to operate as he pleases upon the object, or the advantages which he reaps from it. 'Tis the same case, if justice, according to the system of certain philosophers, should be esteemed an artificial and not a natural virtue. For then honour, and custom, and civil laws supply the place of natural conscience, and produce in some degree, the same effects. This, in the mean time, is certain, that the mention of the property naturally carries our thought to the proprietor, and of the proprietor to the property; which being a proof of a perfect relation of ideas, is all that is requisite to our present purpose. A relation of ideas, joined to that of impressions, always produces a transition of affections; and therefore, whenever any pleasure or pain arises from an object, connected with us by property, we may be certain, that either pride or humility must arise from this conjunction of relations, if the foregoing system be solid and satisfactory. And whether it be so or not, we may soon satisfy ourselves by the most cursory view of human life.
Every thing belonging to a vain man is the best that is any where to be found. His houses, equipage, furniture, clothes, horses, hounds, excel all others in his conceit; and 'tis easy to observe, that from the least advantage in any of these, he draws a new subject of pride and vanity. His wine, if you'll believe him, has a finer flavour than any other; his cookery is more exquisite; his table more orderly; his servant more expert; the air in which he lives more healthful; the soil he cultivates more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier, and to greater perfection; such a thing is remarkable for its novelty; such another for its antiquity: this is the workmanship of a famous artist, that belonged to such a prince or great man; all objects, in a word, that are useful, beautiful, or surprising, or are related to such, may, by means of property, give rise to this passion. These agree in giving pleasure, and agree in nothing else. This alone is common to them, and therefore must be the quality that produces the passion, which is their common effect. As every new instance is a new argument, and as the instances are here without number, I may venture to affirm, that scarce any system was ever so fully proved by experience, as that which I have here advanced.
If the property of any thing that gives pleasure either by its utility, beauty, or novelty, produces also pride by a double relation of impressions and ideas; we need not be surprised that the power of acquiring this property should have the same effect. Now, riches are to be considered as the power of acquiring the property of what pleases; and 'tis only in this view they have any influence on the passions. Paper will, on many occasions, be considered as riches, and that because it may convey the power of acquiring money; and money is not riches, as it is a metal endowed with certain qualities of solidity, weight, and fusibility; but only as it has a relation to the pleasures and conveniences of life. Taking then this for granted, which is in itself so evident, we may draw from it one of the strongest arguments I have yet employed to prove the influence of the double relations on pride and humility.
It has been observed, in treating of the understanding, that the distinction which we sometimes make betwixt a power and the exercise of it, is entirely frivolous, and that neither man nor any other being ought ever to be thought possessed of any ability, unless it be exerted and put in action. But though this be strictly true in a just and philosophical way of thinking, 'tis certain it is not the philosophy of our passions, but that many things operate upon them by means of the idea and supposition of power, independent of its actual exercise. We are pleased when we acquire an ability of procuring pleasure, and are displeased when another acquires a power of giving pain. This is evident from experience; but in order to give a just explication of the matter, and account for this satisfaction and uneasiness, we must weigh the following reflections.
'Tis evident the error of distinguishing power from its exercise proceeds not entirely from the scholastic doctrine of free will, which, indeed, enters very little into common life, and has but small influence on our vulgar and popular ways of thinking. According to that doctrine, motives deprive us not of free-will, nor take away our power of performing or forbearing any action. But according to common notions a man has no power, where very considerable motives lie betwixt him and the satisfaction of his desires, and determine him to forbear what he wishes to perform. I do not think I have fallen into my enemy's power when I see him pass me in the streets with a sword by his side, while I am, unprovided of any weapon. I know that the fear of the civil magistrate is as strong a restraint as any of iron, and that I am in as perfect safety as if he were chained or imprisoned. But when a person acquires such an authority over me, that not only there is no external obstacle to his actions, but also that he may punish or reward me as he pleases without any dread of punishment in his turn, I then attribute a full power to him, and consider myself as his subject or vassal.
Now, if we compare these two cases, that of a person who has very strong motives of interest or safety to forbear any action, and that of another who lies under no such obligation, we shall find, according to the philosophy explained in the foregoing book, that the only known difference betwixt them lies in this, that in the former case we conclude, from past experience, that the person never will perform that action, and in the latter, that he possibly or probably will perform it. Nothing is more fluctuating and inconstant on many occasions than the will of man; nor is there any thing but strong motives which can give us an absolute certainty in pronouncing concerning any of his future actions. When we see a person free from these motives, we suppose a possibility either of his acting or forbearing; and though, in general, we may conclude him to be determined by motives and causes, yet this removes not the uncertainty of our judgment concerning these causes, nor the influence of that uncertainty on the passions. Since, therefore, we ascribe a power of performing an action to every one who has no very powerful motive to forbear it, and refuse it to such as have, it may justly be concluded, that power has always a reference to its exercise, either actual or probable, and that we consider a person as endowed with any ability when we find, from past experience, that 'tis probable, or at least possible, he may exert it. And indeed, as our passions always regard the real existence of objects, and we always judge of this reality from past instances, nothing can be more likely of itself, without any farther reasoning, than that power consists in the possibility or probability of any action, as discovered by experience and the practice of the world.
Now, 'tis evident that, wherever a person is in such a situation with regard to me that there is no very powerful motive to deter him from injuring me, and consequently 'tis uncertain whether he will injure me or not, I must be uneasy in such a situation, and cannot consider the possibility or probability of that injury without a sensible concern. The passions are not only affected by such events as are certain and infallible, but also in an inferior degree by such as are possible and contingent. And though perhaps I never really feel any harm, and discover by the event, that, philosophically speaking, the person never had any power of harming me, since he did not exert any, this prevents not my uneasiness from the preceding uncertainty. The agreeable passions may here operate as well as the uneasy, and convey a pleasure when I perceive a good to become either possible or probable by the possibility or probability of another's bestowing it on me, upon the removal of any strong motives which might formerly have hindered him.
But we may farther observe, that this satisfaction increases, when any good approaches, in such a manner that it is in one's own power to take or leave it, and there neither is any physical impediment, nor any very strong motive to hinder our enjoyment. As all men desire pleasure, nothing can be more probable than its existence when there is no external obstacle to the producing it, and men perceive no danger in following their inclinations. In that case their imagination easily anticipates the satisfaction, and conveys the same joy as if they were persuaded of its real and actual existence.
But this accounts not sufficiently for the satisfaction which attends riches. A miser receives delight from his money; that is, from the power it affords him of procuring all the pleasures and conveniences of life, though he knows he has enjoyed his riches for forty years without ever enjoying them; and consequently cannot conclude, by any species of reasoning, that the real existence of these pleasures is nearer, than if he were entirely deprived of all his possessions. But though he cannot form any such conclusion in a way of reasoning concerning the nearer approach of the pleasure, 'tis certain he imagines it to approach nearer, whenever all external obstacles are removed, along with the more powerful motives of interest and danger, which oppose it. For farther satisfaction on this head, I must refer to my account of the will,[4] where I shall explain that false sensation of liberty, which makes us imagine we can perform any thing that is not very dangerous or destructive. Whenever any other person is under no strong obligations of interest to forbear any pleasure, we judge from experience, that the pleasure will exist, and that he will probably obtain it. But when ourselves are in that situation, we judge from an illusion of the fancy, that the pleasure is still closer and more immediate. The will seems to move easily every way, and casts a shadow or image of itself even to that side on which it did not settle. By means of this image the enjoyment seems to approach nearer to us, and gives us the same lively satisfaction as if it were perfectly certain and unavoidable.
'Twill now be easy to draw this whole reasoning to a point, and to prove, that when riches produce any pride or vanity in their possessors, as they never fail to do, 'tis only by means of a double relation of impressions and ideas. The very essence of riches consists in the power of procuring the pleasures and conveniences of life. The very essence of this power consists in the probability of its exercise, and in its causing us to anticipate, by a true or false reasoning, the real existence of the pleasure. This anticipation of pleasure is, in itself, a very considerable pleasure; and as its cause is some possession or property which we enjoy, and which is thereby related to us, we here clearly see all the parts of the foregoing system most exactly and distinctly drawn out before us.
For the same reason, that riches cause pleasure and pride, and poverty excites uneasiness and humility, power must produce the former emotions, and slavery the latter. Power or an authority over others makes us capable of satisfying all our desires; as slavery, by subjecting us to the will of others, exposes us to a thousand wants and mortifications.
'Tis here worth observing, that the vanity of power, or shame of slavery, are much augmented by the consideration of the persons over whom we exercise our authority, or who exercise it over us. For, supposing it possible to frame statues of such an admirable mechanism, that they could move and act in obedience to the will; 'tis evident the possession of them would give pleasure and pride, but not to such a degree as the same authority, when exerted over sensible and rational creatures, whose condition, being compared to our own, makes it seem more agreeable and honourable. Comparison is in every case a sure method of augmenting our esteem of any thing. A rich man feels the felicity of his condition better by opposing it to that of a beggar. But there is a peculiar advantage in power, by the contrast, which is, in a manner, presented to us betwixt ourselves and the person we command. The comparison is obvious and natural: the imagination finds it in the very subject: the passage of the thought to its conception is smooth and easy. And that this circumstance has a considerable effect in augmenting its influence, will appear afterwards in examining the nature of malice and envy.
[4] Part III. Sect. 2.
[SECTION XI.]
OF THE LOVE OF FAME.
But beside these original causes of pride and humility, there is a secondary one in the opinions of others, which has an equal influence on the affections. Our reputation, our character, our name, are considerations of vast weight and importance; and even the other causes of pride, virtue, beauty and riches, have little influence, when not seconded by the opinions and sentiments of others. In order to account for this phenomenon, 'twill be necessary to take some compass, and first explain the nature of sympathy.
No quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in itself and in its consequences, than that propensity we have to sympathize with others, and to receive by communication their inclinations and sentiments, however different from, or even contrary to, our own. This is not only conspicuous in children, who implicitly embrace every opinion proposed to them; but also in men of the greatest judgment and understanding, who find it very difficult to follow their own reason or inclination, in opposition to that of their friends and daily companions. To this principle we ought to ascribe the great uniformity we may observe in the humours and turn of thinking of those of the same nation; and 'tis much more probable, that this resemblance arises from sympathy, than from any influence of the soil and climate, which, though they continue invariably the same, are not able to preserve the character of a nation the same for a century together. A good-natured man finds himself in an instant of the same humour with his company; and even the proudest and most surly take a tincture from their countrymen and acquaintance. A cheerful countenance infuses a sensible complacency and serenity into my mind; as an angry or sorrowful one throws a sudden damp upon me. Hatred, resentment, esteem, love, courage, mirth and melancholy; all these passions I feel more from communication, than from my own natural temper and disposition. So remarkable a phenomenon merits our attention, and must be traced up to its first principles.
When any affection is infused by sympathy, it is at first known only by its effects, and by those external signs in the countenance and conversation, which convey an idea of it. This idea is presently converted into an impression, and acquires such a degree of force and vivacity, as to become the very passion itself, and produce an equal emotion as any original affection. However instantaneous this change of the idea into an impression may be, it proceeds from certain views and reflections, which will not escape the strict scrutiny of a philosopher, though they may the person himself who makes them.
'Tis evident that the idea, or rather impression of ourselves, is always intimately present with us, and that our consciousness gives us so lively a conception of our own person, that 'tis not possible to imagine that any thing can in this particular go beyond it. Whatever object, therefore, is related to ourselves, must be conceived with a like vivacity of conception, according to the foregoing principles; and though this relation should not be so strong as that of causation, it must still have a considerable influence. Resemblance and contiguity are relations not to be neglected; especially when, by an inference from cause and effect, and by the observation of external signs, we are informed of the real existence of the object, which is resembling or contiguous.
Now, 'tis obvious that nature has preserved a great resemblance among all human creatures, and that we never remark any passion or principle in others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a parallel in ourselves. The case is the same with the fabric of the mind as with that of the body. However the parts may differ in shape or size, their structure and composition are in general the same. There is a very remarkable resemblance, which preserves itself amidst all their variety; and this resemblance must very much contribute to make us enter into the sentiments of others, and embrace them with facility and pleasure. Accordingly we find, that where, beside the general resemblance of our natures, there is any peculiar similarity in our manners, or character, or country, or language, it facilitates the sympathy. The stronger the relation is betwixt ourselves and any object, the more easily does the imagination make the transition, and convey to the related idea the vivacity of conception, with which we always form the idea of our own person.
Nor is resemblance the only relation which has this effect, but receives new force from other relations that may accompany it. The sentiments of others have little influence when far removed from us, and require the relation of contiguity to make them communicate themselves entirely. The relations of blood, being a species of causation, may sometimes contribute to the same effect; as also acquaintance, which operates in the same manner with education and custom, as we shall see more fully afterwards.[5] All these relations, when united together, convey the impression or consciousness of our own person to the idea of the sentiments or passions of others, and makes us conceive them in the strongest and most lively manner.
It has been remarked in the beginning of this Treatise, that all ideas are borrowed from impressions, and that these two kinds of perceptions differ only in the degrees of force and vivacity with which they strike upon the soul. The component parts of ideas and impressions are precisely alike. The manner and order of their appearance may be the same. The different degrees of their force and vivacity are, therefore, the only particulars that distinguish them: and as this difference may be removed, in some measure, by a relation betwixt the impressions and ideas, 'tis no wonder an idea of a sentiment or passion may by this means be so enlivened as to become the very sentiment or passion. The lively idea of any object always approaches its impression; and 'tis certain we may feel sickness and pain from the mere force of imagination, and make a malady real by often thinking of it. But this is most remarkable in the opinions and affections; and 'tis there principally that a lively idea is converted into an impression. Our affections depend more upon ourselves, and the internal operations of the mind, than any other impressions; for which reason they arise more naturally from the imagination, and from every lively idea we form of them. This is the nature and cause of sympathy; and 'tis after this manner we enter so deep into the opinions and affections of others, whenever we discover them.
What is principally remarkable in this whole affair, is the strong confirmation these phenomena give to the foregoing system concerning the understanding, and consequently to the present one concerning the passions, since these are analogous to each other. 'Tis indeed evident, that when we sympathize with the passions and sentiments of others, these movements appear at first in our mind as mere ideas, and are conceived to belong to another person, as we conceive any other matter of fact. 'Tis also evident, that the ideas of the affections of others are converted into the very impressions they represent, and that the passions arise in conformity to the images we form of them. All this is an object of the plainest experience, and depends not on any hypothesis of philosophy. That science can only be admitted to explain the phenomena; though at the same time it must be confessed, they are so clear of themselves, that there is but little occasion to employ it. For, besides the relation of cause and effect, by which we are convinced of the reality of the passion with which we sympathize; besides this, I say, we must be assisted by the relations of resemblance and contiguity, in order to feel the sympathy in its full perfection. And since these relations can entirely convert an idea into an impression, and convey the vivacity of the latter into the former, so perfectly as to lose nothing of it in the transition, we may easily conceive how the relation of cause and effect alone, may serve to strengthen and enliven an idea. In sympathy there is an evident conversion of an idea into an impression. This conversion arises from the relation of objects to ourself. Ourself is always intimately present to us. Let us compare all these circumstances, and we shall find, that sympathy is exactly correspondent to the operations of our understanding; and even contains something more surprising and extraordinary.
'Tis now time to turn our view from the general consideration of sympathy, to its influence on pride and humility, when these passions arise from praise and blame, from reputation and infamy. We may observe, that no person is ever praised by another for any quality which would not, if real, produce of itself a pride in the person possessed of it. The eulogiums either turn upon his power, or riches, or family, or virtue; all of which are subjects of vanity, that we have already explained and accounted for. 'Tis certain, then, that if a person considered himself in the same light in which he appears to his admirer, he would first receive a separate pleasure, and afterwards a pride or self-satisfaction, according to the hypothesis above explained. Now, nothing is more natural than for us to embrace the opinions of others in this particular, both from sympathy, which renders all their sentiments intimately present to us, and from reasoning, which makes us regard their judgment as a kind of argument for what they affirm. These two principles of authority and sympathy influence almost all our opinions, but must have a peculiar influence when we judge of our own worth and character. Such judgments are always attended with passion;[6] and nothing tends more to disturb our understanding, and precipitate us into any opinions, however unreasonable, than their connexion with passion, which diffuses itself over the imagination, and gives an additional force to every related idea. To which we may add, that, being conscious of great partiality in our own favour, we are peculiarly pleased with any thing that confirms the good opinion we have of ourselves, and are easily shocked with whatever opposes it.
All this appears very probable in theory; but in order to bestow a full certainty on this reasoning, we must examine the phenomena of the passions, and see if they agree with it.
Among these phenomena we may esteem it a very favourable one to our present purpose, that though fame in general be agreeable, yet we receive a much greater satisfaction from the approbation of those whom we ourselves esteem and approve of, than of those whom we hate and despise. In like manner we are principally mortified with the contempt of persons upon whose judgment we set some value, and are, in a great measure, indifferent about the opinions of the rest of mankind. But if the mind received from any original instinct a desire of fame, and aversion to infamy, fame and infamy would influence us without distinction; and every opinion, according as it were favourable or unfavourable, would equally excite that desire or aversion. The judgment of a fool is the judgment of another person, as well as that of a wise man, and is only inferior in its influence on our own judgment.
We are not only better pleased with the approbation of a wise man than with that of a fool, but receive an additional satisfaction from the former, when 'tis obtained after a long and intimate acquaintance. This is accounted for after the same manner.
The praises of others never give us much pleasure, unless they concur with our own opinion, and extol us for those qualities in which we chiefly excel. A mere soldier little values the character of eloquence; a gownman, of courage; a bishop, of humour; or a merchant, of learning. Whatever esteem a man may have for any quality, abstractedly considered, when he is conscious he is not possessed of it, the opinions of the whole world will give him little pleasure in that particular, and that because they never will be able to draw his own opinion after them.
Nothing is more usual than for men of good families, but narrow circumstances, to leave their friends and country, and rather seek their livelihood by mean and mechanical employments among strangers, than among those who are acquainted with their birth and education. We shall be unknown, say they, where we go. Nobody will suspect from what family we are sprung. We shall be removed from all our friends and acquaintance, and our poverty and meanness will by that means sit more easy upon us. In examining these sentiments, I find they afford many very convincing arguments for my present purpose.
First, we may infer from them that the uneasiness of being contemned depends on sympathy, and that sympathy depends on the relation of objects to ourselves, since we are most uneasy under the contempt of persons who are both related to us by blood and contiguous in place. Hence we seek to diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating these relations, and placing ourselves in a contiguity to strangers, and at a distance from relations.
Secondly, we may conclude, that relations are requisite to sympathy, not absolutely considered as relations, but by their influence in converting our ideas of the sentiments of others into the very sentiments by means of the association betwixt the idea of their persons and that of our own. For here the relations of kindred and contiguity both subsist, but not being united in the same persons, they contribute in a less degree to the sympathy.
Thirdly, this very circumstance of the diminution of sympathy, by the separation of relations, is worthy of our attention. Suppose I am placed in a poor condition among strangers, and consequently am but lightly treated; I yet find myself easier in that situation, than when I was every day exposed to the contempt of my kindred and countrymen. Here I feel a double contempt; from my relations, but they are absent; from those about me, but they are strangers. This double contempt is likewise strengthened by the two relations of kindred and contiguity. But as the persons are not the same who are connected with me by those two relations, this difference of ideas separates the impressions arising from the contempt, and keeps them from running into each other. The contempt of my neighbours has a certain influence, as has also that of my kindred; but these influences are distinct and never unite, as when the contempt proceeds from persons who are at once both my neighbours and kindred. This phenomenon is analogous to the system of pride and humility above explained, which may seem so extraordinary to vulgar apprehensions.
Fourthly, a person in these circumstances naturally conceals his birth from those among whom he lives, and is very uneasy if any one suspects him to be of a family much superior to his present fortune and way of living. Every thing in this world is judged of by comparison What is an immense fortune for a private gentleman, is beggary for a prince. A peasant would think himself happy in what cannot afford necessaries for a gentleman. When a man has either been accustomed to a more splendid way of living, or thinks himself entitled to it by his birth and quality, every thing below is disagreeable and even shameful; and 'tis with the greatest industry he conceals his pretensions to a better fortune. Here he himself knows his misfortunes; but as those with whom he lives are ignorant of them, he has the disagreeable reflection and comparison suggested only by his own thoughts, and never receives it by a sympathy with others; which must contribute very much to his ease and satisfaction.
If there be any objections to this hypothesis, that the pleasure which we receive from praise arises from a communication of sentiments, we shall find, upon examination, that these objections, when taken in a proper light, will serve to confirm it. Popular fame may be agreeable even to a man who despises the vulgar; but 'tis because their multitude gives them additional weight and authority. Plagiaries are delighted with praises, which they are conscious they do not deserve; but this is a kind of castle-building, where the imagination amuses itself with its own fictions, and strives to render them firm and stable by a sympathy with the sentiments of others. Proud men are most shocked with contempt, though they do not most readily assent to it; but 'tis because of the opposition betwixt the passion, which is natural to them, and that received by sympathy. A violent lover, in like manner, is very much displeased when you blame and condemn his love; though 'tis evident your opposition can have no influence but by the hold it takes of himself, and by his sympathy with you. If he despises you, or perceives you are in jest, whatever you say has no effect upon him.
[5] Part II. Sect. 4.
[6] Book I. Part III. Sect. 10.
[SECTION XII.]
OF THE PRIDE AND HUMILITY OF ANIMALS.
Thus, in whatever light we consider this subject, we may still observe, that the causes of pride and humility correspond exactly to our hypothesis, and that nothing can excite either of these passions, unless it be both related to ourselves, and produces a pleasure or pain independent of the passion. We have not only proved, that a tendency to produce pleasure or pain is common to all the causes of pride or humility, but also that 'tis the only thing which is common, and consequently is the quality by which they operate. We have farther proved, that the most considerable causes of these passions are really nothing but the power of producing either agreeable or uneasy sensations; and therefore that all their effects, and amongst the rest pride and humility, are derived solely from that origin. Such simple and natural principles, founded on such solid proofs, cannot fail to be received by philosophers, unless opposed by some objections that have escaped me.
'Tis usual with anatomists to join their observations and experiments on human bodies to those on beasts; and, from the agreement of these experiments, to derive an additional argument for any particular hypothesis. 'Tis indeed certain, that where the structure of parts in brutes is the same as in men, and the operation of these parts also the same, the causes of that operation cannot be different; and that whatever we discover to be true of the one species, may be concluded, without hesitation, to be certain of the other. Thus, though the mixture of humours, and the composition of minute parts, may justly be presumed to be somewhat different in men from what it is in mere animals, and therefore any experiment we make upon the one concerning the effects of medicines, will not always apply to the other, yet, as the structure of the veins and muscles, the fabric and situation of the heart, of the lungs, the stomach, the liver, and other parts, are the same or nearly the same in all animals, the very same hypothesis, which in one species explains muscular motion, the progress of the chyle, the circulation of the blood, must be applicable to every one; and, according as it agrees or disagrees with the experiments we may make in any species of creatures, we may draw a proof of its truth or falsehood on the whole. Let us therefore apply this method of inquiry, which is found so just and useful in reasonings concerning the body, to our present anatomy of the mind, and see what discoveries we can make by it.
In order to this, we must first show the correspondence of passions in men and animals, and afterwards compare the causes, which produce these passions.
'Tis plain, that almost in every species of creatures, but especially of the nobler kind, there are many evident marks of pride and humility. The very port and gait of a swan, or turkey, or peacock, show the high idea he has entertained of himself, and his contempt of all others. This is the more remarkable, that, in the two last species of animals, the pride always attends the beauty, and is discovered in the mule only. The vanity and emulation of nightingales in singing have been commonly remarked; as likewise that of horses in swiftness, of hounds in sagacity and smell, of the bull and cock in strength, and of every other animal in his particular excellency. Add to this, that every species of creatures, which approach so often to man as to familiarize themselves with him, show an evident pride in his approbation, and are pleased with his praises and caresses, independent of every other consideration. Nor are they the caresses of every one without distinction which give them this vanity, but those principally of the persons they know and love; in the same manner as that passion is excited in mankind. All these are evident proofs that pride and humility are not merely human passions, but extend themselves over the whole animal creation.
The causes of these passions are likewise much the same in beasts as in us, making a just allowance for our superior knowledge and understanding. Thus, animals have little or no sense of virtue or vice; they quickly lose sight of the relations of blood; and are incapable of that of right and property: for which reason the causes of their pride and humility must lie solely in the body, and can never be placed either in the mind or external objects. But so far as regards the body, the same qualities cause pride in the animal as in the human kind; and 'tis on beauty, strength, swiftness, or some other useful or agreeable quality, that this passage is always founded.
The next question is, whether, since those passions are the same, and arise from the same causes through the whole creation, the manner, in which the causes operate, be also the same. According to all rules of analogy, this is justly to be expected; and if we find upon trial, that the explication of these phenomena, which we make use of in one species, will not apply to the rest, we may presume that that explication, however specious, is in reality without foundation.
In order to decide this question, let us consider, that there is evidently the same relation of ideas, and derived from the same causes, in the minds of animals as in those of men. A dog, that has hid a bone, often forgets the place; but when brought to it, his thought passes easily to what he formerly concealed, by means of the contiguity, which produces a relation among his ideas. In like manner, when he has been heartily beat in any place, he will tremble on his approach to it, even though he discover no signs of any present danger. The effects of resemblance are not so remarkable; but as that relation makes a considerable ingredient in causation, of which all animals show so evident a judgment, we may conclude, that the three relations of resemblance, contiguity, and causation operate in the same manner upon beasts as upon human creatures.
There are also instances of the relation of impressions, sufficient to convince us, that there is an union of certain affections with each other in the inferior species of creatures, as well as in the superior, and that their minds are frequently conveyed through a series of connected emotions. A dog, when elevated with joy, runs naturally into love and kindness, whether of his master or of the sex. In like manner, when full of pain and sorrow, he becomes quarrelsome and ill natured; and that passion, which at first was grief, is by the smallest occasion converted into anger.
Thus, all the internal principles that are necessary in us to produce either pride or humility, are common to all creatures; and since the causes, which excite these passions, are likewise the same, we may justly conclude, that these causes operate after the same manner through the whole animal creation. My hypothesis is so simple, and supposes so little reflection and judgment, that 'tis applicable to every sensible creature; which must not only be allowed to be a convincing proof of its veracity, but, I am confident, will be found an objection to every other system.
[PART II.]
OF LOVE AND HATRED.
[SECTION I.]
OF THE OBJECT AND CAUSES OF LOVE AND HATRED.
'Tis altogether impossible to give any definition of the passions of love and hatred; and that because they produce merely a simple impression, without any mixture or composition. 'Twould be as unnecessary to attempt any description of them, drawn from their nature, origin, causes, and objects; and that both because these are the subjects of our present inquiry, and because these passions of themselves are sufficiently known from our common feeling and experience. This we have already observed concerning pride and humility, and here repeat it concerning love and hatred; and, indeed, there is so great a resemblance betwixt these two sets of passions, that we shall be obliged to begin with a kind of abridgment of our reasonings concerning the former, in order to explain the latter.
As the immediate object of pride and humility is self, or that identical person of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are intimately conscious; so the object of love and hatred is some other person, of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are not conscious. This is sufficiently evident from experience. Our love and hatred are always directed to some sensible being external to us; and when we talk of self-love, 'tis not in a proper sense, nor has the sensation it produces any thing in common with that tender emotion, which is excited by a friend or mistress. 'Tis the same case with hatred. We may be mortified by our own faults and follies; but never feel any anger or hatred, except from the injuries of others.
But though the object of love and hatred be always some other person, 'tis plain that the object is not, properly speaking, the cause of these passions, or alone sufficient to excite them. For since love and hatred are directly contrary in their sensation, and have the same object in common, if that object were also their cause, it would produce these opposite passions in an equal degree; and as they must, from the very first moment, destroy each other, none of them would ever be able to make its appearance. There must, therefore, be some cause different from the object.
If we consider the causes of love and hatred, we shall find they are very much diversified, and have not many things in common. The virtue, knowledge, wit, good sense, good humour of any person, produce love and esteem; as the opposite qualities, hatred and contempt. The same passions arise from bodily accomplishments, such as beauty, force, swiftness, dexterity; and from their contraries; as likewise from the external advantages and disadvantages of family, possessions, clothes, nation and climate. There is not one of these objects but what, by its different qualities, may produce love and esteem, or hatred and contempt.
From the view of these causes we may derive a new distinction betwixt the quality that operates, and the subject on which it is placed. A prince that is possessed of a stately palace commands the esteem of the people upon that account; and that, first, by the beauty of the palace; and, secondly, by the relation of property, which connects it with him. The removal of either of these destroys the passion; which evidently proves that the cause is a compounded one.
'Twould be tedious to trace the passions of love and hatred through all the observations which we have formed concerning pride and humility, and which are equally applicable to both sets of passions. 'Twill be sufficient to remark, in general, that the object of love and hatred is evidently some thinking person; and that the sensation of the former passion is always agreeable, and of the latter uneasy. We may also suppose, with some show of probability, that the cause of both these passions is always related to a thinking being, and that the cause of the former produces a separate pleasure, and of the latter a separate uneasiness.
One of these suppositions, viz. that the cause of love and hatred must be related to a person or thinking being, in order to produce these passions, is not only probable, but too evident to be contested. Virtue and vice, when considered in the abstract; beauty and deformity, when placed on inanimate objects; poverty and riches, when belonging to a third person, excite no degree of love or hatred, esteem or contempt, towards those who have no relation to them. A person looking out at a window sees me in the street, and beyond me a beautiful palace, with which I have no concern: I believe none will pretend, that this person will pay me the same respect as if I were owner of the palace.
'Tis not so evident at first sight, that a relation of impressions is requisite to these passions, and that because in the transition the one impression is so much confounded with the other, that they become in a manner undistinguishable. But as in pride and humility, we have easily been able to make the separation, and to prove, that every cause of these passions produces a separate pain or pleasure, I might here observe the same method with the same success, in examining particularly the several causes of love and hatred. But as I hasten to a full and decisive proof of these systems, I delay this examination for a moment; and in the mean time shall endeavour to convert to my present purpose all my reasonings concerning pride and humility, by an argument that is founded on unquestionable experience.
There are few persons that are satisfied with their own character, or genius, or fortune, who are not desirous of showing themselves to the world, and of acquiring the love and approbation of mankind. Now 'tis evident, that the very same qualities and circumstances, which are the causes of pride or self-esteem, are also the causes of vanity, or the desire of reputation; and that we always put to view those particulars with which in ourselves we are best satisfied. But if love and esteem were not produced by the same qualities as pride, according as these qualities are related to ourselves or others, this method of proceeding would be very absurd; nor could men expect a correspondence in the sentiments of every other person with those themselves have entertained. 'Tis true, few can form exact systems of the passions, or make reflections on their general nature and resemblances. But without such a progress in philosophy, we are not subject to many mistakes in this particular, but are sufficiently guided by common experience, as well as by a kind of presentation, which tells us what will operate on others, by what we feel immediately in ourselves. Since then the same qualities that produce pride or humility, cause love or hatred, all the arguments that have been employed to prove that the causes of the former passions excite a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will be applicable with equal evidence to the causes of the latter.
[SECTION II.]
EXPERIMENTS TO CONFIRM THIS SYSTEM.
Upon duly weighing these arguments, no one will make any scruple to assent to that conclusion I draw from them, concerning the transition along related impressions and ideas, especially as 'tis a principle in itself so easy and natural. But that we may place this system beyond doubt, both with regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, 'twill be proper to make some new experiments upon all these passions, as well as to recal a few of these observations which I have formerly touched upon.
In order to make these experiments, let us suppose I am in company with a person, whom I formerly regarded without any sentiments either of friendship or enmity. Here I have the natural and ultimate object of all these four passions placed before me. Myself am the proper object of pride or humility; the other person of love or hatred.
Regard now with attention the nature of these passions, and their situation with respect to each other. 'Tis evident here are four affections, placed as it were in a square, or regular connexion with, and distance from, each other. The passions of pride and humility, as well as those of love and hatred, are connected together by the identity of their object, which to the first set of passions is self, to the second some other person. These two lines of communication or connexion form two opposite sides of the square. Again, pride and love are agreeable passions; hatred and humility uneasy. This similitude of sensation betwixt pride and love, and that betwixt humility and hatred, form a new connexion, and may be considered as the other two sides of the square. Upon the whole, pride is connected with humility, love with hatred, by their objects or ideas: pride with love, humility with hatred, by their sensations or impressions.
I say then, that nothing can produce any of these passions without bearing it a double relation, viz. of ideas to the object of the passion, and of sensation to the passion itself. This we must prove by our experiments.
First experiment. To proceed with the greater order in these experiments, let us first suppose, that being placed in the situation above mentioned, viz. in company with some other person, there is an object presented, that has no relation either of impressions or ideas to any of these passions. Thus, suppose we regard together an ordinary stone, or other common object, belonging to neither of us, and causing of itself no emotion, or independent pain and pleasure: 'tis evident such an object will produce none of these four passions. Let us try it upon each of them successively. Let us apply it to love, to hatred, to humility, to pride; none of them ever arises in the smallest degree imaginable. Let us change the object as oft as we please, provided still we choose one that has neither of these two relations. Let us repeat the experiment in all the dispositions of which the mind is susceptible. No object in the vast variety of nature will, in any disposition, produce any passion without these relations.
Second experiment. Since an object that wants both these relations can ever produce any passion, let us bestow on it only one of these relations, and see what will follow. Thus, suppose I regard a stone, or any common object that belongs either to me or my companion, and by that means acquires a relation of ideas to the object of the passions: 'tis plain that, to consider the matter a priori, no emotion of any kind can reasonably be expected. For, besides that a relation of ideas operates secretly and calmly on the mind, it bestows an equal impulse towards the opposite passions of pride and humility, love and hatred, according as the object belongs to ourselves or others; which opposition of the passions must destroy both, and leave the mind perfectly free from any affection or emotion. This reasoning a priori is confirmed by experience. No trivial or vulgar object, that causes not a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will ever, by its property or other relations, either to ourselves or others, be able to produce the affections of pride or humility, love or hatred.
Third experiment. 'Tis evident, therefore, that a relation of ideas is not able alone to give rise to these affections. Let us now remove this relation, and, in its stead, place a relation of impressions, by presenting an object, which is agreeable or disagreeable, but has no relation either to ourself or companion; and let us observe the consequences. To consider the matter first a priori, as in the preceding experiment, we may conclude that the object will have a small, but an uncertain connexion with these passions. For, besides that this relation is not a cold and imperceptible one, it has not the inconvenience of the relation of ideas, nor directs us with equal force to two contrary passions, which, by their opposition, destroy each other. But if we consider, on the other hand, that this transition from the sensation to the affection is not forwarded by any principle that produces a transition of ideas; but, on the contrary, that though the one impression be easily transfused into the other, yet the change of objects is supposed contrary to all the principles that cause a transition of that kind; we may from thence infer, that nothing will ever be a steady or durable cause of any passion that is connected with the passion merely by a relation of impressions. What our reason would conclude from analogy, after balancing these arguments, would be, that an object, which produces pleasure or uneasiness, but has no manner of connexion either with ourselves or others, may give such a turn to the disposition as that it may naturally fall into pride or love, humility or hatred, and search for other objects, upon which, by a double relation, it can found these affections; but that an object, which has only one of these relations, though the most advantageous one, can never give rise to any constant and established passion.
Most fortunately, all this reasoning is found to be exactly conformable to experience and the phenomena of the passions. Suppose I were travelling with a companion through a country to which we are both utter strangers; 'tis evident, that if the prospects be beautiful, the roads agreeable, and the inns commodious, this may put me into good humour both with myself and fellow-traveller. But as we suppose that this country has no relation either to myself or friend, it can never be the immediate cause of pride or love; and, therefore, if I found not the passion on some other object that bears either of us a closer relation, my emotions are rather to be considered as the overflowings of an elevate or humane disposition, than as an established passion. The case is the same where the object produces uneasiness.
Fourth experiment. Having found, that neither an object, without any relation of ideas or impressions, nor an object that has only one relation, can ever cause pride or humility, love or hatred; reason alone may convince us, without any farther experiment, that whatever has a double relation must necessarily excite these passions; since 'tis evident they must have some cause. But, to leave as little room for doubt as possible, let us renew our experiments, and see whether the event in this case answers our expectation. I chuse an object, such as virtue, that causes a separate satisfaction: on this object I bestow a relation to self; and find, that from this disposition of affairs there immediately arises a passion. But what passion? That very one of pride, to which this object bears a double relation. Its idea is related to that of self, the object of the passion: the sensation it causes resembles the sensation of the passion. That I may be sure I am not mistaken in this experiment, I remove first one relation, then another, and find that each removal destroys the passion, and leaves the object perfectly indifferent. But I am not content with this. I make a still farther trial; and instead of removing the relation, I only change it for one of a different kind. I suppose the virtue to belong to my companion, not to myself; and observe what follows from this alteration. I immediately perceive the affections to wheel about, and leaving pride, where there is only one relation, viz. of impressions, fall to the side of love, where they are attracted by a double relation of impressions and ideas. By repeating the same experiment in changing anew the relation of ideas, I bring the affections back to pride; and, by a new repetition, I again place them at love or kindness. Being fully convinced of the influence of this relation, I try the effects of the other; and, by changing virtue for vice, convert the pleasant impression which arises from the former, into the disagreeable one which proceeds from the latter. The effect still answers expectation. Vice, when placed on another, excites, by means of its double relations, the passion of hatred, instead of love, which, for the same reason, arises from virtue. To continue the experiment, I change anew the relation of ideas, and suppose the vice to belong to myself. What follows? What is usual. A subsequent change of the passion from hatred to humility. This humility I convert into pride by a new change of the impression; and find, after all, that I have completed the round, and have by these changes brought back the passion to that very situation in which I first found it.
But to make the matter still more certain, I alter the object; and, instead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon beauty and deformity, riches and poverty, power and servitude. Each of these objects runs the circle of the passions in the same manner, by a change of their relations: and in whatever order we proceed, whether through pride, love, hatred, humility, or through humility, hatred, love, pride, the experiment is not in the least diversified. Esteem and contempt, indeed, arise on some occasions instead of love and hatred; but these are, at the bottom, the same passions, only diversified by some causes, which we shall explain afterwards.
Fifth experiment. To give greater authority to these experiments, let us change the situation of affairs as much as possible, and place the passions and objects in all the different positions of which they are susceptible. Let us suppose, beside the relations above mentioned, that the person, along with whom I make all these experiments, is closely connected with me either by blood or friendship. He is, we shall suppose, my son or brother, or is united to me by a long and familiar acquaintance. Let us next suppose, that the cause of the passion acquires a double relation of impressions and ideas to this person; and let us see what the effects are of all these complicated attractions and relations.
Before we consider what they are in fact, let us determine what they ought to be, conformable to my hypothesis. 'Tis plain, that, according as the impression is either pleasant or uneasy, the passion of love or hatred must arise towards the person who is thus connected to the cause of the impression by these double relations which I have all along required. The virtue of a brother must make me love him, as his vice or infamy must excite the contrary passion. But to judge only from the situation of affairs, I should not expect that the affections would rest there, and never transfuse themselves into any other impression. As there is here a person, who, by means of a double relation, is the object of my passion, the very same reasoning leads me to think the passion will be carried farther. The person has a relation of ideas to myself, according to the supposition; the passion of which he is the object, by being either agreeable or uneasy, has a relation of impressions to pride or humility. 'Tis evident, then, that one of these passions must arise from the love or hatred.
This is the reasoning I form in conformity to my hypothesis; and am pleased to find, upon trial, that every thing answers exactly to my expectation. The virtue or vice of a son or brother not only excites love or hatred, but, by a new transition from similar causes, gives rise to pride or humility. Nothing causes greater vanity than any shining quality in our relations; as nothing mortifies us more than their vice or infamy. This exact conformity of experience to our reasoning is a convincing proof of the solidity of that hypothesis upon which we reason.
Sixth experiment. This evidence will be still augmented if we reverse the experiment, and, preserving still the same relations, begin only with a different passion. Suppose that, instead of the virtue or vice of a son or brother, which causes first love or hatred, and afterwards pride or humility, we place these good or bad qualities on ourselves, without any immediate connexion with the person who is related to us, experience shows us, that, by this change of situation, the whole chain is broke, and that the mind is not conveyed from one passion to another, as in the preceding instance. We never love or hate a son or brother for the virtue or vice we discern in ourselves; though 'tis evident the same qualities in him give us a very sensible pride or humility. The transition from pride or humility to love or hatred, is not so natural as from love or hatred to pride or humility. This may at first sight be esteemed contrary to my hypothesis, since the relations of impressions and ideas are in both cases precisely the same. Pride and humility are impressions related to love and hatred. Myself am related to the person. It should therefore be expected, that like causes must produce like effects, and a perfect transition arise from the double relation, as in all other cases. This difficulty we may easily solve by the following reflections.
'Tis evident that, as we are at all times intimately conscious of ourselves, our sentiments and passions, their ideas must strike upon us with greater vivacity than the ideas of the sentiments and passions of any other person. But every thing that strikes upon us with vivacity, and appears in a full and strong light, forces itself, in a manner, into our consideration, and becomes present to the mind on the smallest hint and most trivial relation. For the same reason, when it is once present, it engages the attention, and keeps it from wandering to other objects, however strong may be their relation to our first object. The imagination passes easily from obscure to lively ideas, but with difficulty from lively to obscure. In the one case the relation is aided by another principle; in the other case, 'tis opposed by it.
Now, I have observed, that those two faculties of the mind, the imagination and passions, assist each other in their operation when their propensities are similar, and when they act upon the same object. The mind has always a propensity to pass from a passion to any other related to it; and this propensity is forwarded when the object of the one passion is related to that of the other. The two impulses concur with each other, and render the whole transition more smooth and easy. But if it should happen, that, while the relation of ideas, strictly speaking, continues the same, its influence in causing a transition of the imagination should no longer take place, 'tis evident its influence on the passions must also cease, as being dependent entirely on that transition. This is the reason why pride or humility is not transfused into love or hatred with the same ease that the latter passions are changed into the former. If a person be my brother, I am his likewise: but though the relations be reciprocal, they have very different effects on the imagination. The passage is smooth and open from the consideration of any person related to us to that of ourself, of whom we are every moment conscious. But when the affections are once directed to ourself, the fancy passes not with the same facility from that object to any other person, how closely soever connected with us. This easy or difficult transition of the imagination operates upon the passions, and facilitates or retards their transition; which is a clear proof that these two faculties of the passions and imagination are connected together, and that the relations of ideas have an influence upon the affections. Besides innumerable experiments that prove this, we here find, that even when the relation remains; if by any particular circumstance its usual effect upon the fancy in producing an association or transition of ideas is prevented, its usual effect upon the passions, in conveying us from one to another, is in like manner prevented.
Some may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt this phenomenon and that of sympathy, where the mind passes easily from the idea of ourselves to that of any other object related to us. But this difficulty will vanish, if we consider that in sympathy our own person is not the object of any passion, nor is there any thing that fixes our attention on ourselves, as in the present case, where we are supposed to be actuated, with pride or humility. Ourself, independent of the perception of every other object, is in reality nothing; for which reason we must turn our view to external objects, and 'tis natural for us to consider with most attention such as lie contiguous to us, or resemble us. But when self is the object of a passion, 'tis not natural to quit the consideration of it till the passion be exhausted, in which case the double relations of impressions and ideas can no longer operate.
Seventh experiment. To put this whole reasoning to a farther trial, let us make a new experiment; and as we have already seen the effects of related passions and ideas, let us here suppose an identity of passions along with a relation of ideas; and let us consider the effects of this new situation. 'Tis evident a transition of the passions from the one object to the other is here in all reason to be expected; since the relation of ideas is supposed still to continue, and an identity of impressions must produce a stronger connexion, than the most perfect resemblance that can be imagined. If a double relation, therefore, of impressions and ideas, is able to produce a transition from one to the other, much more an identity of impressions with a relation of ideas. Accordingly, we find, that when we either love or hate any person, the passions seldom continue within their first bounds; but extend themselves towards all the contiguous objects, and comprehend the friends and relations of him we love or hate. Nothing is more natural than to bear a kindness to one brother on account of our friendship for another, without any farther examination of his character. A quarrel with one person gives us a hatred for the whole family, though entirely innocent of that which displeases us. Instances of this kind are every where to be met with.
There is only one difficulty in this experiment which it will be necessary to account for, before we proceed any farther. 'Tis evident, that though all passions pass easily from one object to another related to it, yet this transition is made with greater facility where the more considerable object is first presented, and the lesser follows it, than where this order is reversed, and the lesser takes the precedence. Thus, 'tis more natural for us to love the son upon account of the father, than the father upon account of the son; the servant for the master, than the master for the servant; the subject for the prince, than the prince for the subject. In like manner we more readily contract a hatred against a whole family, where our first quarrel is with the head of it, than where we are displeased with a son, or servant, or some inferior member. In short, our passions, like other objects, descend with greater facility than they ascend.
That we may comprehend wherein consists the difficulty of explaining this phenomenon, we must consider, that the very same reason, which determines the imagination to pass from remote to contiguous objects with more facility than from contiguous to remote, causes it likewise to change with more ease the less for the greater, than the greater for the less. Whatever has the greatest influence is most taken notice of; and whatever is most taken notice of, presents itself most readily to the imagination. We are more apt to overlook in any subject what is trivial, than what appears of considerable moment; but especially if the latter takes the precedence, and first engages our attention. Thus, if any accident makes us consider the satellites of Jupiter, our fancy is naturally determined to form the idea of that planet; but if we first reflect on the principal planet, 'tis more natural for us to overlook its attendants. The mention of the provinces of any empire conveys our thought to the seat of the empire; but the fancy returns not with the same facility to the consideration of the provinces. The idea of the servant makes us think of the master; that of the subject carries our view to the prince. But the same relation has not an equal influence in conveying us back again. And on this is founded that reproach of Cornelia to her sons, that they ought to be ashamed she should be more known by the title of the daughter of Scipio, than by that of the mother of the Gracchi. This was, in other words, exhorting them to render themselves as illustrious and famous as their grandfather, otherwise the imagination of the people, passing from her who was intermediate, and placed in an equal relation to both, would always leave them, and denominate her by what was more considerable and of greater moment. On the same principle is founded that common custom of making wives bear the name of their husbands, rather than husbands that of their wives; as also the ceremony of giving the precedency to those whom we honour and respect. We might find many other instances to confirm this principle, were it not already sufficiently evident.
Now, since the fancy finds the same facility in passing from the lesser to the greater, as from remote to contiguous, why does not this easy transition of ideas assist the transition of passions in the former case as well as in the latter? The virtues of a friend or brother produce first love, and then pride; because in that case the imagination passes from remote to contiguous, according to its propensity. Our own virtues produce not first pride, and then love to a friend or brother; because the passage in that case would be from contiguous to remote, contrary to its propensity. But the love or hatred of an inferior, causes not readily any passion to the superior, though that be the natural propensity of the imagination: while the love or hatred of a superior, causes a passion to the inferior, contrary to its propensity. In short, the same facility of transition operates not in the same manner upon superior and inferior as upon contiguous and remote. These two phenomena appear contradictory, and require some attention to be reconciled.
As the transition of ideas is here made contrary to the natural propensity of the imagination, that faculty must be overpowered by some stronger principle of another kind; and as there is nothing ever present to the mind but impressions and ideas, this principle must necessarily lie in the impressions. Now, it has been observed, that impressions or passions are connected only by their resemblance, and that where any two passions place the mind in the same or in similar dispositions, it very naturally passes from the one to the other: as on the contrary, a repugnance in the dispositions produces a difficulty in the transition of the passions. But, 'tis observable, that this repugnance may arise from a difference of degree as well as of kind; nor do we experience a greater difficulty in passing suddenly from a small degree of love to a small degree of hatred, than from a small to a great degree of either of these affections. A man, when calm or only moderately agitated, is so different, in every respect, from himself, when disturbed with a violent passion, that no two persons can be more unlike; nor is it easy to pass from the one extreme to the other, without a considerable interval betwixt them.
The difficulty is not less, if it be not rather greater in passing from the strong passion to the weak, than in passing from the weak to the strong, provided the one passion upon its appearance destroys the other, and they do not both of them exist at once. But the case is entirely altered, when the passions unite together, and actuate the mind at the same time. A weak passion, when added to a strong, makes not so considerable change in the disposition, as a strong when added to a weak; for which reason there is a closer connexion betwixt the great degree and the small, than betwixt the small degree and the great.
The degree of any passion depends upon the nature of its object; and an affection directed to a person, who is considerable in our eyes, fills and possesses the mind much more than one, which has for its object a person we esteem of less consequence. Here then, the contradiction betwixt the propensities of the imagination and passion displays itself. When we turn our thought to a great and a small object, the imagination finds more facility in passing from the small to the great, than from the great to the small; but the affections find a greater difficulty: and, as the affections are a more powerful principle than the imagination, no wonder they prevail over it, and draw the mind to their side. In spite of the difficulty of passing from the idea of great to that of little, a passion directed to the former produces always a similar passion towards the latter, when the great and little are related together. The idea of the servant conveys our thought most readily to the master; but the hatred or love of the master produces with greater facility anger or good will to the servant. The strongest passion in this case takes the precedence; and the addition of the weaker making no considerable change on the disposition, the passage is by that means rendered more easy and natural betwixt them.
As, in the foregoing experiment, we found that a relation of ideas, which, by any particular circumstance, ceases to produce its usual effect of facilitating the transition of ideas, ceases likewise to operate on the passions; so, in the present experiment, we find the same property of the impressions. Two different degrees of the same passion are surely related together; but if the smaller be first present, it has little or no tendency to introduce the greater; and that because the addition of the great to the little produces a more sensible alteration on the temper than the addition of the little to the great. These phenomena, when duly weighed, will be found convincing proofs of this hypothesis.
And these proofs will be confirmed, if we consider the manner in which the mind here reconciles the contradiction I have observed betwixt the passions and the imagination. The fancy passes with more facility from the less to the greater, than from the greater to the less. But, on the contrary, a violent passion produces more easily a feeble than that does a violent. In this opposition, the passion in the end prevails over the imagination: but 'tis commonly by complying with it, and by seeking another quality, which may counterbalance that principle from whence the opposition arises. When we love the father or master of a family, we think of his children or servants. But when these are present with us, or when it lies any ways in our power to serve them, the nearness and contiguity in this case increases their magnitude, or at least removes that opposition which the fancy makes to the transition of the affections. If the imagination finds a difficulty in passing from greater to less, it finds an equal facility in passing from remote to contiguous, which brings the matter to an equality, and leaves the way open from the one passion to the other.
Eighth experiment. I have observed, that the transition from love or hatred to pride or humility, is more easy than from pride or humility to love or hatred; and that the difficulty which the imagination finds in passing from contiguous to remote, is the cause why we scarce have any instance of the latter transition of the affections. I must, however, make one exception, viz. when the very cause of the pride and humility is placed in some other person. For, in that case, the imagination is necessitated to consider the person, nor can it possibly confine its view to ourselves. Thus, nothing more readily produces kindness and affection to any person than his approbation of our conduct and character; as, on the other hand, nothing inspires us with a stronger hatred than his blame or contempt. Here, 'tis evident, that the original passion is pride or humility, whose object is self; and that this passion is transfused into love or hatred, whose object is some other person, notwithstanding the rule I have already established, that the imagination passes with difficulty from contiguous to remote. But the transition in this case is not made merely on account of the relation betwixt ourselves and the person; but because that very person is the real cause of our first passion, and, of consequence, is intimately connected with it. 'Tis his approbation that produces pride, and disapprobation humility. No wonder, then, the imagination returns back again attended with the related passions of love and hatred. This is not a contradiction, but an exception to the rule; and an exception that arises from the same reason with the rule itself.
Such an exception as this is, therefore, rather a confirmation of the rule. And indeed, if we consider all the eight experiments I have explained, we shall find that the same principle appears in all of them, and that 'tis by means of a transition arising from a double relation of impressions and ideas, pride and humility, love and hatred are produced. An object without a relation,[1] or with but one,[2] never produces either of these passions; and 'tis found[3] that the passion always varies in conformity to the relation. Nay we may observe, that where the relation, by any particular circumstance, has not its usual effect of producing a transition either of ideas or of impressions,[4]| it ceases to operate upon the passions, and gives rise neither to pride nor love, humility nor hatred. This rule we find still to hold good, even under the appearance of its contrary;[5] and as relation is frequently experienced to have no effect, which upon examination is found to proceed from some particular circumstance that prevents the transition; so, even in instances where that circumstance, though present, prevents not the transition, 'tis found to arise from some other circumstance which counterbalances it. Thus, not only the variations resolve themselves into the general principle, but even the variations of these variations.
[1] First experiment.
[2] Second and third experiments.
[3] Fourth experiment.
[4] Sixth experiment.
[5] Seventh and eighth experiments.
[SECTION III.]
DIFFICULTIES SOLVED.
After so many and such undeniable proofs drawn from daily experience and observation, it may seem superfluous to enter into a particular examination of all the causes of love and hatred. I shall therefore employ the sequel of this part, first, in removing some difficulties concerning particular causes of these passions; secondly, in examining the compound affections, which arise from the mixture of love and hatred with other emotions.
Nothing is more evident, than that any person acquires our kindness, or is exposed to our ill-will, in proportion to the pleasure or uneasiness we receive from him, and that the passions keep pace exactly with the sensations in all their changes and variations. Whoever can find the means, either by his services, his beauty, or his flattery, to render himself useful or agreeable to us, is sure of our affections; as, on the other hand, whoever harms or displeases us never fails to excite our anger or hatred. When our own nation is at war with any other, we detest them under the character of cruel, perfidious, unjust, and violent; but always esteem ourselves and allies equitable, moderate, and merciful. If the general of our enemies be successful, 'tis with difficulty we allow him the figure and character of a man. He is a sorcerer; he has a communication with demons, as is reported of Oliver Cromwell and the Duke of Luxembourg; he is bloody-minded, and takes a pleasure in death and destruction. But if the success be on our side, our commander has all the opposite good qualities, and is a pattern of virtue, as well as of courage and conduct. His treachery we call policy; his cruelty is an evil inseparable from war. In short, every one of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or dignify it with the name of that virtue which approaches it. 'Tis evident the same method of thinking rims through common life.
There are some who add another condition, and require not only that the pain and pleasure arise from the person, but likewise that it arise knowingly, and with a particular design and intention. A man who wounds and harms us by accident, becomes not our enemy upon that account; nor do we think ourselves bound, by any ties of gratitude, to one who does us any service after the same manner. By the intention we judge of the actions; and, according as that is good or bad, they become causes of love or hatred.
But here we must make a distinction. If that quality in another, which pleases or displeases, be constant and inherent in his person and character, it will cause love or hatred, independent of the intention: but otherwise a knowledge and design is requisite, in order to give rise to these passions. One that is disagreeable by his deformity or folly, is the object of our aversion, though nothing be more certain, than that he has not the least intention of displeasing us by these qualities. But if the uneasiness proceed not from a quality, but an action, which is produced and annihilated in a moment, 'tis necessary, in order to produce some relation, and connect this action sufficiently with the person, that it be derived from a particular forethought and design. 'Tis not enough that the action arise from the person, and have him for its immediate cause and author. This relation alone is too feeble and inconstant to be a foundation for these passions. It reaches not the sensible and thinking part, and neither proceeds from any thing durable in him, nor leaves any thing behind it, but passes in a moment, and is as if it had never been. On the other hand, an intention shows certain qualities, which, remaining after the action is performed, connect it with the person, and facilitate the transition of ideas from one to the other. We can never think of him without reflecting on these qualities, unless repentance and a change of life have produced an alteration in that respect; in which case the passion is likewise altered. This, therefore, is one reason why an intention is requisite to excite either love or hatred.
But we must farther consider, that an intention, besides its strengthening the relation of ideas, is often necessary to produce a relation of impressions, and give rise to pleasure and uneasiness. For 'tis observable, that the principal part of an injury is the contempt and hatred which it shows in the person that injures us; and without that, the mere harm gives us a less sensible uneasiness. In like manner, a good office is agreeable, chiefly because it flatters our vanity, and is a proof of the kindness and esteem of the person who performs it. The removal of the intention removes the mortification in the one case, and vanity in the other; and must of course cause a remarkable diminution in the passions of love and hatred.
I grant, that these effects of the removal of design, hatred, in diminishing the relations of impressions and ideas, are not entire, nor able to remove every degree of these relations. But then I ask, if the removal of design be able entirely to remove the passion of love and hatred? Experience, I am sure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there any thing more certain than that men often fall into a violent anger for injuries which they themselves must own to be entirely involuntary and accidental. This emotion, indeed, cannot be of long continuance, but still is sufficient to show, that there is a natural connexion betwixt uneasiness and anger, and that the relation of impressions will operate upon a very small relation of ideas. But when the violence of the impression is once a little abated, the defect of the relation begins to be better felt; and as the character of a person is no wise interested in such injuries as are casual and involuntary, it seldom happens that on their account we entertain a lasting enmity.
To illustrate this doctrine by a parallel instance, we may observe, that not only the uneasiness which proceeds from another by accident, has but little force to excite our passion, but also that which arises from an acknowledged necessity and duty. One that has a real design of harming us, proceeding not from hatred and ill will, but from justice and equity, draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any degree reasonable; notwithstanding he is both the cause, and the knowing cause, of our sufferings. Let us examine a little this phenomenon.
'Tis evident, in the first place, that this circumstance is not decisive; and though it may be able to diminish the passions, 'tis seldom it can entirely remove them. How few criminals are there who have no ill will to the person that accuses them, or to the judge that condemns them, even though they be conscious of their own deserts! In like manner our antagonist in a lawsuit, and our competitor for any office, are commonly regarded as our enemies, though we must acknowledge, if we would but reflect a moment, that their motive is entirely as justifiable as our own.
Besides we may consider, that when we receive harm from any person, we are apt to imagine him criminal, and 'tis with extreme difficulty we allow of his justice and innocence. This is a clear proof that, independent of the opinion of iniquity, any harm or uneasiness has a natural tendency to excite our hatred, and that afterwards we seek for reasons upon which we may justify and establish the passion. Here the idea of injury produces not the passion, but arises from it.
Nor is it any wonder that passion should produce the opinion of injury; since otherwise it must suffer a considerable diminution, which all the passions avoid as much as possible. The removal of injury may remove the anger, without proving that the anger arises only from the injury. The harm and the justice are two contrary objects, of which the one has a tendency to produce hatred, and the other love; and 'tis according to their different degrees, and our particular turn of thinking, that either of the objects prevails and excites its proper passion.
[SECTION IV.]
OF THE LOVE OF RELATIONS.
Having given a reason why several actions that cause a real pleasure or uneasiness excite not any degree, or but a small one, of the passion of love or hatred towards the actors, 'twill be necessary to show wherein consists the pleasure or uneasiness of many objects which we find by experience to produce these passions.
According to the preceding system, there is always required a double relation of impressions and ideas betwixt the cause and effect, in order to produce either love or hatred. But though this be universally true, 'tis remarkable that the passion of love may be excited by only one relation of a different kind, viz. betwixt ourselves and the object; or, more properly speaking, that this relation is always attended with both the others. Whoever is united to us by any connexion is always sure of a share of our love, proportioned to the connexion, without inquiring into his other qualities. Thus, the relation of blood produces the strongest tie the mind is capable of in the love of parents to their children, and a lesser degree of the same affection as the relation lessens. Nor has consanguinity alone this effect, but any other relation without exception. We love our countrymen, our neighbours, those of the same trade, profession, and even name with ourselves. Every one of these relations is esteemed some tie, and gives a title to a share of our affection.
There is another phenomenon which is parallel to this, viz. that acquaintance, without any kind of relation, gives rise to love and kindness. When we have contracted a habitude and intimacy with any person, though in frequenting his company we have not been able to discover any very valuable quality of which he is possessed; yet we cannot forbear preferring him to strangers of whose superior merit we are fully convinced. These two phenomena of the effects of relation and acquaintance will give mutual light to each other, and may be both explained from the same principle.
Those who take a pleasure in declaiming against human nature have observed, that man is altogether insufficient to support himself, and that, when you loosen all the holds which he has of external objects, he immediately drops down into the deepest melancholy and despair. From this, say they, proceeds that continual search after amusement in gaming, in hunting, in business, by which we endeavour to forget ourselves, and excite our spirits from the languid state into which they fall when not sustained by some brisk and lively emotion. To this method of thinking I so far agree, that I own the mind to be insufficient, of itself, to its own entertainment, and that it naturally seeks after foreign objects which may produce a lively sensation, and agitate the spirits. On the appearance of such an object it awakes, as it were, from a dream; the blood flows with a new tide; the heart is elevated; and the whole man acquires a vigour which he cannot command in his solitary and calm moments. Hence company is naturally so rejoicing, as presenting the liveliest of all objects, viz. a rational and thinking being like ourselves, who communicates to us all the actions of his mind, makes us privy to his inmost sentiments and affections, and lets us see, in the very instant of their production, all the emotions which are caused by any object. Every lively idea is agreeable, but especially that of a passion, because such an idea becomes a kind of passion, and gives a more sensible agitation to the mind than any other image or conception.
This being once admitted, all the rest is easy. For as the company of strangers is agreeable to us for a short time, by enlivening our thought, so the company of our relations and acquaintance must be peculiarly agreeable, because it has this effect in a greater degree, and is of more durable influence. Whatever is related to us is conceived in a lively manner by the easy transition from ourselves to the related object. Custom also, or acquaintance, facilitates the entrance, and strengthens the conception of any object. The first case is parallel to our reasonings from cause and effect; the second to education. And as reasoning and education concur only in producing a lively and strong idea of any object, so is this the only particular which is common to relation and acquaintance. This must therefore be the influencing quality by which they produce all their common effects; and love or kindness being one of these effects, it must be from the force and liveliness of conception that the passion is derived. Such a conception is peculiarly agreeable, and makes us have an affectionate regard for every thing that produces it, when the proper object of kindness and good will.
'Tis obvious that people associate together according to their particular tempers and dispositions, and that men of gay tempers naturally love the gay, as the serious bear an affection to the serious. This not only happens where they remark this resemblance betwixt themselves and others, but also by the natural course of the disposition, and by a certain sympathy which always arises betwixt similar characters. Where they remark the resemblance, it operates after the manner of a relation by producing a connexion of ideas. Where they do not remark it, it operates by some other principle; and if this latter principle be similar to the former, it must be received as a confirmation of the foregoing reasoning.
The idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us, and conveys a sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any other object to which we are related. This lively idea changes by degrees into a real impression; these two kinds of perception being in a great measure the same, and differing only in their degrees of force and vivacity. But this change must be produced with the greater ease, that our natural temper gives us a propensity to the same impression which we observe in others, and makes it arise upon any slight occasion. In that case resemblance converts the idea into an impression, not only by means of the relation, and by transfusing the original vivacity into the related idea; but also by presenting such materials as take fire from the least spark. And as in both cases a love or affection from the resemblance, we may learn that a sympathy with others is agreeable only by giving an emotion to the spirits, since an easy sympathy and correspondent emotions are alone common to relation, acquaintance, and resemblance.
The great propensity men have to pride may be considered as another similar phenomenon. It often happens, that after we have lived a considerable time in any city, however at first it might be disagreeable to us, yet as we become familiar with the objects, and contract an acquaintance, though merely with the streets and buildings, the aversion diminishes by degrees, and at last changes into the opposite passion. The mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view of objects to which it is accustomed, and naturally prefers them to others, which, though perhaps in themselves more valuable, are less known to it. By the same quality of the mind we are seduced into a good opinion of ourselves, and of all objects that belong to us. They appear in a stronger light, are more agreeable, and consequently fitter subjects of pride and vanity than any other.
It may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear our acquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty curious phenomena which attend it. 'Tis easy to remark in common life, that children esteem their relation to their mother to be weakened, in a great measure, by her second marriage, and no longer regard her with the same eye as if she had continued in her state of widowhood. Nor does this happen only when they have felt any inconveniences from her second marriage, or when her husband is much her inferior; but even without any of these considerations, and merely because she has become part of another family. This also takes place with regard to the second marriage of a father, but in a much less degree; and 'tis certain the ties of blood are not so much loosened in the latter case as by the marriage of a mother. These two phenomena are remarkable in themselves, but much more so when compared.
In order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, 'tis requisite, not only that the imagination be conveyed from one to the other, by resemblance, contiguity or causation, but also that it return back from the second to the first with the same ease and facility. At first sight this may seem a necessary and unavoidable consequence. If one object resemble another, the latter object must necessarily resemble the former. If one object be the cause of another, the second object is effect to its cause. 'Tis the same with contiguity; and therefore the relation being always reciprocal, it may be thought, that the return of the imagination from the second to the first must also, in every case, be equally natural as its passage from the first to the second. But upon farther examination we shall easily discover our mistake. For supposing the second object, beside its reciprocal relation to the first, to have also a strong relation to a third object; in that case the thought, passing from the first object to the second, returns not back with the same facility, though the relation continues the same, but is readily carried on to the third object, by means of the new relation which presents itself, and gives a new impulse to the imagination. This new relation, therefore, weakens the tie betwixt the first and second objects. The fancy is, by its very nature, wavering and inconstant, and considers always two objects as more strongly related together, where it finds the passage equally easy both in going and returning, than where the transition is easy only in one of these motions. The double motion is a kind of a double tie, and binds the objects together in the closest and most intimate manner.
The second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation of child and parent; and that relation suffices to convey my imagination from myself to her with the greatest ease and facility. But after the imagination is arrived at this point of view, it finds its object to be surrounded with so many other relations which challenge its regard, that it knows not which to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch upon. The ties of interest and duty bind her to another family, and prevent that return of the fancy from her to myself which is necessary to support the union. The thought has no longer the vibration requisite to set it perfectly at ease, and indulge its inclination to change. It goes with facility, but returns with difficulty; and by that interruption finds the relation much weakened from what it would be were the passage open and easy on both sides.
Now, to give a reason why this effect follows not in in the same degree upon the second marriage of a father; we may reflect on what has been proved already, that though the imagination goes easily from the view of a lesser object to that of a greater, yet it returns not with the same facility from the greater to the less. When my imagination goes from myself to my father, it passes not so readily from him to his second wife, nor considers him as entering into a different family, but as continuing the head of that family of which I am myself a part. His superiority prevents the easy transition of the thought from him to his spouse, but keeps the passage still open for a return to myself along the same relation of child and parent. He is not sunk in the new relation he acquires; so that the double motion or vibration of thought is still easy and natural. By this indulgence of the fancy in its inconstancy, the tie of child and parent still preserves its full force and influence.
A mother thinks not her tie to a son weakened because 'tis shared with her husband; nor a son his with a parent, because 'tis shared with a brother. The third object is here related to the first as well as to the second: so that the imagination goes and comes along all of them with the greatest facility.
[SECTION V.]
OF OUR ESTEEM FOR THE RICH AND POWERFUL.
Nothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for any person than his power and riches, or a contempt, than his poverty and meanness: and as esteem and contempt are to be considered as species of love and hatred, 'twill be proper in this place to explain these phenomena.
Here it happens, most fortunately, that the greatest difficulty is, not to discover a principle capable of producing such an effect, but to chuse the chief and predominant among several that present themselves. The satisfaction we take in the riches of others, and the esteem we have for the possessors, may be ascribed to three different causes. First, to the objects they possess; such as houses, gardens, equipages, which, being agreeable in themselves, necessarily produce a sentiment of pleasure in every one that either considers or surveys them. Secondly, to the expectation of advantage from the rich and powerful by our sharing their possessions. Thirdly, to sympathy, which makes us partake of the satisfaction of every one that approaches us. All these principles may concur in producing the present phenomenon. The question is, to which of them we ought principally to ascribe it.
'Tis certain that the first principle, viz. the reflection on agreeable objects, has a greater influence than what, at first sight, we may be apt to imagine. We seldom reflect on what is beautiful or ugly, agreeable or disagreeable, without an emotion of pleasure or uneasiness; and though these sensations appear not much, in our common indolent way of thinking, 'tis easy, either in reading or conversation, to discover them. Men of wit always turn the discourse on subjects that are entertaining to the imagination; and poets never present any objects but such as are of the same nature. Mr Philips has chosen Cider for the subject of an excellent poem. Beer would not have been so proper, as being neither so agreeable to the taste nor eye. But he would certainly have preferred wine to either of them, could his native country have afforded him so agreeable a liquor. We may learn from thence, that every thing which is agreeable to the senses, is also, in some measure, agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to the thought an image of that satisfaction, which it gives by its real application to the bodily organs.
But, though these reasons may induce us to comprehend this delicacy of the imagination among the causes of the respect which we pay the rich and powerful, there are many other reasons that may keep us from regarding it as the sole or principal. For, as the ideas of pleasure can have an influence only by means of their vivacity, which makes them approach impressions, 'tis most natural those ideas should have that influence, which are favoured by most circumstances, and have a natural tendency to become strong and lively; such as our ideas of the passions and sensations of any human creature. Every human creature resembles ourselves, and, by that means, has an advantage above any other object in operating on the imagination.
Besides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the great influence which all relations have upon it, we shall easily be persuaded, that however the ideas of the pleasant wines, music, or gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may become lively and agreeable, the fancy will not confine itself to them, but will carry its view to the related objects, and, in particular, to the person who possesses them. And this is the more natural, that the pleasant idea, or image, produces here a passion towards the person by means of his relation to the object; so that 'tis unavoidable but he must enter into the original conception, since he makes the object of the derivative passion. But if he enters into the original conception, and is considered as enjoying these agreeable objects, 'tis sympathy which is properly the cause of the affection; and the third principle is more powerful and universal than the first.
Add to this, that riches and power alone, even though unemployed, naturally cause esteem and respect; and, consequently, these passions arise not from the idea of any beautiful or agreeable objects. 'Tis true money implies a kind of representation of such objects by the power it affords of obtaining them; and for that reason may still be esteemed proper to convey those agreeable images which may give rise to the passion. But as this prospect is very distant, 'tis more natural for us to take a contiguous object, viz. the satisfaction which this power affords the person who is possessed of it. And of this we shall be farther satisfied, if we consider that riches represent the goods of life only by means of the will which employs them; and therefore imply, in their very nature, an idea of the person, and cannot be considered without a kind of sympathy with his sensations and enjoyments.
This we may confirm by a reflection which to some will perhaps appear too subtile and refined. I have already observed that power, as distinguished from its exercise, has either no meaning at all, or is nothing but a possibility or probability of existence, by which any object approaches to reality, and has a sensible influence on the mind. I have also observed, that this approach, by an illusion of the fancy, appears much greater when we ourselves are possessed of the power than when it is enjoyed by another; and that, in the former case, the objects seem to touch upon the very verge of reality, and convey almost an equal satisfaction as if actually in our possession. Now I assert, that where we esteem a person upon account of his riches, we must enter into this sentiment of the proprietor, and that, without such a sympathy, the idea of the agreeable objects, which they give him the power to produce, would have but a feeble influence upon us. An avaricious man is respected for his money, though he scarce is possessed of a power; that is, there scarce is a probability or even possibility of his employing it in the acquisition of the pleasures and conveniences of life. To himself alone this power seems perfect and entire; and therefore we must receive his sentiments by sympathy, before we can have a strong intense idea of these enjoyments, or esteem him upon account of them.
Thus we have found, that the first principle, viz. the agreeable idea of those objects which riches afford the enjoyment of, resolves itself in a great measure into the third, and becomes a sympathy with the person we esteem or love. Let us now examine the second principle, viz. the agreeable expectation of advantage, and see what force we may justly attribute to it.
'Tis obvious, that, though riches and authority undoubtedly give their owner a power of doing us service, yet this power is not to be considered as on the same footing with that which they afford him of pleasing himself, and satisfying his own appetites. Self-love approaches the power and exercise very near each other in the latter case; but in order to produce a similar effect in the former, we must suppose a friendship and good-will to be conjoined with the riches. Without that circumstance 'tis difficult to conceive on what we can found our hope of advantage from the riches of others, though there is nothing more certain than that we naturally esteem and respect the rich, even before we discover in them any such favourable disposition towards us.
But I carry this farther, and observe, not only that we respect the rich and powerful where they show no inclination to serve us, but also when we lie so much out of the sphere of their activity, that they cannot even be supposed to be endowed with that power. Prisoners of war are always treated with a respect suitable to their condition; and 'tis certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any person. If birth and quality enter for a share, this still affords us an argument of the same kind. For what is it we call a man of birth, but one who is descended from a long succession of rich and powerful ancestors, and who acquires our esteem by his relation to persons whom we esteem? His ancestors, therefore, though dead, are respected in some measure on account of their riches, and consequently without any kind of expectation.
But not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to find instances of this disinterested esteem for riches, let us observe, with a little attention, those phenomena that occur to us in common life and conversation. A man who is himself of a competent fortune, upon coming into a company of strangers, naturally treats them with different degrees of respect and deference, as he is informed of their different fortunes and conditions; though 'tis impossible he can ever propose, and perhaps would not accept of any advantage from them. A traveller is always admitted into company, and meets with civility in proportion as his train and equipage speak him a man of great or moderate fortune. In short, the different ranks of men are in a great measure regulated by riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as inferiors, strangers as well as acquaintance.
There is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn from the influence of general rules. It may be pretended, that, being accustomed to expect succour and protection from the rich and powerful, and to esteem them upon that account, we extend the same sentiments to those who resemble them in their fortune, but from whom we can never hope for any advantage. The general rule still prevails, and, by giving a bent to the imagination draws along the passion, in the same manner as if its proper object were real and existent.
But that this principle does not here take place, will easily appear, if we consider that, in order to establish a general rule, and extend it beyond its proper bounds, there is required a certain uniformity in our experience, and a great superiority of those instances, which are conformable to the rule, above the contrary. But here the case is quite otherwise. Of a hundred men of credit and fortune I meet with, there is not perhaps one from whom I can expect advantage, so that 'tis impossible any custom can ever prevail in the present case.
Upon the whole, there remains nothing which can give us an esteem for power and riches, and a contempt for meanness and poverty, except the pride of sympathy, by which we enter into the sentiments of rich and poor, and partake of their pleasure and uneasiness. Riches give satisfaction to their possessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to the beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea resembling the original impression in force and vivacity. This agreeable idea or impression is connected with love, which is an agreeable passion. It proceeds from a thinking conscious being, which is the very object of love. From this relation of impressions, and identity of ideas, the passion arises according to my hypothesis.
The best method of reconciling us to this opinion, is to take a general survey of the universe, and observe the force of sympathy through the whole animal creation, and the easy communication of sentiments from one thinking being to another. In all creatures that prey not upon others, and are not agitated with violent passions, there appears a remarkable desire of company, which associates them together, without any advantages they can ever propose to reap from their union. This is still more conspicuous in man, as being the creature of the universe who has the most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by the most advantages. We can form no wish which has not a reference to society. A perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can suffer. Every pleasure languishes when enjoyed apart from company, and every pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. Whatever other passions we may be actuated by, pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge or lust, the soul or animating principle of them all is sympathy; nor would they have any force, were we to abstract entirely from the thoughts and sentiments of others. Let all the powers and elements of nature conspire to serve and obey one man; let the sun rise and set at his command; the sea and rivers roll as he pleases, and the earth furnish spontaneously whatever may be useful or agreeable to him; he will still be miserable, till you give him some one person at least with whom he may share his happiness, and whose esteem and friendship he may enjoy.
This conclusion, from a general view of human nature, we may confirm by particular instances, wherein the force of sympathy is very remarkable. Most kinds of beauty are derived from this origin; and though our first object be some senseless inanimate piece of matter, 'tis seldom we rest there, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational creatures. A man who shows us any house or building, takes particular care, among other things, to point out the convenience of the apartments, the advantages of their situation, and the little room lost in the stairs, anti-chambers and passages; and indeed 'tis evident the chief part of the beauty consists in these particulars. The observation of convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a beauty. But after what manner does it give pleasure? 'Tis certain our own interest is not in the least concerned; and as this is a beauty of interest, not of form, so to speak, it must delight us merely by communication, and by our sympathizing with the proprietor of the lodging. We enter into his interest by the force of imagination, and feel the same satisfaction that the objects naturally occasion in him.
This observation extends to tables, chairs, scrutoires, chimneys, coaches, saddles, ploughs, and indeed to every work of art; it being an universal rule, that their beauty is chiefly derived from their utility, and from their fitness for that purpose, to which they are destined. But this is an advantage that concerns only the owner, nor is there any thing but sympathy, which can interest the spectator.
'Tis evident that nothing renders a field more agreeable than its fertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament or situation will be able to equal this beauty. 'Tis the same case with particular trees and plants, as with the field on which they grow. I know not but a plain, overgrown with furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful as a hill covered with vines or olive trees, though it will never appear so to one who is acquainted with the value of each. But this is a beauty merely of imagination, and has no foundation in what appears to the senses. Fertility and value have a plain reference to use; and that to riches, joy, and plenty, in which, though we have no hope of partaking, yet we enter into them by the vivacity of the fancy, and share them in some measure with the proprietor.
There is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of balancing the figures, and placing them with the greatest exactness on their proper centre of gravity.
A figure which is not justly balanced is disagreeable; and that because it conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm, and of pain; which ideas are painful when by sympathy they acquire any degree of force and vivacity.
Add to this, that the principal part of personal beauty is an air of health and vigour, and such a construction of members as promises strength and activity. This idea of beauty cannot be accounted for but by sympathy.
In general we may remark, that the minds of men are mirrors to one another, not only because they reflect each others emotions, but also because those rays of passions, sentiments and opinions, may be often reverberated, and may decay away by insensible degrees. Thus, the pleasure which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem; which sentiments again being perceived and sympathized with, increase the pleasure of the possessor, and, being once more reflected, become a new foundation for pleasure and esteem in the beholder. There is certainly an original satisfaction in riches derived from that power which they bestow of enjoying all the pleasures of life; and as this is their very nature and essence, it must be the first source of all the passions which arise from them. One of the most considerable of these passions is that of love or esteem in others, which, therefore, proceeds from a sympathy with the pleasure of the possessor. But the possessor has also a secondary satisfaction in riches, arising from the love and esteem he acquires by them; and this satisfaction is nothing but a second reflection of that original pleasure which proceeded from himself. This secondary satisfaction or vanity becomes one of the principal recommendations of riches, and is the chief reason why we either desire them for ourselves, or esteem them in others. Here then is a third rebound of the original pleasure, after which 'tis difficult to distinguish the images and reflections, by reason of their faintness and confusion.
[SECTION VI.]
OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER.
Ideas may be compared to the extension and solidity of matter and impressions, especially reflective ones, to colours, tastes, smells, and other sensible qualities. Ideas never admit of a total union, but are endowed with a kind of impenetrability by which they exclude each other, and are capable of forming a compound by their conjunction, not by their mixture. On the other hand, impressions and passions are susceptible of an entire union, and, like colours, may be blended so perfectly together, that each of them may lose itself, and contribute only to vary that uniform impression which arises from the whole. Some of the most curious phenomena of the human mind are derived from this property of the passions.
In examining those ingredients which are capable of uniting with love and hatred, I begin to be sensible, in some measure, of a misfortune that has attended every system of philosophy with which the world has been yet acquainted. 'Tis commonly found, that in accounting for the operations of nature by any particular hypothesis, among a number of experiments that quadrate exactly with the principles we would endeavour to establish, there is always some phenomenon which is more stubborn, and will not so easily bend to our purpose. We need not be surprised that this should happen in natural philosophy. The essence and composition of external bodies are so obscure, that we must necessarily, in our reasonings, or rather conjectures concerning them, involve ourselves in contradictions and absurdities. But as the perceptions of the mind are perfectly known, and I have used all imaginable caution in forming conclusions concerning them, I have always hoped to keep clear of those contradictions which have attended every other system. Accordingly, the difficulty which I have at present in my eye is no wise contrary to my system, but only departs a little from that simplicity which has been hitherto its principal force and beauty.
The passions of love and hatred are always followed by, or rather conjoined with, benevolence and anger. 'Tis this conjunction which chiefly distinguishes these affections from pride and humility. For pride and humility are pure emotions in the soul, unattended with any desire, and not immediately exciting us to action. But love and hatred are not completed within themselves, nor rest in that emotion which they produce, but carry the mind to something farther. Love is always followed by a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery: as hatred produces a desire of the misery, and an aversion to the happiness of the person hated. So remarkable a difference betwixt these two sets of passions of pride and humility, love and hatred, which in so many other particulars correspond to each other, merits our attention.
The conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and hatred may be accounted for by two different hypotheses. The first is, that love and hatred have not only a cause which excites them, viz. pleasure and pain, and an object to which they are directed, viz. a person or thinking being, but likewise an end which they endeavour to attain, viz. the happiness or misery of the person beloved or hated; all which views, mixing together, make only one passion. According to this system, love is nothing but the desire of happiness to another person, and hatred that of misery. The desire and aversion constitute the very nature of love and hatred. They are not only inseparable, but the same.
But this is evidently contrary to experience. For though 'tis certain we never love any person without desiring his happiness, nor hate any without wishing his misery, yet these desires arise only upon the ideas of the happiness or misery of our friend or enemy being presented by the imagination, and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred. They are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affections, but not the only ones. The passions may express themselves in a hundred ways, and may subsist a considerable time, without our reflecting on the happiness or misery of their objects; which clearly proves that these desires are not the same with love and hatred, nor make any essential part of them.
We may therefore infer, that benevolence and anger are passions different from love and hatred, and only conjoined with them by the original constitution of the mind. As nature has given to the body certain appetites and inclinations, which she increases, diminishes, or changes according to the situation of the fluids or solids, she has proceeded in the same manner with the mind. According as we are possessed with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of the happiness or misery of the person who is the object of these passions, arises in the mind, and varies with each variation of these opposite passions. This order of things, abstractedly considered, is not necessary. Love and hatred might have been unattended with any such desires, or their particular connexion might have been entirely reversed. If nature had so pleased, love might have had the same effect as hatred, and hatred as love. I see no contradiction in supposing a desire of producing misery annexed to love, and of happiness to hatred. If the sensation of the passion and desire be opposite, nature could have altered the sensation without altering the tendency of the desire, and by that means made them compatible with each other.
[SECTION VII.]
OF COMPASSION.
But though the desire of the happiness or misery of others, according to the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary and original instinct implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on many occasions, and may arise from secondary principles. Pity is a concern for, and malice a joy in, the misery of others, without any friendship or enmity to occasion this concern or joy. We pity even strangers, and such as are perfectly indifferent to us: and if our ill-will to another proceed from any harm or injury, it is not, properly speaking, malice, but revenge. But if we examine these affections of pity and malice, we shall find them to be secondary ones, arising from original affections, which are varied by some particular turn of thought and imagination.
'Twill be easy to explain the passion of pity, from the precedent reasoning concerning sympathy. We have a lively idea of every thing related to us. All human creatures are related to us by resemblance. Their persons, therefore, their interests, their passions, their pains and pleasures, must strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an emotion similar to the original one, since a lively idea is easily converted into an impression. If this be true in general, it must be more so of affliction and sorrow. These have always a stronger and more lasting influence than any pleasure or enjoyment.
A spectator of a tragedy passes through a long train of grief, terror, indignation, and other affections, which the poet represents in the persons he introduces. As many tragedies end happily, and no excellent one can be composed without some reverses of fortune, the spectator must sympathize with all these changes, and receive the fictitious joy as well as every other passion. Unless therefore it be asserted, that every distinct passion is communicated by a distinct original quality, and is not derived from the general principle of sympathy above explained, it must be allowed that all of them arise from that principle. To except any one in particular must appear highly unreasonable. As they are all first present in the mind of one person, and afterwards appear in the mind of another; and as the manner of their appearance, first as an idea, then as an impression, is in every case the same, the transition must arise from the same principle. I am at least sure, that this method of reasoning would be considered as certain, either in natural philosophy or common life.
Add to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on the contiguity, and even sight of the object, which is a proof that 'tis derived from the imagination; not to mention that women and children are most subject to pity, as being most guided by that faculty. The same infirmity, which makes them faint at the sight of a naked sword, though in the hands of their best friend, makes them pity extremely those whom they find in any grief or affliction. Those philosophers, who derive this passion from I know not what subtile reflections on the instability of fortune, and our being liable to the same miseries we behold, will find this observation contrary to them among a great many others, which it were easy to produce.
There remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable phenomenon of this passion, which is, that the communicated passion of sympathy sometimes acquires strength from the weakness of its original, and even arises by a transition from affections which have no existence. Thus, when a person obtains any honourable office, or inherits a great fortune, we are always the more rejoiced for his prosperity, the less sense he seems to have of it, and the greater equanimity and indifference he shows in its enjoyment. In like manner, a man who is not dejected by misfortunes is the more lamented on account of his patience; and if that virtue extends so far as utterly to remove all sense of uneasiness, it still farther increases our compassion. When a person of merit falls into what is vulgarly esteemed a great misfortune, we form a notion of his condition; and, carrying our fancy from the cause to the usual effect, first conceive a lively idea of his sorrow, and then feel an impression of it, entirely overlooking that greatness of mind which elevates him above such emotions, or only considering it so far as to increase our admiration, love, and tenderness for him. We find from experience, that such a degree of passion is usually connected with such a misfortune; and though there be an exception in the present case, yet the imagination is affected by the general rule, and makes us conceive a lively idea of the passion, or rather feel the passion itself in the same manner as if the person were really actuated by it. From the same principles we blush for the conduct of those who behave themselves foolishly before us, and that though they show no sense of shame, nor seem in the least conscious of their folly. All this proceeds from sympathy, but 'tis of a partial kind, and views its objects only on one side, without considering the other, which has a contrary effect, and would entirely destroy that emotion which arises from the first appearance.
We have also instances wherein an indifference and insensibility under misfortune increases our concern for the misfortunate, even though the indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity. 'Tis an aggravation of a murder, that it was committed upon persons asleep and in perfect security; as historians readily observe of any infant prince, who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is more worthy of compassion the less sensible he is of his miserable condition. As we ourselves are here acquainted with the wretched situation of the person, it gives us a lively idea and sensation of sorrow, which is the passion that generally attends it; and this idea becomes still more lively, and the sensation more violent by a contrast with that security and indifference which we observe in the person himself. A contrast of any kind never fails to effect the imagination, especially when presented by the subject; and 'tis on the imagination that pity entirely depends.[6]
[6] To prevent all ambiguity, I must observe, that where I oppose the imagination to the memory, I mean in general the faculty that presents our fainter ideas. In all other places, and particularly when it is opposed to the understanding, I understand the same faculty, excluding only our demonstrative and probable reasonings.
[SECTION VIII.]
OF MALICE AND ENVY.
We must now proceed to account for the passion of malice, which imitates the effects of hatred as pity does those of love, and gives us a joy in the sufferings and miseries of others, without any offence or injury on their part.
So little are men governed by reason in their sentiments and opinions, that they always judge more of objects by comparison than from their intrinsic worth and value. When the mind considers, or is accustomed to any degree of perfection, whatever falls short of it, though really estimable, has, notwithstanding, the same effect upon the passions as what is defective and ill. This is an original quality of the soul, and similar to what we have every day experience of in our bodies. Let a man heat one hand and cool the other; the same water will at the same time seem both hot and cold, according to the disposition of the different organs. A small degree of any quality, succeeding a greater, produces the same sensation as if less than it really is, and even sometimes as the opposite quality. Any gentle pain that follows a violent one, seems as nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure; as, on the other hand, a violent pain succeeding a gentle one, is doubly grievous and uneasy.
This no one can doubt of with regard to our passions and sensations. But there may arise some difficulty with regard to our ideas and objects. When an object augments or diminishes to the eye or imagination, from a comparison with others, the image and idea of the object are still the same, and are equally extended in the retina, and in the brain or organ of perception. The eyes refract the rays of light, and the optic nerves convey the images to the brain in the very same manner, whether a great or small object has preceded; nor does even the imagination alter the dimensions of its object on account of a comparison with others. The question then is, how, from the same impression, and the same idea, we can form such different judgments concerning the same object, and at one time admire its bulk, and at another despise its littleness? This variation in our judgments must certainly proceed from a variation in some perception; but as the variation lies not in the immediate impression or idea of the object, it must lie in some other impression that accompanies it.
In order to explain this matter, I shall just touch upon two principles, one of which shall be more fully explained in the progress of this Treatise; the other has been already accounted for. I believe it may safely be established for a general maxim, that no object is presented to the senses, nor image formed in the fancy, but what is accompanied with some emotion or movement of spirits proportioned to it; and however custom may make us insensible of this sensation, and cause us to confound it with the object or idea, 'twill be easy, by careful and exact experiments, to separate and distinguish them. For, to instance only in the cases of extension and number, 'tis evident that any very bulky object, such as the ocean, an extended plain, a vast chain of mountains, a wide forest; or any very numerous collection of objects, such as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in the mind a sensible emotion; and that the admiration which arises on the appearance of such objects is one of the most lively pleasures which human nature is capable of enjoying. Now, as this admiration increases or diminishes by the increase or diminution of the objects, we may conclude, according to our foregoing principles,[7] that 'tis a compound effect, proceeding from the conjunction of the several effects which arise from each part of the cause. Every part, then, of extension, and every unite of number, has a separate emotion attending it when conceived by the mind; and though that emotion be not always agreeable, yet, by its conjunction with others, and by its agitating the spirits to a just pitch, it contributes to the production of admiration, which is always agreeable. If this be allowed with respect to extension and number, we can make no difficulty with respect to virtue and vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty, happiness and misery, and other objects of that kind, which are always attended with an evident emotion.
The second principle I shall take notice of is that of our adherence to general rules; which has such a mighty influence on the actions and understanding, and is able to impose on the very senses. When an object is found by experience to be always accompanied with another, whenever the first object appears, though changed in very material circumstances, we naturally fly to the conception of the second, and form an idea of it in as lively and strong a manner, as if we had inferred its existence by the justest and most authentic conclusion of our understanding. Nothing can undeceive us, not even our senses, which, instead of correcting this false judgment, are often perverted by it, and seem to authorize its errors.
The conclusion I draw from these two principles, joined to the influence of comparison above-mentioned, is very short and decisive. Every object is attended with some emotion proportioned to it; a great object with a great emotion, a small object with a small emotion. A great object, therefore, succeeding a small one, makes a great emotion succeed a small one. Now, a great emotion succeeding a small one becomes still greater, and rises beyond its ordinary proportion. But as there is a certain degree of an emotion which commonly attends every magnitude of an object, when the emotion increases, we naturally imagine that the object has likewise increased. The effect conveys our view to its usual cause, a certain degree of emotion to a certain magnitude of the object; nor do we consider, that comparison may change the emotion without changing any thing in the object. Those who are acquainted with the metaphysical part of optics, and know how we transfer the judgments and conclusions of the understanding to the senses, will easily conceive this whole operation.
But leaving this new discovery of an impression that secretly attends every idea, we must at least allow of that principle from whence the discovery arose, that objects appear greater or less by a comparison with others. We have so many instances of this, that it is impossible we can dispute its veracity; and 'tis from this principle I derive the passions of malice and envy.
'Tis evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction or uneasiness from reflecting on our own condition and circumstances, in proportion as they appear more or less fortunate or unhappy, in proportion to the degrees of riches, and power, and merit, and reputation, which we think ourselves possest of. Now, as we seldom judge of objects from their intrinsic value, but form our notions of them from a comparison with other objects, it follows, that according as we observe a greater or less share of happiness or misery in others, we must make an estimate of our own, and feel a consequent pain or pleasure. The misery of another gives us a more lively idea of our happiness, and his happiness of our misery. The former, therefore, produces delight, and the latter uneasiness.
Here then is a kind of pity reverst, or contrary sensations arising in the beholder, from those which are felt by the person whom he considers. In general we may observe, that, in all kinds of comparison, an object makes us always receive from another, to which it is compared, a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and immediate survey. A small object makes a great one appear still greater. A great object makes a little one appear less. Deformity of itself produces uneasiness, but makes us receive new pleasure by its contrast with a beautiful object, whose beauty is augmented by it; as, on the other hand, beauty, which of itself produces pleasure, makes us receive a new pain by the contrast with any thing ugly, whose deformity it augments. The case, therefore, must be the same with happiness and misery. The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us pleasure, and therefore produces pain when compared with our own. His pain, considered in itself, is painful to us, but augments the idea of our own happiness, and gives us pleasure.
Nor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reverst sensation from the happiness and misery of others, since we find the same comparison may give us a kind of malice against ourselves, and make us rejoice for our pains, and grieve for our pleasures. Thus, the prospect of past pain is agreeable, when we are satisfied with our present condition; as, on the other hand, our past pleasures give us uneasiness, when we enjoy nothing at present equal to them. The comparison being the same as when we reflect on the sentiments of others, must be attended with the same effects.
Nay, a person may extend this malice against himself, even to his present fortune, and carry it so far as designedly to seek affliction, and increase his pains and sorrows. This may happen upon two occasions. First, Upon the distress and misfortune of a friend, or person dear to him. Secondly, Upon the feeling any remorses for a crime of which he has been guilty. 'Tis from the principle of comparison that both these irregular appetites for evil arise. A person who indulges himself in any pleasure while his friend lies under affliction, feels the reflected uneasiness from his friend more sensibly by a comparison with the original pleasure which he himself enjoys. This contrast, indeed, ought also to enliven the present pleasure. But as grief is here supposed to be the predominant passion, every addition falls to that side, and is swallowed up in it, without operating in the least upon the contrary affection. 'Tis the same case with those penances which men inflict on themselves for their past sins and failings. When a criminal reflects on the punishment he deserves, the idea of it is magnified by a comparison with his present ease and satisfaction, which forces him, in a manner, to seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so disagreeable a contrast.
This reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well as of malice. The only difference betwixt these passions lies in this, that envy is excited by some present enjoyment of another, which, by comparison, diminishes our idea of our own: whereas malice is the unprovoked desire of producing evil to another, in order to reap a pleasure from the comparison. The enjoyment, which is the object of envy, is commonly superior to our own. A superiority naturally seems to overshade us, and presents a disagreeable comparison. But even in the case of an inferiority, we still desire a greater distance, in order to augment still more the idea of ourself. When this distance diminishes, the comparison is, less to our advantage, and consequently gives us less pleasure, and is even disagreeable. Hence arises that species of envy which men feel, when they perceive their inferiors approaching or overtaking them in the pursuit of glory or happiness. In this envy we may see the effects of comparison twice repeated. A man, who compares himself to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the comparison; and when the inferiority decreases by the elevation of the inferior, what should only have been a decrease of pleasure, becomes a real pain, by a new comparison with its preceding condition.
'Tis worthy of observation concerning that envy which arises from a superiority in others, that 'tis not the great disproportion betwixt ourself and another, which produces it; but, on the contrary, our proximity. A common soldier bears no such envy to his general as to his sergeant or corporal; nor does an eminent writer meet with so great jealousy in common hackney scribblers, as in authors that more nearly approach him. It may indeed be thought, that the greater the disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from the comparison. But we may consider on the other hand, that the great disproportion cuts off the relation, and either keeps us from comparing ourselves, with what is remote from us, or diminishes the effects of the comparison. Resemblance and proximity always produce a relation of ideas; and where you destroy these ties, however other accidents may bring two ideas together, as they have no bond or connecting quality to join them in the imagination, 'tis impossible they can remain long united, or have any considerable influence on each other.
I have observed, in considering the nature of ambition, that the great feel a double pleasure in authority, from the comparison of their own condition with that of their slaves; and that this comparison has a double influence, because 'tis natural, and presented by the subject. When the fancy, in the comparison of objects, passes not easily from the one object to the other, the action of the mind is in a great measure broke, and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins, as it were, upon a new footing. The impression which attends every object, seems not greater in that case by succeeding a less of the same kind; but these two impressions are distinct, and produce their distinct effects, without any communication together. The want of relation in the ideas breaks the relation of the impressions, and by such a separation prevents their mutual operation and influence.
To confirm this we may observe, that the proximity in the degree of merit is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, but must be assisted by other relations. A poet is not apt to envy a philosopher, or a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, or a different age. All these differences prevent or weaken the comparison, and consequently the passion.
This too is the reason why all objects appear great or little, merely by a comparison with those of the same species. A mountain neither magnifies nor diminishes a horse in our eyes; but when a Flemish and a Welsh horse are seen together, the one appears greater and the other less, then when viewed apart.
From the same principle we may account for that remark of historians, that any party in a civil war always choose to call in a foreign enemy at any hazard, rather than submit to their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin applies this remark to the wars in Italy, where the relations betwixt the different states are, properly speaking, nothing but of name, language, and contiguity. Yet even these relations, when joined with superiority, by making the comparison more natural, make it likewise more grievous, and cause men to search for some other superiority, which may be attended with no relation, and by that means may have a less sensible influence on the imagination. The mind quickly perceives its several advantages and disadvantages; and finding its situation to be most uneasy, where superiority is conjoined with other relations, seeks its repose as much as possible by their separation, and by breaking that association of ideas, which renders the comparison so much more natural and efficacious. When it cannot break the association, it feels a stronger desire to remove the superiority; and this is the reason why travellers are commonly so lavish of their praises to the Chinese and Persians, at the same time that they depreciate those neighbouring nations which may stand upon a foot of rivalship with their native country.
These examples from history and common experience are rich and curious; but we may find parallel ones in the arts, which are no less remarkable. Should an author compose a treatise, of which one part was serious and profound, another light and humorous, every one would condemn so strange a mixture, and would accuse him of the neglect of all rules of art and criticism. These rules of art are founded on the qualities of human nature; and the quality of human nature, which requires a consistency in every performance, is that which renders the mind incapable of passing in a moment from one passion and disposition to a quite different one. Yet this makes us not blame Mr Prior for joining his Alma and his Solomon in the same volume; though that admirable poet has succeeded perfectly well in the gaiety of the one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. Even supposing the reader should peruse these two compositions without any interval, he would feel little or no difficulty in the change of passions: why? but because he considers these performances as entirely different, and, by this break in the ideas, breaks the progress of the affections, and hinders the one from influencing or contradicting the other.
An heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture, would be monstrous; though we place two pictures of so opposite a character in the same chamber, and even close by each other, without any scruple or difficulty.
In a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by comparison, or by the passions they separately produce, unless they be united together by some relation which may cause an easy transition of the ideas, and consequently of the emotions or impressions attending the ideas, and may preserve the one impression in the passage of the imagination to the object of the other. This principle is very remarkable, because it is analogous to what we have observed both concerning the understanding and the passions. Suppose two objects to be presented to me, which are not connected by any kind of relation. Suppose that each of these objects separately produces a passion, and that these two passions are in themselves contrary; we find from experience, that the want of relation in the objects or ideas hinders the natural contrariety of the passions, and that the break in the transition of the thought removes the affections from each other, and prevents their opposition. 'Tis the same case with comparison; and from both these phenomena we may safely conclude, that the relation of ideas must forward the transition of impressions, since its absence alone is able to prevent it, and to separate what naturally should have operated upon each other. When the absence of an object or quality removes any usual or natural effect, we may certainly conclude that its presence contributes to the production of the effect.
[7] Book I. Part III. Sect. 15.
[SECTION IX.]
OF THE MIXTURE OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER WITH COMPASSION AND MALICE.
Thus we have endeavoured to account for pity and malice. Both these affections arise from the imagination, according to the light in which it places its object. When our fancy considers directly the sentiments of others, and enters deep into them, it makes us sensible of all the passions it surveys, but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow. On the contrary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our own, we feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, viz. a joy from the grief of others, and a grief from their joy. But these are only the first foundations of the affections of pity and malice. Other passions are afterwards confounded with them. There is always a mixture of love or tenderness with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice. But it must be confessed, that this mixture seems at first sight to be contradictory to my system. For as pity is an uneasiness, and malice a joy, arising from the misery of others, pity should naturally, as in all other cases, produce hatred, and malice, love. This contradiction I endeavour to reconcile, after the following manner.
In order to cause a transition of passions, there is required a double relation of impressions and ideas; nor is one relation sufficient to produce this effect. But that we may understand the full force of this double relation, we must consider, that 'tis not the present sensation alone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of any passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning to the end. One impression may be related to another, not only when their sensations are resembling, as we have all along supposed in the preceding cases, but also when their impulses or directions are similar and correspondent. This cannot take place with regard to pride and humility, because these are only pure sensations, without any direction or tendency to action. We are, therefore, to look for instances of this peculiar relation of impressions only in such affections as are attended with a certain appetite or desire, such as those of love and hatred.
Benevolence, or the appetite which attends love, is a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery, as anger, or the appetite which attends hatred, is a desire of the misery of the person hated, and an aversion to his happiness. A desire, therefore, of the happiness of another, and aversion to his misery, are similar to benevolence; and a desire of his misery and aversion to his happiness, are correspondent to anger. Now, pity is a desire of happiness to another, and aversion to his misery, as malice is the contrary appetite. Pity, then, is related to benevolence, and malice to anger; and as benevolence has been already found to be connected with love, by a natural and original quality, and anger with hatred, 'tis by this chain the passions of pity and malice are connected with love and hatred.
This hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. A man, who, from any motives, has entertained a resolution of performing an action, naturally runs into every other view or motive which may fortify that resolution, and give it authority and influence on the mind. To confirm us in any design, we search for motives drawn from interest, from honour, from duty. What wonder, then, that pity and benevolence, malice and anger, being the same desires arising from different principles, should so totally mix together as to be undistinguishable? As to the connexion betwixt benevolence and love, anger and hatred, being original and primary, it admits of no difficulty.
We may add to this another experiment, viz. that benevolence and anger, and, consequently, love and hatred, arise when our happiness or misery have any dependence on the happiness or misery of another person, without any farther relation. I doubt not but this experiment will appear so singular as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it.
Suppose that two persons of the same trade should seek employment in a town that is not able to maintain both, 'tis plain the success of one is perfectly incompatible with that of the other; and that whatever is for the interest of either is contrary to that of his rival, and so vice versa. Suppose, again, that two merchants, though living in different parts of the world, should enter into co-partnership together, the advantage or loss of one becomes immediately the advantage or loss of his partner, and the same fortune necessarily attends both. Now, 'tis evident, that, in the first case, hatred always follows upon the contrariety of interests; as, in the second, love arises from their union. Let us consider to what principle we can ascribe these passions.
'Tis plain they arise, not from the double relations of impressions and ideas, if we regard only the present sensation. For, taking the first case of rivalship, though the pleasure and advantage of an antagonist necessarily causes my pain and loss, yet, to counterbalance this, his pain and loss causes my pleasure and advantage; and, supposing him to be unsuccessful, I may, by this means, receive from him a superior degree of satisfaction. In the same manner the success of a partner rejoices me, but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal proportion; and 'tis easy to imagine that the latter sentiment may, in some cases, preponderate. But whether the fortune of a rival or partner be good or bad, I always hate the former and love the latter.
This love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or connexion betwixt us, in the same manner as I love a brother or countryman. A rival has almost as close a relation to me as a partner. For, as the pleasure of the latter causes my pleasure, and his pain my pain; so the pleasure of the former causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. The connexion, then, of cause and effect, is the same in both cases; and if, in the one case, the cause and effect has a farther relation of resemblance, they have that of contrariety in the other; which, being also a species of resemblance, leaves the matter pretty equal.
The only explication, then, we can give of this phenomenon, is derived from that principle of a parallel direction above-mentioned. Our concern for our own interest gives us a pleasure in the pleasure, and a pain in the pain of a partner, after the same manner as by sympathy we feel a sensation correspondent to those which appear in any person who is present with us. On the other hand, the same concern for our interest makes us feel a pain in the pleasure, and a pleasure in the pain of a rival; and, in short, the same contrariety of sentiments as arises from comparison and malice. Since, therefore, a parallel direction of the affections, proceeding from interest, can give rise to benevolence or anger, no wonder the same parallel direction, derived from sympathy and from comparison, should have the same effect.
In general we may observe, that 'tis impossible to do good to others, from whatever motive, without feeling some touches of kindness and good will towards them; as the injuries we do not only cause hatred in the person who suffers them, but even in ourselves. These phenomena, indeed, may in part be accounted for from other principles.
But here there occurs a considerable objection, which 'twill be necessary to examine before we proceed any farther. I have endeavoured to prove that power and riches, or poverty and meanness, which give rise to love or hatred, without producing any original pleasure or uneasiness, operate upon us by means of a secondary sensation derived from a sympathy with that pain or satisfaction which they produce in the person who possesses them. From a sympathy with his pleasure there arises love; from that with his uneasiness, hatred. But 'tis a maxim which I have just now established, and which is absolutely necessary to the explication of the phenomena of pity and malice, "That 'tis not the present sensation or momentary pain or pleasure which determines the character of any passion, but the general bent or tendency of it from the beginning to the end." For this reason, pity or a sympathy with pain produces love, and that because it interests us in the fortunes of others, good or bad, and gives us a secondary sensation correspondent to the primary, in which it has the same influence with love and benevolence. Since, then, this rule holds good in one case, why does it not prevail throughout, and why does sympathy in uneasiness ever produce any passion beside good will and kindness? Is it becoming a philosopher to alter his method of reasoning, and run from one principle to its contrary, according to the particular phenomenon which he would explain?
I have mentioned two different causes from which a transition of passion may arise, viz. a double relation of ideas and impressions, and, what is similar to it, a conformity in the tendency and direction of any two desires which arise from different principles. Now I assert, that when a sympathy with uneasiness is weak, it produces hatred or contempt by the former cause; when strong, it produces love or tenderness by the latter. This is the solution of the foregoing difficulty, which seems so urgent; and this is a principle founded on such evident arguments, that we ought to have established it, even though it were not necessary to the explication of any phenomenon.
'Tis certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the present moment, but that we often feel, by communication, the pains and pleasures of others which are not in being, and which we only anticipate by the force of imagination. For, supposing I saw a person perfectly unknown to me, who, while asleep in the fields, was in danger of being trod under foot by horses, I should immediately run to his assistance; and in this I should be actuated by the same principle of sympathy which makes me concerned for the present sorrows of a stranger. The bare mention of this is sufficient. Sympathy being nothing but a lively idea converted into an impression, 'tis evident that, in considering the future possible or probable condition of any person, we may enter into it with so vivid a conception as to make it our own concern, and by that means be sensible of pains and pleasures which neither belong to ourselves, nor at the present instant have any real existence.
But however we may look forward to the future in sympathizing with any person, the extending of our sympathy depends in a great measure upon our sense of his present condition. 'Tis a great effort of imagination to form such lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as to feel these very sentiments; but 'tis impossible we could extend this sympathy to the future without being aided by some circumstance in the present, which strikes upon us in a lively manner. When the present misery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the conception is not confined merely to its immediate object, but diffuses its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion of all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or future; possible, probable, or certain. By means of this lively notion I am interested in them, take part with them, and feel a sympathetic motion in my breast, conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I diminish the vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that of the related ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at the fountain. By this diminution I destroy the future prospect which is necessary to interest me perfectly in the fortune of another. I may feel the present impression, but carry my sympathy no farther, and never transfuse the force of the first conception into my ideas of the related objects. If it be another's misery which is presented in this feeble manner, I receive it by communication, and am affected with all the passions related to it: but as I am not so much interested as to concern myself in his good fortune as well as his bad, I never feel the extensive sympathy, nor the passions related to it.
Now, in order to know what passions are related to these different kinds of sympathy, we must consider that benevolence is an original pleasure arising from the pleasure of the person beloved, and a pain proceeding from his pain: from which correspondence of impressions there arises a subsequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his pain. In order, then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence, 'tis requisite we should feel these double impressions, correspondent to those of the person whom we consider; nor is any one of them alone sufficient for that purpose. When we sympathize only with one impression, and that a painful one, this sympathy is related to anger and to hatred, upon account of the uneasiness it conveys to us. But as the extensive or limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first sympathy, it follows that the passion of love or hatred depends upon the same principle. A strong impression, when communicated, gives a double tendency of the passions, which is related to benevolence and love by a similarity of direction, however painful the first impression might have been. A weak impression that is painful is related to anger and hatred by the resemblance of sensations. Benevolence, therefore, arises from a great degree of misery, or any degree strongly sympathized with: hatred or contempt from a small degree, or one weakly sympathized with; which is the principle I intended to prove and explain.
Nor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle, but also experience. A certain degree of poverty produces contempt; but a degree beyond causes compassion and good will. We may undervalue a peasant or servant; but when the misery of a beggar appears very great, or is painted in very lively colours, we sympathize with him in his afflictions, and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and benevolence. The same object causes contrary passions, according to its different degrees. The passions, therefore, must depend upon principles that operate in such certain degrees, according to my hypothesis. The increase of the sympathy has evidently the same effect as the increase of the misery.
A barren or desolate country always seems ugly and disagreeable, and commonly inspires us with contempt for the inhabitants. This deformity, however, proceeds in a great measure from a sympathy with the inhabitants, as has been already observed; but it is only a weak one, and reaches no farther than the immediate sensation, which is disagreeable. The view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent sentiments; because we there enter so deep into the interests of the miserable inhabitants, as to wish for their prosperity, as well as feel their adversity.
But though the force of the impression generally produces pity and benevolence, 'tis certain that, by being carried too far, it ceases to have that effect. This, perhaps, may be worth our notice. When the uneasiness is either small in itself, or remote from us, it engages not the imagination, nor is able to convey an equal concern for the future and contingent good, as for the present and real evil. Upon its acquiring greater force, we become so interested in the concerns of the person, as to be sensible both of his good and bad fortune; and from that complete sympathy there arises pity and benevolence. But 'twill easily be imagined, that where the present evil strikes with more than ordinary force, it may entirely engage our attention, and prevent that double sympathy above mentioned. Thus we find, that though every one, but especially women, are apt to contract a kindness for criminals who go to the scaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly handsome and well-shaped; yet one who is present at the cruel execution of the rack, feels no such tender emotions; but is in a manner overcome with horror, and has no leisure to temper this uneasy sensation by any opposite sympathy.
But the instance which makes the most clearly for my hypothesis, is that wherein, by a change of the objects, we separate the double sympathy even from a middling degree of the passion; in which case we find that pity, instead of producing love and tenderness as usual, always gives rise to the contrary affection. When we observe a person in misfortune, we are affected with pity and love; but the author of that misfortune becomes the object of our strongest hatred, and is the more detested in proportion to the degree of our compassion. Now, for what reason should the same passion of pity produce love to the person who suffers the misfortune, and hatred to the person who causes it; unless it be because, in the latter case, the author bears a relation only to the misfortune; whereas, in considering the sufferer, we carry our view on every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well as are sensible of his affliction?
I shall just observe, before I leave the present subject, that this phenomenon of the double sympathy, and its tendency to cause love, may contribute to the production of the kindness which we naturally bear our relations and acquaintance. Custom and relation make us enter deeply into the sentiments of others; and whatever fortune we suppose to attend them, is rendered present to us by the imagination, and operates as if originally our own. We rejoice in their pleasures, and grieve for their sorrows, merely from the force of sympathy. Nothing that concerns them is indifferent to us; and as this correspondence of sentiments is the natural attendant of love, it readily produces that affection.
[SECTION X.]
OF RESPECT AND CONTEMPT.
There now remains only to explain the passions of respect and contempt, along with the amorous affection, in order to understand all the passions which have any mixture of love or hatred. Let us begin with respect and contempt.
In considering the qualities and circumstances of others, we may either regard them as they really are in themselves; or may make a comparison betwixt them and our own qualities and circumstances; or may join these two methods of consideration. The good qualities of others, from the first point of view, produce love; from the second, humility; and, from the third, respect; which is a mixture of these two passions. Their bad qualities, after the same manner, cause either hatred, or pride, or contempt, according to the light in which we survey them.
That there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of humility in respect, is, I think, too evident, from their very feeling or appearance, to require any particular proof. That this mixture arises from a tacit comparison of the person contemned or respected with ourselves, is no less evident. The same man may cause either respect, love, or contempt, by his condition and talents, according as the person who considers him, from his inferior, becomes his equal or superior. In changing the point of view, though the object may remain the same, its proportion to ourselves entirely alters; which is the cause of an alteration in the passions. These passions, therefore, arise from our observing the proportion, that is, from a comparison.
I have already observed, that the mind has a much stronger propensity to pride than to humility, and have endeavoured, from the principles of human nature, to assign a cause for this phenomenon. Whether my reasoning be received or not, the phenomenon is undisputed, and appears in many instances. Among the rest, 'tis the reason why there is a much greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility in respect, and why we are more elevated with the view of one below us, than mortified with the presence of one above us. Contempt or scorn has so strong a tincture of pride, that there scarce is any other passion discernible: Whereas in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable ingredient than humility. The passion of vanity is so prompt, that it rouses at the least call; while humility requires a stronger impulse to make it exert itself.
But here it may reasonably be asked, why this mixture takes place only in some cases, and appears not on every occasion. All those objects which cause love, when placed on another person, are the causes of pride when transferred to ourselves; and consequently ought to be causes of humility as well as love while they belong to others, and are only compared to those which we ourselves possess. In like manner every quality, which, by being directly considered, produces hatred, ought always to give rise to pride by comparison, and, by a mixture of these passions of hatred and pride, ought to excite contempt or scorn. The difficulty then is, why any objects ever cause pure love or hatred, and produce not always the mixt passions of respect and contempt.
I have supposed all along that the passions of love and pride, and those of humility and hatred, are similar in their sensations, and that the two former are always agreeable, and that the two latter painful. But though this be universally true, 'tis observable, that the two agreeable as well as the two painful passions, have some differences, and even contrarieties, which distinguish them. Nothing invigorates and exalts the mind equally with pride and vanity; though at the same time love or tenderness is rather found to weaken and enfeeble it. The same difference is observable betwixt the uneasy passions. Anger and hatred bestow a new force on all our thoughts and actions; while humility and shame deject and discourage us. Of these qualities of the passions, 'twill be necessary to form a distinct idea. Let us remember that pride and hatred invigorate the soul, and love and humility enfeeble it.
From this it follows, that though the conformity betwixt love and hatred in the agreeableness of their sensation makes them always be excited by the same objects, yet this other contrariety is the reason why they are excited in very different degrees. Genius and learning are pleasant and magnificent objects, and by both these circumstances are adapted to pride and vanity, but have a relation to love by their pleasure only. Ignorance and simplicity are disagreeable and mean, which in the same manner gives them a double connexion with humility, and a single one with hatred. We may, therefore, consider it as certain, that though the same object always produces love and pride, humility and hatred, according to its different situations, yet it seldom produces either the two former or the two latter passions in the same proportion.
'Tis here we must seek for a solution of the difficulty above-mentioned, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, and does not always produce respect or contempt, by a mixture of humility or pride. No quality in another gives rise to humility by comparison, unless it would have produced pride by being placed in ourselves; and, vice versa, no object excites pride by comparison, unless it would have produced humility by the direct survey. This is evident, objects always produce by comparison a sensation directly contrary to their original one. Suppose, therefore, an object to be presented, which is peculiarly fitted to produce love, but imperfectly to excite pride, this object, belonging to another, gives rise directly to a great degree of love, but to a small one of humility by comparison; and consequently that latter passion is scarce felt in the compound, nor is able to convert the love into respect. This is the case with good nature, good humour, facility, generosity, beauty, and many other qualities. These have a peculiar aptitude to produce love in others; but not so great a tendency to excite pride in ourselves: for which reason the view of them, as belonging to another person, produces pure love, with but a small mixture of humility and respect. 'Tis easy to extend the same reasoning to the opposite passions.
Before we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to account for a pretty curious phenomenon, viz. why we commonly keep at a distance such as we contemn, and allow not our inferiors to approach too near even in place and situation. It has already been observed, that almost every kind of ideas is attended with some emotion, even the ideas of number and extension, much more those of such objects as are esteemed of consequence in life, and fix our attention. 'Tis not with entire indifference we can survey either a rich man or a poor one, but must feel some faint touches, at least, of respect in the former case, and of contempt in the latter. These two passions are contrary to each other; but in order to make this contrariety be felt, the objects must be someway related; otherwise the affections are totally separate and distinct, and never encounter. The relation takes place wherever the persons become contiguous; which is a general reason why we are uneasy at seeing such disproportioned objects as a rich man and a poor one, a nobleman and a porter, in that situation.
This uneasiness, which is common to every spectator, must be more sensible to the superior; and that because the near approach of the inferior is regarded as a piece of ill breeding, and shows that he is not sensible of the disproportion, and is no way affected by it. A sense of superiority in another breeds in all men an inclination to keep themselves at a distance from him, and determines them to redouble the marks of respect and reverence, when they are obliged to approach him; and where they do not observe that conduct, 'tis a proof they are not sensible of his superiority. From hence too it proceeds, that any great difference in the degrees of any quality is called a distance by a common metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear, is founded on natural principles of the imagination. A great difference inclines us to produce a distance. The ideas of distance and difference are, therefore, connected together. Connected ideas are readily taken for each other; and this is in general the source of the metaphor, as we shall have occasion to observe afterwards.
[SECTION XI.]
OF THE AMOROUS PASSION, OR LOVE BETWIXT THE SEXES.
Of all the compound passions which proceed from a mixture of love and hatred with other affections, no one better deserves our attention, than that love which arises betwixt the sexes, as well on account of its force and violence, as those curious principles of philosophy, for which it affords us an uncontestable argument. 'Tis plain that this affection, in its most natural state, is derived from the conjunction of three different impressions or passions, viz. the pleasing sensation arising from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous kindness or good will. The origin of kindness from beauty may be explained from the foregoing reasoning. The question is, how the bodily appetite is excited by it.
The appetite of generation, when confined to a certain degree, is evidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong connexion with all the agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth, vanity, and kindness, are all incentives to this desire, as well as music, dancing, wine, and good cheer. On the other hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are destructive of it. From this quality, 'tis easily conceived why it should be connected with the sense of beauty.
But there is another principle that contributes to the same effect. I have observed that the parallel direction of the desires is a real relation, and, no less than a resemblance in their sensation, produces a connexion among them. That we may fully comprehend the extent of this relation, we must consider that any principal desire may be attended with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to which, if other desires are parallel, they are by that means related to the principal one. Thus, hunger may oft be considered as the primary inclination of the soul, and the desire of approaching the meat as the secondary one, since 'tis absolutely necessary to the satisfying that appetite. If an object, therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines us to approach the meat, it naturally increases our appetite; as on the contrary, whatever inclines us to set our victuals at a distance, is contradictory to hunger, and diminishes our inclination to them. Now, 'tis plain, that beauty has the first effect, and deformity the second; which is the reason why the former gives us a keener appetite for our victuals, and the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most savoury dish that cookery has invented. All this is easily applicable to the appetite for generation.
From these two relations, viz. resemblance and a parallel desire, there arises such a connexion betwixt the sense of beauty, the bodily appetite, and benevolence, that they become in a manner inseparable; and we find from experience, that 'tis indifferent which of them advances first, since any of them is almost sure to be attended with the related affections. One who is inflamed with lust, feels at least a momentary kindness towards the object of it, and at the same time fancies her more beautiful than ordinary; as there are many, who begin with kindness and esteem for the wit and merit of the person, and advance from that to the other passions. But the most common species of love is that which first arises from beauty, and afterwards diffuses itself into kindness, and into the bodily appetite. Kindness or esteem, and the appetite to generation, are too remote to unite easily together. The one is, perhaps, the most refined passion of the soul, the other the most gross and vulgar. The love of beauty is placed in a just medium betwixt them, and partakes of both their natures; from whence it proceeds, that 'tis so singularly fitted to produce both.
This account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is unavoidable on any hypothesis. The three affections which compose this passion are evidently distinct, and has each of them its distinct object. 'Tis certain, therefore, that 'tis only by their relation they produce each other. But the relation of passions is not alone sufficient. 'Tis likewise necessary there should be a relation of ideas. The beauty of one person never inspires us with love for another. This then is a sensible proof of the double relation of impressions and ideas. From one instance so evident as this we may form a judgment of the rest.
This may also serve in another view to illustrate what I have insisted on concerning the origin of pride and humility, love and hatred. I have observed, that though self be the object of the first set of passions, and some other person of the second, yet these objects cannot alone be the causes of the passions, as having each of them a relation to two contrary affections, which must from the very first moment destroy each other. Here then is the situation of the mind, as I have already described it. It has certain organs naturally fitted to produce a passion; that passion, when produced, naturally turns the view to a certain object. But this not being sufficient to produce the passion, there is required some other emotion, which, by a double relation of impressions and ideas, may set these principles in action, and bestow on them their first impulse. This situation is still more remarkable with regard to the appetite of generation. Sex is not only the object, but also the cause of the appetite. We not only turn our view to it, when actuated by that appetite, but the reflecting on it suffices to excite the appetite. But as this cause loses its force by too great frequency, 'tis necessary it should be quickened by some new impulse; and that impulse we find to arise from the beauty of the person; that is, from a double relation of impressions and ideas. Since this double relation is necessary where an affection has both a distinct cause and object, how much more so where it has only a distinct object without any determinate cause!
[SECTION XII.]
OF THE LOVE AND HATRED OF ANIMALS.
But to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and from their mixtures and compositions, as they appear in man, to the same affections as they display themselves in brutes, we may observe, not only that love and hatred are common to the whole sensitive creation, but likewise that their causes, as above explained, are of so simple a nature that they may easily be supposed to operate on mere animals. There is no force of reflection or penetration required. Every thing is conducted by springs and principles, which are not peculiar to man, or any one species of animals. The conclusion from this is obvious in favour of the foregoing system.
Love, in animals, has not for its only object animals of the same species, but extends itself farther, and comprehends almost every sensible and thinking being. A dog naturally loves a man above his own species, and very commonly meets with a return of affection.
As animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures or pains of the imagination, they can judge of objects only by the sensible good or evil which they produce, and from that must regulate their affections towards them. Accordingly we find, that by benefits or injuries we produce their love or hatred; and that, by feeding and cherishing any animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating and abusing him we never fail to draw on us his enmity and ill-will.
Love in beasts is not caused so much by relation as in our species; and that because their thoughts are not so active as to trace relations, except in very obvious instances. Yet 'tis easy to remark, that on some occasions it has a considerable influence upon them. Thus, acquaintance, which has the same effect as relation, always produces love in animals, either to men or to each other. For the same reason, any likeness among them is the source of affection. An ox confined to a park with horses, will naturally join their company, if I may so speak, but always leaves it to enjoy that of his own species, where he has the choice of both.
The affection of parents to their young proceeds from a peculiar instinct in animals, as well as in our species.
'Tis evident that sympathy, or the communication of passions, takes place among animals, no less than among men. Fear, anger, courage, and other affections, are frequently communicated from one animal to another, without their knowledge of that cause which produced the original passion. Grief likewise is received by sympathy, and produces almost all the same consequences, and excites the same emotions, as in our species. The howlings and lamentations of a dog produce a sensible concern in his fellows. And 'tis remarkable, that though almost all animals use in play the same member, and nearly the same action as in fighting; a lion, a tiger, a cat, their paws; an ox, his horns; a dog, his teeth; a horse, his heels: yet they most carefully avoid harming their companion, even though they have nothing to fear from his resentment; which is an evident proof of the sense brutes have of each other's pain and pleasure.
Every one has observed how much more dogs are animated when they hunt in a pack, than when they pursue their game apart; and 'tis evident this can proceed from nothing but from sympathy. 'Tis also well known to hunters, that this effect follows in a greater degree, and even in too great a degree, where too packs that are strangers to each other are joined together. We might, perhaps, be at a loss to explain this phenomenon, if we had not experience of a similar in ourselves.
Envy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals. They are perhaps more common than pity; as requiring less effort of thought and imagination.