Essays on Philosophical Subjects
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history of science","FullText":{"Title":"Full Text","Copy":"Public-domain full text from Project Gutenberg eBook #58559 .","Url":"","Label":"","Kicker":"","Cards":[]},"CoreThesis":["Explains scientific and artistic inquiry through wonder, surprise, imagination, classification, imitation, and the mind\u0027s search for connecting principles."],"Classification":{"AlternateTitles":"Philosophical Essays; Essays of Adam Smith","KeyConcepts":"wonder, surprise, imagination, classification, astronomy, ancient physics, imitation, music, poetry, taste","Methodology":"Historical essays and philosophical psychology","Structure":"Posthumous essay collection"},"Arguments":["Philosophy arises from wonder and unease; systems of science calm imagination by connecting appearances."],"Influence":{"InfluencedBy":"Newtonian science, ancient philosophy, Enlightenment natural history, rhetoric lectures","InfluenceOn":""},"Significance":["Preserves Smith\u0027s posthumously published essays on science, arts, imitation, and explanation.","Important for studying Smith\u0027s method, imagination, philosophy of science, and aesthetic theory."],"EvidenceNote":[],"MainSections":[{"Kind":"RawSection","Title":"Full Versions","BodyHtml":"\u003cdiv class=\"dz-philo__full-version-grid\"\u003e\n \u003carticle class=\"dz-philo__full-version-card\"\u003e\n \u003cp class=\"dz-philo__full-version-provider\"\u003eProject Gutenberg\u003c/p\u003e\n \u003ch3 class=\"dz-philo__full-version-title\"\u003eProject Gutenberg eBook #58559\u003c/h3\u003e\n \u003cp class=\"dz-philo__full-version-meta\"\u003eHtmlText · Imported\u003c/p\u003e\n \u003ca class=\"dz-philo__full-version-link\" href=\"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58559\"\u003eOpen full version\u003c/a\u003e\n \u003c/article\u003e\n \u003c/div\u003e"},{"Kind":"TextSection","Title":"Core Thesis","Paragraphs":["Explains scientific and artistic inquiry through wonder, surprise, imagination, classification, imitation, and the mind\u0027s search for connecting principles."]},{"Kind":"FieldSection","Title":"Classification","Fields":[{"Label":"Alternate Titles","Value":"Philosophical Essays; Essays of Adam Smith"},{"Label":"Key Concepts","Value":"wonder, surprise, imagination, classification, astronomy, ancient physics, imitation, music, poetry, taste"},{"Label":"Methodology","Value":"Historical essays and philosophical psychology"},{"Label":"Structure","Value":"Posthumous essay collection"}]},{"Kind":"TextSection","Title":"Arguments","Paragraphs":["Philosophy arises from wonder and unease; systems of science calm imagination by connecting appearances."]},{"Kind":"FieldSection","Title":"Influence","Fields":[{"Label":"Influenced By","Value":"Newtonian science, ancient philosophy, Enlightenment natural history, rhetoric lectures"},{"Label":"Influence On","Value":"History of science, aesthetics, philosophy of explanation, Scottish Enlightenment studies"}]},{"Kind":"TextSection","Title":"Significance","Paragraphs":["Preserves Smith\u0027s posthumously published essays on science, arts, imitation, and explanation.","Important for studying Smith\u0027s method, imagination, philosophy of science, and aesthetic theory."]},{"Kind":"RawSection","Title":"Full Text","BodyHtml":"\u003cp class=\"dz-philo__section-copy dz-philo__full-text-source\"\u003ePublic-domain full text from \u003ca href=\"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/58559\"\u003eProject Gutenberg eBook #58559\u003c/a\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\n \u003carticle class=\"dz-philo__full-text-body\"\u003e\r\n\u003cpre\u003e\u003c/pre\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"title\"\u003eTHE\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 class=\"title\"\u003eESSAYS\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003ch6 class=\"title\"\u003eOF\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 class=\"title\"\u003eADAM SMITH\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv id=\"tnote\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center bold\"\u003eTranscriber’s Note\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis version is based upon texts kindly provided by the Internet Archive and the Hathi Trust. The main resource can be found\r\n \u003ca href=\"https://ia902608.us.archive.org/2/items/essaysonimoralse00smitiala/essaysonimoralse00smitiala.pdf\" id=\"id-8590268466709942057\"\u003e\r\n here\u003c/a\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"bold\"\u003eFootnotes\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMost footnotes in the text are indicated by an asterisk. Here they are\r\nnumbered within each work and placed at the end of paragraph in which\r\nthey occur. One footnote in the first essay is numbered; it is here\r\ngiven as 1*. \u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"bold\"\u003eCorrections\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eCorrections (or queries) are flagged by dotted red underline, on mouse-over\r\n revealing the original.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"bold\"\u003eOther matters\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eGreek text is marked by orange underlining, on mouse-over revealing\r\n a transliteration.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePage numbers have been rendered in-text in red.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOther original printing conventions have been followed, except for left\r\nquotation marks at the start of every line of quoted text.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSome links have been inserted to provide for cross-references within the text.\r\n Infelicities and mistakes here are the transcriber’s fault.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003ch1 class=\"author\"\u003eESSAYS\u003c/h1\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eON\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch3 class=\"title\"\u003e \u003ci\u003eⅠ. MORAL SENTIMENTS;\u003cbr\u003e\r\nⅡ. ASTRONOMICAL INQUIRIES;\u003cbr\u003e\r\nⅢ. FORMATION OF LANGUAGES;\u003cbr\u003e\r\nⅣ. HISTORY OF ANCIENT PHYSICS;\u003cbr\u003e\r\nⅤ. ANCIENT LOGIC AND METAPHYSICS;\u003cbr\u003e\r\nⅥ. THE IMITATIVE ARTS;\u003cbr\u003e\r\nⅦ. MUSIC, DANCING, POETRY;\u003cbr\u003e\r\nⅧ. THE EXTERNAL SENSES;\u003cbr\u003e\r\nⅨ. ENGLISH AND ITALIAN VERSES.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eBY\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 class=\"title\"\u003eADAM SMITH, LL.D. F.R.S.,\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eAuthor of the ‘Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of\r\nNations.’\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr class=\"thirty\"\u003e\r\n\u003ch5\u003eLONDON:\u003c/h5\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"title\"\u003eALEX. MURRAY \u0026amp; CO., 30, QUEEN SQUARE, W.C.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003ch5\u003e1872.\u003c/h5\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eLONDON:\u003cbr\u003e\r\nBRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch2\u003eBIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE.\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"small\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eA\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eDAM\u003c/span\u003e S\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eMITH\u003c/span\u003e, the author of these Essays and of the ‘Inquiry into the\r\nNature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations,’ was born at Kirkaldy,\r\nJune 5, 1723, a few months after the death of his father. He was a\r\nsickly child, and indulged by his mother, who was the object of his\r\nfilial gratitude for sixty years. When about three years old, and at\r\nthe house of Douglass of Strathenry, his mother’s brother, he was\r\ncarried off by tinkers or gipsies, but soon recovered from them. At\r\nthe burgh school of his native town he made rapid progress, and soon\r\nattracted notice by his passion for books, and by the extraordinary\r\npowers of his memory. His weakness of body prevented him joining in\r\nathletic sports, but his generous and friendly temperament made him a\r\nfavourite with his schoolmates; and he was noted then, as through\r\nafter life, for absence in company and a habit of speaking to himself\r\nwhen alone. From the grammar school of Kirkaldy, he was sent, in 1737,\r\nto the University of Glasgow, whence, in 1740, he went to \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"Stewart\u0027s original memoir spells this Balliol\"\u003eBaliol\u003c/span\u003e\r\nCollege, Oxford, enjoying an exhibition on the Snell foundation. When\r\nat Glasgow College, his favourite studies were mathematics and natural\r\nphilosophy, but that did not long divert his mind from pursuits more\r\ncongenial to him, more particularly the political history of mankind,\r\nwhich gave scope to the power of his comprehensive genius, and\r\ngratified his ruling passion of contributing to the happiness and the\r\nimprovement of society. To his early taste for Greek generally, may be\r\ndue the clearness and fulness with which he states his political\r\nreasonings. At Oxford he employed himself frequently in the practice\r\nof translation, with a view to the improvement of his own style, and\r\nused to commend such exercises to all who cultivate the art of\r\ncomposition. He also cultivated with the greatest care the study of\r\nlanguages; and his knowledge of them led him to a peculiar experience\r\nin everything that could illustrate the institutions, the manners, and\r\nthe ideas of different ages and nations.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAfter a residence at Oxford of seven years, he returned to\r\nKirkaldy, and lived two years with his mother, engaged in studies, but\r\nwithout any fixed plan for his future life. He had been originally\r\ndestined for the Church of England; but not finding the ecclesiastical\r\nprofession suitable to his taste, he took chance of obtaining some of\r\nthose moderate preferments, to which literary attainments lead in\r\nScotland. Removing to Edinburgh in 1748, he read lectures on rhetoric\r\nand belles lettres, under the patronage of Lord Kames; and when in\r\nEdinburgh became intimate with David Hume.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn 1751 he was elected Professor of Logic in the University of\r\nGlasgow; and, the year following, he became Professor of Moral\r\nPhilosophy there; a situation he held for thirteen years, and used to\r\nlook back on as the most useful and happy of his life; and, though but\r\na narrow scene for his ambition, may have led to the future eminence\r\nof his literary character. In delivering his lectures, Mr. Smith\r\ntrusted \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page2\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e2\u003c/span\u003e almost entirely to extemporary elocution. His manner,\r\nthough not graceful, was plain and unaffected, and he never failed to\r\ninterest his hearers. Each discourse consisted commonly of several\r\ndistinct propositions, which he successively endeavoured to prove and\r\nillustrate. At first he often appeared to speak with hesitation; but,\r\nas he advanced, the matter seemed to crowd upon him, his manner became\r\nwarm and animated, and his expression easy and fluent. His reputation\r\nas a philosopher attracted a multitude of students from a great\r\ndistance to the University; and those branches of science which he\r\ntaught became fashionable, and his opinions were the chief topics of\r\ndiscussion in the clubs and literary societies of Glasgow. While Adam\r\nSmith became thus eminent as a public lecturer, he was gradually\r\nlaying the foundation of a more extensive reputation by preparing for\r\nthe press his System of Morals; and the first edition of his Essays\r\nappeared in \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from 1757\"\u003e1759\u003c/span\u003e, under the title of T\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e T\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHEORY OF\u003c/span\u003e M\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eORAL\u003c/span\u003e\r\nS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eENTIMENTS\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf this essay, Dugald Stewart remarks, ‘that whatever opinion we\r\nmay entertain of the justness of its conclusions, it must be allowed\r\nto be a singular effort of invention, ingenuity, and subtilty; that it\r\ncontains a large mixture of important truth, and has had the merit of\r\ndirecting the attention of philosophers to a view of human nature,\r\nwhich had formerly in a great measure escaped their notice; and no\r\nwork, undoubtedly, can be mentioned, ancient or modern, which exhibits\r\nso complete a view of those facts with respect to our moral\r\nperceptions, which it is one great object of this branch of science to\r\nrefer to their general laws; and well deserves the careful study of\r\nall whose taste leads them to prosecute similar enquiries. These facts\r\nare presented in the most happy and beautiful lights; and when the\r\nsubject leads him to address the imagination and the heart, the\r\nvariety and felicity of his illustrations, the richness and fluency of\r\nhis eloquence; and the skill with which he wins the attention and\r\ncommands the passions of his readers, leave him, among our English\r\nmoralists, without a rival. Towards the close of 1763, Mr. Smith\r\narranged to visit the continent with the Duke of Buccleugh, returning\r\nto London in 1766. For the next ten years he lived quietly with his\r\nmother at Kirkaldy; and in 1776, accounted to the world for his long\r\nretreat, by the publication of his ‘I\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNQUIRY INTO THE\u003c/span\u003e N\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eATURE AND\u003c/span\u003e C\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eAUSES\r\nOF THE\u003c/span\u003e W\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEALTH OF\u003c/span\u003e N\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eATIONS\u003c/span\u003e.’ In 1778, Mr. Smith was appointed a\r\nCommissioner of Customs in Scotland, the pecuniary emoluments of which\r\nwere considerable. In 1784, he lost his mother. In 1788, his cousin,\r\nMiss Douglass, died, to whom he had been strongly attached; and in\r\nJuly, 1790, he died, having, a short while before, in conversation\r\nwith his friend Riddell, regretted that ‘\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE HAD DONE SO LITTLE\u003c/span\u003e.’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e[Above biographic notes and literary opinions have been abridged\r\nfrom a paper on ‘The Life and Writings of Adam Smith,’ by Professor\r\nDugald Stewart, of Edinburgh, 1793—A. M.]\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch2\u003eADVERTISEMENT\u003cbr\u003e TO THE SIXTH EDITION.\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eINCE\u003c/span\u003e the first publication of the T\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHEORY OF\u003c/span\u003e M\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eORAL\u003c/span\u003e S\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eENTIMENTS\u003c/span\u003e,\r\nwhich was in the beginning of the year 1759, several corrections, and\r\na good many illustrations of the doctrines contained in it, have\r\noccurred to me. But the various occupations in which the different\r\naccidents of my life necessarily involved me, have till now prevented\r\nme from revising this work with the care and attention which I always\r\nintended. The reader will find the principal alterations which I have\r\nmade in this New Edition, in the last Chapter of the third Section of\r\nPart First; and in the four first Chapters of Part Third. Part Sixth,\r\nas it stands in this New Edition, is altogether new. In Part Seventh,\r\nI have brought together the greater part of the different passages\r\nconcerning the Stoical Philosophy, which, in the former Editions, had\r\nbeen scattered about in different parts of the work. I have likewise\r\nendeavoured to explain more fully, and examine more distinctly, some\r\nof the doctrines of that famous sect. In the fourth and last Section\r\nof the same Part, I have thrown together a few additional observations\r\nconcerning the duty and the principle of veracity. There are, besides,\r\nin other parts of the work, a few other alterations and corrections of\r\nno great moment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the last paragraph of the first Edition of the present work, I\r\nsaid that I should in another discourse endeavour to give an account\r\nof the general principles of law and government, and of the different\r\nrevolutions which they had undergone in the different ages and periods\r\nof society; not only in what concerns justice, but in what concerns\r\npolice, revenue, and arms, and whatever else is the object of law. In\r\nthe \u003ci\u003eInquiry concerning the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of\r\nNations\u003c/i\u003e, I have partly executed this promise; at least so far as\r\nconcerns police, revenue, and arms. What remains, the theory of\r\njurisprudence, which I have long projected, I have hitherto been\r\nhindered from executing, by the same occupations which had till now\r\nprevented me from revising the present work. Though my very advanced\r\nage leaves me, I acknowledge, very little expectation of ever being\r\nable to execute this great work to my own satisfaction; yet, as I have\r\nnot altogether abandoned the design, and as I wish still to continue\r\nunder the obligation of doing what I can, I have allowed the paragraph\r\nto remain as it was published more than thirty years ago, when I\r\nentertained no doubt of being able to execute every thing which it\r\nannounced.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003eESSAYS BY ADAM SMITH\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eON\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003ePHILOSOPHICAL SUBJECTS\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eADVERTISEMENT BY THE EDITORS.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e much lamented author of these Essays left them in the hands of\r\nhis friends to be disposed of as they thought proper, having\r\nimmediately before his death destroyed many other manuscripts which he\r\nthought unfit for being made public. When these were inspected, the\r\ngreater number of them appeared to be parts of a plan he once had\r\nformed, for giving a connected history of the liberal sciences and\r\nelegant arts. It is long since he found it necessary to abandon that\r\nplan as far too extensive; and these parts of it lay beside him\r\nneglected until his death. His friends are persuaded, however, that\r\nthe reader will find in them that happy connection, that full and\r\naccurate expression, and that clear illustration which are conspicuous\r\nin the rest of his works; and that though it is difficult to add much\r\nto the great fame he so justly acquired by his other writings, these\r\nwill be read with satisfaction and pleasure.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"right\"\u003eJOSEPH BLACK.\u003cbr\u003e\r\nJAMES HUTTON.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch2\u003eCONTENTS.\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003e\u003ca href=\"#A\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eTHE THEORY OF MORAL SENTIMENTS\u003c/a\u003e.\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ctable style=\"width: 100%;\" class=\"xhtml_table_width\" data-summary=\"Table of contents for Theory of Moral Sentiments\"\u003e\r\n\u003ccolgroup span=\"10\" style=\"width: 10%; \"\u003e\u003c/colgroup\u003e\r\n\u003ctbody\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sec\"\u003eP\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eART\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003eOF THE PROPRIETY OF ACTIONS.\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003ePAGE\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of the Sense of Propriety\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page9\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e9\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of Sympathy\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page9\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e9-13\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the Pleasure of Mutual Sympathy\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page13\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e13-16\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ., Ⅳ. Of the manner in which we judge of the\r\n Propriety or Impropriety of the Affections of\r\n other Men, by their Concord or Dissonance with\r\n our own\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page16\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e16-23\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅴ. Of the amiable and respectable Virtues\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page23\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e23-26\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the Degrees of the different Passions\r\n which are consistent with Propriety\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page26\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e26\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of the Passions which take their Origin from\r\n the Body\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page26\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e26-30\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of those Passions which take their Origin\r\n from a particular Turn or Habit of the\r\n Imagination\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page30\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e30-32\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of the unsocial Passions\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page32\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e32-37\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ. Of the social Passions\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page37\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e37-39\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅴ. Of the selfish Passions\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page39\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e39-41\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of the Effects of Prosperity and Adversity\r\n upon the Judgment of Mankind with regard to the\r\n Propriety of Action; and why it is more easy to\r\n obtain their Approbation in the one State than\r\n in the other\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page42\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e42\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. That though our Sympathy with Sorrow is\r\n generally a more lively Sensation than our\r\n Sympathy with Joy, it commonly falls much more\r\n short of the Violence of what is naturally felt\r\n by the Person principally concerned\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page42\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e42-47\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the Origin of Ambition, and of the\r\n Distinction of Ranks\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page47\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e47-56\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of the Corruption of our Moral Sentiments,\r\n which is occasioned by this Disposition to admire\r\n the Rich and the Great, and to despise or neglect\r\n Persons of poor and mean Condition\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page56\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e56-60\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sec\"\u003eP\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eART\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003eOF MERIT AND DEMERIT; OR, OF THE OBJECTS OF REWARD AND PUNISHMENT.\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of the Sense of Merit and Demerit—Introduction\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page61\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e61\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. That whatever appears to be the proper Object\r\n of Gratitude, appears to deserve Reward; and that,\r\n in the same Manner, whatever appears to be the\r\n proper Object of Resentment, appears to deserve\r\n Punishment\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page61\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e61-63\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page6\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e6\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the proper Objects of Gratitude and\r\n Resentment \u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page63\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e63-65\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. That where there is no Approbation of the\r\n Conduct of the Person who confers the Benefit,\r\n there is little Sympathy with the Gratitude of\r\n him who receives it: and that, on the contrary,\r\n where there is no Disapprobation of the Motives\r\n of the Person who does the Mischief, there is\r\n no sort of Sympathy with the Resentment of him\r\n who suffers it\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page65\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e65-67\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ. Recapitulation of the foregoing Chapters\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page67\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e67-68\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅴ. The Analysis of the Sense of Merit and Demerit\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page68\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e68-70\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of Justice and Beneficence\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Comparison of those two Virtues\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page70\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e70-75\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the sense of Justice, of Remorse, and of\r\n the Consciousness of Merit\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page75\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e75-78\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of the Utility of this Constitution of Nature\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page78\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e78-84\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of the Influence of Fortune upon the Sentiments\r\n of Mankind, with regard to the Merit or Demerit\r\n of Actions—Introduction\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page84\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e84-85\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of the Causes of this Influence of Fortune\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page85\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e85-88\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the Extent of this Influence of Fortune\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page88\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e88-95\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of the final Cause of this Irregularity of\r\n Sentiments\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page96\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e96-99\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sec\"\u003eP\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eART\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003eOF THE FOUNDATION OF OUR JUDGMENTS CONCERNING OUR OWN SENTIMENTS AND\r\nCONDUCT, AND OF THE SENSE OF DUTY.\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of the Principle of Self-approbation and of\r\n Self-disapprobation\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page99\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e99-102\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the Love of Praise, and of that of\r\n Praise-worthiness; and of the Dread of Blame,\r\n and of that of Blame-worthiness\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page102\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e102-118\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of the Influence and Authority of\r\n Conscience \u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page118\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e118-137\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ. Of the Nature of Self-deceit, and of the\r\n Origin and Use of general Rules\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page137\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e137-142\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅴ. Of the Influence and Authority of the general\r\n Rules of Morality, and that they are justly\r\n regarded as the Laws of the Deity\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page142\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e142-150\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅵ. In what Cases the Sense of Duty ought to be\r\n the sole Principle of our Conduct; and in what\r\n Cases it ought to concur with other Motives\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page150\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e150-158\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sec\"\u003eP\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eART\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003eOF THE EFFECT OF UTILITY UPON THE SENTIMENT OF APPROBATION.\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of the Beauty which the Appearance of Utility\r\n bestows upon all the Productions of Art, and of\r\n the extensive Influence of this Species\r\n of Beauty\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page158\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e158-165\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the Beauty which the Appearance of\r\n Utility bestows upon the Characters and Actions\r\n of Men; and how far the Perception of this\r\n Beauty may be regarded as one of the original\r\n Principles of Approbation\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page165\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e165-171\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003e \u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page7\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e7\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sec\"\u003eP\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eART\u003c/span\u003e Ⅴ.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003eOF THE INFLUENCE OF CUSTOM AND FASHION UPON THE SENTIMENTS OF MORAL\r\nAPPROBATION AND DISAPPROBATION.\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon\r\n our Notions of Beauty and Deformity\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page171\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e171-176\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon\r\n Moral Sentiments\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page176\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e176-187\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sec\"\u003eP\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eART\u003c/span\u003e Ⅵ.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003eOF THE CHARACTER OF VIRTUE.—INTRODUCTION, \u003ca href=\"#page187\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e187\u003c/a\u003e.\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of the Character of the Individual, so far as\r\n it affects his own Happiness; or of Prudence\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page187\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e187-192\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the Character of the Individual, so far as\r\n it can affect the Happiness of other\r\n People—Introduction\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page192\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e192-193\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of the Order in which Individuals are\r\n recommended by Nature to our Care and Attention\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page193\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e193-201\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the Order in which Societies are by\r\n Nature recommended to our Beneficence\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page201\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e201-208\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of universal Benevolence\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page208\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e208-210\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of Self-command\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page210\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e210-233\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eConclusion of the Sixth Part\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page233\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e233-236\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sec\"\u003eP\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eART\u003c/span\u003e Ⅶ.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003eOF SYSTEMS OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY.\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of the Questions which ought to be examined\r\n in a Theory of Moral Sentiments\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page236\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e236-237\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of the different Accounts which have been\r\n given of the Nature of Virtue—Introduction\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page237\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e237\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of those Systems which make Virtue consist\r\n in Propriety\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page237\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e237-260\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of those Systems which make Virtue consist\r\n in Prudence\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page260\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e260-265\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of those Systems which make Virtue consist\r\n in Benevolence\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page265\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e265-271\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ. Of licentious Systems\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page271\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e271-278\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of the different Systems which have been\r\n formed concerning the Principle of\r\n Approbation—Introduction\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page279\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e279\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of those Systems which deduce the Principle\r\n of Approbation from Self-love\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page279\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e279-281\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of those Systems which make Reason\r\n the Principle of Approbation\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page282\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e282-284\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eH.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of those Systems which make Sentiment\r\n the Principle of Approbation\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"right\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page285\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e285-290\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ. Of the Manner in which different Authors\r\n have treated of the practical Rules of Morality\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page290\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e290-304\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page8\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e8\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#B\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eONSIDERATIONS CONCERNING THE\u003c/span\u003e F\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eORMATION OF\u003c/span\u003e L\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eANGUAGES\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e.\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page305\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e305-325\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003c/tbody\u003e\u003c/table\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003eESSAYS ON PHILOSOPHICAL SUBJECTS.\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ctable style=\"width: 100%;\" class=\"xhtml_table_width\" data-summary=\"Table of contents for remaining essays on philosophical subjects\"\u003e\r\n\u003ccolgroup span=\"10\" style=\"width: 10%; \"\u003e\u003c/colgroup\u003e\r\n\u003ctbody\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#C\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e P\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eRINCIPLES WHICH LEAD AND DIRECT\u003c/span\u003e P\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHILOSOPHICAL\u003c/span\u003e\r\nI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNQUIRIES, AS ILLUSTRATED BY THE\u003c/span\u003e H\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eISTORY OF\u003c/span\u003e A\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eSTRONOMY\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page325\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from 327-328\"\u003e325-326\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ. Of the Effects of Unexpectedness, or of\r\n Surprise\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page326\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from 328-331\"\u003e326-329\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ. Of Wonder, or the Effects of Novelty\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page329\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from 331-339\"\u003e329-337\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ. Of the Origin of Philosophy\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page338\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from 340-344\"\u003e338-342\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ. The History of Astronomy\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page342\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from 344-384\"\u003e342-384\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#D\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e P\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eRINCIPLES WHICH LEAD AND DIRECT\u003c/span\u003e P\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHILOSOPHICAL\u003c/span\u003e\r\nI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNQUIRIES, ILLUSTRATED BY THE\u003c/span\u003e H\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eISTORY OF THE\u003c/span\u003e A\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNCIENT\u003c/span\u003e\r\nP\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHYSICS\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page385\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e385-395\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#E\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e P\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eRINCIPLES WHICH LEAD AND DIRECT\u003c/span\u003e P\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHILOSOPHICAL\u003c/span\u003e\r\nI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNQUIRIES, ILLUSTRATED BY THE\u003c/span\u003e H\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eISTORY OF\u003c/span\u003e A\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNCIENT\u003c/span\u003e\r\nL\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eOGICS AND\u003c/span\u003e M\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eETAPHYSICS\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page395\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e395-405\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#F\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eO\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eF THE\u003c/span\u003e N\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eATURE OF THAT\u003c/span\u003e I\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eMITATION WHICH TAKES PLACE IN\r\nWHAT ARE CALLED THE\u003c/span\u003e I\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eMITATIVE\u003c/span\u003e A\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eRTS\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page405\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e405\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003ePart Ⅰ., \u003ca href=\"#page405\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e405-415\u003c/a\u003e. Part Ⅱ., \u003ca href=\"#page415\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e415-432\u003c/a\u003e. Part III\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page432\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e432-434\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#G\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eO\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eF THE\u003c/span\u003e A\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eFFINITY BETWEEN\u003c/span\u003e M\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eUSIC,\u003c/span\u003e D\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eANCING, AND\u003c/span\u003e P\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eOETRY\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page435\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from 434\"\u003e435\u003c/span\u003e-438\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#H\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eO\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eF THE\u003c/span\u003e E\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eXTERNAL\u003c/span\u003e S\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eENSES\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page438\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e438-439\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\"\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"l\" colspan=\"8\"\u003eOf the Sense of Touching, \u003ca href=\"#page439\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e439-444\u003c/a\u003e. Of the Sense of\r\n Tasting, \u003ca href=\"#page444\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e444-445\u003c/a\u003e. Of the Sense of Smelling, \u003ca href=\"#page445\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e445\u003c/a\u003e.\r\n Of the Sense of Hearing, \u003ca href=\"#page445a\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e445-450\u003c/a\u003e. Of the Sense of\r\n Seeing\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page450\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e450-468\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\u003ctd colspan=\"10\"\u003e\u003chr\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\u003ctd colspan=\"9\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#I\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eO\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eF THE\u003c/span\u003e A\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eFFINITY BETWEEN CERTAIN\u003c/span\u003e E\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNGLISH AND\u003c/span\u003e I\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eTALIAN\u003c/span\u003e\r\nV\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eERSES\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003ctd class=\"r\"\u003e\u003ca href=\"#page468\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e468-473\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/td\u003e\r\n\u003c/tr\u003e\r\n\u003c/tbody\u003e\r\n\u003c/table\u003e\r\n\u003chr class=\"thirty\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ca id=\"page9\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch6 id=\"A\"\u003eTHE\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003eTHEORY\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eOF\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003eMORAL SENTIMENTS\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003e \u003ci\u003ePart Ⅰ.—Of the Propriety of Action.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—O\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eF THE\u003c/span\u003e S\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eENSE OF\u003c/span\u003e P\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eROPRIETY\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eOf Sympathy.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eH\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eOW\u003c/span\u003e selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some\r\nprinciples in his nature, which interest him in the fortune of others,\r\nand render their happiness necessary to him, though he derives nothing\r\nfrom it except the pleasure of seeing it. Of this kind is pity or\r\ncompassion, the emotion which we feel for the misery of others, when\r\nwe either see it, or are made to conceive it in a very lively manner.\r\nThat we often derive sorrow from the sorrow of others, is a matter of\r\nfact too obvious to require any instances to prove it; for this\r\nsentiment, like all the other original passions of human nature, is by\r\nno means confined to the virtuous and humane, though they perhaps may\r\nfeel it with the most exquisite sensibility. The greatest ruffian, the\r\nmost hardened violator of the laws of society, is not altogether\r\nwithout it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs we have no immediate experience of what other men feel, we can\r\nform no idea of the manner in which they are affected, but by\r\nconceiving what we ourselves should feel in the like situation. Though\r\nour brother is upon the rack, as long as we ourselves are at our ease,\r\nour senses will never inform us of what he suffers. They never did,\r\nand never can, carry us beyond our own person, and it is by the\r\nimagination only that we can form any conception of what are his\r\nsensations. Neither can that faculty help us to this any other way,\r\nthan by representing to us what would be our own, if we were in his\r\ncase. It is the impressions of our own senses only, not those of his,\r\nwhich our imaginations copy. By the imagination we place ourselves in\r\nhis situation, we conceive ourselves enduring all the same torments,\r\nwe enter as it were into his body, and become in some measure the same\r\nperson with him, and thence form some idea of his sensations, and even\r\nfeel something which, though weaker in degree, is not altogether\r\nunlike them. His agonies, when they are thus brought home to\r\nourselves, when we have thus adopted and made them our own, begin at\r\nlast to affect us, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page10\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e10\u003c/span\u003e and we then tremble and shudder at the thought\r\nof what he feels. For as to be in pain or distress of any kind excites\r\nthe most excessive sorrow, so to conceive or to imagine that we are in\r\nit, excites some degree of the same emotion, in proportion to the\r\nvivacity or dulness of the conception.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat this is the source of our fellow-feeling for the misery of\r\nothers, that it is by changing places in fancy with the sufferer, that\r\nwe come either to conceive or to be affected by what he feels, may be\r\ndemonstrated by many obvious observations, if it should not be thought\r\nsufficiently evident of itself. When we see a stroke aimed and just\r\nready to fall upon the leg or arm of another person, we naturally\r\nshrink and draw back our own leg or our own arm; and when it does\r\nfall, we feel it in some measure, and are hurt by it as well as the\r\nsufferer. The mob, when they are gazing at a dancer on the slack rope,\r\nnaturally writhe and twist and balance their own bodies, as they see\r\nhim do, and as they feel that they themselves must do if in his\r\nsituation. Persons of delicate fibres and a weak constitution of body\r\ncomplain, that in looking on the sores and ulcers which are exposed by\r\nbeggars in the streets, they are apt to feel an itching or uneasy\r\nsensation in the corresponding part of their own bodies. The horror\r\nwhich they conceive at the misery of those wretches affects that\r\nparticular part in themselves more than any other; because that horror\r\narises from conceiving what they themselves would suffer, if they\r\nreally were the wretches whom they are looking upon, and if that\r\nparticular part in themselves was actually affected in the same\r\nmiserable manner. The very force of this conception is sufficient, in\r\ntheir feeble frames, to produce that itching or uneasy sensation\r\ncomplained of. Men of the most robust make, observe that in looking\r\nupon sore eyes they often feel a very sensible soreness in their own,\r\nwhich proceeds from the same reason; that organ being in the strongest\r\nman more delicate, than any other part of the body is in the\r\nweakest.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNeither is it those circumstances only, which create pain or\r\nsorrow, that call forth our fellow-feeling. Whatever is the passion\r\nwhich arises from any object in the person principally concerned, an\r\nanalogous emotion springs up, at the thought of his situation, in the\r\nbreast of every attentive spectator. Our joy for the deliverance of\r\nthose heroes of tragedy or romance who interest us, is as sincere as\r\nour grief for their distress, and our fellow-feeling with their misery\r\nis not more real than that with their happiness. We enter into their\r\ngratitude towards those faithful friends who did not desert them in\r\ntheir difficulties; and we heartily go along with their resentment\r\nagainst those perfidious traitors who injured, abandoned, or deceived\r\nthem. In every passion of which the mind of man is susceptible, the\r\nemotions of the by-stander always correspond to what, by bringing the\r\ncase home to himself, he imagines should be the sentiments of the\r\nsufferer.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page11\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e11\u003c/span\u003e Pity and compassion are words appropriated to signify our\r\nfellow-feeling with the sorrow of others. Sympathy, though its meaning\r\nwas, perhaps, originally the same, may now, however, without much\r\nimpropriety, be made use of to denote our fellow-feeling with any\r\npassion whatever.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eUpon some occasions sympathy may seem to arise merely from the view\r\nof a certain emotion in another person. The passions, upon some\r\noccasions, may seem to be transfused from one man to another,\r\ninstantaneously, and antecedent to any knowledge of what excited them\r\nin the person principally concerned. Grief and joy, for example,\r\nstrongly expressed in the look and gestures of any one, at once affect\r\nthe spectator with some degree of a like painful or agreeable emotion.\r\nA smiling face is, to everybody that sees it, a cheerful object; as a\r\nsorrowful countenance, on the other hand, is a melancholy one.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis, however, does not hold universally, or with regard to every\r\npassion. There are some passions of which the expressions excite no\r\nsort of sympathy, but before we are acquainted with what gave occasion\r\nto them, serve rather to disgust and provoke us against them. The\r\nfurious behaviour of an angry man is more likely to exasperate us\r\nagainst himself than against his enemies. As we are unacquainted with\r\nhis provocation, we cannot bring his case home to ourselves, nor\r\nconceive anything like the passions which it excites. But we plainly\r\nsee what is the situation of those with whom he is angry, and to what\r\nviolence they may be exposed from so enraged an adversary. We readily,\r\ntherefore, sympathise with their fear or resentment, and are\r\nimmediately disposed to take part against the man from whom they\r\nappear to be in so much danger.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf the very appearances of grief and joy inspire us with some\r\ndegree of the like emotions, it is because they suggest to us the\r\ngeneral idea of some good or bad fortune that has befallen the person\r\nin whom we observe them: and in these passions this is sufficient to\r\nhave some little influence upon us. The effects of grief and joy\r\nterminate in the person who feels those emotions, of which the\r\nexpressions do not, like those of resentment, suggest to us the idea\r\nof any other person for whom we are concerned, and whose interests are\r\nopposite to his. The general idea of good or bad fortune, therefore,\r\ncreates some concern for the person who has met with it, but the\r\ngeneral idea of provocation excites no sympathy with the anger of the\r\nman who has received it. Nature, it seems, teaches us to be more\r\naverse to enter into this passion, and, till informed of its cause, to\r\nbe disposed rather to take part against it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEven our sympathy with the grief or joy of another, before we are\r\ninformed of the cause of either, is always extremely imperfect.\r\nGeneral lamentations, which express nothing but the anguish of the\r\nsufferer, create rather a curiosity to inquire into his situation,\r\nalong with some \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page12\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e12\u003c/span\u003e disposition to sympathize with him, than any\r\nactual sympathy that is very sensible. The first question which we ask\r\nis, What has befallen you? Till this be answered, though we are uneasy\r\nboth from the vague idea of his misfortune, and still more from\r\ntorturing ourselves with conjectures about what it may be, yet our\r\nfellow-feeling is not very considerable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSympathy, therefore, does not arise so much from the view of the\r\npassion, as from that of the situation which excites it. We sometimes\r\nfeel for another, a passion of which he himself seems to be altogether\r\nincapable; because, when we put ourselves in his case, that passion\r\narises in our breast from the imagination, though it does not in his\r\nfrom the reality. We blush for the impudence and rudeness of another,\r\nthough he himself appears to have no sense of the impropriety of his\r\nown behaviour; because we cannot help feeling with what confusion we\r\nourselves should be covered, had we behaved in so absurd a manner.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf all the calamities to which the condition of mortality exposes\r\nmankind, the loss of reason appears, to those who have the least spark\r\nof humanity, by far the most dreadful, and they behold that last stage\r\nof human wretchedness, with deeper commiseration than any other. But\r\nthe poor wretch, who is in it, laughs and sings perhaps, and is\r\naltogether insensible of his own misery. The anguish which humanity\r\nfeels, therefore, at the sight of such an object cannot be the\r\nreflection of any sentiment of the sufferer. The compassion of the\r\nspectator must arise altogether from the consideration of what he\r\nhimself would feel if he was reduced to the same unhappy situation,\r\nand, what perhaps is impossible, was at the same time able to regard\r\nit with his present reason and judgment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat are the pangs of a mother, when she hears the moanings of her\r\ninfant that during the agony of disease cannot express what it feels?\r\nIn her idea of what it suffers, she joins, to its real helplessness,\r\nher own consciousness of that helplessness, and her own terrors for\r\nthe unknown consequences of its disorder; and out of all these, forms,\r\nfor her own sorrow, the most complete image of misery and distress.\r\nThe infant, however, feels only the uneasiness of the present instant,\r\nwhich can never be great. With regard to the future, it is perfectly\r\nsecure, and in its thoughtlessness and want of foresight, possesses an\r\nantidote against fear and anxiety, the great tormentors of the human\r\nbreast, from which, reason and philosophy will, in vain, attempt to\r\ndefend it when it grows up to a man.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe sympathize even with the dead, and overlooking what is of real\r\nimportance in their situation, that awful futurity which awaits them,\r\nwe are chiefly affected by those circumstances which strike our\r\nsenses, but can have no influence upon their happiness. It is\r\nmiserable, we think, to be deprived of the light of the sun; to be\r\nshut out from life and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e13\u003c/span\u003e conversation; to be laid in the cold\r\ngrave, a prey to corruption and the reptiles of the earth; to be no\r\nmore thought of in this world, but to be obliterated, in a little\r\ntime, from the affections, and almost from the memory, of their\r\ndearest friends and relations. Surely, we imagine, we can never feel\r\ntoo much for those who have suffered so dreadful a calamity. The\r\ntribute of our fellow-feeling seems doubly due to them now, when they\r\nare in danger of being forgot by every body; and, by the vain honours\r\nwhich we pay to their memory, we endeavour, for our own misery,\r\nartificially to keep alive our melancholy remembrance of their\r\nmisfortune. That our sympathy can afford them no consolation seems to\r\nbe an addition to their calamity; and to think that all we can do is\r\nunavailing, and that, what alleviates all other distress, the regret,\r\nthe love, and the lamentations of their friends, can yield no comfort\r\nto them, serves only to exasperate our sense of their misery. The\r\nhappiness of the dead, however, most assuredly, is affected by none of\r\nthese circumstances; nor is it the thought of these things which can\r\never disturb the profound security of their repose. The idea of that\r\ndreary and endless melancholy, which the fancy naturally ascribes to\r\ntheir condition, arises altogether from our joining to the change\r\nwhich has been produced upon them, our own consciousness of that\r\nchange, from our putting ourselves in their situation, and from our\r\nlodging, if I may be allowed to say so, our own living souls in their\r\ninanimated bodies, and thence conceiving what would be our emotions in\r\nthis case. It is from this very illusion of the imagination, that the\r\nforesight of our own dissolution is so terrible to us, and that the\r\nidea of those circumstances, which undoubtedly can give us no pain\r\nwhen we are dead, makes us miserable while we are alive. And from\r\nthence arises one of the most important principles in human nature,\r\nthe dread of death, the great poison to the happiness, but the great\r\nrestraint upon the injustice of mankind, which, while it afflicts and\r\nmortifies the individual, guards and protects the society.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page13\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Pleasure of mutual Sympathy.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eB\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eUT\u003c/span\u003e whatever may be the cause of sympathy, or however it may be\r\nexcited, nothing pleases us more than to observe in other men a\r\nfellow-feeling with all the emotions of our own breast; nor are we\r\never so much shocked as by the appearance of the contrary. Those who\r\nare fond of deducing all our sentiments from certain refinements of\r\nself-love, think themselves at no loss to account, according to their\r\nown principles, both for this pleasure and this pain. Man, say they,\r\nconscious of his own weakness, and of the need which he has for the\r\nassistance of others, rejoices whenever he observes that they adopt\r\nhis own passions, because he is then assured of that assistance; and\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page14\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e14\u003c/span\u003e grieves whenever he observes the contrary, because he is then\r\nassured of their opposition. But both the pleasure and the pain are\r\nalways felt so instantaneously, and often upon such frivolous\r\noccasions, that it seems evident that neither of them can be derived\r\nfrom any such self-interested consideration. A man is mortified when,\r\nafter having endeavoured to divert the company, he looks round and\r\nsees that nobody laughs at his jests but himself. On the contrary, the\r\nmirth of the company is highly agreeable to him, and he regards this\r\ncorrespondence of their sentiments with his own as the greatest\r\napplause.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNeither does his pleasure seem to arise altogether from the\r\nadditional vivacity which his mirth may receive from sympathy with\r\ntheirs, nor his pain from the disappointment he meets with when he\r\nmisses this pleasure; though both the one and the other, no doubt, do\r\nin some measure. When we have read a book or poem so often that we can\r\nno longer find any amusement in reading it by ourselves, we can still\r\ntake pleasure in reading it to a companion. To him it has all the\r\ngraces of novelty; we enter into the surprise and admiration which it\r\nnaturally excites in him, but which it is no longer capable of\r\nexciting in us; we consider all the ideas which it presents rather in\r\nthe light in which they appear to him, than in that in which they\r\nappear to ourselves, and we are amused by sympathy with his amusement\r\nwhich thus enlivens our own. On the contrary, we should be vexed if he\r\ndid not seem to be entertained with it, and we could no longer take\r\nany pleasure in reading it to him. It is the same case here. The mirth\r\nof the company, no doubt, enlivens our own mirth, and their silence,\r\nno doubt, disappoints us. But though this may contribute both to the\r\npleasure which we derive from the one, and to the pain which we feel\r\nfrom the other, it is by no means the sole cause of either; and this\r\ncorrespondence of the sentiments of others with our own appears to be\r\na cause of pleasure, and the want of it a cause of pain, which cannot\r\nbe accounted for in this manner. The sympathy, which my friends\r\nexpress with my joy, might, indeed, give me pleasure by enlivening\r\nthat joy: but that which they express with my grief could give me\r\nnone, if it served only to enliven that grief. Sympathy, however,\r\nenlivens joy and alleviates grief. It enlivens joy by presenting\r\nanother source of satisfaction; and it alleviates grief by insinuating\r\ninto the heart almost the only agreeable sensation which it is at that\r\ntime capable of receiving.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is to be observed accordingly, that we are still more anxious to\r\ncommunicate to our friends our disagreeable than our agreeable\r\npassions, that we derive still more satisfaction from their sympathy\r\nwith the former than from that with the latter, and that we are still\r\nmore shocked by the want of it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHow are the unfortunate relieved when they have found out a person\r\nto whom they can communicate the cause of their sorrow? Upon his\r\nsympathy they seem to disburthen themselves of a part of their \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page15\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e15\u003c/span\u003e\r\ndistress: he is not improperly said to share it with them. He not only\r\nfeels a sorrow of the same kind with that which they feel, but, as if\r\nhe had derived a part of it to himself, what he feels seems to\r\nalleviate the weight of what they feel. Yet by relating their\r\nmisfortunes they in some measure renew their grief. They awaken in\r\ntheir memory the remembrance of those circumstances which occasion\r\ntheir affliction. Their tears accordingly flow faster than before, and\r\nthey are apt to abandon themselves to all the weakness of sorrow. They\r\ntake pleasure, however, in all this, and, it is evident, are sensibly\r\nrelieved by it; because the sweetness of his sympathy more than\r\ncompensates the bitterness of that sorrow, which, in order to excite\r\nthis sympathy, they had thus enlivened and renewed. The cruellest\r\ninsult, on the contrary, which can be offered to the unfortunate, is\r\nto appear to make light of their calamities. To seem not to be\r\naffected with the joy of our companions is but want of politeness; but\r\nnot to wear a serious countenance when they tell us their afflictions,\r\nis real and gross inhumanity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eLove is an agreeable, resentment a disagreeable, passion; and\r\naccordingly we are not half so anxious that our friends should adopt\r\nour friendships, as that they should enter into our resentments. We\r\ncan forgive them though they seem to be little affected with the\r\nfavours which we may have received, but lose all patience if they seem\r\nindifferent about the injuries which may have been done to us: nor are\r\nwe half so angry with them for not entering into our gratitude, as for\r\nnot sympathizing with our resentment. They can easily avoid being\r\nfriends to our friends, but can hardly avoid being enemies to those\r\nwith whom we are at variance. We seldom resent their being at enmity\r\nwith the first, though upon that account we may sometimes affect to\r\nmake an awkward quarrel with them; but we quarrel with them in good\r\nearnest if they live in friendship with the last. The agreeable\r\npassions of love and joy can satisfy and support the heart without any\r\nauxiliary pleasure. The bitter and painful emotions of grief and\r\nresentment more strongly require the healing consolation of\r\nsympathy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs the person who is principally interested in any event is pleased\r\nwith our sympathy, and hurt by the want of it, so we, too, seem to be\r\npleased when we are able to sympathize with him, and to be hurt when\r\nwe are unable to do so. We run not only to congratulate the\r\nsuccessful, but to condole with the afflicted; and the pleasure which\r\nwe find in the conversation of one whom in all the passions of his\r\nheart we can entirely sympathize with, seems to do more than\r\ncompensate the painfulness of that sorrow with which the view of his\r\nsituation affects us. On the contrary, it is always disagreeable to\r\nfeel that we cannot sympathize with him, and instead of being pleased\r\nwith this exemption from sympathetic pain, it hurts us to find that we\r\ncannot share his uneasiness. If we hear a person loudly lamenting his\r\nmisfortunes, which however, upon bringing the case home to ourselves,\r\nwe feel, can produce \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e16\u003c/span\u003e no such violent effect upon us, we are\r\nshocked at his grief; and, because we cannot enter into it, call it\r\npusillanimity and weakness. It gives us the spleen, on the other hand,\r\nto see another too happy or too much elevated, as we call it, with any\r\nlittle piece of good fortune. We are disobliged even with his joy;\r\nand, because we cannot go along with it, call it levity and folly. We\r\nare even put out of humour if our companion laughs louder or longer at\r\na joke than we think it deserves; that is, than we feel that we\r\nourselves could laugh at it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page16\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Manner in which we judge of the Propriety or\r\nImpropriety of the Affections of other Men, by their Concord or\r\nDissonance with our own.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eW\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHEN\u003c/span\u003e the original passions of the person principally concerned are\r\nin perfect concord with the sympathetic emotions of the spectator,\r\nthey necessarily appear to this last just and proper, and suitable to\r\ntheir objects; and, on the contrary, when, upon bringing the case home\r\nto himself, he finds that they do not coincide with what he feels,\r\nthey necessarily appear to him unjust and improper, and unsuitable to\r\nthe causes which excite them. To approve of the passions of another,\r\ntherefore, as suitable to their objects, is the same thing as to\r\nobserve that we entirely sympathize with them; and not to approve of\r\nthem as such, is the same thing as to observe that we do not entirely\r\nsympathize with them. The man who resents the injuries that have been\r\ndone to me, and observes that I resent them precisely as he does,\r\nnecessarily approves of my resentment. The man whose sympathy keeps\r\ntime to my grief, cannot but admit the reasonableness of my sorrow. He\r\nwho admires the same poem, or the same picture, and admires them\r\nexactly as I do, must surely allow the justness of my admiration. He\r\nwho laughs at the same joke, and laughs along with me, cannot well\r\ndeny the propriety of my laughter. On the contrary, the person who,\r\nupon these different occasions, either feels no such emotion as that\r\nwhich I feel, or feels none that bears any proportion to mine, cannot\r\navoid disapproving my sentiments on account of their dissonance with\r\nhis own. If my animosity goes beyond what the indignation of my friend\r\ncan correspond to; if my grief exceeds what his most tender compassion\r\ncan go along with; if my admiration is either too high or too low to\r\ntally with his own; if I laugh loud and heartily when he only smiles,\r\nor, on the contrary, only smile when he laughs loud and heartily; in\r\nall these cases, as soon as he comes from considering the object, to\r\nobserve how I am affected by it, according as there is more or less\r\ndisproportion between his sentiments and mine, I must incur a greater\r\nor less degree of his disapprobation: and upon all occasions his own\r\nsentiments are the standards and measures by which he judges of\r\nmine.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page17\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e17\u003c/span\u003e To approve of another man’s opinions is to adopt those\r\nopinions, and to adopt them is to approve of them. If the same\r\narguments which convince you convince me likewise, I necessarily\r\napprove of your conviction; and if they do not, I necessarily\r\ndisapprove of it: neither can I possibly conceive that I should do the\r\none without the other. To approve or disapprove, therefore, of the\r\nopinions of others is acknowledged, by every body, to mean no more\r\nthan to observe their agreement or disagreement with our own. But this\r\nis equally the case with regard to our approbation or disapprobation\r\nof the sentiments or passions of others.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere are, indeed, some cases in which we seem to approve without\r\nany sympathy or correspondence of sentiments, and in which,\r\nconsequently, the sentiment of approbation would seem to be different\r\nfrom the perception of this coincidence. A little attention, however,\r\nwill convince us that even in these cases our approbation is\r\nultimately founded upon a sympathy or correspondence of this kind. I\r\nshall give an instance in things of a very frivolous nature, because\r\nin them the judgments of mankind are less apt to be perverted by wrong\r\nsystems. We may often approve of a jest, and think the laughter of the\r\ncompany quite just and proper, though we ourselves do not laugh,\r\nbecause, perhaps, we are in a grave humour, or happen to have our\r\nattention engaged with other objects. We have learned, however, from\r\nexperience, what sort of pleasantry is upon most occasions capable of\r\nmaking us laugh, and we observe that this is one of that kind. We\r\napprove, therefore, of the laughter of the company, and feel that it\r\nis natural and suitable to its object; because, though in our present\r\nmode we cannot easily enter into it, we are sensible that upon most\r\noccasions we should very heartily join in it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe same thing often happens with regard to all the other passions.\r\nA stranger passes by us in the street with all the marks of the\r\ndeepest affliction; and we are immediately told that he has just\r\nreceived the news of the death of his father. It is impossible that,\r\nin this case, we should not approve of his grief. Yet it may often\r\nhappen, without any defect of humanity on our part, that, so far from\r\nentering into the violence of his sorrow, we should scarce conceive\r\nthe first movements of concern upon his account. Both he and his\r\nfather, perhaps, are entirely unknown to us, or we happen to be\r\nemployed about other things, and do not take time to picture out in\r\nour imagination the different circumstances of distress which must\r\noccur to him. We have learned, however, from experience, that such a\r\nmisfortune naturally excites such a degree of sorrow, and we know that\r\nif we took time to consider his situation, fully in all its parts, we\r\nshould, without doubt, most sincerely sympathize with him. It is upon\r\nthe consciousness of this conditional sympathy, that our approbation\r\nof his sorrow is founded, even in those cases in which that sympathy\r\ndoes not actually take place; \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page18\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e18\u003c/span\u003e and the general rules derived from\r\nour preceding experience of what our sentiments would commonly\r\ncorrespond with, correct upon this, as upon many other occasions, the\r\nimpropriety of our present emotions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe sentiment or affection of the heart from which any action\r\nproceeds, and upon which its whole virtue or vice must ultimately\r\ndepend, may be considered under two different aspects, or in two\r\ndifferent relations; first, in relation to the cause which excites it,\r\nor the motive which gives occasion to it; and secondly, in relation to\r\nthe end which it proposes, or the effect which it tends to\r\nproduce.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the suitableness or unsuitableness, in the proportion or\r\ndisproportion which the affection seems to bear to the cause or object\r\nwhich excites it, consists the propriety or impropriety, the decency\r\nor ungracefulness of the consequent action.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the beneficial or hurtful nature of the effects which the\r\naffection aims at, or tends to produce, consists the merit or demerit\r\nof the action, the qualities by which it is entitled to reward, or is\r\ndeserving of punishment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePhilosophers have, of late years, considered chiefly the tendency\r\nof affections, and have given little attention to the relation which\r\nthey stand in to the cause which excites them. In common life,\r\nhowever, when we judge of any person’s conduct, and of the sentiments\r\nwhich directed it, we constantly consider them under both these\r\naspects. When we blame in another man the excesses of love, of grief,\r\nof resentment, we not only consider the ruinous effect which they tend\r\nto produce, but the little occasion which was given for them. The\r\nmerit of his favourite, we say, is not so great, his misfortune is not\r\nso dreadful, his provocation is not so extraordinary, as to justify so\r\nviolent a passion. We should have indulged, we say, perhaps, have\r\napproved of the violence of his emotion, had the cause been in any\r\nrespect proportioned to it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen we judge in this manner of any affection as proportioned or\r\ndisproportioned to the cause which excites it, it is scarce possible\r\nthat we should make use of any other rule or canon but the\r\ncorrespondent affection in ourselves. If, upon bringing the case home\r\nto our own breast, we find that the sentiments which it gives occasion\r\nto, coincide and tally with our own, we necessarily approve of them as\r\nproportioned and suitable to their objects; if otherwise, we\r\nnecessarily disapprove of them, as extravagant and out of\r\nproportion.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEvery faculty in one man is the measure by which he judges of the\r\nlike faculty in another. I judge of your sight by my sight, of your\r\near by my ear, of your reason by my reason, of your resentment by my\r\nresentment, of your love by my love. I neither have, nor can have, any\r\nother way of judging about them. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page19\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e19\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ.—\u003ci\u003eThe same Subject continued.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eW\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eE\u003c/span\u003e may judge of the propriety or impropriety of the sentiments of\r\nanother person by their correspondence or disagreement with our own,\r\nupon two different occasions; either, first, when the objects which\r\nexcite them are considered without any peculiar relation, either to\r\nourselves or to the person whose sentiments we judge of; or, secondly,\r\nwhen they are considered as peculiarly affecting one or other of\r\nus.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e1. With regard to those objects which are considered without any\r\npeculiar relation either to ourselves or to the person whose\r\nsentiments we judge of; wherever his sentiments entirely correspond\r\nwith our own, we ascribe to him the qualities of taste and good\r\njudgment. The beauty of a plain, the greatness of a mountain, the\r\nornaments of a building, the expression of a picture, the composition\r\nof a discourse, the conduct of a third person, the proportions of\r\ndifferent quantities and numbers, the various appearances which the\r\ngreat machine of the universe is perpetually exhibiting, with the\r\nsecret wheels and springs which produce them; all the general subjects\r\nof science and taste, are what we and our companions regard as having\r\nno peculiar relation to either of us. We both look at them from the\r\nsame point of view, and we have no occasion for sympathy, or for that\r\nimaginary change of situations from which it arises, in order to\r\nproduce, with regard to these, the most perfect harmony of sentiments\r\nand affections. If, notwithstanding, we are often differently\r\naffected, it arises either from the different degrees of attention,\r\nwhich our different habits of life allow us to give easily to the\r\nseveral parts of those complex objects, or from the different degrees\r\nof natural acuteness in the faculty of the mind to which they are\r\naddressed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen the sentiments of our companion coincide with our own in\r\nthings of this kind, which are obvious and easy, and in which,\r\nperhaps, we never found a single person who differed from us, though\r\nwe, no doubt, must approve of them, yet he seems to deserve no praise\r\nor admiration on account of them. But when they not only coincide with\r\nour own, but lead and direct our own; when in forming them he appears\r\nto have attended to many things which we had overlooked, and to have\r\nadjusted them to all the various circumstances of their objects; we\r\nnot only approve of them, but wonder and are surprised at their\r\nuncommon and unexpected acuteness and comprehensiveness, and he\r\nappears to deserve a very high degree of admiration and applause. For\r\napprobation heightened by wonder and surprise, constitutes the\r\nsentiment which is properly called admiration, and of which applause\r\nis the natural expression. The decision of the man who judges that\r\nexquisite beauty is preferable to the grossest deformity, or that\r\ntwice two are equal to four, must certainly be approved of by \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page20\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e20\u003c/span\u003e all\r\nthe world, but will not, surely, be much admired. It is the acute and\r\ndelicate discernment of the man of taste, who distinguishes the\r\nminute, and scarce perceptible differences of beauty and deformity; it\r\nis the comprehensive accuracy of the experienced mathematician, who\r\nunravels, with ease, the most intricate and perplexed proportions; it\r\nis the great leader in science and taste, the man who directs and\r\nconducts our own sentiments, the extent and superior justness of whose\r\ntalents astonish us with wonder and surprise, who excites our\r\nadmiration, and seems to deserve our applause; and upon this\r\nfoundation is grounded the greater part of the praise which is\r\nbestowed upon what are called the intellectual virtues.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe utility of those qualities, it may be thought, is what first\r\nrecommends them to us; and, no doubt, the consideration of this, when\r\nwe come to attend to it, gives them a new value. Originally, however,\r\nwe approve of another man’s judgment, not as something useful, but as\r\nright, as accurate, as agreeable to truth and reality: and it is\r\nevident we attribute those qualities to it for no other reason but\r\nbecause we find that it agrees with our own. Taste, in the same\r\nmanner, is originally approved of, not as useful, but as just, as\r\ndelicate, and as precisely suited to its object. The idea of the\r\nutility of all qualities of this kind, is plainly an afterthought, and\r\nnot what first recommends them to our approbation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e2. With regard to those objects, which affect in a particular\r\nmanner either ourselves or the person whose sentiments we judge of, it\r\nis at once more difficult to preserve this harmony and correspondence,\r\nand at the same time, vastly more important. My companion does not\r\nnaturally look at the misfortune that has befallen me, or the injury\r\nthat has been done me, from the same point of view in which I consider\r\nthem. They affect me much more nearly. We do not view them from the\r\nsame station, as we do a picture, or a poem, or a system of\r\nphilosophy, and are, therefore, apt to be very differently affected by\r\nthem. But I can much more easily overlook the want of this\r\ncorrespondence of sentiments with regard to such indifferent objects\r\nas concern neither me nor my companion, than with regard to what\r\ninterests me so much as the misfortune that has befallen me, or the\r\ninjury that has been done me. Though you despise that picture, or that\r\npoem, or even that system of philosophy, which I admire, there is\r\nlittle danger of our quarrelling upon that account. Neither of us can\r\nreasonably be much interested about them. They ought all of them to be\r\nmatters of great indifference to us both; so that, though our opinions\r\nmay be opposite, our affections may still be very nearly the same. But\r\nit is quite otherwise with regard to those objects by which either you\r\nor I are particularly affected. Though your judgments in matters of\r\nspeculation, though your sentiments in matters of taste, are quite\r\nopposite to mine, I can easily overlook this opposition; and if I \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page21\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e21\u003c/span\u003e\r\nhave any degree of temper, I may still find some entertainment in your\r\nconversation, even upon those very subjects. But if you have either no\r\nfellow-feeling for the misfortunes I have met with, or none that bears\r\nany proportion to the grief which distracts me; or if you have either\r\nno indignation at the injuries I have suffered, or none that bears any\r\nproportion to the resentment which transports me, we can no longer\r\nconverse upon these subjects. We become intolerable to one another. I\r\ncan neither support your company, nor you mine. You are confounded at\r\nmy violence and passion, and I am enraged at your cold insensibility\r\nand want of feeling.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn all such cases, that there may be some correspondence of\r\nsentiments between the spectator and the person principally concerned,\r\nthe spectator must, first of all, endeavour, as much as he can, to put\r\nhimself in the situation of the other, and to bring home to himself\r\nevery little circumstance of distress which can possibly occur to the\r\nsufferer. He must adopt the whole case of his companion with all its\r\nminutest incidents; and strive to render as perfect as possible, that\r\nimaginary change of situation upon which his sympathy is founded.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAfter all this, however, the emotions of the spectator will still\r\nbe very apt to fall short of the violence of what is felt by the\r\nsufferer. Mankind, though naturally sympathetic, never conceive, for\r\nwhat has befallen another, that degree of passion which naturally\r\nanimates the person principally concerned. That imaginary change of\r\nsituation, upon which their sympathy is founded, is but momentary. The\r\nthought of their own safety, the thought that they themselves are not\r\nreally the sufferers, continually intrudes itself upon them; and\r\nthough it does not hinder them from conceiving a passion somewhat\r\nanalogous to what is felt by the sufferer, hinders them from\r\nconceiving any thing that approaches to the same degree of violence.\r\nThe person principally concerned is sensible of this, and at the same\r\ntime passionately desires a more complete sympathy. He longs for that\r\nrelief which nothing can afford him but the entire concord of the\r\naffections of the spectators with his own. To see the emotions of\r\ntheir hearts, in every respect, beat time to his own, in the violent\r\nand disagreeable passions, constitutes his sole consolation. But he\r\ncan only hope to obtain this by lowering his passion to that pitch, in\r\nwhich the spectators are capable of going along with him. He must\r\nflatten, if I may be allowed to say so, the sharpness of its natural\r\ntone, in order to reduce it to harmony and concord with the emotions\r\nof those who are about him. What they feel, will, indeed, always be,\r\nin some respects, different from what he feels, and compassion can\r\nnever be exactly the same with original sorrow; because the secret\r\nconsciousness that the change of situations, from which the\r\nsympathetic sentiment arises, is but imaginary, not only lowers it in\r\ndegree, but, in some measure, varies it in kind, and gives it a quite\r\ndifferent modification. These two \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page22\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e22\u003c/span\u003e sentiments, however, may, it is\r\nevident, have such a correspondence with one another, as is sufficient\r\nfor the harmony of society. Though they will never be unisons, they\r\nmay be concords, and this is all that is wanted or required.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn order to produce this concord, as nature teaches the spectators\r\nto assume the circumstance of the person principally concerned, so she\r\nteaches this last in some measure to assume those of the spectators.\r\nAs they are continually placing themselves in his situation, and\r\nthence conceiving emotions similar to what he feels; so he is as\r\nconstantly placing himself in theirs, and thence conceiving some\r\ndegree of that coolness about his own fortune, with which he is\r\nsensible that they will view it. As they are constantly considering\r\nwhat they themselves would feel, if they actually were the sufferers,\r\nso he is as constantly led to imagine in what manner he would be\r\naffected if he was only one of the spectators of his own situation. As\r\ntheir sympathy makes them look at it, in some measure, with his eyes,\r\nso his sympathy makes him look at it, in some measure, with theirs,\r\nespecially when in their presence and acting under their observation:\r\nand as the reflected passion, which he thus conceives, is much weaker\r\nthan the original one, it necessarily abates the violence of what he\r\nfelt before he came into their presence, before he began to recollect\r\nin what manner they would be affected by it, and to view his situation\r\nin this candid and impartial light.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe mind, therefore, is rarely so disturbed, but that the company\r\nof a friend will restore it to some degree of tranquillity and\r\nsedateness. The breast is, in some measure, calmed and composed the\r\nmoment we come into his presence. We are immediately put in mind of\r\nthe light in which he will view our situation, and we begin to view it\r\nourselves in the same light; for the effect of sympathy is\r\ninstantaneous. We expect less sympathy from a common acquaintance than\r\nfrom a friend: we cannot open to the former all those little\r\ncircumstances which we can unfold to the latter: we assume, therefore,\r\nmore tranquillity before him, and endeavour to fix our thoughts upon\r\nthose general outlines of our situation which he is willing to\r\nconsider. We expect still less sympathy from an assembly of strangers,\r\nand we assume, therefore, still more tranquillity before them, and\r\nalways endeavour to bring down our passion to that pitch, which the\r\nparticular company we are in may be expected to go along with. Nor is\r\nthis only an assumed appearance: for if we are at all masters of\r\nourselves, the presence of a mere acquaintance will really compose us,\r\nstill more than that of a friend; and that of an assembly of strangers\r\nstill more than that of an acquaintance.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSociety and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful remedies\r\nfor restoring the mind to its tranquillity, if, at any time, it has\r\nunfortunately lost it; as well as the best preservatives of that equal\r\nand \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e23\u003c/span\u003e happy temper, which is so necessary to self-satisfaction and\r\nenjoyment. Men of retirement and speculation, who are apt to sit\r\nbrooding at home over either grief or resentment, though they may\r\noften have more humanity, more generosity, and a nicer sense of\r\nhonour, yet seldom possess that equality of temper which is so common\r\namong men of the world.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page23\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅴ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the amiable and respectable Virtues.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eU\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003ePON\u003c/span\u003e these two different efforts, upon that of the spectator to\r\nenter into the sentiments of the person principally concerned, and\r\nupon that of the person principally concerned to bring down his\r\nemotions to what the spectator can go along with, are founded two\r\ndifferent sets of virtues. The soft, the gentle, the amiable virtues,\r\nthe virtues of candid condescension and indulgent humanity, are\r\nfounded upon the one: the great, the awful and respectable, the\r\nvirtues of self-denial, of self-government, of that command of the\r\npassions which subjects all the movements of our nature to what our\r\nown dignity and honour, and the propriety of our own conduct require,\r\ntake their origin from the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHow amiable does he appear to be, whose sympathetic heart seems to\r\nre-echo all the sentiments of those with whom he converses, who\r\ngrieves for their calamities, who resents their injuries, and who\r\nrejoices at their good fortune! When we bring home to ourselves the\r\nsituation of his companions, we enter into their gratitude, and feel\r\nwhat consolation they must derive from the tender sympathy of so\r\naffectionate a friend. And for a contrary reason, how disagreeable\r\ndoes he appear to be, whose hard and obdurate heart feels for himself\r\nonly, but is altogether insensible to the happiness or misery of\r\nothers! We enter, in this case, too, into the pain which his presence\r\nmust give to every mortal with whom he converses, to those especially\r\nwith whom we are most apt to sympathize, the unfortunate and the\r\ninjured.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOn the other hand, what noble propriety and grace do we feel in the\r\nconduct of those who, in their own case, exert that recollection and\r\nself-command which constitute the dignity of every passion, and which\r\nbring it down to what others can enter into? We are disgusted with\r\nthat clamorous grief, which, without any delicacy, calls upon our\r\ncompassion with sighs and tears and importunate lamentations. But we\r\nreverence that reserved, that silent and majestic sorrow, which\r\ndiscovers itself only in the swelling of the eyes, in the quivering of\r\nthe lips and cheeks, and in the distant, but affecting, coldness of\r\nthe whole behaviour. It imposes the like silence upon us. We regard it\r\nwith respectful attention, and watch with anxious concern over our\r\nwhole behaviour, lest by any impropriety we should disturb that\r\nconcerted tranquillity, which it requires so great an effort to\r\nsupport.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe insolence and brutality of anger, in the same manner, when we\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page24\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e24\u003c/span\u003e indulge its fury without check or restraint, is of all objects\r\nthe most detestable. But we admire that noble and generous resentment\r\nwhich governs its pursuit of the greatest injuries, not by the rage\r\nwhich they are apt to excite in the breast of the sufferer, but by the\r\nindignation which they naturally call forth in that part of the\r\nimpartial spectator; which allows no word, no gesture, to escape it\r\nbeyond what this more equitable sentiment would dictate; which never,\r\neven in thought, attempts any greater vengeance, nor desires to\r\ninflict any greater punishment, than what every indifferent person\r\nwould rejoice to see executed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAnd hence it is, that to feel much for others and little for\r\nourselves, that to restrain our selfish, and to indulge our benevolent\r\naffections, constitutes the perfection of human nature; and can alone\r\nproduce among mankind that harmony of sentiments and passions in which\r\nconsists their whole grace and propriety. As to love our neighbour as\r\nwe love ourselves is the great law of Christianity, so it is the great\r\nprecept of nature to love ourselves only as we love our neighbour, or\r\nwhat comes to the same thing, as our neighbour is found capable of\r\nloving us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs taste and good judgment, when they are considered as qualities\r\nwhich deserve praise and admiration, are supposed to imply a delicacy\r\nof sentiment and an acuteness of understanding not commonly to be met\r\nwith; so the virtues of sensibility and self-command are not\r\napprehended to consist in the ordinary, but in the uncommon degrees of\r\nthose qualities. The amiable virtue of humanity requires, surely, a\r\nsensibility much beyond what is possessed by the rude vulgar of\r\nmankind. The great and exalted virtue of magnanimity undoubtedly\r\ndemands much more than that degree of self-command, which the weakest\r\nof mortals is capable of exerting. As in the common degree of the\r\nintellectual qualities, there is no ability; so in the common degree\r\nof the moral, there is no virtue. Virtue is excellence, something\r\nuncommonly great and beautiful, which rises far above what is vulgar\r\nand ordinary. The amiable virtues consist in that degree of\r\nsensibility which surprises by its exquisite and unexpected delicacy\r\nand tenderness. The awful and respectable, in that degree of\r\nself-command which astonishes by its amazing superiority over the most\r\nungovernable passions of human nature.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere is, in this respect, a considerable difference between virtue\r\nand mere propriety; between those qualities and actions which deserve\r\nto be admired and celebrated, and those which simply deserve to be\r\napproved of. Upon many occasions, to act with the most perfect\r\npropriety, requires no more than that common and ordinary degree of\r\nsensibility or self-command which the most worthless of mankind are\r\npossest of, and sometimes even that degree is not necessary. Thus, to\r\ngive a very low instance, to eat when we are hungry, is certainly,\r\nupon \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page25\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e25\u003c/span\u003e ordinary occasions, perfectly right and proper, and cannot\r\nmiss being approved of as such by every body. Nothing, however, could\r\nbe more absurd than to say it was virtuous.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOn the contrary, there may frequently be a considerable degree of\r\nvirtue in those actions which fall short of the most perfect\r\npropriety; because they may still approach nearer to perfection than\r\ncould well be expected upon occasions in which it was so extremely\r\ndifficult to attain it: and this is very often the case upon those\r\noccasions which require the greatest exertions of self-command. There\r\nare some situations which bear so hard upon human nature, that the\r\ngreatest degree of self-government, which can belong to so imperfect a\r\ncreature as man, is not able to stifle altogether the voice of human\r\nweakness, or reduce the violence of the passions to that pitch of\r\nmoderation, in which the impartial spectator can entirely enter into\r\nthem. Though in those cases, therefore, the behaviour of the sufferer\r\nfall short of the most perfect propriety, it may still deserve some\r\napplause, and even in a certain sense may be denominated virtuous. It\r\nmay still manifest an effort of generosity and magnanimity of which\r\nthe greater part of men are wholly incapable; and though it fails of\r\nabsolute perfection, it may be a much nearer approximation towards\r\nperfection, than what, upon such trying occasions, is commonly either\r\nto be found or to be expected.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn cases of this kind, when we are determining the degree of blame\r\nor applause which seems due to any action, we very frequently make use\r\nof two different standards. The first is the idea of complete\r\npropriety and perfection, which, in those difficult situations, no\r\nhuman conduct ever did, or ever can come up to; and in comparison with\r\nwhich the actions of all men must for ever appear blamable and\r\nimperfect. The second is the idea of that degree of proximity or\r\ndistance from this complete perfection, which the actions of the\r\ngreater part of men commonly arrive at. Whatever goes beyond this\r\ndegree, how far soever it may be removed from absolute perfection,\r\nseems to deserve applause; and whatever falls short of it, to deserve\r\nblame.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is in the same manner that we judge of the productions of all\r\nthe arts which address themselves to the imagination. When a critic\r\nexamines the work of any of the great masters in poetry or painting,\r\nhe may sometimes examine it by an idea of perfection, in his own mind,\r\nwhich neither that nor any other human work will ever come up to; and\r\nas long as he compares it with this standard, he can see nothing in\r\nit but faults and imperfections. But when he comes to consider the\r\nrank which it ought to hold among other works of the same kind, he\r\nnecessarily compares it with a very different standard, the common\r\ndegree of excellence which is usually attained in this particular art;\r\nand when he judges of it by this new measure, it may often appear to\r\ndeserve the highest applause, upon account of its approaching \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e26\u003c/span\u003e\r\nmuch nearer to perfection than the greater part of those works which\r\ncan be brought into competition with it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page26\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—OF THE DEGREES OF THE DIFFERENT PASSIONS WHICH ARE\r\nCONSISTENT WITH PROPRIETY.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNTRODUCTION\u003c/span\u003e.—The propriety of every passion excited by objects\r\npeculiarly related to ourselves, the pitch which the spectator can go\r\nalong with, must lie, it is evident, in a certain mediocrity. If the\r\npassion is too high, or if it is too low, he cannot enter into it.\r\nGrief and resentment for private misfortunes and injuries may easily,\r\nfor example, be too high, and in the greater part of mankind they are\r\nso. They may likewise, though this more rarely happens, be too low. We\r\ndenominate the excess weakness and fury: and we call the defect\r\nstupidity, insensibility, and want of spirit. We can enter into\r\nneither of them, but are astonished and confounded to see them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis mediocrity, however, in which the point of propriety consists,\r\nis different in different passions. It is high in some, and low in\r\nothers. There are some passions which it is indecent to express very\r\nstrongly, even upon those occasions, in which it is acknowledged that\r\nwe cannot avoid feeling them in the highest degree. And there are\r\nothers of which the strongest expressions are upon many occasions\r\nextremely graceful, even though the passions themselves do not,\r\nperhaps, arise so necessarily. The first are those passions with\r\nwhich, for certain reasons, there is little or no sympathy: the second\r\nare those with which, for other reasons, there is the greatest. And if\r\nwe consider all the different passions of human nature, we shall find\r\nthat they are regarded as decent, or indecent, just in proportion as\r\nmankind are more or less disposed to sympathize with them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Passions which take their Origin from the\r\nBody.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003e1. I\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eT\u003c/span\u003e is indecent to express any strong degree of those passions\r\nwhich arise from a certain situation or disposition of the body;\r\nbecause the company, not being in the same disposition, cannot be\r\nexpected to sympathize with them. Violent hunger, for example, though\r\nupon many occasions not only natural, but unavoidable, is always\r\nindecent, and to eat voraciously is universally regarded as a piece of\r\nill manners. There is, however, some degree of sympathy, even with\r\nhunger. It is agreeable to see our companions eat with a good\r\nappetite, and all expressions of loathing are offensive. The\r\ndisposition of body which is habitual to a man in health, makes his\r\nstomach easily keep time, if I may be allowed so coarse an expression,\r\nwith the one, and not with the other. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page27\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e27\u003c/span\u003e We can sympathize with the\r\ndistress which excessive hunger occasions when we read the description\r\nof it in the journal of a siege, or of a sea voyage. We imagine\r\nourselves in the situation of the sufferers, and thence readily\r\nconceive the grief, the fear, and consternation, which must\r\nnecessarily distract them. We feel, ourselves, some degree of those\r\npassions, and therefore sympathize with them: but as we do not grow\r\nhungry by reading the description, we cannot properly, even in this\r\ncase, be said to sympathize with their hunger.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is the same case with the passion by which Nature unites the two\r\nsexes. Though naturally the most furious of all the passions, all\r\nstrong expressions of it are upon every occasion indecent, even\r\nbetween persons in whom its most complete indulgence is acknowledged\r\nby all laws, both human and divine, to be perfectly innocent. There\r\nseems, however, to be some degree of sympathy even with this passion.\r\nTo talk to a woman as we should to a man is improper: it is expected\r\nthat their company should inspire us with more gaiety, more\r\npleasantry, and more attention; and an entire insensibility to the\r\nfair sex, renders a man contemptible in some measure even to the\r\nmen.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch is our aversion for all the appetites which take their origin\r\nfrom the body; all strong expressions of them are loathsome and\r\ndisagreeable. According to some ancient philosophers, these are the\r\npassions which we share in common with the brutes, and which, having\r\nno connexion with the characteristical qualities of human nature, are\r\nupon that account beneath its dignity. But there are many other\r\npassions which we share in common with the brutes, such as resentment,\r\nnatural affection, even gratitude, which do not, upon that account,\r\nappear to be so brutal. The true cause of the peculiar disgust which\r\nwe conceive for the appetites of the body when we see them in other\r\nmen, is that we cannot enter into them. To the person himself who\r\nfeels them, as soon as they are gratified, the object that excited\r\nthem ceases to be agreeable: even its presence often becomes offensive\r\nto him; he looks round to no purpose for the charm which transported\r\nhim the moment before, and he can now as little enter into his own\r\npassion as another person. When we have dined, we order the covers to\r\nbe removed; and we should treat in the same manner the objects of the\r\nmost ardent and passionate desires, if they were the objects of no\r\nother passions but those which take their origin from the body.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the command of those appetites of the body consists that virtue\r\nwhich is properly called temperance. To restrain them within those\r\nbounds which regard to health and fortune prescribes, is the part of\r\nprudence. But to confine them within those limits which grace, which\r\npropriety, which delicacy, and which modesty, require, is the office\r\nof temperance.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e2. It is for the same reason that to cry out with bodily pain, how\r\nintolerable soever, appears always unmanly and unbecoming. There \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page28\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e28\u003c/span\u003e\r\nis, however, a good deal of sympathy even with bodily pain. If, as has\r\nalready been observed, I see a stroke aimed, and just ready to fall\r\nupon the leg, or arm, of another person, I naturally shrink and draw\r\nback my own leg, or my own arm: and when it does fall, I feel it in\r\nsome measure, and am hurt by it as well as the sufferer. My hurt,\r\nhowever, is, no doubt, excessively slight, and, upon that account, if\r\nhe makes any violent outcry, as I cannot go along with him, I never\r\nfail to despise him. And this is the case of all the passions which\r\ntake their origin from the body: they excite either no sympathy at\r\nall, or such a degree of it, as is altogether disproportioned to the\r\nviolence of what is felt by the sufferer.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is quite otherwise with those passions which take their origin\r\nfrom the imagination. The frame of my body can be but little affected\r\nby the alterations which are brought about upon that of my companion:\r\nbut my imagination is more ductile, and more readily assumes, if I may\r\nsay so, the shape and configuration of the imaginations of those with\r\nwhom I am familiar. A disappointment in love, or ambition, will, upon\r\nthis account, call forth more sympathy than the greatest bodily evil.\r\nThose passions arise altogether from the imagination. The person who\r\nhas lost his whole fortune, if he is in health, feels nothing in his\r\nbody. What he suffers is from the imagination only, which represents\r\nto him the loss of his dignity, neglect from his friends, contempt\r\nfrom his enemies, dependence, want, and misery, coming fast upon him;\r\nand we sympathize with him the more strongly upon this account,\r\nbecause our imaginations can the more readily mould themselves upon\r\nhis imagination, than our bodies can mould themselves upon his\r\nbody.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe loss of a leg may generally be regarded as a more real calamity\r\nthan the loss of a mistress. It would be a ridiculous tragedy,\r\nhowever, of which the catastrophe was to turn upon a loss of that\r\nkind. A misfortune of the other kind, how frivolous soever it may\r\nappear to be, has given occasion to many a fine one.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNothing is so soon forgot as pain. The moment it is gone the whole\r\nagony of it is over, and the thought of it can no longer give us any\r\nsort of disturbance. We ourselves cannot then enter into the anxiety\r\nand anguish which we had before conceived. An unguarded word from a\r\nfriend will occasion a more durable uneasiness. The agony which this\r\ncreates is by no means over with the word. What at first disturbs us\r\nis not the object of the senses, but the idea of the imagination. As\r\nit is an idea, therefore, which occasions our uneasiness, till time\r\nand other accidents have in some measure effaced it from our memory,\r\nthe imagination continues to fret and rankle within, from the thought\r\nof it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePain never calls forth any very lively sympathy unless it is\r\naccompanied with danger. We sympathize with the fear, though not with\r\nthe agony of the sufferer. Fear, however, is a passion derived\r\naltogether \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page29\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e29\u003c/span\u003e from the imagination, which represents, with an\r\nuncertainty and fluctuation that increases our anxiety, not what we\r\nreally feel, but what we may hereafter possibly suffer. The gout or\r\nthe tooth-ache, though exquisitely painful, excite very little\r\nsympathy; more dangerous diseases, though accompanied with very little\r\npain, excite the highest.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSome people faint and grow sick at the sight of a chirurgical\r\noperation, and that bodily pain which is occasioned by tearing the\r\nflesh, seems, in them, to excite the most excessive sympathy. We\r\nconceive in a much more lively and distinct manner the pain which\r\nproceeds from an external cause, than we do that which arises from an\r\ninternal disorder. I can scarce form an idea of the agonies of my\r\nneighbour when he is tortured with the gout, or the stone; but I have\r\nthe clearest conception of what he must suffer from an incision, a\r\nwound, or a fracture. The chief cause, however, why such objects\r\nproduce such violent effects upon us, is their novelty. One who has\r\nbeen witness to a dozen dissections, and as many amputations, sees,\r\never after, all operations of this kind with great indifference, and\r\noften with perfect insensibility. Though we have read or seen\r\nrepresented more than five hundred tragedies, we shall seldom feel so\r\nentire an abatement of our sensibility to the objects which they\r\nrepresent to us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn some of the Greek tragedies there is an attempt to excite\r\ncompassion, by the representation of the agonies of bodily pain.\r\nPhiloctetes cries out and faints from the extremity of his sufferings.\r\nHippolytus and Hercules are both introduced as expiring under the\r\nseverest tortures, which, it seems, even the fortitude of Hercules was\r\nincapable of supporting. In all these cases, however, it is not the\r\npain which interests us, but some other circumstance. It is not the\r\nsore foot, but the solitude, of Philoctetes which affects us, and\r\ndiffuses over that charming tragedy, that romantic wildness, which is\r\nso agreeable to the imagination. The agonies of Hercules and\r\nHippolytus are interesting only because we foresee that death is to be\r\nthe consequence. If those heroes were to recover, we should think the\r\nrepresentation of their sufferings perfectly ridiculous. What a\r\ntragedy would that be of which the distress consisted in a colic! Yet\r\nno pain is more exquisite. These attempts to excite compassion by the\r\nrepresentation of bodily pain, may be regarded as among the greatest\r\nbreaches of decorum of which the Greek theatre has set the\r\nexample.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe little sympathy which we feel with bodily pain, is the\r\nfoundation of the propriety of constancy and patience in enduring it.\r\nThe man, who under the severest tortures allows no weakness to escape\r\nhim, vents no groan, gives way to no passion which we do not entirely\r\nenter into, commands our highest admiration. His firmness enables him\r\nto keep time with our indifference and insensibility. We admire and\r\nentirely go along with the magnanimous effort which he makes for this\r\npurpose. We approve of his behaviour, and from our experience of the\r\ncommon \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e30\u003c/span\u003e weakness of human nature, we are surprised, and wonder how\r\nhe should be able to act so as to deserve approbation. Approbation,\r\nmixed and animated by wonder and surprise, constitutes the sentiment\r\nwhich is properly called admiration, of which, applause is the natural\r\nexpression, as has already been observed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page30\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf those Passions which take their Origin from a\r\nparticular Turn or Habit of the Imagination.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eE\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eVEN\u003c/span\u003e of the passions derived from the imagination, those which take\r\ntheir origin from a peculiar turn or habit it has acquired, though\r\nthey may be acknowledged to be perfectly natural, are, however, but\r\nlittle sympathized with. The imaginations of mankind, not having\r\nacquired that particular turn, cannot enter into them; and such\r\npassions, though they may be allowed to be almost unavoidable in some\r\npart of life, are always, in some measure, ridiculous. This is the\r\ncase with that strong attachment which naturally grows up between two\r\npersons of different sexes, who have long fixed their thoughts upon\r\none another. Our imagination not having run in the same channel with\r\nthat of the lover, we cannot enter into the eagerness of his emotions.\r\nIf our friend has been injured, we readily sympathize with his\r\nresentment, and grow angry with the very person with whom he is angry.\r\nIf he has received a benefit, we readily enter into his gratitude, and\r\nhave a very high sense of the merit of his benefactor. But if he is in\r\nlove, though we may think his passion just as reasonable as any of the\r\nkind, yet we never think ourselves bound to conceive a passion of the\r\nsame kind, and for the same person for whom he has conceived it. The\r\npassion appears to every body, but the man who feels it, entirely\r\ndisproportioned to the value of the object; and love, though it is\r\npardoned in a certain age because we know it is natural, is always\r\nlaughed at, because we cannot enter into it. All serious and strong\r\nexpressions of it appear ridiculous to a third person; and though a\r\nlover may be good company to his mistress, he is so to nobody else. He\r\nhimself is sensible of this; and as long as he continues in his sober\r\nsenses, endeavours to treat his own passion with raillery and\r\nridicule. It is the only style in which we care to hear of it; because\r\nit is the only style in which we ourselves are disposed to talk of it.\r\nWe grow weary of the grave, pedantic, and long-sentenced love of\r\nCowley and Petrarca, who never have done with exaggerating the\r\nviolence of their attachments; but the gaiety of Ovid, and the\r\ngallantry of Horace, are always agreeable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though we feel no proper sympathy with an attachment of this\r\nkind, though we never approach even in imagination towards conceiving\r\na passion for that particular person, yet as we either have conceived,\r\nor may be disposed to conceive, passions of the same kind, we readily\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page31\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e31\u003c/span\u003e enter into those high hopes of happiness which are proposed from\r\nits gratification, as well as into that exquisite distress which is\r\nfeared from its disappointment. It interests us not as a passion, but\r\nas a situation that gives occasion to other passions which interest\r\nus; to hope, to fear, and to distress of every kind: in the same\r\nmanner as in a description of a sea voyage, it is not the hunger which\r\ninterests us, but the distress which that hunger occasions. Though we\r\ndo not properly enter into the attachment of the lover, we readily go\r\nalong with those expectations of romantic happiness which he derives\r\nfrom it. We feel how natural it is for the mind, in a certain\r\nsituation, relaxed with indolence, and fatigued with the violence of\r\ndesire, to long for serenity and quiet, to hope to find them in the\r\ngratification of that passion which distracts it, and to frame to\r\nitself the idea of that life of pastoral tranquillity and retirement\r\nwhich the elegant, the tender, and the passionate Tibullus takes so\r\nmuch pleasure in describing; a life like what the poets describe in\r\nthe Fortunate Islands, a life of friendship, liberty, and repose; free\r\nfrom labour, and from care, and from all the turbulent passions which\r\nattend them. Even scenes of this kind interest us most, when they are\r\npainted rather as what is hoped, than as what is enjoyed. The\r\ngrossness of that passion, which mixes with, and is, perhaps, the\r\nfoundation of love, disappears when its gratification is far off and\r\nat a distance; but renders the whole offensive, when described as what\r\nis immediately possessed. The happy passion, upon this account,\r\ninterests us much less than the fearful and the melancholy. We tremble\r\nfor whatever can disappoint such natural and agreeable hopes: and thus\r\nenter into all the anxiety, and concern, and distress of the\r\nlover.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHence it is, that, in some modern tragedies and romances, this\r\npassion appears so wonderfully interesting. It is not so much the love\r\nof Castalio and Monimia which attaches us in the orphan, as the\r\ndistress which that love occasions. The author who should introduce\r\ntwo lovers, in a scene of perfect security, expressing their mutual\r\nfondness for one another, would excite laughter, and not sympathy. If\r\na scene of this kind is ever admitted into a tragedy, it is always, in\r\nsome measure, improper, and is endured, not from any sympathy with the\r\npassion that is expressed in it, but from concern for the dangers and\r\ndifficulties with which the audience foresee that its gratification is\r\nlikely to be attended.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe reserve which the laws of society impose upon the fair sex,\r\nwith regard to this weakness, renders it more peculiarly distressful\r\nin them, and, upon that very account, more deeply interesting. We are\r\ncharmed with the love of Phædra, as it is expressed in the French\r\ntragedy of that name, notwithstanding all the extravagance and guilt\r\nwhich attend it. That very extravagance and guilt may be said, in some\r\nmeasure, to recommend it to us. Her fear, her shame, her remorse, her\r\nhorror, her despair, become thereby more natural and interesting. All\r\nthe \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e32\u003c/span\u003e secondary passions, if I may be allowed to call them so,\r\nwhich arise from the situation of love, become necessarily more\r\nfurious and violent; and it is with these secondary passions only that\r\nwe can properly be said to sympathize.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf all the passions, however, which are so extravagantly\r\ndisproportioned to the value of their objects, love is the only one\r\nthat appears, even to the weakest minds, to have any thing in it that\r\nis either graceful or agreeable. In itself, first of all, though it\r\nmay be ridiculous, it is not naturally odious; and though its\r\nconsequences are often fatal and dreadful, its intentions are seldom\r\nmischievous. And then, though there is little propriety in the passion\r\nitself, there is a good deal in some of those which always accompany\r\nit. There is in love a strong mixture of humanity, generosity,\r\nkindness, friendship, esteem; passions with which, of all others, for\r\nreasons which shall be explained immediately, we have the greatest\r\npropensity to sympathize, even notwithstanding we are sensible that\r\nthey are, in some measure, excessive. The sympathy which we feel with\r\nthem, renders the passion which they accompany less disagreeable, and\r\nsupports it in our imagination, notwithstanding all the vices which\r\ncommonly go along with it; though in the one sex it necessarily leads\r\nto the last ruin and infamy; and though in the other, where it is\r\napprehended to be least fatal, it is almost always attended with an\r\nincapacity for labour, a neglect of duty, a contempt of fame, and even\r\nof common reputation. Notwithstanding all this, the degree of\r\nsensibility and generosity with which it is supposed to be\r\naccompanied, renders it to many the object of vanity; and they are\r\nfond of appearing capable of feeling what would do them no honour if\r\nthey had really felt it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is for a reason of the same kind, that a certain reserve is\r\nnecessary when we talk of our own friends, our own studies, our own\r\nprofessions. All these are objects which we cannot expect should\r\ninterest our companions in the same degree in which they interest us.\r\nAnd it is for want of this reserve, that the one half of mankind make\r\nbad company to the other. A philosopher is company to a philosopher\r\nonly; the member of a club, to his own little knot of companions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page32\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the unsocial Passions.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHERE\u003c/span\u003e is another set of passions, which, though derived from the\r\nimagination, yet before we can enter into them, or regard them as\r\ngraceful or becoming, must always be brought down to a pitch much\r\nlower than that to which undisciplined nature would raise them. These\r\nare, hatred and resentment, with all their different modifications.\r\nWith regard to all such passions, our sympathy is divided between the\r\nperson who feels them, and the person who is the object of them. The\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page33\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e33\u003c/span\u003e interests of these two are directly opposite. What our sympathy\r\nwith the person who feels them would prompt us to wish for, our\r\nfellow-feeling with the other would lead us to fear. As they are both\r\nmen, we are concerned for both, and our fear for what the one may\r\nsuffer, damps our resentment for what the other has suffered. Our\r\nsympathy, therefore, with the man who has received the provocation,\r\nnecessarily falls short of the passion which naturally animates him,\r\nnot only upon account of those general causes which render all\r\nsympathetic passions inferior to the original ones, but upon account\r\nof that particular cause which is peculiar to itself, our opposite\r\nsympathy with another person. Before resentment, therefore, can become\r\ngraceful and agreeable, it must be more humbled and brought down below\r\nthat pitch to which it would naturally rise, than almost any other\r\npassion.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMankind, at the same time, have a very strong sense of the injuries\r\nthat are done to another. The villain, in a tragedy or romance, is as\r\nmuch the object of our indignation, as the hero is that of our\r\nsympathy and affection. We detest Iago as much as we esteem Othello;\r\nand delight as much in the punishment of the one, as we are grieved at\r\nthe distress of the other. But though mankind have so strong a\r\nfellow-feeling with the injuries that are done to their brethren, they\r\ndo not always resent them the more that the sufferer appears to resent\r\nthem. Upon most occasions, the greater his patience, his mildness, his\r\nhumanity, provided it does not appear that he wants spirit, or that\r\nfear was the motive of his forbearance, the higher the resentment\r\nagainst the person who injured him. The amiableness of the character\r\nexasperates their sense of the atrocity of the injury.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThese passions, however, are regarded as necessary parts of the\r\ncharacter of human nature. A person becomes contemptible who tamely\r\nsits still, and submits to insults, without attempting either to repel\r\nor to revenge them. We cannot enter into his indifference and\r\ninsensibility: we call his behaviour mean-spiritedness, and are as\r\nreally provoked by it as by the insolence of his adversary. Even the\r\nmob are enraged to see any man submit patiently to affronts and ill\r\nusage. They desire to see this insolence resented, and resented by the\r\nperson who suffers from it. They cry to him with fury, to defend or to\r\nrevenge himself. If his indignation rouses at last, they heartily\r\napplaud, and sympathize with it. It enlivens their own indignation\r\nagainst his enemy, whom they rejoice to see him attack in turn, and\r\nare as really gratified by his revenge, provided it is not immoderate,\r\nas if the injury had been done to themselves.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though the utility of those passions to the individual, by\r\nrendering it dangerous to insult or to injure him, be acknowledged;\r\nand though their utility to the public, as the guardians of justice,\r\nand of the equality of its administration, be not less considerable,\r\nas shall be shewn hereafter; yet there is still something disagreeable\r\nin the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page34\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e34\u003c/span\u003e passions themselves, which makes the appearance of them in\r\nother men the natural object of our aversion. The expression of anger\r\ntowards any body present, if it exceeds a bare intimation that we are\r\nsensible of his ill usage, is regarded not only as an insult to that\r\nparticular person, but as a rudeness to the whole company. Respect for\r\nthem ought to have restrained us from giving way to so boisterous and\r\noffensive an emotion. It is the remote effects of these passions which\r\nare agreeable; the immediate effects are mischief to the person\r\nagainst whom they are directed. But it is the immediate, and not the\r\nremote effects of objects which render them agreeable or disagreeable\r\nto the imagination. A prison is certainly more useful to the public\r\nthan a palace; and the person who founds the one is generally directed\r\nby a much juster spirit of patriotism, than he who builds the other.\r\nBut the immediate effects of a prison, the confinement of the wretches\r\nshut up in it, are disagreeable; and the imagination either does not\r\ntake time to trace out the remote ones, or sees them at too great a\r\ndistance to be much affected by them. A prison, therefore, will always\r\nbe a disagreeable object; and the fitter it is for the purpose for\r\nwhich it was intended, it will be the more so. A palace, on the\r\ncontrary, will always be agreeable; yet its remote effects may often\r\nbe inconvenient to the public. It may serve to promote luxury, and set\r\nthe example of the dissolution of manners. Its immediate effects,\r\nhowever, the conveniency, the pleasure, and the gaiety of the people\r\nwho live in it, being all agreeable, and suggesting to the imagination\r\na thousand agreeable ideas, that faculty generally rests upon them,\r\nand seldom goes further in tracing its more distant consequences.\r\nTrophies of the instruments of music or of agriculture, imitated in\r\npainting or in stucco, make a common and an agreeable ornament of our\r\nhalls and dining rooms. A trophy of the same kind, composed of the\r\ninstruments of surgery, of dissecting and amputation-knives, of saws\r\nfor cutting the bones, of trepanning instruments, \u0026amp;c., would be absurd\r\nand shocking. Instruments of surgery, however, are always more finely\r\npolished, and generally more nicely adapted to the purposes for which\r\nthey are intended, than instruments of agriculture. The remote effects\r\nof them too, the health of the patient, is agreeable; yet as the\r\nimmediate effect of them is pain and suffering, the sight of them\r\nalways displeases us. Instruments of war are agreeable, though their\r\nimmediate effect may seem to be in the same manner pain and suffering.\r\nBut then it is the pain and suffering of our enemies, with whom we\r\nhave no sympathy. With regard to us, they are immediately connected\r\nwith the agreeable ideas of courage, victory, and honour. They are\r\nthemselves, therefore, supposed to make one of the noblest parts of\r\ndress, and the imitation of them one of the finest ornaments of\r\narchitecture. It is the same case with the qualities of the mind. The\r\nancient stoics were of opinion, that as the world was governed by the\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page35\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e35\u003c/span\u003e all-ruling providence of a wise, powerful, and good God, every\r\nsingle event ought to be regarded, as making a necessary part of the\r\nplan of the universe, and as tending to promote the general order and\r\nhappiness of the whole: that the vices and follies of mankind,\r\ntherefore, made as necessary a part of this plan as their wisdom or\r\ntheir virtue; and by that eternal art which educes good from ill, were\r\nmade to tend equally to the prosperity and perfection of the great\r\nsystem of nature. No speculation of this kind, however, how deeply\r\nsoever it might be rooted in the mind, could diminish our natural\r\nabhorrence for vice, whose immediate effects are so destructive, and\r\nwhose remote ones are too distant to be traced by the imagination.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is the same case with those passions we have been just now\r\nconsidering. Their immediate effects are so disagreeable, that even\r\nwhen they are most justly provoked, there is still something about\r\nthem which disgusts us. These, therefore, are the only passions of\r\nwhich the expressions, as I formerly observed, do not dispose and\r\nprepare us to sympathize with them, before we are informed of the\r\ncause which excites them. The plaintive voice of misery, when heard at\r\na distance, will not allow us to be indifferent about the person from\r\nwhom it comes. As soon as it strikes our ear, it interests us in his\r\nfortune, and, if continued, forces us almost involuntarily to fly to\r\nhis assistance. The sight of a smiling countenance, in the same\r\nmanner, elevates even the pensive into that gay and airy mood, which\r\ndisposes him to sympathize with, and share the joy which it expresses;\r\nand he feels his heart, which with thought and care was before that\r\nshrunk and depressed, instantly expanded and elated. But it is quite\r\notherwise with the expressions of hatred and resentment. The hoarse,\r\nboisterous, and discordant voice of anger, when heard at a distance,\r\ninspires us either with fear or aversion. We do not fly towards it, as\r\nto one who cries out with pain and agony. Women, and men of weak\r\nnerves, tremble and are overcome with fear, though sensible that\r\nthemselves are not the objects of the anger. They conceive fear,\r\nhowever, by putting themselves in the situation of the person who is\r\nso. Even those of stouter hearts are disturbed; not indeed enough to\r\nmake them afraid, but enough to make them angry; for anger is the\r\npassion which they would feel in the situation of the other person. It\r\nis the same case with hatred. Mere expressions of spite inspire it\r\nagainst nobody, but the man who uses them. Both these passions are by\r\nnature the objects of our aversion. Their disagreeable and boisterous\r\nappearance never excites, never prepares, and often disturbs our\r\nsympathy. Grief does not more powerfully engage and attract us to the\r\nperson in whom we observe it, than these, while we are ignorant of\r\ntheir cause, disgust and detach us from him. It was, it seems, the\r\nintention of Nature, that those rougher and more unamiable emotions,\r\nwhich drive men from one another, should be less easily and more\r\nrarely communicated.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page36\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e36\u003c/span\u003e When music imitates the modulations of grief or joy, it either\r\nactually inspires us with those passions, or at least puts us in the\r\nmood which disposes us to conceive them. But when it imitates the\r\nnotes of anger, it inspires us with fear. Joy, grief, love,\r\nadmiration, devotion, are all of them passions which are naturally\r\nmusical. Their natural tones are all soft, clear, and melodious; and\r\nthey naturally express themselves in periods which are distinguished\r\nby regular pauses, and which upon that account are easily adapted to\r\nthe regular returns of the correspondent airs of a tune. The voice of\r\nanger, on the contrary, and of all the passions which are akin to it,\r\nis harsh and discordant. Its periods too are all irregular, sometimes\r\nvery long, and sometimes very short, and distinguished by no regular\r\npauses. It is with difficulty therefore, that music can imitate any of\r\nthose passions; and the music which does imitate them is not the most\r\nagreeable. A whole entertainment may consist, without any impropriety,\r\nof the imitation of the social and agreeable passions. It would be a\r\nstrange entertainment which consisted altogether of the imitations of\r\nhatred and resentment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf those passions are disagreeable to the spectator, they are not\r\nless so to the person who feels them. Hatred and anger are the\r\ngreatest poison to the happiness of a good mind. There is, in the very\r\nfeeling of those passions, something harsh, jarring, and convulsive,\r\nsomething that tears and distracts the breast, and is altogether\r\ndestructive of that composure and tranquillity of mind which is so\r\nnecessary to happiness, and which is best promoted by the contrary\r\npassions of gratitude and love. It is not the value of what they lose\r\nby the perfidy and ingratitude of those they live with, which the\r\ngenerous and humane are most apt to regret. Whatever they may have\r\nlost, they can generally be very happy without it. What most disturbs\r\nthem is the idea of perfidy and ingratitude exercised towards\r\nthemselves; and the discordant and disagreeable passions which this\r\nexcites, constitute, in their own opinion, the chief part of the\r\ninjury which they suffer.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHow many things are requisite to render the gratification of\r\nresentment completely agreeable, and to make the spectator thoroughly\r\nsympathize with our revenge? The provocation must first of all be such\r\nthat we should become contemptible, and be exposed to perpetual\r\ninsults, if we did not, in some measure, resent it. Smaller offences\r\nare always better neglected; nor is there anything more despicable\r\nthan that froward and captious humour which takes fire upon every\r\nslight occasion of quarrel. We should resent more from a sense of the\r\npropriety of resentment, from a sense, that mankind expect and require\r\nit of us, than because we feel in ourselves the furies of that\r\ndisagreeable passion. There is no passion, of which the human mind is\r\ncapable, concerning whose justness we ought to be so doubtful,\r\nconcerning whose indulgence we ought so carefully to consult our\r\nnatural sense of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e37\u003c/span\u003e propriety, or so diligently to consider what\r\nwill be the sentiments of the cool and impartial spectator.\r\nMagnanimity, or a regard to maintain our own rank and dignity in\r\nsociety, is the only motive which can ennoble the expressions of this\r\ndisagreeable passion. This motive must characterize our whole style\r\nand deportment. These must be plain, open, and direct; determined\r\nwithout positiveness, and elevated without insolence; not only free\r\nfrom petulance and low scurrility, but generous, candid, and full of\r\nall proper regards, even for the person who has offended us. It must\r\nappear, in short, from our whole manner, without our labouring\r\naffectedly to express it, that passion has not extinguished our\r\nhumanity; and that if we yield to the dictates of revenge, it is with\r\nreluctance, from necessity, and in consequence of great and repeated\r\nprovocations. When resentment is guarded and qualified in this manner,\r\nit may be admitted to be even generous and noble.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page37\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Social Passions.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eA\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eS\u003c/span\u003e it is a divided sympathy which renders the whole set of passions\r\njust now mentioned, upon most occasions, so ungraceful and\r\ndisagreeable: so there is another set opposite to these, which a\r\nredoubled sympathy renders almost always peculiarly agreeable and\r\nbecoming. Generosity, humanity, kindness, compassion, mutual\r\nfriendship and esteem, all the social and benevolent affections, when\r\nexpressed in the countenance or behaviour, even towards those who are\r\nnot peculiarly connected with ourselves, please the indifferent\r\nspectator upon almost every occasion. His sympathy with the person who\r\nfeels those passions, exactly coincides with his concern for the\r\nperson who is the object of them. The interest, which, as a man, he is\r\nobliged to take in the happiness of this last, enlivens his\r\nfellow-feeling with the sentiments of the other, whose emotions are\r\nemployed about the same object. We have always, therefore, the\r\nstrongest disposition to sympathize with the benevolent affections.\r\nThey appear in every respect agreeable to us. We enter into the\r\nsatisfaction both of the person who feels them, and of the person who\r\nis the object of them. For as to be the object of hatred and\r\nindignation gives more pain than all the evil which a brave man can\r\nfear from his enemies: so there is a satisfaction in the consciousness\r\nof being beloved, which, to a person of delicacy and sensibility, is\r\nof more importance to happiness, than all the advantage which he can\r\nexpect to derive from it. What character is so detestable as that of\r\none who takes pleasure to sow dissention among friends, and to turn\r\ntheir most tender love into mortal hatred? Yet wherein does the\r\natrocity of this so much abhorred injury consist? Is it in depriving\r\nthem of the frivolous good offices, which, had their friendship\r\ncontinued, they might have expected from one another? It is in \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page38\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e38\u003c/span\u003e\r\ndepriving them of that friendship itself, in robbing them of each\r\nother’s affections, from which both derived so much satisfaction; it\r\nis in disturbing the harmony of their hearts, and putting an end to\r\nthat happy commerce which had before subsisted between them. These\r\naffections, that harmony, this commerce, are felt, not only by the\r\ntender and the delicate, but by the rudest vulgar of mankind, to be of\r\nmore importance to happiness than all the little services which could\r\nbe expected to flow from them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe sentiment of love is, in itself, agreeable to the person who\r\nfeels it. It soothes and composes the breast, seems to favour the\r\nvital motions, and to promote the healthful state of the human\r\nconstitution; and it is rendered still more delightful by the\r\nconsciousness of the gratitude and satisfaction which it must excite\r\nin him who is the object of it. Their mutual regard renders them happy\r\nin one another, and sympathy, with this mutual regard, makes them\r\nagreeable to every other person. With what pleasure do we look upon a\r\nfamily, through the whole of which reign mutual love and esteem, where\r\nthe parents and children are companions for one another, without any\r\nother difference than what is made by respectful affection on the one\r\nside, and kind indulgence on the other; where freedom and fondness,\r\nmutual raillery and mutual kindness, show that no opposition of\r\ninterest divides the brothers, nor any rivalship of favour sets the\r\nsisters at variance, and where every thing presents us with the idea\r\nof peace, cheerfulness, harmony, and contentment? On the contrary, how\r\nuneasy are we made when we go into a house in which jarring contention\r\nsets one half of those who dwell in it against the other; where,\r\namidst affected smoothness and complaisance, suspicious looks and\r\nsudden starts of passion betray the mutual jealousies which burn\r\nwithin them, and which are every moment ready to burst out through all\r\nthe restraints which the presence of the company imposes?\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThose amiable passions, even when they are acknowledged to be\r\nexcessive, are never regarded with aversion. There is something\r\nagreeable even in the weakness of friendship and humanity. The too\r\ntender mother, the too indulgent father, the too generous and\r\naffectionate friend, may sometimes, perhaps, on account of the\r\nsoftness of their natures, be looked upon with a species of pity, in\r\nwhich, however, there is a mixture of love, but can never be regarded\r\nwith hatred and aversion, nor even with contempt, unless by the most\r\nbrutal and worthless of mankind. It is always with concern, with\r\nsympathy and kindness, that we blame them for the extravagance of\r\ntheir attachment. There is a helplessness in the character of extreme\r\nhumanity which more than any thing interests our pity. There is\r\nnothing in itself which renders it either ungraceful or disagreeable.\r\nWe only regret that it is unfit for the world, because the world is\r\nunworthy of it, and because it must expose the person who is endowed\r\nwith it as a prey to the perfidy \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e39\u003c/span\u003e and ingratitude of insinuating\r\nfalsehood, and to a thousand pains and uneasinesses, which, of all\r\nmen, he the least deserves to feel, and which generally too he is, of\r\nall men, the least capable of supporting. It is quite otherwise with\r\nhatred and resentment. Too violent a propensity to those detestable\r\npassions, renders a person the object of universal dread and\r\nabhorrence, who, like a wild beast, ought, we think, to be hunted out\r\nof all civil society.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page39\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅴ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Selfish Passions.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eB\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eESIDES\u003c/span\u003e those two opposite sets of passions, the social and\r\nunsocial, there is another which holds a sort of middle place between\r\nthem; is never either so graceful as is sometimes the one set, nor is\r\never so odious as is sometimes the other. Grief and joy, when\r\nconceived upon account of our own private good or bad fortune,\r\nconstitute this third set of passions. Even when excessive, they are\r\nnever so disagreeable as excessive resentment, because no opposite\r\nsympathy can ever interest us against them: and when most suitable to\r\ntheir objects, they are never so agreeable as impartial humanity and\r\njust benevolence; because no double sympathy can ever interest us for\r\nthem. There is, however, this difference between grief and joy, that\r\nwe are generally most disposed to sympathize with small joys and great\r\nsorrows. The man who, by some sudden revolution of fortune, is lifted\r\nup all at once into a condition of life, greatly above what he had\r\nformerly lived in, may be assured that the congratulations of his best\r\nfriends are not all of them perfectly sincere. An upstart, though of\r\nthe greatest merit, is generally disagreeable, and a sentiment of envy\r\ncommonly prevents us from heartily sympathizing with his joy. If he\r\nhas any judgment, he is sensible of this, and instead of appearing to\r\nbe elated with his good fortune, he endeavours, as much as he can, to\r\nsmother his joy, and keep down that elevation of mind with which his\r\nnew circumstances naturally inspire him. He affects the same plainness\r\nof dress, and the same modesty of behaviour, which became him in his\r\nformer station. He redoubles his attention to his old friends, and\r\nendeavours more than ever to be humble, assiduous, and complaisant.\r\nAnd this is the behaviour which in his situation we most approve of;\r\nbecause we expect, it seems, that he should have more sympathy with\r\nour envy and aversion to his happiness, than we have with his\r\nhappiness. It is seldom that with all this he succeeds. We suspect\r\nthe sincerity of his humility, and he grows weary of this constraint.\r\nIn a little time, therefore, he generally leaves all his old friends\r\nbehind him, some of the meanest of them excepted, who may, perhaps,\r\ncondescend to become his dependents: nor does he always acquire any\r\nnew ones; the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page40\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e40\u003c/span\u003e pride of his new connections is as much affronted\r\nat finding him their equal, as that of his old ones had been by his\r\nbecoming their superior; and it requires the most obstinate and\r\npersevering modesty to atone for this modification to either. He\r\ngenerally grows weary too soon, and is provoked, by the sullen and\r\nsuspicious pride of the one, and by the saucy contempt of the other,\r\nto treat the first with neglect, and the second with petulance, till\r\nat last he grows habitually insolent, and forfeits the esteem of all.\r\nIf the chief part of human happiness arises from the consciousness of\r\nbeing beloved, as I believe it does, those sudden changes of fortune\r\nseldom contribute much to happiness. He is happiest who advances more\r\ngradually to greatness, whom the public destines to every step of his\r\npreferment long before he arrives at it, in whom, upon that account,\r\nwhen it comes, it can excite no extravagant joy, and with regard to\r\nwhom it cannot reasonably create either any jealousy in those he\r\novertakes, or envy in those he leaves behind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMankind, however, more readily sympathize with those smaller joys\r\nwhich flow from less important causes. It is decent to be humble\r\namidst great prosperity; but we can scarce express too much\r\nsatisfaction in all the little occurrences of common life, in the\r\ncompany with which we spent the evening last night, in the\r\nentertainment that was set before us, in what was said and what was\r\ndone, in all the little incidents of the present conversation, and in\r\nall those frivolous nothings which fill up the void of human life.\r\nNothing is more graceful than habitual cheerfulness, which is always\r\nfounded upon a peculiar relish for all the little pleasures which\r\ncommon occurrences afford. We readily sympathize with it: it inspires\r\nus with the same joy, and makes every trifle turn up to us in the same\r\nagreeable aspect in which it presents itself to the person endowed\r\nwith this happy disposition. Hence it is that youth, the season of\r\ngaiety, so easily engages our affections. That propensity to joy which\r\nseems even to animate the bloom, and to sparkle from the eyes of youth\r\nand beauty, though in a person of the same sex, exalts, even the aged,\r\nto a more joyous mood than ordinary. They forget, for a time, their\r\ninfirmities, and abandon themselves to those agreeable ideas and\r\nemotions to which they have long been strangers, but which, when the\r\npresence of so much happiness recalls them to their breast, take their\r\nplace there, like old acquaintance, from whom they are sorry to have\r\never been parted, and whom they embrace more heartily upon account of\r\nthis long separation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is quite otherwise with grief. Small vexations excite no\r\nsympathy, but deep affliction calls forth the greatest. The man who is\r\nmade uneasy by every little disagreeable incident, who is hurt if\r\neither the cook or the butler have failed in the least article of\r\ntheir duty, who feels every defect in the highest ceremonial of\r\npoliteness, whether it be shown to himself or to any other person, who\r\ntakes it amiss that his intimate friend did not bid him good-morrow\r\nwhen they met in the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page41\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e41\u003c/span\u003e forenoon, and that his brother hummed a tune\r\nall the time he himself was telling a story; who is put out of humour\r\nby the badness of the weather when in the country, by the badness of\r\nthe roads when upon a journey, and by the want of company and dulness\r\nof all public diversions when in town; such a person, I say, though he\r\nshould have some reason, will seldom meet with much sympathy. Joy is a\r\npleasant emotion, and we gladly abandon ourselves to it upon the\r\nslightest occasion. We readily, therefore, sympathize with it in\r\nothers, whenever we are not prejudiced by envy. But grief is painful,\r\nand the mind, even when it is our own misfortune, naturally resists\r\nand recoils from it. We would endeavour either not to conceive it at\r\nall, or to shake it off as soon as we have conceived it. Our aversion\r\nto grief will not, indeed, always hinder us from conceiving it in our\r\nown case upon very trifling occasions, but it constantly prevents us\r\nfrom sympathizing with it in others when excited by the like frivolous\r\ncauses: for our sympathetic passions are always less irresistible than\r\nour original ones. There is, besides, a malice in mankind, which not\r\nonly prevents all sympathy with little uneasinesses, but renders them\r\nin some measure diverting. Hence the delight which we all take in\r\nraillery, and in the small vexation which we observe in our companion,\r\nwhen he is pushed, and urged, and teased upon all sides. Men of the\r\nmost ordinary good-breeding dissemble the pain which any little\r\nincident may give them; and those who are more thoroughly formed to\r\nsociety, turn of their own accord, all such incidents into raillery,\r\nas they know their companions will do for them. The habit which a man,\r\nwho lives in the world, has acquired of considering how every thing\r\nthat concerns himself will appear to others, makes those frivolous\r\ncalamities turn up in the same ridiculous light to him, in which he\r\nknows they will certainly be considered by them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOur sympathy, on the contrary, with deep distress, is very strong\r\nand very sincere. It is unnecessary to give an instance. We weep even\r\nat the feigned representation of a tragedy. If you labour, therefore,\r\nunder any signal calamity, if by some extraordinary misfortune you are\r\nfallen into poverty, into diseases, into disgrace and disappointment;\r\neven though your own fault may have been, in part, the occasion, yet\r\nyou may generally depend upon the sincerest sympathy of all your\r\nfriends, and, as far as interest and honour will permit, upon their\r\nkindest assistance too. But if your misfortune is not of this dreadful\r\nkind, if you have only been a little baulked in your ambition, if you\r\nhave only been jilted by your mistress, or are only hen-pecked by your\r\nwife, lay your account with the raillery of all your acquaintance.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page42\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e42\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—OF THE EFFECTS OF PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY UPON THE\r\nJUDGMENT OF MANKIND WITH REGARD TO THE PROPRIETY OF ACTION; AND WHY IT\r\nIS MORE EASY TO OBTAIN THEIR APPROBATION IN THE ONE STATE THAN IN THE\r\nOTHER.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eThat though our Sympathy with Sorrow is generally a\r\nmore lively Sensation than our Sympathy with Joy, it commonly falls\r\nmuch more Short of the Violence of what is naturally felt by the\r\nPerson principally concerned.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eO\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eUR\u003c/span\u003e sympathy with sorrow, though not more real, has been more taken\r\nnotice of than our sympathy with joy. The word sympathy, in its most\r\nproper and primitive signification, denotes our fellow-feeling with\r\nthe sufferings, not that with the enjoyments, of others. A late\r\ningenious and subtile philosopher thought it necessary to prove, by\r\narguments, that we had a real sympathy with joy, and that\r\ncongratulation was a principle of human nature. Nobody, I believe,\r\never thought it necessary to prove that compassion was such.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFirst of all, our sympathy with sorrow is, in some sense, more\r\nuniversal than that with joy. Though sorrow is excessive, we may still\r\nhave some fellow-feeling with it. What we feel does not, indeed, in\r\nthis case, amount to that complete sympathy, to that perfect harmony\r\nand correspondence of sentiments, which constitutes approbation. We do\r\nnot weep, and exclaim, and lament, with the sufferer. We are sensible,\r\non the contrary, of his weakness and of the extravagance of his\r\npassion, and yet often feel a very sensible concern upon his account.\r\nBut if we do not entirely enter into, and go along with, the joy of\r\nanother, we have no sort of regard or fellow feeling for it. The man\r\nwho skips and dances about with that intemperate and senseless joy\r\nwhich we cannot accompany him in, is the object of our contempt and\r\nindignation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePain besides, whether of mind or body, is a more pungent sensation\r\nthan pleasure, and our sympathy with pain, though it falls greatly\r\nshort of what is naturally felt by the sufferer, is generally a more\r\nlively and distinct perception than our sympathy with pleasure, though\r\nthis last often approaches more nearly, as I shall show immediately,\r\nto the natural vivacity of the original passion.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOver and above all this, we often struggle to keep down our\r\nsympathy with the sorrow of others. Whenever we are not under the\r\nobservation of the sufferer, we endeavour, for our own sake, to\r\nsuppress it as much as we can, and we are not always successful. The\r\nopposition which we make to it, and the reluctance with which we yield\r\nto it, necessarily oblige us to take more particular notice of it. But\r\nwe never have occasion to make this opposition to our sympathy with\r\njoy. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page43\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e43\u003c/span\u003e If there is any envy in the case, we never feel the least\r\npropensity towards it; and if there is none, we give way to it without\r\nany reluctance. On the contrary, as we are always ashamed of our own\r\nenvy, we often pretend, and sometimes really wish to sympathize with\r\nthe joy of others, when by that disagreeable sentiment we are\r\ndisqualified from doing so. We are glad, we say, on account of our\r\nneighbour’s good fortune, when in our hearts, perhaps, we are really\r\nsorry. We often feel a sympathy with sorrow when we would wish to be\r\nrid of it; and we often miss that with joy when we would be glad to\r\nhave it. The obvious observation, therefore, which it naturally falls\r\nin our way to make, is, that our propensity to sympathize with sorrow\r\nmust be very strong, and our inclination to sympathize with joy very\r\nweak.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNotwithstanding this prejudice, however, I will venture to affirm,\r\nthat, when there is no envy in the case, our propensity to sympathize\r\nwith joy is much stronger than our propensity to sympathize with\r\nsorrow; and that our fellow-feeling for the agreeable emotion\r\napproaches much more nearly to the vivacity of what is naturally felt\r\nby the persons principally concerned, than that which we conceive for\r\nthe painful one.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe have some indulgence for that excessive grief which we cannot\r\nentirely go along with. We know what a prodigious effort is requisite\r\nbefore the sufferer can bring down his emotions to complete harmony\r\nand concord with those of the spectator. Though he fails, therefore,\r\nwe easily pardon him. But we have no such indulgence for the\r\nintemperance of joy; because we are not conscious that any such vast\r\neffort is requisite to bring it down to what we can entirely enter\r\ninto. The man who, under the greatest calamities, can command his\r\nsorrow, seems worthy of the highest admiration; but he who, in the\r\nfulness of prosperity, can in the same manner master his joy, seems\r\nhardly to deserve any praise. We are sensible that there is a much\r\nwider interval in the one case than in the other, between what is\r\nnaturally felt by the person principally concerned, and what the\r\nspectator can entirely go along with.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat can be added to the happiness of the man who is in health, who\r\nis out of debt, and has a clear conscience? To one in this situation,\r\nall accessions of fortune may properly be said to be superfluous; and\r\nif he is much elevated on account of them, it must be the effect of\r\nthe most frivolous levity. This situation, however, may very well be\r\ncalled the natural and ordinary state of mankind. Notwithstanding the\r\npresent misery and depravity of the world, so justly lamented, this\r\nreally is the state of the greater part of men. The greater part of\r\nmen, therefore, cannot find any great difficulty in elevating\r\nthemselves to all the joy which any accession to this situation can\r\nwell excite in their companion.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though little can be added to this state, much may be taken\r\nfrom \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page44\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e44\u003c/span\u003e it. Though between this condition and the highest pitch of\r\nhuman prosperity, the interval is but a trifle; between it and the\r\nlowest depth of misery the distance is immense and prodigious.\r\nAdversity, on this account, necessarily depresses the mind of the\r\nsufferer much more below its natural state, than prosperity can\r\nelevate him above it. The spectator, therefore, must find it much more\r\ndifficult to sympathize entirely, and keep perfect time, with his\r\nsorrow, than thoroughly to enter into his joy, and must depart much\r\nfurther from his own natural and ordinary temper of mind in the one\r\ncase than in the other. It is on this account, that though our\r\nsympathy with sorrow is often a more pungent sensation than our\r\nsympathy with joy, it always falls much more short of the violence of\r\nwhat is naturally felt by the person principally concerned.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is agreeable to sympathize with joy; and wherever envy does not\r\noppose it, our heart abandons itself with satisfaction to the highest\r\ntransports of that delightful sentiment. But it is painful to go along\r\nwith grief, and we always enter into it with reluctance.\u003ca href=\"#Footnote1\" id=\"FnAnchor1\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e1\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e When we\r\nattend to the representation of a tragedy, we struggle against that\r\nsympathetic sorrow which the entertainment inspires as long as we can,\r\nand we give way to it at last only when we can no longer avoid it; we\r\neven then endeavour to cover our concern from the company. If we shed\r\nany tears, we carefully conceal them, and are afraid, lest the\r\nspectators, not entering into this excessive tenderness, should regard\r\nit as effeminacy and weakness. The wretch whose misfortunes call upon\r\nour compassion feels with what reluctance we are likely to enter into\r\nhis sorrow, and therefore proposes his grief to us with fear and\r\nhesitation: he even smothers the half of it, and is ashamed, upon\r\naccount of this hard-heartedness of mankind, to give vent to the\r\nfulness of his affliction. It is otherwise with the man who riots in\r\njoy and success. Wherever envy does not interest us against him, he\r\nexpects our completest sympathy. He does not fear, therefore, to\r\nannounce himself with shouts of exultation, in full confidence that we\r\nare heartily disposed to go along with him.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"Footnote1\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchor1\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e1\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e It has been objected to me that as I found the\r\nsentiment of approbation, which is always agreeable, upon sympathy, it\r\nis inconsistent with my system to admit any disagreeable sympathy. I\r\nanswer, that in the sentiment of approbation there are two things to\r\nbe taken notice of; first, the sympathetic passion of the spectator;\r\nand secondly, the emotion which arises from his observing the perfect\r\ncoincidence between this sympathetic passion in himself, and the\r\noriginal passion in the person principally concerned. This last\r\nemotion, in which the sentiment of approbation properly consists, is\r\nalways agreeable and delightful. The other may either be agreeable or\r\ndisagreeable, according to the nature of the original passion, whose\r\nfeatures it must always, in some measure, retain.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhy should we be more ashamed to weep than to laugh before company?\r\nWe may often have as real occasion to do the one as to do the other;\r\nbut we always feel that the spectators are more likely to go along\r\nwith us in the agreeable, than in the painful emotion. It is \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page45\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e45\u003c/span\u003e\r\nalways miserable to complain, even when we are oppressed by the most\r\ndreadful calamities. But the triumph of victory is not always\r\nungraceful. Prudence, indeed, would often advise us to bear our\r\nprosperity with more moderation; because prudence would teach us to\r\navoid that envy which this very triumph is, more than any thing, apt\r\nto excite.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHow hearty are the acclamations of the mob, who never bear any envy\r\nto their superiors, at a triumph or a public entry? And how sedate and\r\nmoderate is commonly their grief at an execution? Our sorrow at a\r\nfuneral generally amounts to no more than an affected gravity; but our\r\nmirth at a christening or a marriage, is always from the heart, and\r\nwithout any affectation. Upon these, and all such joyous occasions,\r\nour satisfaction, though not so durable, is often as lively as that of\r\nthe persons principally concerned. Whenever we cordially congratulate\r\nour friends, which, however, to the disgrace of human nature, we do\r\nbut seldom, their joy literally becomes our joy: we are, for the\r\nmoment, as happy as they are: our heart swells and overflows with real\r\npleasure: joy and complacency sparkle from our eyes, and animate every\r\nfeature of our countenance, and every gesture of our body.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut on the contrary, when we condole with our friends in their\r\nafflictions, how little do we feel, in comparison of what they feel?\r\nWe sit down by them, we look at them, and while they relate to us the\r\ncircumstances of their misfortune, we listen to them with gravity and\r\nattention. But while their narration is every moment interrupted by\r\nthose natural bursts of passion which often seem almost to choke them\r\nin the midst of it; how far are the languid emotions of our hearts\r\nfrom keeping time to the transports of theirs? We may be sensible, at\r\nthe same time, that their passion is natural, and no greater than what\r\nwe ourselves might feel upon the like occasion. We may even inwardly\r\nreproach ourselves with our own want of sensibility, and perhaps, on\r\nthat account, work ourselves up into an artificial sympathy, which\r\nhowever, when it is raised, is always the slightest and most\r\ntransitory imaginable; and generally, as soon as we have left the\r\nroom, vanishes, and is gone for ever. Nature, it seems, when she\r\nloaded us with our own sorrows, thought they were enough, and\r\ntherefore did not command us to take any further share in those of\r\nothers, than what was necessary to prompt us to relieve them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is on account of this dull sensibility to the afflictions of\r\nothers, that magnanimity amidst great distress appears always so\r\ndivinely graceful. His behaviour is genteel and agreeable who can\r\nmaintain his cheerfulness amidst a number of frivolous disasters. But\r\nhe appears to be more than mortal who can support in the same manner\r\nthe most dreadful calamities. We feel what an immense effort is\r\nrequisite to silence those violent emotions which naturally agitate\r\nand distract those in his situation. We are amazed to find that he can\r\ncommand himself so entirely. His firmness at the same time, perfectly\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page46\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e46\u003c/span\u003e coincides with our insensibility. He makes no demand upon us for\r\nthat more exquisite degree of sensibility which we find, and which we\r\nare mortified to find, that we do not possess. There is the most\r\nperfect correspondence between his sentiments and ours, and on that\r\naccount the most perfect propriety in his behaviour. It is a propriety\r\ntoo, which, from our experience of the usual weakness of human nature,\r\nwe could not reasonably have expected he should be able to maintain.\r\nWe wonder with surprise and astonishment at that strength of mind\r\nwhich is capable of so noble and generous an effort. The sentiment of\r\ncomplete sympathy and approbation, mixed and animated with wonder and\r\nsurprise, constitutes what is properly called admiration, as has\r\nalready been more than once take notice of. Cato, surrounded on all\r\nsides by his enemies, unable to resist them, disdaining to submit to\r\nthem, and reduced, by the proud maxims of that age, to the necessity\r\nof destroying himself; yet never shrinking from his misfortunes, never\r\nsupplicating with the lamentable voice of wretchedness, those\r\nmiserable sympathetic tears which we are always so unwilling to give;\r\nbut on the contrary, arming himself with manly fortitude, and the\r\nmoment before he executes his fatal resolution, giving, with his usual\r\ntranquillity, all necessary orders for the safety of his friends;\r\nappears to Seneca, that great preacher of insensibility, a spectacle\r\nwhich even the gods themselves might behold with pleasure and\r\nadmiration.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhenever we meet, in common life, with any examples of such heroic\r\nmagnanimity, we are always extremely affected. We are more apt to weep\r\nand shed tears for such as, in this manner, seem to feel nothing for\r\nthemselves, than for those who give way to all the weakness of sorrow\r\nand in this particular case, the sympathetic grief of the spectator\r\nappears to go beyond the original passion in the person principally\r\nconcerned. The friends of Socrates all wept when he drank the last\r\npotion, while he himself expressed the gayest and most cheerful\r\ntranquillity. Upon all such occasions the spectator makes no effort,\r\nand has no occasion to make any, in order to conquer his sympathetic\r\nsorrow. He is under no fear that it will transport him to any thing\r\nthat is extravagant and improper; he is rather pleased with the\r\nsensibility of his own heart, and gives way to it with complacence and\r\nself-approbation. He gladly indulges, therefore, the most melancholy\r\nviews which can naturally occur to him, concerning the calamity of his\r\nfriend, for whom, perhaps, he never felt so exquisitely before, the\r\ntender and tearful passion of love. But it is quite otherwise with the\r\nperson principally concerned. He is obliged, as much as possible, to\r\nturn away his eyes from whatever is either naturally terrible or\r\ndisagreeable in his situation. Too serious an attention to those\r\ncircumstances, he fears, might make so violent an impression upon him,\r\nthat he could no longer keep within the bounds of moderation, or\r\nrender himself the object of the complete sympathy and approbation of\r\nthe spectators. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e47\u003c/span\u003e He fixes his thoughts, therefore, upon those only\r\nwhich are agreeable, the applause and admiration which he is about to\r\ndeserve by the heroic magnanimity of his behaviour. To feel that he is\r\ncapable of so noble and generous an effort, to feel that in this\r\ndreadful situation he can still act as he would desire to act,\r\nanimates and transports him with joy, and enables him to support that\r\ntriumphant gaiety which seems to exult in the victory he thus gains\r\nover his misfortunes.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOn the contrary, he always appears, in some measure, mean and\r\ndespicable, who is sunk in sorrow and dejection upon account of any\r\ncalamity of his own. We cannot bring ourselves to feel for him what he\r\nfeels for himself, and what, perhaps, we should feel for ourselves if\r\nin his situation: we, therefore, despise him; unjustly perhaps, if any\r\nsentiment could be regarded as unjust, to which we are by nature\r\nirresistibly determined. The weakness of sorrow never appears in any\r\nrespect agreeable, except when it arises from what we feel for\r\nourselves. A son, upon the death of an indulgent and respectable\r\nfather, may give way to it without much blame. His sorrow is chiefly\r\nfounded upon a sort of sympathy with his departed parent; and we\r\nreadily enter into his humane emotion. But if he should indulge the\r\nsame weakness upon account of any misfortune which affected himself\r\nonly, he would no longer meet with any such indulgence. If he should\r\nbe reduced to beggary and ruin, if he should be exposed to the most\r\ndreadful dangers, if he should even be led out to a public execution,\r\nand there shed one single tear upon the scaffold, he would disgrace\r\nhimself for ever in the opinion of all the gallant and generous part\r\nof mankind. Their compassion for him, however, would be very strong,\r\nand very sincere; but as it would still fall short of this excessive\r\nweakness, they would have no pardon for the man who could thus expose\r\nhimself in the eyes of the world. His behaviour would affect them with\r\nshame rather than with sorrow; and the dishonour which he had thus\r\nbrought upon himself would appear to them the most lamentable\r\ncircumstance in his misfortune. How did it disgrace the memory of the\r\nintrepid Duke of Biron, who had so often braved death in the field,\r\nthat he wept upon the scaffold, when he beheld the state to which he\r\nwas fallen, and remembered the favour and the glory from which his own\r\nrashness had so unfortunately thrown him?\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page47\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Origin of Ambition, and of the Distinction of\r\nRanks.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eT\u003c/span\u003e is because mankind are disposed to sympathize more entirely with\r\nour joy than with our sorrow, that we make parade of our riches, and\r\nconceal our poverty. Nothing is so mortifying as to be obliged to\r\nexpose our distress to the view of the public, and to feel, that\r\nthough \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page48\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e48\u003c/span\u003e our situation is open to the eyes of all mankind, no\r\nmortal conceives for us the half of what we suffer. Nay, it is chiefly\r\nfrom this regard to the sentiments of mankind, that we pursue riches\r\nand avoid poverty. For to what purpose is all the toil and bustle of\r\nthis world? what is the end of avarice and ambition, of the pursuit of\r\nwealth, of power, and pre-eminence? Is it to supply the necessities of\r\nnature? The wages of the meanest labourer can supply them. We see that\r\nthey can afford him food and clothing, the comfort of a house and of a\r\nfamily. If we examine his œconomy with rigour, we should find that\r\nhe spends a great part of them upon conveniences, which may be\r\nregarded as superfluities, and that, upon extraordinary occasions, he\r\ncan give something even to vanity and distinction. What then is the\r\ncause of our aversion to his situation, and why should those who have\r\nbeen educated in the higher ranks of life, regard it as worse than\r\ndeath, to be reduced to live, even without labour, upon the same\r\nsimple fare with him, to dwell under the same lowly roof, and to be\r\nclothed in the same humble attire? Do they imagine that their stomach\r\nis better or their sleep sounder in a palace than in a cottage? The\r\ncontrary has been so often observed, and, indeed, is so very obvious,\r\nthough it had never been observed, that there is nobody ignorant of\r\nit. From whence, then arises that emulation which runs through all the\r\ndifferent ranks of men, and what are the advantages which we propose\r\nby the great purpose of human life which we call bettering our\r\ncondition? To be observed, to be attended to, to be taken notice of\r\nwith sympathy, complacency, and approbation, are all the advantages\r\nwhich we can propose to derive from it. It is the vanity, not the ease\r\nor the pleasure, which interests us. But vanity is always founded upon\r\nthe belief of our being the object of attention and approbation. The\r\nrich man glories in his riches, because he feels that they naturally\r\ndraw upon him the attention of the world, and that mankind are\r\ndisposed to go along with him in all those agreeable emotions with\r\nwhich the advantages of his situation so readily inspire him. At the\r\nthought of this, his heart seems to swell and dilate itself within\r\nhim, and he is fonder of his wealth upon this account, than for all\r\nthe other advantages it procures him. The poor man, on the contrary,\r\nis ashamed of his poverty. He feels that it either places him out of\r\nthe sight of mankind, or, that if they take any notice of him, they\r\nhave, however, scarce any fellow-feeling with the misery and distress\r\nwhich he suffers. He is mortified upon both accounts; for though to be\r\noverlooked, and to be disapproved of, are things entirely different,\r\nyet as obscurity covers us from the daylight of honour and\r\napprobation, to feel that we are taken no notice of, necessarily damps\r\nthe most agreeable hope, and disappoints the most ardent desire, of\r\nhuman nature. The poor man goes out and comes in unheeded, and when in\r\nthe midst of a crowd is in the same obscurity as if shut up in his own\r\nhovel. Those humble \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page49\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e49\u003c/span\u003e cares and painful attentions which occupy\r\nthose in his situation, afford no amusement to the dissipated and the\r\ngay. They turn away their their eyes from him, if the extremity of his\r\ndistress forces them to look at him, it is only to spurn so\r\ndisagreeable an object from among them. The fortunate and the proud\r\nwonder at the insolence of human wretchedness, that it should dare to\r\npresent itself before them, and with the loathsome aspect of its\r\nmisery presume to disturb the serenity of their happiness. The man of\r\nrank and distinction, on the contrary, is observed by all the world.\r\nEvery body is eager to look at him, and to conceive, at least by\r\nsympathy, that joy and exultation with which his circumstances\r\nnaturally inspire him. His actions are the objects of the public care.\r\nScarce a word, scarce a gesture, can fall from him that is altogether\r\nneglected. In a great assembly he is the person upon whom all direct\r\ntheir eyes; it is upon him that their passions seem to wait with\r\nexpectation, in order to receive that movement and direction which he\r\nshall impress upon them; and if his behaviour is not altogether\r\nabsurd, he has, every moment, an opportunity of interesting mankind,\r\nand of rendering himself the object of the observation and fellow\r\nfeeling of every body about him. It is this, which, notwithstanding\r\nthe restraint it imposes, notwithstanding the loss of liberty with\r\nwhich it is attended, renders greatness the object of envy, and\r\ncompensates, in the opinion of mankind, all that toil, all that\r\nanxiety, all those mortifications which must be undergone in the\r\npursuit of it; and what is of yet more consequence, all that leisure,\r\nall that ease, all that careless security, which are forfeited for\r\never by the acquisition.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen we consider the condition of the great, in those delusive\r\ncolours in which the imagination is apt to paint it, it seems to be\r\nalmost the abstract idea of a perfect and happy state. It is the very\r\nstate which, in all our waking dreams and idle reveries, we had\r\nsketched out to ourselves as the final object of our desires. We feel,\r\ntherefore, a peculiar sympathy with the satisfaction of those who are\r\nin it. We favour all their inclinations, and forward all their wishes.\r\nWhat pity, we think, that any thing should spoil and corrupt so\r\nagreeable a situation. We could even wish them immortal; and it seems\r\nhard to us, that death should at last put an end to such perfect\r\nenjoyment. It is cruel, we think, in Nature to compel them from their\r\nexalted stations to that humble, but hospitable home, which she has\r\nprovided for all her children. Great king, live for ever! is the\r\ncompliment which, after the manner of eastern adulation, we should\r\nreadily make them, if experience did not teach us its absurdity. Every\r\ncalamity that befals them, every injury that is done them, excites in\r\nthe breast of the spectator ten times more compassion and resentment\r\nthan he would have felt, had the same things happened to other men. It\r\nis the misfortune of kings only which afford the proper subjects for\r\ntragedy. They resemble \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page50\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e50\u003c/span\u003e in this respect, the misfortunes of\r\nlovers. Those two situations are the chief which interest us upon the\r\ntheatre; because, in spite of all that reason and experience can tell\r\nus to the contrary, the prejudices of the imagination attach to these\r\ntwo states a happiness superior to any other. To disturb, or to put an\r\nend to such perfect enjoyment, seems to be the most atrocious of all\r\ninjuries. The traitor who conspires against the life of his monarch,\r\nis thought a greater monster than any other murderer. All the innocent\r\nblood that was shed in the civil wars provoked less indignation than\r\nthe death of Charles Ⅰ. A stranger to human nature, who saw the\r\nindifference of men about the misery of their inferiors, and the\r\nregret and indignation which they feel for the misfortunes and\r\nsufferings of those above them, would be apt to imagine, that pain\r\nmust be more agonizing, and the convulsions of death more terrible to\r\npersons of higher rank, than they are to those of meaner stations.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eUpon this disposition of mankind, to go along with all the passions\r\nof the rich and the powerful, is founded the distinction of ranks, and\r\nthe order of society. Our obsequiousness to our superiors more\r\nfrequently arises from our admiration for the advantages of their\r\nsituation, than from any private expectations of benefit from their\r\ngoodwill. Their benefits can extend but to a few; but their fortunes\r\ninterest almost every body. We are eager to assist them in completing\r\na system of happiness that approaches so near to perfection; and we\r\ndesire to serve them for their own sake, without any recompense but\r\nthe vanity or the honour of obliging them. Neither is our deference to\r\nthe inclinations founded chiefly, or altogether, upon a regard to the\r\nutility of such submission, and to the order of society, which is best\r\nsupported by it. Even when the order of society seems to require that\r\nwe should oppose them, we can hardly bring ourselves to do it. That\r\nkings are servants of the people, to be obeyed, resisted, deposed, or\r\npunished, as the public conveniency may require, is the doctrine of\r\nreason and philosophy; but it is not the doctrine of nature. Nature\r\nwould teach us to submit to them for their own sake, to tremble and\r\nbow down before their exalted station, to regard their smile as a\r\nreward sufficient to compensate any services, and to dread their\r\ndispleasure, though no other evil were to follow from it, as the\r\nseverest of all mortifications. To treat them in any respect as men,\r\nto reason and dispute with them upon ordinary occasions, requires such\r\nresolution, that there are few men whose magnanimity can support them\r\nin it, unless they are likewise assisted by similarity and\r\nacquaintance. The strongest motives, the most furious passions, fear,\r\nhatred, and resentment, are scarce sufficient to balance this natural\r\ndisposition to respect them: and their conduct must, either justly or\r\nunjustly, have excited the highest degree of those passions, before\r\nthe bulk of the people can be brought to oppose them with violence, or\r\nto desire to see them \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page51\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e51\u003c/span\u003e either punished or deposed. Even when the\r\npeople have been brought this length, they are apt to relent every\r\nmoment, and easily relapse into their habitual state of deference to\r\nthose whom they have been accustomed to look upon as their natural\r\nsuperiors. They cannot stand the mortification of their monarch.\r\nCompassion soon takes the place of resentment, they forget all past\r\nprovocations, their old principles of loyalty revive, and they run to\r\nre-establish the ruined authority of their old masters, with the same\r\nviolence with which they had opposed it. The death of Charles Ⅰ.\r\nbrought about the restoration of the royal family. Compassion for\r\nJames Ⅱ., when he was seized by the populace in making his escape on\r\nship-board, had almost prevented the Revolution, and made it go on\r\nmore heavily than before.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDo the great seem insensible of the easy price at which they may\r\nacquire the public admiration; or do they seem to imagine that to\r\nthem, as to other men, it must be the purchase either of sweat or of\r\nblood? By what important accomplishments is the young nobleman\r\ninstructed to support the dignity of his rank, and to render himself\r\nworthy of that superiority over his fellow citizens, to which the\r\nvirtue of his ancestors had raised them: Is it by knowledge, by\r\nindustry, by patience, by self-denial, or by virtue of any kind? As\r\nall his words, as all his motions are attended to, he learns an\r\nhabitual regard to every circumstance of ordinary behaviour, and\r\nstudies to perform all those small duties with the most exact\r\npropriety. As he is conscious how much he is observed, and how much\r\nmankind are disposed to favour all his inclinations, he acts, upon the\r\nmost indifferent occasions, with that freedom and elevation which the\r\nthought of this naturally inspires. His air, his manner, his\r\ndeportment, all mark that elegant and graceful sense of his own\r\nsuperiority, which those who are born to inferior stations can hardly\r\never arrive at. These are the arts by which he proposes to make\r\nmankind more easily submit to his authority, and to govern their\r\ninclinations according to his own pleasure: and in this he is seldom\r\ndisappointed. These arts, supported by rank and pre-eminence, are,\r\nupon ordinary occasions, sufficient to govern the world. Lewis ⅩⅣ.\r\nduring the greater part of his reign, was regarded, not only in\r\nFrance, but over all Europe, as the most perfect model of a great\r\nprince. But what were the talents and virtues by which he acquired\r\nthis great reputation? Was it by the scrupulous and inflexible justice\r\nof all his undertakings, by the immense dangers and difficulties with\r\nwhich they were attended, or by the unwearied and unrelenting\r\napplication with which he pursued them? Was it by his extensive\r\nknowledge, by his exquisite judgment, or by his heroic valour? It was\r\nby none of these qualities. But he was, first of all, the most\r\npowerful prince in Europe, and consequently held the highest rank\r\namong kings; and then says his historian, ‘he surpassed all his\r\ncourtiers in the gracefulness of his shape, and the majestic beauty of\r\nhis features. The \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page52\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e52\u003c/span\u003e sound of his voice, noble and affecting, gained\r\nthose hearts which his presence intimidated. He had a step and a\r\ndeportment which could suit only him and his rank, and which would\r\nhave been ridiculous in any other person. The embarrassment which he\r\noccasioned to those who spoke to him, flattered that secret\r\nsatisfaction with which he felt his own superiority. The old officer,\r\nwho was confounded and faltered in asking him a favour, and not being\r\nable to conclude his discourse, said to him: “Sir, your majesty, I\r\nhope, will believe that I do not tremble thus before your enemies:”\r\nhad no difficulty to obtain what he demanded.’ These frivolous\r\naccomplishments, supported by his rank, and, no doubt too, by a degree\r\nof other talents and virtues, which seems, however, not to have been\r\nmuch above mediocrity, established this prince in the esteem of his\r\nown age, and have drawn, even from posterity, a good deal of respect\r\nfor his memory. Compared with these, in his own times, and in his own\r\npresence, no other virtue, it seems, appeared to have any merit.\r\nKnowledge, industry, valour, and beneficence trembled, were abashed,\r\nand lost all dignity before them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut it is not by accomplishments of this kind, that the man of\r\ninferior rank must hope to distinguish himself. Politeness is so much\r\nthe virtue of the great, that it will do little honour to any body but\r\nthemselves. The coxcomb, who imitates their manner, and affects to be\r\neminent by the superior propriety of his ordinary behaviour, is\r\nrewarded with a double share of contempt for his folly and\r\npresumption. Why should the man, whom nobody thinks it worth while to\r\nlook at, be very anxious about the manner in which he holds up his\r\nhead, or disposes of his arms while he walks through a room? He is\r\noccupied surely with a very superfluous attention, and with an\r\nattention too that marks a sense of his own importance, which no other\r\nmortal can go along with. The most perfect modesty and plainness,\r\njoined to as much negligence as is consistent with the respect due to\r\nthe company, ought to be the chief characteristics of the behaviour of\r\na private man. If ever he hopes to distinguish himself, it must be by\r\nmore important virtues. He must acquire dependants to balance the\r\ndependants of the great, and he has no other fund to pay them from,\r\nbut the labour of his body and the activity of his mind. He must\r\ncultivate these therefore: he must acquire superior knowledge in his\r\nprofession and superior industry in the exercise of it. He must be\r\npatient in labour, resolute in danger, and firm in distress. These\r\ntalents he must bring into public view, by the difficulty, importance,\r\nand at the same time, good judgment of his undertakings, and by the\r\nsevere and unrelenting application, with which he pursues them.\r\nProbity and prudence, generosity and frankness, must characterize his\r\nbehaviour upon all ordinary occasions; and he must, at the same time,\r\nbe forward to engage in all those situations, in which it requires the\r\ngreatest talents and virtues to act with propriety, but in which the\r\ngreatest applause is to be acquired by those who can \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page53\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e53\u003c/span\u003e acquit\r\nthemselves with honour. With what impatience does the man of spirit\r\nand ambition, who is depressed by his situation, look round for some\r\ngreat opportunity to distinguish himself? No circumstances, which can\r\nafford this, appear to him undesirable. He even looks forward with\r\nsatisfaction to the prospect of foreign war or civil dissension; and,\r\nwith secret transport and delight, sees through all the confusion and\r\nbloodshed which attend them, the probability of those wished-for\r\noccasions presenting themselves, in which he may draw upon himself the\r\nattention and admiration of mankind. The man of rank and distinction,\r\non the contrary, whose whole glory consists in the propriety of his\r\nordinary behaviour, who is contented with the humble renown which this\r\ncan afford him, and has no talents to acquire any other, is unwilling\r\nto embarrass himself with what can be attended either with difficulty\r\nor distress. To figure at a ball is his great triumph, and to succeed\r\nin an intrigue of gallantry, his highest exploit. He has an aversion\r\nto all public confusions, not from the love of mankind, for the great\r\nnever look upon their inferiors as their fellow-creatures; nor yet\r\nfrom want of courage, for in that he is seldom defective; but from a\r\nconsciousness that he possesses none of the virtues which are required\r\nin such situations, and that the public attention will certainly be\r\ndrawn away from him by others. He may be willing to expose himself to\r\nsome little danger, and to make a campaign when it happens to be the\r\nfashion. But he shudders with horror at the thought of any situation\r\nwhich demands the continual and long exertion of patience, industry,\r\nfortitude, and application of thought. These virtues are hardly ever\r\nto be met with in men who are born to those high stations. In all\r\ngovernments, accordingly, even in monarchies, the highest offices are\r\ngenerally possessed, and the whole detail of the administration\r\nconducted, by men who were educated in the middle and inferior ranks\r\nof life, who have been carried forward by their own industry and\r\nabilities, though loaded with the jealousy, and opposed by the\r\nresentment, of all those who were born their superiors, and to whom\r\nthe great, after having regarded them first with contempt, and\r\nafterwards with envy, are at last contented to truckle with the same\r\nabject meanness with which they desire that the rest of mankind should\r\nbehave to themselves.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is the loss of this easy empire over the affections of mankind\r\nwhich renders the fall from greatness so insupportable. When the\r\nfamily of the king of Macedon was led in triumph by Paulus Æmilius,\r\ntheir misfortunes, it is said, made them divide with their conqueror\r\nthe attention of the Roman people. The sight of the royal children,\r\nwhose tender age rendered them insensible of their situation, struck\r\nthe spectators, amidst the public rejoicings and prosperity, with the\r\ntenderest sorrow and compassion. The king appeared next in the\r\nprocession; and seemed like one confounded and astonished, and bereft\r\nof all \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page54\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e54\u003c/span\u003e sentiment, by the greatness of his calamities. His friends\r\nand ministers followed after him. As they moved along, they often cast\r\ntheir eyes upon their fallen sovereign, and always burst into tears at\r\nthe sight; their whole behaviour demonstrating that they thought not\r\nof their own misfortunes, but were occupied entirely by the superior\r\ngreatness of his. The generous Romans, on the contrary, beheld him\r\nwith disdain and indignation, and regarded as unworthy of all\r\ncompassion the man who could be so mean-spirited as to bear to live\r\nunder such calamities. Yet what did those calamities amount to?\r\nAccording to the greater part of historians, he was to spend the\r\nremainder of his days, under the protection of a powerful and humane\r\npeople, in a state which in itself should seem worthy of envy, a state\r\nof plenty, ease, leisure, and security, from which it was impossible\r\nfor him even by his own folly to fall. But he was no longer to be\r\nsurrounded by that admiring mob of fools, flatterers, and dependants,\r\nwho had formerly been accustomed to attend upon all his motions. He\r\nwas no longer to be gazed upon by multitudes, nor to have it in his\r\npower to render himself the object of their respect, their gratitude,\r\ntheir love, their admiration. The passions of nations were no longer\r\nto mould themselves upon his inclinations. This was that insupportable\r\ncalamity which bereaved the king of all sentiment; which made his\r\nfriends forget their own misfortunes; and which the Roman magnanimity\r\ncould scarce conceive how any man could be so mean-spirited as to bear\r\nto survive.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e‘Love,’ says my Lord Rochefaucault, ‘is commonly succeeded by\r\nambition; but ambition is hardly ever succeeded by love.’ That\r\npassion, when once it has got entire possession of the breast, will\r\nadmit neither a rival nor a successor. To those who have been\r\naccustomed to the possession, or even to the hope of public\r\nadmiration, all other pleasures sicken and decay. Of all the discarded\r\nstatesmen who for their own ease have studied to get the better of\r\nambition, and to despise those honours which they could no longer\r\narrive at, how few have been able to succeed? The greater part have\r\nspent their time in the most listless and insipid indolence, chagrined\r\nat the thoughts of their own insignificancy, incapable of being\r\ninterested in the occupations of private life, without enjoyment\r\nexcept when they talked of their former greatness, and without\r\nsatisfaction except when they were employed in some vain project to\r\nrecover it. Are you in earnest resolved never to barter your liberty\r\nfor the lordly servitude of a court, but to live free, fearless, and\r\nindependent? There seems to be one way to continue in that virtuous\r\nresolution; and perhaps but one. Never enter the place from whence so\r\nfew have been able to return; never come within the circle of\r\nambition; nor ever bring yourself into comparison with those masters\r\nof the earth who have already engrossed the attention of half mankind\r\nbefore you.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf such mighty importance does it appear to be, in the imaginations\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page55\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e55\u003c/span\u003e of men, to stand in that situation which sets them most in the\r\nview of general sympathy and attention. And thus, place, that great\r\nobject which divides the wives of aldermen, is the end of half the\r\nlabours of human life; and is the cause of all the tumult and bustle,\r\nall the rapine and injustice, which avarice and ambition have\r\nintroduced into this world. People of sense, it is said, indeed\r\ndespise place; that is, they despise sitting at the head of the table,\r\nand are indifferent who it is that is pointed out to the company by\r\nthat frivolous circumstance, which the smallest \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from advantange\"\u003eadvantage\u003c/span\u003e is capable\r\nof overbalancing. But rank, distinction, pre-eminence, no man\r\ndespises, unless he is either raised very much above, or sunk very\r\nmuch below, the ordinary standard of human nature; unless he is either\r\nso confirmed in wisdom and real philosophy, as to be satisfied that,\r\nwhile the propriety of his conduct renders him the just object of\r\napprobation, it is of little consequence though he be neither attended\r\nto, nor approved of; or so habituated to the idea of his own meanness,\r\nso sunk in slothful and sottish indifference, as entirely to have\r\nforgot the desire and almost the very wish for superiority over his\r\nfellows.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs to become the natural object of the joyous congratulations and\r\nsympathetic attentions of mankind is, in this manner, the circumstance\r\nwhich gives to prosperity all its dazzling splendour; so nothing\r\ndarkens so much the gloom of adversity as to feel that our misfortunes\r\nare the objects, not of the fellow-feeling, but of the contempt and\r\naversion of our brethren. It is upon this account that the most\r\ndreadful calamities are not always those which it is most difficult to\r\nsupport. It is often more mortifying to appear in public under small\r\ndisasters, than under great misfortunes. The first excite no sympathy;\r\nbut the second, though they may excite none that approaches to the\r\nanguish of the sufferer, call forth, however, a very lively\r\ncompassion. The sentiments of the spectators are, in this last case,\r\nless wide of those of the sufferer, and their imperfect fellow-feeling\r\nlends him some assistance in supporting his misery. Before a gay\r\nassembly, a gentleman would be more mortified to appear covered with\r\nfilth and rags than with blood and wounds. This last situation would\r\ninterest their pity; the other would provoke their laughter. The judge\r\nwho orders a criminal to be set in the pillory, dishonours him more\r\nthan if he had condemned him to the scaffold. The great prince, who,\r\nsome years ago, caned a general officer at the head of his army,\r\ndisgraced him irrecoverably. The punishment would have been much less\r\nhad he shot him through his body. By the laws of honour, to strike\r\nwith a cane dishonours, to strike with a sword does not, for an\r\nobvious reason. Those slighter punishments, when inflicted on a\r\ngentleman, to whom dishonour is the greatest of all evils, come to be\r\nregarded among a humane and generous people, as the most dreadful of\r\nany. With regard to persons of that rank, therefore, they are\r\nuniversally laid aside, and the law, while \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e56\u003c/span\u003e it takes their life\r\nupon many occasions, respects their honour upon almost all. To scourge\r\na person of quality, or to set him in the pillory, upon account of any\r\ncrime whatever, is a brutality of which no European government, except\r\nthat of Russia, is capable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA brave man is not rendered contemptible by being brought to the\r\nscaffold; he is, by being set in the pillory. His behaviour in the one\r\nsituation may gain him universal esteem and admiration. No behaviour\r\nin the other can render him agreeable. The sympathy of the spectators\r\nsupports him in the one case, and saves him from that shame, that\r\nconsciousness that his misery is felt by himself only, which is of all\r\nsentiments the most unsupportable. There is no sympathy in the other;\r\nor, if there is any, it is not with his pain, which is a trifle, but\r\nwith his consciousness of the want of sympathy with which this pain is\r\nattended. It is with his shame, not with his sorrow. Those who pity\r\nhim, blush and hang down their heads for him. He droops in the same\r\nmanner, and feels himself irrecoverably degraded by the punishment,\r\nthough not by the crime. The man, on the contrary, who dies with\r\nresolution, as he is naturally regarded with the erect aspect of\r\nesteem and approbation, so he wears himself the same undaunted\r\ncountenance; and, if the crime does not deprive him of the respect of\r\nothers, the punishment never will. He has no suspicion that his\r\nsituation is the object of contempt or derision to any body, and he\r\ncan, with propriety, assume the air, not only of perfect serenity, but\r\nof triumph and exultation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e‘Great dangers.’ says the Cardinal de Retz, ‘have their charms,\r\nbecause there is some glory to be got, even when we miscarry. But\r\nmoderate dangers have nothing but what is horrible, because the loss\r\nof reputation always attends the want of success.’ His maxim has the\r\nsame foundation with what we have been just now observing with regard\r\nto punishments.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHuman virtue is superior to pain, to poverty, to danger, and to\r\ndeath; nor does it even require its utmost efforts to despise them.\r\nBut to have its misery exposed to insult and derision, to be led in\r\ntriumph, to be set up for the hand of scorn to point at, is a\r\nsituation in which its constancy is much more apt to fail. Compared\r\nwith the contempt of mankind, all other external evils are easily\r\nsupported.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page56\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—\u003ci\u003e Of the Corruption of our Moral Sentiments, which is\r\noccasioned by this Disposition to admire the Rich and the Great, and\r\nto despise or neglect Persons of poor and mean Condition.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHIS\u003c/span\u003e disposition to admire, and almost to worship, the rich and the\r\npowerful, and to despise or, at least, to neglect persons of poor and\r\nmean condition, though necessary both to establish and to maintain the\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page57\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e57\u003c/span\u003e distinction of ranks and the order of society, is, at the same\r\ntime, the great and most universal cause of the corruption of our\r\nmoral sentiments. That wealth and greatness are often regarded with\r\nthe respect and admiration which are due only to wisdom and virtue;\r\nand that the contempt, of which vice and folly are the only proper\r\nobjects, is often most unjustly bestowed upon poverty and weakness,\r\nhas been the complaint of moralists in all ages.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe desire both to be respectable and to be respected. We dread both\r\nto be contemptible and to be contemned. But, upon coming into the\r\nworld, we soon find that wisdom and virtue are by no means the sole\r\nobjects of respect; nor vice and folly, of contempt. We frequently see\r\nthe respectful attentions of the world more strongly directed towards\r\nthe rich and the great, than towards the wise and the virtuous. We see\r\nfrequently the vices and follies of the powerful much less despised\r\nthan the poverty and weakness of the innocent. To deserve, to acquire,\r\nand to enjoy the respect and admiration of mankind, are the great\r\nobjects of ambition and emulation. Two different roads are presented\r\nto us, equally leading to the attainment of this so much desired\r\nobject; the one, by the study of wisdom and the practice of virtue;\r\nthe other, by the acquisition of wealth and greatness. Two different\r\ncharacters are presented to our emulation; the one, of proud ambition\r\nand ostentatious avidity; the other, of humble modesty and equitable\r\njustice. Two different models, two different pictures, are held out to\r\nus, according to which we may fashion our own character and behaviour;\r\nthe one more gaudy and glittering in its colouring; the other more\r\ncorrect and more exquisitely beautiful in its outline: the one forcing\r\nitself upon the notice of every wandering eye; the other, attracting\r\nthe attention of scarce any body but the most studious and careful\r\nobserver. They are the wise and the virtuous chiefly, a select,\r\nthough, I am afraid, but a small party, who are the real and steady\r\nadmirers of wisdom and virtue. The great mob of mankind are the\r\nadmirers and worshippers, and, what may seem more extraordinary, most\r\nfrequently the disinterested admirers and worshippers, of wealth and\r\ngreatness.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe respect which we feel for wisdom and virtue is, no doubt,\r\ndifferent from that which we conceive for wealth and greatness; and it\r\nrequires no very nice discernment to distinguish the difference. But,\r\nnotwithstanding this difference, those sentiments bear a very\r\nconsiderable resemblance to one another. In some particular features\r\nthey are, no doubt, different, but, in the general air of the\r\ncountenance, they seem to be so very nearly the same, that inattentive\r\nobservers are very apt to mistake the one for the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn equal degrees of merit there is scarce any man who does not\r\nrespect more the rich and the great, than the poor and the humble.\r\nWith most men the presumption and vanity of the former are much more\r\nadmired, than the real and solid merit of the latter. It is scarce\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page58\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e58\u003c/span\u003e agreeable to good morals, or even to good language, perhaps, to\r\nsay, that mere wealth and greatness, abstracted from merit and virtue,\r\ndeserve our respect. We must acknowledge, however, that they almost\r\nconstantly obtain it; and that they may, therefore, be considered as,\r\nin some respects, the natural objects of it. Those exalted stations\r\nmay, no doubt, be completely degraded by vice and folly. But, the vice\r\nand folly must be very great, before they can operate this complete\r\ndegradation. The profligacy of a man of fashion is looked upon with\r\nmuch less contempt and aversion, than that of a man of meaner\r\ncondition. In the latter, a single transgression of the rules of\r\ntemperance and propriety, is commonly more resented, than the constant\r\nand avowed contempt of them ever is in the former.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the middling and inferior stations of life, the road to virtue\r\nand that to fortune, to such fortune, at least, as men in such\r\nstations can reasonably expect to acquire, are, happily, in most\r\ncases, very nearly the same. In all the middling and inferior\r\nprofessions, real and solid professional abilities, joined to prudent,\r\njust, firm, and temperate conduct, can very seldom fail of success.\r\nAbilities will even sometimes prevail where the conduct is by no means\r\ncorrect. Either habitual imprudence, however, or injustice, or\r\nweakness, or profligacy, will always cloud, and sometimes depress\r\naltogether, the most splendid professional abilities. Men in the\r\ninferior and middling stations of life, besides, can never be great\r\nenough to be above the law, which must generally overawe them into\r\nsome sort of respect for, at least, the more important rules of\r\njustice. The success of such people, too, almost always depends upon\r\nthe favour and good opinion of their neighbours and equals; and\r\nwithout a tolerably regular conduct these can very seldom be obtained.\r\nThe good old proverb, therefore, that honesty is the best policy,\r\nholds, in such situations, almost always perfectly true. In such\r\nsituations, therefore, we may generally expect a considerable degree\r\nof virtue; and, fortunately for the good morals of society, these are\r\nthe situations of the greater part of mankind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the superior stations of life the case is unhappily not always\r\nthe same. In the courts of princes, in the drawing-rooms of the great,\r\nwhere success and preferment depend, not upon the esteem of\r\nintelligent and well-informed equals, but upon the fanciful and\r\nfoolish favour of ignorant, presumptuous, and proud superiors;\r\nflattery and falsehood too often prevail over merit and abilities. In\r\nsuch societies the abilities to please, are more regarded than the\r\nabilities to serve. In quiet and peaceable times, when the storm is at\r\na distance, the prince, or great man, wishes only to be amused, and is\r\neven apt to fancy that he has scarce any occasion for the service of\r\nany body, or that those who amuse him are sufficiently able to serve\r\nhim. The external graces, the frivolous accomplishments of that\r\nimpertinent and foolish thing called a man of fashion, are commonly\r\nmore admired than the solid and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page59\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e59\u003c/span\u003e masculine virtues of a warrior, a\r\nstatesman, a philosopher, or a legislator. All the great and awful\r\nvirtues, all the virtues which can fit, either for the council, the\r\nsenate, or the field, are, by the insolent and insignificant\r\nflatterers, who commonly figure the most in such corrupted societies,\r\nheld in the utmost contempt and derision. When the Duke of Sully was\r\ncalled upon by Louis the Thirteenth, to give his advice in some great\r\nemergency, he observed the favourites and courtiers whispering to one\r\nanother, and smiling at his unfashionable appearance. ‘Whenever your\r\nMajesty’s father,’ said the old warrior and statesman, ‘did me the\r\nhonour to consult me, he ordered the buffoons of the court to retire\r\ninto the antechamber.’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is from our disposition to admire, and consequently to imitate,\r\nthe rich and the great, that they are enabled to set, or to lead, what\r\nis called the fashion. Their dress is the fashionable dress; the\r\nlanguage of their conversation, the fashionable style; their air and\r\ndeportment, the fashionable behaviour. Even their vices and follies\r\nare fashionable; and the greater part of men are proud to imitate and\r\nresemble them in the very qualities which dishonour and degrade them.\r\nVain men often give themselves airs of a fashionable profligacy,\r\nwhich, in their hearts, they do not approve of, and of which, perhaps,\r\nthey are really not guilty. They desire to be praised for what they\r\nthemselves do not think praiseworthy, and are ashamed of unfashionable\r\nvirtues which they sometimes practise in secret, and for which they\r\nhave secretly some degree of real veneration. There are hypocrites of\r\nwealth and greatness, as well as of religion and virtue; and a vain\r\nman is as apt to pretend to be what he is not, in the one way, as a\r\ncunning man is in the other. He assumes the equipage and splendid way\r\nof living of his superiors, without considering that whatever may be\r\npraiseworthy in any of these, derives its whole merit and propriety\r\nfrom its suitableness to that situation and fortune which both require\r\nand can easily support the expense. Many a poor man places his glory\r\nin being thought rich, without considering that the duties (if one may\r\ncall such follies by so venerable a name) which that reputation\r\nimposes upon him, must soon reduce him to beggary, and render his\r\nsituation still more unlike that of those whom he admires and\r\nimitates, than it had been originally.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo attain to this envied situation, the candidates for fortune too\r\nfrequently abandon the paths of virtue; for unhappily, the road which\r\nleads to the one, and that which leads to the other, lie sometimes in\r\nvery opposite directions. But the ambitious man flatters himself that,\r\nin the splendid situation to which he advances, he will have so many\r\nmeans of commanding the respect and admiration of mankind, and will be\r\nenabled to act with such superior propriety and grace, that the lustre\r\nof his future conduct will entirely cover, or efface, the foulness of\r\nthe steps by which he arrived at that elevation. In many governments\r\nthe candidates for the highest stations are above the law; and, if\r\nthey \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page60\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e60\u003c/span\u003e can attain the object of their ambition, they have no fear\r\nof being called to account for the means by which they acquired it.\r\nThey often endeavour, therefore, not only by fraud and falsehood, the\r\nordinary and vulgar arts of intrigue and cabal; but sometimes by the\r\nperpetration of the most enormous crimes, by murder and assassination,\r\nby rebellion and civil war, to supplant and destroy those who oppose\r\nor stand in the way of their greatness. They more frequently miscarry\r\nthan succeed; and commonly gain nothing but the disgraceful punishment\r\nwhich is due to their crimes. But, though they should be so lucky as\r\nto attain that wished-for greatness, they are always most miserably\r\ndisappointed in the happiness which they expect to enjoy in it. It is\r\nnot ease or pleasure, but always honour, of one kind or another,\r\nthough frequently an honour very ill understood, that the ambitious\r\nman really pursues. But the honour of his exalted station appears,\r\nboth in his own eyes and in those of other people, polluted and denied\r\nby the baseness of the means through which he rose to it. Though by\r\nthe profusion of every liberal expense; though by excessive indulgence\r\nin every profligate pleasure, the wretched, but usual, resource of\r\nruined characters; though by the hurry of public business, or by the\r\nprouder and more dazzling tumult of war, he may endeavour to efface,\r\nboth from his own memory and from that of other people, the\r\nremembrance of what he has done; that remembrance never fails to\r\npursue him. He invokes in vain the dark and dismal powers of\r\nforgetfulness and oblivion. He remembers himself what he has done, and\r\nthat remembrance tells him that other people must likewise remember\r\nit. Amidst all the gaudy pomp of the most ostentatious greatness;\r\namidst the venal and vile adulation of the great and of the learned;\r\namidst the more innocent, though more foolish, acclamations of the\r\ncommon people; amidst all the pride of conquest and the triumph of\r\nsuccessful war, he is still secretly pursued by the avenging furies of\r\nshame and remorse; and, while glory seems to surround him on all\r\nsides, he himself, in his own imagination, sees black and foul infamy\r\nfast pursuing him, and every moment ready to overtake him from behind.\r\nEven the great Cæsar, though he had the magnanimity to dismiss his\r\nguards, could not dismiss his suspicions. The remembrance of Pharsalia\r\nstill haunted and pursued him. When, at the request of the senate, he\r\nhad the generosity to pardon Marcellus, he told that assembly, that he\r\nwas not unaware of the designs which were carrying on against his\r\nlife; but that, as he had lived long enough both for nature and for\r\nglory, he was contented to die, and therefore despised all\r\nconspiracies. He had, perhaps, lived long enough for nature. But the\r\nman who felt himself the object of such deadly resentment from those\r\nwhose favour he wished to gain, and whom he still wished to consider\r\nas his friends, had certainly lived too long for real glory; or for\r\nall the happiness which he could ever hope to enjoy in the love and\r\nesteem of his equals. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page61\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e61\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003e \u003ci\u003ePart Ⅱ.—Of Merit and Demerit; or, of the Objects of Reward and\r\nPunishment.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—OF THE SENSE OF MERIT AND DEMERIT.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNTRODUCTION\u003c/span\u003e.—There is another set of qualities ascribed to the\r\nactions and conduct of mankind, distinct from their propriety or\r\nimpropriety, their decency or ungracefulness, and which are the\r\nobjects of a distinct species of approbation and disapprobation. These\r\nare Merit and Demerit, the qualities of deserving reward and of\r\ndeserving punishment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt has already been observed, that the sentiment or affection of\r\nthe heart, from which any action proceeds, and upon which its whole\r\nvirtue or vice depends, may be considered under two different aspects,\r\nor in two different relations: first, in relation to the cause or\r\nobject which excites it; and, secondly, in relation to the end which\r\nit proposes, or to the effect which it tends to produce: that upon the\r\nsuitableness or unsuitableness, upon the proportion or disproportion,\r\nwhich the affection seems to bear to the cause or object which excites\r\nit, depends the propriety or impropriety, the decency or\r\nungracefulness of the consequent action; and that upon the beneficial\r\nor hurtful effects which the affection proposes or tends to produce,\r\ndepends the merit or demerit, the good or ill desert of the action to\r\nwhich it gives occasion. Wherein consists our sense of the propriety\r\nor impropriety of actions, has been explained in the former part of\r\nthis discourse. We come now to consider, wherein consists that of\r\ntheir good or ill desert.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eThat whatever appears to be the proper Object of\r\nGratitude, appears to deserve Reward; and that, in the same Manner,\r\nwhatever appears to be the proper Object of Resentment, appears to\r\ndeserve Punishment.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eO\u003c/span\u003e us, therefore, that action must appear to deserve reward, which\r\nappears to be the proper and approved object of that sentiment, which\r\nmost immediately and directly prompts us to reward, or to do good to\r\nanother. And in the same manner, that action must appear to deserve\r\npunishment, which appears to be the proper and approved object of that\r\nsentiment which most immediately and directly prompts us to punish, or\r\nto inflict evil upon another.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe sentiment which most immediately and directly prompts us to\r\nreward, is gratitude; that which most immediately and directly prompts\r\nus to punish, is resentment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page62\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e62\u003c/span\u003e To us, therefore, that action must appear to deserve reward,\r\nwhich appears to be the proper and approved object of gratitude; as,\r\non the other hand, that action must appear to deserve punishment,\r\nwhich appears to be the proper and approved object of resentment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo reward, is to recompense, to remunerate, to return good for good\r\nreceived. To punish, too, is to recompense, to remunerate, though in a\r\ndifferent manner; it is to return evil for evil that has been\r\ndone.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere are some other passions, besides gratitude and resentment,\r\nwhich interest us in the happiness or misery of others; but there are\r\nnone which so directly excite us as to be instruments of either. The\r\nlove and esteem which grow upon acquaintance and habitual approbation,\r\nnecessarily lead us to be pleased with the good fortune of the man who\r\nis the object of such agreeable emotions, and consequently to be\r\nwilling to lend a hand to promote it. Our love, however, is fully\r\nsatisfied, though his good fortune should be brought about without our\r\nassistance. All that this passion desires is to see him happy, without\r\nregarding who was the author of his prosperity. But gratitude is not\r\nto be satisfied in this manner. If the person to whom we owe many\r\nobligations, is made happy without our assistance, though it pleases\r\nour love, it does not content our gratitude. Till we have recompensed\r\nhim, till we ourselves have been instrumental in promoting his\r\nhappiness, we feel ourselves still loaded with that debt which his\r\npast services have laid upon us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe hatred and dislike, in the same manner, which grow upon the\r\nhabitual disapprobation, would often lead us to take a malicious\r\npleasure in the misfortune of the man whose conduct and character\r\nexcite so painful a passion. But though dislike and hatred harden us\r\nagainst all sympathy, and sometimes dispose us even to rejoice at the\r\ndistress of another, yet, if there is no resentment in the case, if\r\nneither we nor our friends have received any great personal\r\nprovocation, these passions would not naturally lead us to wish to be\r\ninstrumental in bringing it about. Though we could fear no punishment\r\nin consequence of our having had some hand in it, we would rather that\r\nit should happen by other means. To one under the dominion of violent\r\nhatred it would be agreeable, perhaps, to hear, that the person whom\r\nhe abhorred and detested was killed by some accident. But if he had\r\nthe least spark of justice, which, though this passion is not very\r\nfavourable to virtue, he might still have, it would hurt him\r\nexcessively to have been himself, even without design, the occasion of\r\nthis misfortune. Much more would the very thought of voluntarily\r\ncontributing to it shock him beyond all measure. He would reject with\r\nhorror even the imagination of so execrable a design; and if he could\r\nimagine himself capable of such an enormity, he would begin to regard\r\nto himself in the same odious light in which he had considered the\r\nperson who was the object of his dislike. But it is quite otherwise\r\nwith resentment: if the person \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e63\u003c/span\u003e who had done us some great injury,\r\nwho had murdered our father or our brother, for example, should soon\r\nafterwards die of a fever, or even be brought to the scaffold upon\r\naccount of some other crime, though it might soothe our hatred, it\r\nwould not fully gratify our resentment. Resentment would prompt us to\r\ndesire, not only that he should be punished, but that he should be\r\npunished by our means, and upon account of that particular injury\r\nwhich he had done to us. Resentment cannot be fully gratified, unless\r\nthe offender is not only made to grieve in his turn, but to grieve for\r\nthat particular wrong which we have suffered from him. He must be made\r\nto repent and be sorry for this very action, that others, through fear\r\nof the like punishment, may be terrified from being guilty of the like\r\noffence. The natural gratification of this passion tends, of its own\r\naccord, to produce all the political ends of punishment; the\r\ncorrection of the criminal, and example to the public.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eGratitude and resentment, therefore, are the sentiments which most\r\nimmediately and directly prompt to reward and to punish. To us,\r\ntherefore, he must appear to deserve reward, who appears to be the\r\nproper and approved object of gratitude; and he to deserve punishment,\r\nwho appears to be that of resentment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page63\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the proper Objects of Gratitude and\r\nResentment.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eO\u003c/span\u003e be the proper and approved object either of gratitude or\r\nresentment, can mean nothing but to be the object of that gratitude\r\nand of that resentment which naturally seems proper, and is approved\r\nof.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut these, as well as all the other passions of human nature, seem\r\nproper and are approved of, when the heart of every impartial\r\nspectator entirely sympathizes with them, when every indifferent\r\nby-stander entirely enters into and goes along with them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHe, therefore, appears to deserve reward, who, to some person or\r\npersons, is the natural object of a gratitude which every human heart\r\nis disposed to beat time to, and thereby applaud: and he, on the other\r\nhand, appears to deserve punishment, who in the same manner is to some\r\nperson or persons the natural object of a resentment which the breast\r\nof every reasonable man is ready to adopt and sympathize with. To us,\r\nsurely, that action must appear to deserve reward, which every body\r\nwho knows of it would wish to reward, and therefore delights to see\r\nrewarded: and that action must as surely appear to deserve punishment,\r\nwhich every body who hears of it is angry with, and upon that account\r\nrejoices to see punished.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e1. As we sympathize with the joy of our companions, when in\r\nprosperity, so we join with them in the complacency and satisfaction\r\nwith which they naturally regard whatever is the cause of their good\r\nfortune. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page64\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e64\u003c/span\u003e We enter into the love and affection which they conceive\r\nfor it, and begin to love it too. We should be sorry for their sakes\r\nif it was destroyed, or even if it was placed at too great a distance\r\nfrom them, and out of the reach of their care and protection, though\r\nthey should lose nothing by its absence except the pleasure of seeing\r\nit. If it is man who has thus been the fortunate instrument of the\r\nhappiness of his brethren, this is still more peculiarly the case.\r\nWhen we see one man assisted, protected, relieved by another, our\r\nsympathy with the joy of the person who receives the benefit serves\r\nonly to animate our fellow-feeling with his gratitude towards him who\r\nbestows it. When we look upon the person who is the cause of his\r\npleasure with the eyes with which we imagine he must look upon him,\r\nhis benefactor seems to stand before us in the most engaging and\r\namiable light. We readily therefore sympathize with the grateful\r\naffection which he conceives for a person to whom he has been so much\r\nobliged; and consequently applaud the returns which he is disposed to\r\nmake for the good offices conferred upon him. As we entirely enter\r\ninto the affection from which these returns proceed, they necessarily\r\nseem every way proper and suitable to their object.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e2. In the same manner, as we sympathize with the sorrow of our\r\nfellow-creature whenever we see his distress, so we likewise enter\r\ninto his abhorrence and aversion for whatever has given occasion to\r\nit. Our heart, as it adopts and beats time to his grief, so is it\r\nlikewise animated with that spirit by which he endeavours to drive\r\naway or destroy the cause of it. The indolent and passive\r\nfellow-feeling, by which we accompany him in his sufferings, readily\r\ngives way to that more vigorous and active sentiment by which we go\r\nalong with him in the effort he makes, either to repeal them, or to\r\ngratify his aversion to what has given occasion to them. This is still\r\nmore peculiarly the case, when it is man who has caused them. When we\r\nsee one man oppressed or injured by another, the sympathy which we\r\nfeel with the distress of the sufferer seems to serve only to animate\r\nour fellow-feeling with his resentment against the offender. We are\r\nrejoiced to see him attack his adversary in his turn, and are eager\r\nand ready to assist him whenever he exerts himself for defence, or\r\neven for vengeance within a certain degree. If the injured should\r\nperish in the quarrel, we not only sympathize with the real resentment\r\nof his friends and relations, but with the imaginary resentment which\r\nin fancy we lend to the dead, who is no longer capable of feeling that\r\nor any other human sentiment. But as we put ourselves in his\r\nsituation, as we enter, as it were, into his body, and in our\r\nimaginations, in some measure, animate anew the deformed and mangled\r\ncarcass of the slain, when we bring home in this manner his case to\r\nour own bosoms, we feel upon this, as upon many other occasions, an\r\nemotion which the person principally concerned is incapable of\r\nfeeling, and which yet we feel by an illusive \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e65\u003c/span\u003e sympathy with him.\r\nThe sympathetic tears which we shed for that immense and irretrievable\r\nloss, which in our fancy he appears to have sustained, seem to be but\r\na small part of the duty which we owe him. The injury which he has\r\nsuffered demands, we think, a principal part of our attention. We feel\r\nthat resentment which we imagine he ought to feel, and which he would\r\nfeel, if in his cold and lifeless body there remained any\r\nconsciousness of what passes upon earth. His blood, we think, calls\r\naloud for vengeance. The very ashes of the dead seem to be disturbed\r\nat the thought that his injuries are to pass unrevenged. The horrors\r\nwhich are supposed to haunt the bed of the murderer, the ghosts which\r\nsuperstition imagines rise from their graves to demand vengeance upon\r\nthose who brought them to an untimely end, all take their origin from\r\nthis natural sympathy with the imaginary resentment of the slain. And\r\nwith regard, at least, to this most dreadful of all crimes, Nature,\r\nantecedent to all reflection upon the utility of punishment, has in\r\nthis manner stamped upon the human heart, in the strongest and most\r\nindelible characters, an immediate and instinctive approbation of the\r\nsacred and necessary law of retaliation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003ca id=\"page65\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—\u003ci\u003eThat where there is no Approbation of the Conduct of\r\nthe Person who confers the Benefit, there is little Sympathy with the\r\nGratitude of him who receives it: and that, on the Contrary, where\r\nthere is no Disapprobation of the Motives of the Person who does the\r\nMischief, there is no Sort of Sympathy with the Resentment of him who\r\nsuffers it.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eT\u003c/span\u003e is to be observed, however, that, how beneficial soever on the\r\none hand, or hurtful soever on the other, the actions or intentions of\r\nthe person who acts may have been to the person who is, if I may say\r\nso, acted upon, yet if in the one case there appears to have been no\r\npropriety in the motives of the agent, if we cannot enter into the\r\naffections which influenced his conduct, we have little sympathy with\r\nthe gratitude of the person who receives the benefit: or if, in the\r\nother case, there appears to have been no impropriety in the motives\r\nof the agent, if, on the contrary, the affections which influenced his\r\nconduct are such as we must necessarily enter into, we can have no\r\nsort of sympathy with the resentment of the person who suffers. Little\r\ngratitude seems due in the one case, and all sort of resentment seems\r\nunjust in the other. The one action seems to merit little reward, the\r\nother to deserve no punishment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e1. First, I say, that wherever we cannot sympathize with the\r\naffections of the agent, wherever there seems to be no propriety in\r\nthe motives which influenced his conduct, we are less disposed to\r\nenter into the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page66\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e66\u003c/span\u003e gratitude of the person who received the benefit\r\nof his actions. A very small return seems due to that foolish and\r\nprofuse generosity which confers the greatest benefits from the most\r\ntrivial motives, and gives an estate to a man merely because his name\r\nand surname happen to be the same with those of the giver. Such\r\nservices do not seem to demand any proportionable recompense. Our\r\ncontempt for the folly of the agent hinders us from thoroughly\r\nentering into the gratitude of the person to whom the good office has\r\nbeen done. His benefactor seems unworthy of it. As when we place\r\nourselves in the situation of the person obliged, we feel that we\r\ncould conceive no great reverence for such a benefactor, we easily\r\nabsolve him from a great deal of that submissive veneration and esteem\r\nwhich we should think due to a more respectable character; and\r\nprovided he always treats his weak friend with kindness and humanity,\r\nwe are willing to excuse him from many attentions and regards which we\r\nshould demand to a worthier patron. Those princes who have heaped,\r\nwith the greatest profusion, wealth, power and honours, upon their\r\nfavourites, have seldom excited that degree of attachment to their\r\npersons which has often been experienced by those who were more frugal\r\nof their favours. The well-natured, but injudicious prodigality of\r\nJames the First of Great Britain seems to have attached nobody to his\r\nperson; and that prince, notwithstanding his social and harmless\r\ndisposition, appears to have lived and died without a friend. The\r\nwhole gentry and nobility of England exposed their lives and fortunes\r\nin the cause of Charles Ⅰ., his more frugal and distinguishing son,\r\nnotwithstanding the coldness and distant severity of his ordinary\r\ndeportment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e2. Secondly, I say, That wherever the conduct of the agent appears\r\nto have been entirely directed by motives and affections which we\r\nthoroughly enter into and approve of, we can have no sort of sympathy\r\nwith the resentment of the sufferer, how great soever the mischief\r\nwhich may have been done to him. When two people quarrel, if we take\r\npart with, and entirely adopt the resentment of one of them, it is\r\nimpossible that we should enter into that of the other. Our sympathy\r\nwith the person whose motives we go along with, and whom therefore we\r\nlook upon as in the right, cannot but harden us against all\r\nfellow-feeling with the other, whom we necessarily regard as in the\r\nwrong. Whatever this last, therefore, may have suffered, while it is\r\nno more than what we ourselves should have wished him to suffer, while\r\nit is no more than what our own sympathetic indignation would have\r\nprompted us to inflict upon him, it cannot either displease or provoke\r\nus. When an inhuman murderer is brought to the scaffold, though we\r\nhave some compassion for his misery, we can have no sort of\r\nfellow-feeling with his resentment, if he should be so absurd as to\r\nexpress any against either his prosecutor or his judge. The natural\r\ntendency of their just indignation against so vile a criminal is\r\nindeed the most fatal and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e67\u003c/span\u003e ruinous to him. But it is impossible\r\nthat we should be displeased with the tendency of a sentiment, which,\r\nwhen we bring the case home to ourselves, we feel that we cannot avoid\r\nadopting.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page67\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ.—\u003ci\u003eRecapitulation of the foregoing Chapters.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003e1. W\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eE\u003c/span\u003e do not therefore thoroughly and heartily sympathize with the\r\ngratitude of one man towards another, merely because this other has\r\nbeen the cause of his good fortune, unless he has been the cause of it\r\nfrom motives which we entirely go along with. Our heart must adopt the\r\nprinciples of the agent, and go along with all the affections which\r\ninfluenced his conduct, before it can entirely sympathize with and\r\nbeat time to, the gratitude of the person who has been benefited by\r\nhis actions. If in the conduct of the benefactor there appears to have\r\nbeen no propriety, how beneficial soever its effects, it does not seem\r\nto demand, or necessarily to require, any proportionable\r\nrecompense.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut when to the beneficent tendency of the action is joined the\r\npropriety of the affection from which it proceeds, when we entirely\r\nsympathize and go along with the motives of the agent, the love which\r\nwe conceive for him upon his own account enhances and enlivens our\r\nfellow-feeling with the gratitude of those who owe their prosperity to\r\nhis good conduct. His actions seem then to demand, and, if I may say\r\nso, to call aloud for a proportionable recompense. We then entirely\r\nenter into that gratitude which prompts to bestow it. The benefactor\r\nseems then to be the proper object of reward, when we thus entirely\r\nsympathize with, and approve of, that sentiment which prompts to\r\nreward him. When we approve of, and go along with, the affection from\r\nwhich the action proceeds, we must necessarily approve of the action,\r\nand regard the person towards whom it is directed, as its proper and\r\nsuitable object.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e2. In the same manner, we cannot at all sympathize with the\r\nresentment of one man against another, merely because this other has\r\nbeen the cause of his misfortune, unless he has been the cause of it\r\nfrom motives which we cannot enter into. Before we can adopt the\r\nresentment of the sufferer, we must disapprove of the motives of the\r\nagent, and feel that our heart renounces all sympathy with the\r\naffections which influenced his conduct. If there appears to have been\r\nno impropriety in these, how fatal soever the tendency of the action\r\nwhich proceeds from them to those against whom it is directed, it does\r\nnot seem to deserve any punishment, or to be the proper object of any\r\nresentment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut when to the hurtfulness of the action is joined the impropriety\r\nof the affection from whence it proceeds, when our heart rejects with\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e68\u003c/span\u003e abhorrence all fellow-feeling with the motives of the agent, we\r\nthen heartily and entirely sympathize with the resentment of the\r\nsufferer. Such actions seem then to deserve, and, if I may say so, to\r\ncall aloud for, a proportionable punishment; and we entirely enter\r\ninto, and thereby approve of, that resentment which prompts to inflict\r\nit. The offender necessarily seems then to be the proper object of\r\npunishment, when we thus entirely sympathize with, and thereby approve\r\nof, that sentiment which prompts to punish. In this case too, when we\r\napprove, and go along with, the affection from which the action\r\nproceeds, we must necessarily approve the action, and regard the\r\nperson against whom it is directed, as its proper and suitable\r\nobject.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page68\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅴ.—\u003ci\u003eThe Analysis of the Sense of Merit and\r\nDemerit.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003e1. A\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eS\u003c/span\u003e our sense, therefore, of the propriety of conduct arises from\r\nwhat I shall call a direct sympathy with the affections and motives of\r\nthe person who acts, so our sense of its merit arises from what I\r\nshall call an indirect sympathy with the gratitude of the person who\r\nis, if I may say so, acted upon.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs we cannot indeed enter thoroughly into the gratitude of the\r\nperson who receives the benefit, unless we beforehand approve of the\r\nmotives of the benefactor, so, upon this account, the sense of merit\r\nseems to be a compounded sentiment, and to be made up of two distinct\r\nemotions; a direct sympathy with the sentiments of the agents, and an\r\nindirect sympathy with the gratitude of those who receive the benefit\r\nof his actions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe may, upon many different occasions, plainly distinguish those\r\ntwo different emotions combining and uniting together in our sense of\r\nthe good desert of a particular character or action. When we read in\r\nhistory concerning actions of proper and beneficent greatness of mind,\r\nhow eagerly do we enter into such designs? How much are we animated by\r\nthat high-spirited generosity which directs them? How keen are we for\r\ntheir success? How grieved at their disappointment? In imagination we\r\nbecome the very person whose actions are represented to us: we\r\ntransport ourselves in fancy to the scenes of those distant and\r\nforgotten adventures, and imagine ourselves acting the part of a\r\nScipio or a Camillus, a Timoleon or an Aristides. So far our\r\nsentiments are founded upon the direct sympathy with the person who\r\nacts. Nor is the indirect sympathy with those who receive the benefit\r\nof such actions less sensibly felt. Whenever we place ourselves in the\r\nsituation of these last, with what warm and affectionate\r\nfellow-feeling do we enter into their gratitude towards those who\r\nserved them so essentially? We embrace, as it were, their benefactor\r\nalong with them. Our heart \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page69\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e69\u003c/span\u003e readily sympathizes with the highest\r\ntransports of their grateful affection. No honours, no rewards, we\r\nthink, can be too great for them to bestow upon him. When they make\r\nthis proper return for his services, we heartily applaud and go along\r\nwith them; but are shocked beyond, all measure, if by their conduct\r\nthey appear to have little sense of the obligations conferred upon\r\nthem. Our whole sense, in short, of the merit and good desert of such\r\nactions, of the propriety and fitness of recompensing them, and making\r\nthe person who performed them rejoice in his turn, arises from the\r\nsympathetic emotions of gratitude and love, with which, when we bring\r\nhome to our own breast the situation of those principally concerned,\r\nwe feel ourselves naturally transported towards the man who could act\r\nwith such proper and noble beneficence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e2. In the same manner as our sense of the impropriety of conduct\r\narises from a want of sympathy, or from a direct antipathy to the\r\naffections and motives of the agent, so our sense of its demerit\r\narises from what I shall here too call an indirect sympathy with the\r\nresentment of the sufferer.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs we cannot indeed enter into the resentment of the sufferer,\r\nunless our heart beforehand disapproves the motives of the agent, and\r\nrenounces all fellow-feeling with them; so upon this account the sense\r\nof demerit, as well as that of merit, seems to be a compounded\r\nsentiment, and to be made up of two distinct emotions; a direct\r\nantipathy to the sentiments of the agent, and an indirect sympathy\r\nwith the resentment of the sufferer.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe may here too, upon many different occasions, plainly distinguish\r\nthose two different emotions combining and uniting together in our\r\nsense of the ill desert of a particular character or action. When we\r\nread in history concerning the perfidy and cruelty of a Borgia or a\r\nNero, our heart rises up against the detestable sentiments which\r\ninfluenced their conduct, and renounces with horror and abomination\r\nall fellow-feeling with such execrable motives. So far our sentiments\r\nare founded upon the direct antipathy to the affections of the agent:\r\nand the indirect sympathy with the resentment of the sufferers is\r\nstill more sensibly felt. When we bring home to ourselves the\r\nsituation of the persons whom those scourges of mankind insulted,\r\nmurdered, or betrayed, what indignation do we not feel against such\r\ninsolent and inhuman oppressors of the earth? Our sympathy with the\r\nunavoidable distress of the innocent sufferers is not more real nor\r\nmore lively, than our fellow-feeling with their just and natural\r\nresentment. The former sentiment only heightens the latter, and the\r\nidea of their distress serves only to inflame and blow up our\r\nanimosity against those who occasioned it. When we think of the\r\nanguish of the sufferers, we take part with them more earnestly\r\nagainst their oppressors; we enter with more eagerness into all their\r\nschemes of vengeance, and feel ourselves every \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e70\u003c/span\u003e moment wreaking,\r\nin imagination, upon such violators of the laws of society, that\r\npunishment which our sympathetic indignation tells us is due to their\r\ncrimes. Our sense of the horror and dreadful atrocity of such conduct,\r\nthe delight which we take in hearing that it was properly punished,\r\nthe indignation which we feel when it escapes this due retaliation,\r\nour whole sense and feeling, in short, of its ill desert, of the\r\npropriety and fitness of inflicting evil upon the person who is guilty\r\nof it, and of making him grieve in his turn, arises from the\r\nsympathetic indignation which naturally boils up in the breast of the\r\nspectator, whenever he thoroughly brings home to himself the case of\r\nthe sufferer.\u003ca href=\"#Footnote2\" id=\"FnAnchor2\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e2\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"Footnote2\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchor2\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e2\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e To ascribe in this manner our natural sense of the ill\r\ndesert of human actions to a sympathy with the resentment of the\r\nsufferer, may seem, to the greater part of the people, to be a\r\ndegradation of that sentiment. Resentment is commonly regarded as so\r\nodious a passion, that they will be apt to think it impossible that so\r\nlaudable a principle, as the sense of the ill desert of vice, should\r\nin any respect be founded upon it. They will be more willing, perhaps,\r\nto admit that our sense of the merit of good actions is founded upon a\r\nsympathy with the gratitude of the persons who receive the benefit of\r\nthem; because gratitude, as well as all the other benevolent passions,\r\nis regarded as an amiable principle, which can take nothing from the\r\nworth of whatever is founded upon it. Gratitude and resentment,\r\nhowever, are in every respect, it is evident, counterparts to one\r\nanother; and if our sense of merit arises from a sympathy with the\r\none, our sense of demerit can scarce miss to proceed from a\r\nfellow-feeling with the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eLet it be considered, too, that resentment, though in the degree in\r\nwhich we too often see it, the most odious, perhaps, of all the\r\npassions, is not disapproved of when properly humbled and entirely\r\nbrought down to the level of the sympathetic indignation of the\r\nspectator. When we who are the bystanders, feel that our own animosity\r\nentirely corresponds with that of the sufferer, when the resentment of\r\nthis last does not in any respect go beyond our own, when no word, no\r\ngesture, escapes him that denotes an emotion more violent than what we\r\ncan keep time to, and when he never aims at inflicting any punishment\r\nbeyond what we should rejoice to see inflicted, or what we ourselves\r\nwould upon this account even desire to be the instruments of\r\ninflicting, it is impossible that we should not entirely approve of\r\nhis sentiment. Our own emotion in this case must, in our eyes,\r\nundoubtedly justify his. And as experience teaches us how much the\r\ngreater part of mankind are incapable of this moderation, and how\r\ngreat an effort must be made in order to bring down the rude and\r\nundisciplined impulse of resentment to this suitable temper, we cannot\r\navoid conceiving a considerable degree of esteem and admiration for\r\none who appears capable of exerting so much self-command over one of\r\nthe most ungovernable passions of his nature. When indeed the\r\nanimosity of the sufferer exceeds, as it almost always does, that we\r\ncan go along with, as we cannot enter into it, we necessarily\r\ndisapprove of it. We even disapprove of it more than we should of an\r\nequal excess of almost any other passion derived from the imagination.\r\nAnd this too violent resentment, instead of carrying us along with it\r\nbecomes itself the object of our resentment and indignation. We enter\r\ninto the opposite resentment of the person who is the object of this\r\nunjust emotion, and who is in danger of suffering from it. Revenge,\r\ntherefore, the excess of resentment, appears to be the most detestable\r\nof all the passions, and is the object of the horror and indignation\r\nof every body. And as in the way in which this passion commonly\r\ndiscovers itself among mankind, it is excessive a hundred times for\r\nonce that it is immoderate, we are very apt to consider it as\r\naltogether odious and detestable, because in its most ordinary\r\nappearances it is so. Nature, however, even in the present depraved\r\nstate of mankind, does not seem to have dealt so unkindly with us, as\r\nto have endowed us with any principle which is wholly and in every\r\nrespect evil, or which, in no degree and in no direction, can be the\r\nproper object of praise and approbation. Upon some occasions we are\r\nsensible that this passion, which is generally too strong, may\r\nlikewise be too weak. We sometimes complain that a particular person\r\nshows too little spirit, and has too little sense of the injuries that\r\nhave been done to him; and we are as ready to despise him for the\r\ndefect, as to hate him for the excess of this passion.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe inspired writers would not surely have talked so frequently or\r\nso strongly of the wrath and anger of God, if they had regarded every\r\ndegree of those passions as vicious and evil, even in so weak and\r\nimperfect a creature as man.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eLet it be considered too, that the present inquiry is not\r\nconcerning a matter of right, if I may say so, but concerning a matter\r\nof fact. We are not at present examining upon what principles a\r\nperfect being would approve of the punishment of bad actions; but upon\r\nwhat principles so weak and imperfect a creature as man actually and\r\nin fact approves of it. The principles which I have just now\r\nmentioned, it is evident, have a very great effect upon his\r\nsentiments; and it seems wisely ordered that it should be so. The very\r\nexistence of society requires that unmerited and unprovoked malice\r\nshould be restrained by proper punishments; and consequently, that to\r\ninflict those punishments should be regarded as a proper and laudable\r\naction. Though man, therefore, be naturally endowed with a desire of\r\nthe welfare and preservation of society, yet the Author of nature has\r\nnot entrusted it to his reason to find out that a certain application\r\nof punishments is the proper means of attaining this end; but has\r\nendowed him with an immediate and instinctive approbation of that very\r\napplication which is most proper to attain it. The œconomy of\r\nnature is in this respect exactly of a piece with what it is upon many\r\nother occasions. With regard to all those ends which, upon account of\r\ntheir peculiar importance, may be regarded, if such an expression is\r\nallowable, as the favourite ends of nature, she has constantly in this\r\nmanner not only endowed mankind with an appetite for the end which she\r\nproposes, but likewise with an appetite for the means by which alone\r\nthis end can be brought about, for their own sakes, and independent of\r\ntheir tendency to produce it. Thus self-preservation, and the\r\npropagation of the species, are the great ends which Nature seems to\r\nhave proposed in the formation of all animals. Mankind are endowed\r\nwith a desire of those ends, and an aversion to the contrary; with a\r\nlove of life, and a dread of dissolution; with a desire of the\r\ncontinuance and perpetuity of the species, and with an aversion to the\r\nthoughts of its entire extinction. But though we are in this manner\r\nendowed with a very strong desire of those ends, it has not been\r\nintrusted to the slow and uncertain determinations of our reason to\r\nfind out the proper means of bringing them about. Nature has directed\r\nus to the greater part of these by original and immediate instincts.\r\nHunger, thirst, the passion which unites the two sexes, the love of\r\npleasure, and the dread of pain, prompt us to apply those means for\r\ntheir own sakes, and without any consideration of their tendency to\r\nthose beneficent ends which the great Director of nature intended to\r\nproduce by them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBefore I conclude this note, I must take notice of a difference\r\nbetween the approbation of propriety and that of merit or beneficence.\r\nBefore we approve of the sentiments of any person as proper and\r\nsuitable to their objects, we must not only be affected in the same\r\nmanner as he is, but we must perceive this harmony and correspondence\r\nof sentiments between him and ourselves. Thus, though upon hearing of\r\na misfortune that had befallen my friend, I should conceive precisely\r\nthat degree of concern which he gives way to; yet till I am informed\r\nof the manner in which he behaves, till I perceive the harmony between\r\nhis emotions and mine, I cannot be said to approve of the sentiments\r\nwhich influence his behaviour. The approbation of propriety therefore\r\nrequires, not only that we should entirely sympathize with the person\r\nwho acts, but that we should perceive this perfect concord between his\r\nsentiments and our own. On the contrary, when I hear of a benefit that\r\nhas been bestowed upon another person, let him who has received it be\r\naffected in what manner he pleases, if, by bringing his case home to\r\nmyself, I feel gratitude arise in my own breast, I necessarily approve\r\nof the conduct of his benefactor, and regard it as meritorious, and\r\nthe proper object of reward. Whether the person who has received the\r\nbenefit conceives gratitude or not, cannot, it is evident, in any\r\ndegree alter our sentiments with regard to the merit of him who has\r\nbestowed it. No actual correspondence of sentiments, therefore, is\r\nhere required. It is sufficient that if he was grateful, they would\r\ncorrespond; and our sense of merit is often founded upon one of those\r\nillusive sympathies, by which, when we bring home to ourselves the\r\ncase of another, we are often affected in a manner in which the person\r\nprincipally concerned is incapable of being affected. There is a\r\nsimilar difference between our disapprobation of demerit, and that of\r\nimpropriety.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page70\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eECT\u003c/span\u003e. Ⅱ.—O\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eF\u003c/span\u003e J\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eUSTICE AND\u003c/span\u003e B\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eENEFICENCE\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eComparison of those two Virtues.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eA\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eCTIONS\u003c/span\u003e of a beneficent tendency, which proceed from proper\r\nmotives, seem alone to require reward; because such alone are the\r\napproved objects of gratitude, or excite the sympathetic gratitude of\r\nthe spectator.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eActions of a hurtful tendency, which proceed from improper motives,\r\nseem alone to deserve punishment; because such alone are the approved\r\nobjects of resentment, or excite the sympathetic resentment of the\r\nspectator.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBeneficence is always free, it cannot be extorted by force, the\r\nmere \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page71\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e71\u003c/span\u003e want of it exposes to no punishment; because the mere want\r\nof beneficence tends to do no real positive evil. It may disappoint of\r\nthe \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page72\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e72\u003c/span\u003e good which might reasonably have been expected, and upon that\r\naccount it may justly excite dislike and disapprobation: it cannot,\r\nhowever, provoke any resentment which mankind will go along with. The\r\nman who does not recompense his benefactor, when he has it in his\r\npower, and when his benefactor needs his assistance, is, no doubt,\r\nguilty of the blackest ingratitude. The heart of every impartial\r\nspectator rejects all fellow-feeling with the selfishness of his\r\nmotives, and he is the proper object of the highest disapprobation.\r\nBut still he does no positive hurt to any body. He only does not do\r\nthat good which in propriety he ought to have done. He is the object\r\nof hatred, a passion which is naturally excited by impropriety of\r\nsentiment and behaviour; not of resentment, a passion which is never\r\nproperly called forth but by actions which tend to do real and\r\npositive hurt to some particular persons. His want of gratitude,\r\ntherefore, cannot be punished. To oblige him by force to perform, what\r\nin gratitude he ought to perform, and what every impartial spectator\r\nwould approve of him for performing, would, if possible, be still more\r\nimproper than his neglecting to perform it. His benefactor would\r\ndishonour himself if he attempted by violence to constrain him to\r\ngratitude, and it would be impertinent for any third person, who was\r\nnot the superior of either, to intermeddle. But of all the duties of\r\nbeneficence, those which gratitude recommends to us approach nearest\r\nto what is called a perfect and complete obligation. What friendship,\r\nwhat generosity, what charity, would prompt us to do with universal\r\napprobation, is still more free, and can still less be extorted by\r\nforce than the duties of gratitude. We talk of the debt of gratitude,\r\nnot of charity, or generosity, nor even of friendship, when friendship\r\nis mere esteem, and has not been enhanced and complicated with\r\ngratitude for good offices.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eResentment seems to have been given us by nature for defence, and\r\nfor defence only. It is the safeguard of justice and the security of\r\ninnocence. It prompts us to beat off the mischief which is attempted\r\nto be done to us, and to retaliate that which is already done; that\r\nthe \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page73\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e73\u003c/span\u003e offender may be made to repent of his injustice, and that\r\nothers, through fear of the like punishment, may be terrified from\r\nbeing guilty of the like offence. It must be reserved therefore for\r\nthese purposes, nor can the spectator ever go along with it when it is\r\nexerted for any other. But the mere want of the beneficent virtues,\r\nthough it may disappoint us of the good which might reasonably be\r\nexpected, neither does, nor attempts to do, any mischief from which we\r\ncan have occasion to defend ourselves.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere is however another virtue, of which the observance is not\r\nleft to the freedom of our own wills, which may be extorted by force,\r\nand of which the violation exposes to resentment, and consequently to\r\npunishment. This virtue is justice: the violation of justice is\r\ninjury: it does real and positive hurt to some particular persons,\r\nfrom motives which are naturally disapproved of. It is, therefore, the\r\nproper object of resentment, and of punishment, which is the natural\r\nconsequence of resentment. As mankind go along with and approve of the\r\nviolence employed to avenge the hurt which is done by injustice, so\r\nthey much more go along with, and approve of, that which is employed\r\nto prevent and beat off the injury, and to restrain the offender from\r\nhurting his neighbours. The person himself who meditates an injustice\r\nis sensible of this, and feels that force may, with the utmost\r\npropriety, be made use of, both by the person whom he is about to\r\ninjure, and by others, either to obstruct the execution of his crime,\r\nor to punish him when he has executed it. And upon this is founded\r\nthat remarkable distinction between justice and all the other social\r\nvirtues, which has of late been particularly insisted upon by an\r\nauthor of very great and original genius, that we feel ourselves to be\r\nunder a stricter obligation to act according to justice, than\r\nagreeably to friendship, charity, or generosity; that the practice of\r\nthese last mentioned virtues seems to be left in some measure to our\r\nown choice, but that, somehow or other, we feel ourselves to be in a\r\npeculiar manner tied, bound, and obliged to the observation of\r\njustice. We feel, that is to say, that force may, with the utmost\r\npropriety, and with the approbation of all mankind, be made use of to\r\nconstrain us to observe the rules of the one, but not to follow the\r\nprecepts of the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe must always, however, carefully distinguish what is only\r\nblamable, or the proper object of disapprobation, from what force may\r\nbe employed either to punish or to prevent. That seems blamable which\r\nfalls short of that ordinary degree of proper beneficence which\r\nexperience teaches us to expect of every body; and on the contrary,\r\nthat seems praise-worthy which goes beyond it. The ordinary degree\r\nitself seems neither blamable nor praise-worthy. A father, a son, a\r\nbrother, who behaves to the correspondent relation neither better nor\r\nworse than the greater part of men commonly do, seems properly to\r\ndeserve neither praise nor blame. He who surprises us by extraordinary\r\nand \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page74\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e74\u003c/span\u003e unexpected, though still proper and suitable kindness, or on\r\nthe contrary, by extraordinary and unexpected as well as unsuitable\r\nunkindness, seems praise-worthy in the one case, and blamable in the\r\nother.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEven the most ordinary degree of kindness or beneficence, however,\r\ncannot among equals, be extorted by force. Among equals each\r\nindividual is naturally, and antecedent to the institution of civil\r\ngovernment, regarded as having a right both to defend himself from\r\ninjuries, and to exact a certain degree of punishment for those which\r\nhave been done to him. Every generous spectator not only approves of\r\nhis conduct when he does this, but enters so far into his sentiments\r\nas often to be willing to assist him. When one man attacks, or robs,\r\nor attempts to murder another, all the neighbours take the alarm, and\r\nthink that they do right when they run, either to revenge the person\r\nwho has been injured, or to defend him who is in danger of being so.\r\nBut when a father fails in the ordinary degree of parental affection\r\ntowards a son; when a son seems to want that filial reverence which\r\nmight be expected to his father; when brothers are without the usual\r\ndegree of brotherly affection; when a man shuts his breast against\r\ncompassion, and refuses to relieve the misery of his fellow-creatures,\r\nwhen he can with the greatest ease; in all these cases, though every\r\nbody blames the conduct, nobody imagines that those who might have\r\nreason, perhaps, to expect more kindness, have any right to extort it\r\nby force. The sufferer can only complain, and the spectator can\r\nintermeddle no other way than by advice and persuasion. Upon all such\r\noccasions, for equals to use force against one another, would be\r\nthought the highest degree of insolence and presumption.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA superior may, indeed, sometimes, with universal approbation,\r\noblige those under his jurisdiction to behave, in this respect, with a\r\ncertain degree of propriety to one another. The laws of all civilized\r\nnations oblige parents to maintain their children, and children to\r\nmaintain their parents, and impose upon men many other duties of\r\nbeneficence. The civil magistrate is entrusted with the power not only\r\nof preserving the public peace by restraining injustice, but of\r\npromoting the prosperity of the commonwealth, by establishing good\r\ndiscipline, and by discouraging every sort of vice and impropriety; he\r\nmay prescribe rules, therefore, which not only prohibit mutual\r\ninjuries among fellow-citizens, but command mutual good offices to a\r\ncertain degree. When the sovereign commands what is merely\r\nindifferent, and what, antecedent to his orders, might have been\r\nomitted without any blame, it becomes not only blamable but punishable\r\nto disobey him. When he commands, therefore, what, antecedent to any\r\nsuch order, could not have been omitted without the greatest blame, it\r\nsurely becomes much more punishable to be wanting in obedience. Of all\r\nthe duties of a lawgiver, however, this perhaps is that which it\r\nrequires the greatest delicacy and reserve to execute with propriety\r\nand judgment. To \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e75\u003c/span\u003e neglect it altogether exposes the commonwealth\r\nto many gross disorders and shocking enormities, and to push it too\r\nfar is destructive of all liberty, security, and justice.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThough the mere want of beneficence seems to merit no punishment\r\nfrom equals, the greater exertions of that virtue appear to deserve\r\nthe highest reward. By being productive of the greatest good, they are\r\nthe natural and approved objects of the liveliest gratitude. Though\r\nthe breach of justice, on the contrary, exposes to punishment, the\r\nobservance of the rules of that virtue seems scarce to deserve any\r\nreward. There is, no doubt, a propriety in the practice of justice,\r\nand it merits, upon that account, all the approbation which is due to\r\npropriety. But as it does no real positive good, it is entitled to\r\nvery little gratitude. Mere justice is, upon most occasions, but a\r\nnegative virtue, and only hinders us from hurting our neighbour. The\r\nman who barely abstains from violating either the person, or the\r\nestate, or the reputation of his neighbours, has surely very little\r\npositive merit. He fulfils, however, all the rules of what is\r\npeculiarly called justice, and does every thing which his equals can\r\nwith propriety force him to do, or which they can punish him for not\r\ndoing. We may often fulfil all the rules of justice by sitting still\r\nand doing nothing.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs every man doth, so shall it be done to him, and retaliation\r\nseems to be the great law which is dictated to us by Nature.\r\nBeneficence and generosity we think due to the generous and\r\nbeneficent. Those whose hearts never open to the feelings of humanity,\r\nshould, we think, be shut out in the same manner, from the affections\r\nof all their fellow-creatures, and be allowed to live in the midst of\r\nsociety, as in a great desert where there is nobody to care for them,\r\nor to inquire after them. The violator of the laws of justice ought to\r\nbe made to feel himself that evil which he has done to another; and\r\nsince no regard to the sufferings of his brethren is capable of\r\nrestraining him, he ought to be over-awed by the fear of his own. The\r\nman who is barely innocent, who only observes the laws of justice with\r\nregard to others, and merely abstains from hurting his neighbours, can\r\nmerit only that his neighbours in their turn should respect his\r\ninnocence, and that the same laws should be religiously observed with\r\nregard to him.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page75\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Sense of Justice, of Remorse, and of the\r\nConsciousness of Merit.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHERE\u003c/span\u003e can be no proper motive for hurting our neighbour, there can\r\nbe no incitement to do evil to another, which mankind will go along\r\nwith, except just indignation for evil which that other has done to\r\nus. To disturb his happiness merely because it stands in the way of\r\nour own, to take from him what is of real use to him merely because it\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page76\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e76\u003c/span\u003e may be of equal or of more use to us, or to indulge, in this\r\nmanner, at the expense of other people, the natural preference which\r\nevery man has for his own happiness above that of other people, is\r\nwhat no impartial spectator can go along with. Every man is, no doubt,\r\nby nature, first and principally recommended to his own care; and as\r\nhe is fitter to take care of himself than of any other person, it is\r\nfit and right that it should be so. Every man, therefore, is much more\r\ndeeply interested in whatever immediately concerns himself, than in\r\nwhat concerns any other man: and to hear, perhaps, of the death of\r\nanother person, with whom we have no particular connexion, will give\r\nus less concern, will spoil our stomach or break our rest much less,\r\nthan a very insignificant disaster which has befallen ourselves. But\r\nthough the ruin of our neighbour may affect us much less than a very\r\nsmall misfortune of our own, we must not ruin him to prevent that\r\nsmall misfortune, nor even to prevent our own ruin. We must, here, as\r\nin all other cases, view ourselves not so much according to that light\r\nin which we may naturally appear to ourselves, as according to that in\r\nwhich we naturally appear to others. Though every man may, according\r\nto the proverb, be the whole world to himself, to the rest of mankind\r\nhe is a most insignificant part of it. Though his own happiness may be\r\nof more importance to him than that of all the world besides, to every\r\nother person it is of no more consequence than that of any other man.\r\nThough it may be true, therefore, that every individual, in his own\r\nbreast, naturally prefers himself to all mankind, yet he dares not\r\nlook mankind in the face, and avow that he acts according to this\r\nprinciple. He feels that in this preference they can never go along\r\nwith him, and that how natural soever it may be to him, it must always\r\nappear excessive and extravagant to them. When he views himself in the\r\nlight in which he is conscious that others will view him, he sees that\r\nto them he is but one of the multitude in no respect better than any\r\nother in it. If he would act so as that the impartial spectator may\r\nenter into the principles of his conduct, which is what of all things\r\nhe has the greatest desire to do, he must, upon this, as upon all\r\nother occasions, humble the arrogance of his self-love, and bring it\r\ndown to something which other men can go along with. They will indulge\r\nit so far as to allow him to be more anxious about, and to pursue with\r\nmore earnest assiduity, his own happiness than that of any other\r\nperson. Thus far, whenever they place themselves in his situation,\r\nthey will readily go along with him. In the race for wealth, for\r\nhonours, and preferments, he may run as hard as he can, and strain\r\nevery nerve and every muscle, in order to outstrip all his\r\ncompetitors. But if he should justle, or throw down any of them, the\r\nindulgence of the spectators is entirely at an end. It is a violation\r\nof fair play, which they cannot admit of. This man is to them, in\r\nevery respect, as good as he: they do not enter into that self-love by\r\nwhich he prefers himself so \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page77\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e77\u003c/span\u003e much to this other, and cannot go\r\nalong with the motive from which he hurt him. They readily, therefore,\r\nsympathize with the natural resentment of the injured, and the\r\noffender becomes the object of their hatred and indignation. He is\r\nsensible that he becomes so, and feels that those sentiments are ready\r\nto burst out against him.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs the greater and more irreparable the evil that is done, the\r\nresentment of the sufferer runs naturally the higher; so does likewise\r\nthe sympathetic indignation of the spectator, as well as the sense of\r\nguilt in the agent. Death is the greatest evil which one man can\r\ninflict upon another, and excites the highest degree of resentment in\r\nthose who are immediately connected with the slain. Murder, therefore,\r\nis the most atrocious of all crimes which affect individuals only, in\r\nthe sight both of mankind, and of the person who has committed it. To\r\nbe deprived of that which we are possessed of, is a greater evil than\r\nto be disappointed of what we have only the expectation. Breach of\r\nproperty, therefore, theft and robbery, which take from us what we are\r\npossessed of, are greater crimes than breach of contract, which only\r\ndisappoints us of what we expected. The most sacred laws of justice,\r\ntherefore, those whose violation seems to call loudest for vengeance\r\nand punishment, are the laws which guard the life and person of our\r\nneighbour; the next are those which guard his property and\r\npossessions; and last of all come those which guard what are called\r\nhis personal rights, or what is due to him from the promises of\r\nothers.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe violator of the more sacred laws of justice can never reflect\r\non the sentiments which mankind must entertain with regard to him,\r\nwithout seeing all the agonies of shame, and horror, and\r\nconsternation. When his passion is gratified, and he begins coolly to\r\nreflect on his past conduct, he can enter into none of the motives\r\nwhich influenced it. They appear now as detestable to him as they did\r\nalways to other people. By sympathizing with the hatred and abhorrence\r\nwhich other men must entertain for him, he becomes in some measure the\r\nobject of his own hatred and abhorrence. The situation of the person,\r\nwho suffered by his injustice, now calls upon his pity. He is grieved\r\nat the thought of it; regrets the unhappy effects of his own conduct,\r\nand feels at the same time that they have rendered him the proper\r\nobject of the resentment and indignation of mankind, and of what is\r\nthe natural consequence of resentment, vengeance and punishment. The\r\nthought of this perpetually haunts him, and fills him with terror and\r\namazement. He dares no longer look society in the face, but imagines\r\nhimself as it were rejected, and thrown out from the affections of all\r\nmankind. He cannot hope for the consolation of sympathy in this his\r\ngreatest and most dreadful distress. The remembrance of his crimes has\r\nshut out all fellow-feeling with him from the hearts of his\r\nfellow-creatures. The sentiments which they entertain with regard to\r\nhim, are the very thing which he is most afraid of. Every thing seems\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e78\u003c/span\u003e hostile, and he would be glad to fly to some inhospitable desert,\r\nwhere he might never more behold the face of a human creature, nor\r\nread in the countenance of mankind the condemnation of his crimes. But\r\nsolitude is still more dreadful than society. His own thoughts can\r\npresent him with nothing but what is black, unfortunate, and\r\ndisastrous, the melancholy forebodings of incomprehensible misery and\r\nruin. The horror of solitude drives him back into society, and he\r\ncomes again into the presence of mankind, astonished to appear before\r\nthem, loaded with shame and distracted with fear, in order to\r\nsupplicate some little protection from the countenance of those very\r\njudges, who he knows have already all unanimously condemned him. Such\r\nis the nature of that sentiment, which is properly called remorse; of\r\nall the sentiments which can enter the human heart the most dreadful.\r\nIt is made up of shame from the sense of the impropriety of past\r\nconduct; of grief for the effects of it; of pity for those who suffer\r\nby it; and of the dread and terror of punishment from the\r\nconsciousness of the justly provoked resentment of all rational\r\ncreatures.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe opposite behaviour naturally inspires the opposite sentiment.\r\nThe man who, not from frivolous fancy, but from proper motives, has\r\nperformed a generous action, when he looks forward to those whom he\r\nhas served, feels himself to be the natural object of their love and\r\ngratitude, and, by sympathy with them, of the esteem and approbation\r\nof all mankind. And when he looks backward to the motive from which he\r\nacted, and surveys it in the light in which the indifferent spectator\r\nwill survey it, he still continues to enter into it, and applauds\r\nhimself by sympathy with the approbation of this supposed impartial\r\njudge. In both these points of view his own conduct appears to him\r\nevery way agreeable. His mind, at the thought of it, is filled with\r\ncheerfulness, serenity, and composure. He is in friendship and harmony\r\nwith all mankind, and looks upon his fellow-creatures with confidence\r\nand benevolent satisfaction, secure that he has rendered himself\r\nworthy of their most favourable regards. In the combination of all\r\nthese sentiments consists the consciousness of merit, or of deserved\r\nreward.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page78\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Utility of this Constitution of\r\nNature.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eT\u003c/span\u003e is thus that man, who can subsist only in society, was fitted by\r\nnature to that situation for which he was made. All the members of\r\nhuman society stand in need of each others assistance, and are\r\nlikewise exposed to mutual injuries. Where the necessary assistance is\r\nreciprocally afforded from love, from gratitude, from friendship, and\r\nesteem, the society flourishes and is happy. All the different members\r\nof it are bound together by the agreeable bands of love and affection,\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page79\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e79\u003c/span\u003e and are, as it were, thereby drawn to one common centre of mutual\r\ngood offices.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though the necessary assistance should not be afforded from\r\nsuch generous and disinterested motives, though among the different\r\nmembers of the society there should be no mutual love and affection,\r\nthe society, though less happy and agreeable, will not necessarily be\r\ndissolved. Society may subsist among different men, as among different\r\nmerchants, from a sense of its utility, without any mutual love or\r\naffection; and though no man in it should owe any obligation, or be\r\nbound in gratitude to any other, it may still be upheld by a mercenary\r\nexchange of good offices according to an agreed valuation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSociety, however, cannot subsist among those who are at all times\r\nready to hurt and injure one another. The moment that injury begins,\r\nthe moment that mutual resentment and animosity take place, all the\r\nbands of it are broke asunder, and the different members of which it\r\nconsisted are, as it were, dissipated and scattered abroad by the\r\nviolence and opposition of their discordant affections. If there is\r\nany society among robbers and murderers, they must at least, according\r\nto the trite observation, abstain from robbing and murdering one\r\nanother. Beneficence, therefore, is less essential to the existence of\r\nsociety than justice. Society may subsist, though not in the most\r\ncomfortable state, without beneficence; but the prevalence of\r\ninjustice must utterly destroy it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThough Nature, therefore, exhorts mankind to acts of beneficence,\r\nby the pleasing consciousness of deserved reward, she has not thought\r\nit necessary to guard and enforce the practice of it by the terrors of\r\nmerited punishment in case it should be neglected. It is the ornament\r\nwhich embellishes, not the foundation which supports, the building,\r\nand which it was, therefore, sufficient to recommend, but by no means\r\nnecessary to impose. Justice, on the contrary, is the main pillar that\r\nupholds the whole edifice. If it is removed, the great, the immense\r\nfabric of human society, that fabric which to raise and support seems\r\nin this world, if I may say so, to have been the peculiar and darling\r\ncare of Nature, must in a moment crumble into atoms. In order to\r\nenforce the observation of justice, therefore, Nature has implanted in\r\nthe human breast that consciousness of ill-desert, those terrors of\r\nmerited punishment which attend upon its violation, as the great\r\nsafeguards of the association of mankind, to protect the weak, to curb\r\nthe violent, and to chastise the guilty. Men, though naturally\r\nsympathetic, feel so little for another, with whom they have no\r\nparticular connexion, in comparison of what they feel for themselves;\r\nthe misery of one, who is merely their fellow-creature, is of so\r\nlittle importance to them in comparison even of a small conveniency of\r\ntheir own; they have it so much in their power to hurt him, and may\r\nhave so many temptations to do so, that if this principle did not\r\nstand up within them in his \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page80\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e80\u003c/span\u003e defence, and overawe them into a\r\nrespect for his innocence, they would, like wild beasts, be at all\r\ntimes ready to fly upon him; and a man would enter an assembly of men\r\nas he enters a den of lions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn every part of the universe we observe means adjusted with the\r\nnicest artifice to the ends which they are intended to produce; and in\r\nthe mechanism of a plant, or animal body, admire how every thing is\r\ncontrived for advancing the two great purposes of nature, the support\r\nof the individual, and the propagation of the species. But in these,\r\nand in all such objects, we still distinguish the efficient from the\r\nfinal cause of their several motions and organizations. The digestion\r\nof the food, the circulation of the blood, and the secretion of the\r\nseveral juices which are drawn from it, are operations all of them\r\nnecessary for the great purposes of animal life. Yet we never\r\nendeavour to account for them from those purposes as from their\r\nefficient causes, nor imagine that the blood circulates, or that the\r\nfood digests of its own accord, and with a view or intention to the\r\npurposes of circulation or digestion. The wheels of the watch are all\r\nadmirably adjusted to the end for which it was made, the pointing of\r\nthe hour. All their various motions conspire in the nicest manner to\r\nproduce this effect. If they were endowed with a desire and intention\r\nto produce it, they could not do it better. Yet we never ascribe any\r\nsuch desire or intention to them, but to the watch-maker, and we know\r\nthat they are put into motion by a spring, which intends the effect it\r\nproduces as little as they do. But though, in accounting for the\r\noperations of bodies, we never fail to distinguish in this manner the\r\nefficient from the final cause, in accounting for those of the mind we\r\nare very apt to confound these two different things with one another.\r\nWhen by natural principles we are led to advance those ends which a\r\nrefined and enlightened reason would recommend to us, we are very apt\r\nto impute to that reason, as to their efficient cause, the sentiments\r\nand actions by which we advance those ends, and to imagine that to be\r\nthe wisdom of man, which in reality is the wisdom of God. Upon a\r\nsuperficial view, this cause seems sufficient to produce the effects\r\nwhich are ascribed to it; and the system of human nature seems to be\r\nmore simple and agreeable when all its different operations are thus\r\ndeduced from a single principle.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs society cannot subsist unless the laws of justice are tolerably\r\nobserved, as no social intercourse can take place among men who do not\r\ngenerally abstain from injuring one another; the consideration of this\r\nnecessity, it has been thought, was the ground upon which we approved\r\nof the enforcement of the laws of justice by the punishment of those\r\nwho violated them. Man, it has been said, has a natural love for\r\nsociety, and desires that the union of mankind should be preserved for\r\nits own sake, and though he himself was to derive no benefit from it.\r\nThe orderly and flourishing state of society is agreeable to him, and\r\nhe takes delight in contemplating it. Its disorder and confusion, on\r\nthe \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page81\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e81\u003c/span\u003e contrary, is the object of his aversion, and he is chagrined\r\nat whatever tends to produce it. He is sensible too that his own\r\ninterest is connected with the prosperity of society, and that the\r\nhappiness, perhaps the preservation of his existence, depends upon its\r\npreservation. Upon every account, therefore, he has an abhorrence at\r\nwhatever can tend to destroy society, and is willing to make use of\r\nevery means, which can hinder so hated and so dreadful an event.\r\nInjustice necessarily tends to destroy it. Every appearance of\r\ninjustice, therefore, alarms him, and he runs (if I may say so), to\r\nstop the progress of what, if allowed to go on, would quickly put an\r\nend to every thing that is dear to him. If he cannot restrain it by\r\ngentle and fair means, he must bear it down by force and violence, and\r\nat any rate must put a stop to its further progress. Hence it is, they\r\nsay, that he often approves of the enforcement of the laws of justice\r\neven by the capital punishment of those who violate them. The\r\ndisturber of the public peace is hereby removed out of the world, and\r\nothers are terrified by his fate from imitating his example.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch is the account commonly given of our approbation of the\r\npunishment of injustice. And so far this account is undoubtedly true,\r\nthat we frequently have occasion to confirm our natural sense of the\r\npropriety and fitness of punishment, by reflecting how necessary it is\r\nfor preserving the order of society. When the guilty is about to\r\nsuffer that just retaliation, which the natural indignation of mankind\r\ntells them is due to his crimes; when the insolence of his injustice\r\nis broken and humbled by the terror of his approaching punishment;\r\nwhen he ceases to be an object of fear, with the generous and humane\r\nhe begins to be an object of pity. The thought of what he is about to\r\nsuffer extinguishes their resentment for the sufferings of others to\r\nwhich he has given occasion. They are disposed to pardon and forgive\r\nhim, and to save him from that punishment, which in all their cool\r\nhours they had considered as the retribution due to such crimes. Here,\r\ntherefore, they have occasion to call to their assistance the\r\nconsideration of the general interest of society. They counterbalance\r\nthe impulse of this weak and partial humanity by the dictates of a\r\nhumanity that is more generous and comprehensive. They reflect that\r\nmercy to the guilty is cruelty to the innocent, and oppose to the\r\nemotions of compassion which they feel for a particular person, a more\r\nenlarged compassion which they feel for mankind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSometimes too we have occasion to defend the propriety of observing\r\nthe general rules of justice by the consideration of their necessity\r\nto the support of society. We frequently hear the young and the\r\nlicentious ridiculing the most sacred rules of morality, and\r\nprofessing, sometimes from the corruption, but more frequently from\r\nthe vanity of their hearts, the most abominable maxims of conduct. Our\r\nindignation rouses, and we are eager to refute and expose such\r\ndetestable \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page82\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e82\u003c/span\u003e principles. But though it is their intrinsic\r\nhatefulness and detestableness, which originally inflames us against\r\nthem, we are unwilling to assign this as the sole reason why we\r\ncondemn them, or to pretend that it is merely because we ourselves\r\nhate and detest them. The reason, we think, would not appear to be\r\nconclusive. Yet why should it not, if we hate and detest them because\r\nthey are the natural and proper objects of hatred and detestation? But\r\nwhen they are asked why we should not act in such or such a manner,\r\nthe very question seems to suppose that, to those who ask it, this\r\nmanner of acting does not appear to be for its own sake the natural\r\nand proper object of those sentiments. We must show them, therefore,\r\nthat it ought to be so for the sake of something else. Upon this\r\naccount we generally cast about for other arguments, and the\r\nconsideration which first occurs to us, is the disorder and confusion\r\nof society which would result from the universal prevalence of such\r\npractices. We seldom fail, therefore, to insist upon this topic.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though it commonly requires no great discernment to see the\r\ndestructive tendency of all licentious practices to the welfare of\r\nsociety, it is seldom this consideration which first animates us\r\nagainst them. All men, even the most stupid and unthinking, abhor\r\nfraud, perfidy and injustice, and delight to see them punished. But\r\nfew men have reflected upon the necessity of justice to the existence\r\nof society, how obvious soever that necessity may appear to be.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat it is not a regard to the preservation of society, which\r\noriginally interests us in the punishment of crimes committed against\r\nindividuals, may be demonstrated by many obvious considerations. The\r\nconcern which we take in the fortune and happiness of individuals does\r\nnot, in common cases, arise from that which we take in the fortune and\r\nhappiness of society. We are no more concerned for the destruction or\r\nloss of a single man, because this man is a member or part of society,\r\nand because we should be concerned for the destruction of society,\r\nthan we are concerned for the loss of a single guinea, because this\r\nguinea is a part of a thousand guineas, and because we should be\r\nconcerned for the loss of the whole sum. In neither case does our\r\nregard for the individuals arise from our regard for the multitude:\r\nbut in both cases our regard for the multitude is compounded and made\r\nup of the particular regards which we feel for the different\r\nindividuals of which it is composed. As when a small sum is unjustly\r\ntaken from us, we do not so much prosecute the injury from a regard to\r\nthe preservation of our whole fortune, as from a regard to that\r\nparticular sum which we have lost; so when a single man is injured or\r\ndestroyed, we demand the punishment of the wrong that has been done to\r\nhim, not so much from a concern for the general interest of society,\r\nas from a concern for that very individual who has been injured. It is\r\nto be observed, however, that this concern does not necessarily\r\ninclude \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page83\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e83\u003c/span\u003e in it any degree of those exquisite sentiments which are\r\ncommonly called love, esteem, and affection, and by which we\r\ndistinguish our particular friends and acquaintance. The concern which\r\nis requisite for this, is no more than the general fellow-feeling\r\nwhich we have with every man merely because he is our fellow-creature.\r\nWe enter into the resentment even of an odious person, when he is\r\ninjured by those to whom he has given no provocation. Our\r\ndisapprobation of his ordinary character and conduct does not in this\r\ncase altogether prevent our fellow-feeling with his natural\r\nindignation; though with those who are not either extremely candid, or\r\nwho have not been accustomed to correct and regulate their natural\r\nsentiments by general rules, it is very apt to damp it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eUpon some occasions, indeed, we both punish and approve of\r\npunishment, merely from a view to the general interest of society,\r\nwhich, we imagine, cannot otherwise be secured. Of this kind are all\r\nthe punishments inflicted for breaches of what is called either civil\r\npolice, or military discipline. Such crimes do not immediately or\r\ndirectly hurt any particular person; but their remote consequences, it\r\nis supposed, do produce, or might produce, either a considerable\r\ninconveniency, or a great disorder in the society. A sentinel, for\r\nexample, who falls asleep upon his watch, suffers death by the laws of\r\nwar, because such carelessness might endanger the whole army. This\r\nseverity may, upon many occasions, appear necessary, and, for that\r\nreason, just and proper. When the preservation of an individual is\r\ninconsistent with the safety of a multitude, nothing can be more just\r\nthan that the many should be preferred to the one. Yet this\r\npunishment, how necessary soever, always appears to be excessively\r\nsevere. The natural atrocity of the crime seems to be so little, and\r\nthe punishment so great, that it is with great difficulty that our\r\nheart can reconcile itself to it. Though such carelessness appears\r\nvery blamable, yet the thought of this crime does not naturally excite\r\nany such resentment as would prompt us to take such dreadful revenge.\r\nA man of humanity must recollect himself, must make an effort, and\r\nexert his whole firmness and resolution, before he can bring himself\r\neither to inflict it, or to go along with it when it is inflicted by\r\nothers. It is not, however, in this manner, that he looks upon the\r\njust punishment of an ungrateful murderer or parricide. His heart, in\r\nthis case, applauds with ardour, and even with transport, the just\r\nretaliation which seems due to such detestable crimes, and which, if,\r\nby any accident, they should happen to escape, he would be highly\r\nenraged and disappointed. The very different sentiments with which the\r\nspectator views those different punishments, is a proof that his\r\napprobation of the one is far from being founded upon the same\r\nprinciples with that of the other. He looks upon the sentinel as an\r\nunfortunate victim, who, indeed, must, and ought to be, devoted to the\r\nsafety of numbers, but whom still, in his heart, he would \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e84\u003c/span\u003e be glad\r\nto save; and he is only sorry, that the interest of the many should\r\noppose it. But if the murderer should escape from punishment, it would\r\nexcite his highest indignation, and he would call upon God to avenge,\r\nin another world, that crime which the injustice of mankind had\r\nneglected to chastise upon earth.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFor it well deserves to be taken notice of, that we are so far from\r\nimagining that injustice ought to be punished in this life, merely on\r\naccount of the order of society, which cannot otherwise be maintained,\r\nthat Nature teaches us to hope, and religion, we suppose, authorises\r\nus to expect, that it will be punished, even in a life to come. Our\r\nsense of its ill desert pursues it, if I may say so, even beyond the\r\ngrave, though the example of its punishment there cannot serve to\r\ndeter the rest of mankind, who see it not, who know it not, from being\r\nguilty of the like practices here. The justice of God, however, we\r\nthink, still requires, that he should hereafter avenge the injuries of\r\nthe widow and the fatherless, who are here so often insulted with\r\nimpunity. In every religion, and in every superstition that the world\r\nhas ever beheld, accordingly, there has been a Tartarus as well as an\r\nElysium; a place provided for the punishment of the wicked, as well as\r\none for the reward of the just.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page84\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eECT\u003c/span\u003e. Ⅲ.—O\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eF THE\u003c/span\u003e I\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNFLUENCE OF\u003c/span\u003e F\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eORTUNE UPON THE\u003c/span\u003e S\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eENTIMENTS OF\u003c/span\u003e\r\nM\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eANKIND, WITH\u003c/span\u003e R\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEGARD TO THE\u003c/span\u003e M\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eERIT OR\u003c/span\u003e D\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEMERIT OF THEIR\u003c/span\u003e A\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eCTIONS\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNTRODUCTION\u003c/span\u003e.—Whatever praise or blame can be due to any action,\r\nmust belong either, first, to the intention or affection of the heart,\r\nfrom which it proceeds, or, secondly, to the external action or\r\nmovement of the body, which this affection gives occasion to; or,\r\nlastly, to the good or bad consequences, which actually, and in fact,\r\nproceed from it. These three different things constitute the whole\r\nnature and circumstances of the action, and must be the foundation of\r\nwhatever quality can belong to it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat the two last of these three circumstances cannot be the\r\nfoundation of any praise or blame, is abundantly evident; nor has the\r\ncontrary ever been asserted by any body. The external action or\r\nmovement of the body is often the same in the most innocent and in the\r\nmost blamable actions. He who shoots a bird, and he who shoots a man,\r\nboth of them perform the same external movement: each of them draws\r\nthe trigger of a gun. The consequences which actually, and in fact,\r\nhappen to proceed from any action, are, if possible, still more\r\nindifferent either to praise or blame, than even the external movement\r\nof the body. As they depend, not upon the agent, but upon fortune,\r\nthey cannot be \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e85\u003c/span\u003e the proper foundation for any sentiment, of which\r\nhis character and conduct are the objects.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe only consequences for which he can be answerable, or by which\r\nhe can deserve either approbation or disapprobation of any kind, are\r\nthose which were some way or other intended, or those which, at least,\r\nshow some agreeable or disagreeable quality in the intention of the\r\nheart, from which he acted. To the intention or affection of the\r\nheart, therefore, to the propriety or impropriety, to the beneficence\r\nor hurtfulness of the design, all praise or blame, all approbation or\r\ndisapprobation, of any kind, which can justly be bestowed upon any\r\naction must ultimately belong.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen this maxim is thus proposed, in abstract and general terms,\r\nthere is nobody who does not agree to it. Its self-evident justice is\r\nacknowledged by all the world, and there is not a dissenting voice\r\namong all mankind. Every body allows, that how different soever the\r\naccidental, the unintended and unforeseen consequences of different\r\nactions, yet, if the intentions or affections from which they arose\r\nwere, on the one hand, equally proper and equally beneficent, or, on\r\nthe other, equally improper and equally malevolent, the merit or\r\ndemerit of the actions is still the same, and the agent is equally the\r\nsuitable object either of gratitude or of resentment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut how well soever we may seem to be persuaded of the truth of\r\nthis equitable maxim, when we consider it after this manner, in\r\nabstract, yet when we come to particular cases, the actual\r\nconsequences which happen to proceed from any action, have a very\r\ngreat effect upon our sentiments concerning its merit or demerit, and\r\nalmost always either enhance or diminish our sense of both. Scarce, in\r\nany one instance, perhaps, will our sentiments be found, after\r\nexamination, to be entirely regulated by this rule, which we all\r\nacknowledge ought entirely to regulate them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis irregularity of sentiment, which every body feels, which\r\nscarce any body is sufficiently aware of, and which nobody is willing\r\nto acknowledge, I proceed now to explain; and I shall consider, first,\r\nthe cause which gives occasion to it, or the mechanism by which Nature\r\nproduces it; secondly, the extent of its influence; and, last of all,\r\nthe end which it answers, or the purpose which the Author of nature\r\nseems to have intended by it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page85\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Causes of this Influence of Fortune.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e causes of pain and pleasure, whatever they are, or however they\r\noperate, seem to be the objects, which, in all animals, immediately\r\nexcite those two passions of gratitude and resentment. They are\r\nexcited by inanimated, as well as by animated objects. We are angry,\r\nfor a \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page86\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e86\u003c/span\u003e moment, even at the stone that hurts us. A child beats it,\r\na dog barks at it, a choleric man is apt to curse it. The least\r\nreflection, indeed, corrects this sentiment, and we soon become\r\nsensible, that what has no feeling is a very improper object of\r\nrevenge. When the mischief, however, is very great, the object which\r\ncaused it becomes disagreeable to us ever after, and we take pleasure\r\nto burn or destroy it. We should treat, in this manner, the instrument\r\nwhich had accidentally been the cause of the death of a friend, and we\r\nshould often think ourselves guilty of a sort of inhumanity, if we\r\nneglected to vent this absurd sort of vengeance upon it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe conceive, in the same manner, a sort of gratitude for those\r\ninanimated objects, which have been the causes of great or frequent\r\npleasure to us. The sailor, who, as soon as he got ashore, should mend\r\nhis fire with the plank upon which he had just escaped from a\r\nshipwreck, would seem to be guilty of an unnatural action. We should\r\nexpect that he would rather preserve it with care and affection, as a\r\nmonument that was, in some measure, dear to him. A man grows fond of a\r\nsnuffbox, of a pen-knife, of a staff which he has long made use of,\r\nand conceives something like a real love and affection for them. If he\r\nbreaks or loses them, he is vexed out of all proportion to the value\r\nof the damage. The house which we have long lived in, the tree, whose\r\nverdure and shade we have long enjoyed, are both looked upon with a\r\nsort of respect that seems due to such benefactors. The decay of the\r\none, or the ruin of the other, affects us with a kind of melancholy,\r\nthough we should sustain no loss by it. The Dryads and the Lares of\r\nthe ancients, a sort of genii of trees and houses, were probably first\r\nsuggested by this sort of affection, which the authors of those\r\nsuperstitions felt for such objects, and which seemed unreasonable, if\r\nthere was nothing animated about them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut, before any thing can be the proper object of gratitude or\r\nresentment, it must not only be the cause of pleasure or pain, it must\r\nlikewise be capable of feeling them. Without this other quality, those\r\npassions cannot vent themselves with any sort of satisfaction upon it.\r\nAs they are excited by the causes of pleasure and pain, so their\r\ngratification consists in retaliating those sensations upon what gave\r\noccasion to them; which it is to no purpose to attempt upon what has\r\nno sensibility. Animals, therefore, are less improper objects of\r\ngratitude and resentment than animated objects. The dog that bites,\r\nthe ox that gores, are both of them punished. If they have been the\r\ncauses of the death of any person, neither the public, nor the\r\nrelations of the slain, can be satisfied, unless they are put to death\r\nin their turn: nor is this merely for the security of the living, but,\r\nin some measure, to revenge the injury of the dead. Those animals, on\r\nthe contrary, that have been remarkably serviceable to their masters,\r\nbecome the objects of a very lively gratitude. We are shocked at the\r\nbrutality of that officer, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page87\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e87\u003c/span\u003e mentioned in the Turkish Spy, who\r\nstabbed the horse that had carried him across an arm of the sea, lest\r\nthat animal should afterwards distinguish some other person by a\r\nsimilar adventure.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut, though animals are not only the causes of pleasure and pain,\r\nbut are also capable of feeling those sensations, they are still far\r\nfrom being complete and perfect objects, either of gratitude or\r\nresentment; and those passions still feel, that there is something\r\nwanting to their entire gratification. What gratitude chiefly desires,\r\nis not only to make the benefactor feel pleasure in his turn, but to\r\nmake him conscious that he meets with this reward on account of his\r\npast conduct, to make him pleased with that conduct, and to satisfy\r\nhim that the person upon whom he bestowed his good offices was not\r\nunworthy of them. What most of all charms us in our benefactor, is the\r\nconcord between his sentiments and our own, with regard to what\r\ninterests us so nearly as the worth of our own character, and the\r\nesteem that is due to us. We are delighted to find a person who values\r\nus as we value ourselves, and distinguishes us from the rest of\r\nmankind, with an attention not unlike that with which we distinguish\r\nourselves. To maintain in him these agreeable and flattering\r\nsentiments, is one of the chief ends proposed by the returns we are\r\ndisposed to make to him. A generous mind often disdains the interested\r\nthought of extorting new favours from its benefactor, by what may be\r\ncalled the importunities of its gratitude. But to preserve and to\r\nincrease his esteem, is an interest which the greatest mind does not\r\nthink unworthy of its attention. And this is the foundation of what I\r\nformerly observed, and when we cannot enter into the motives of our\r\nbenefactor, when his conduct and character appear unworthy of our\r\napprobation, let his services have been ever so great, our gratitude\r\nis always sensibly diminished. We are less flattered by the\r\ndistinction; and to preserve the esteem of so weak, or so worthless a\r\npatron, seems to be an object which does not deserve to be pursued for\r\nits own sake.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe object, on the contrary, which resentment is chiefly intent\r\nupon, is not so much to make our enemy feel pain in his turn, as to\r\nmake him conscious that he feels it upon account of his past conduct,\r\nto make him repent of that conduct, and to make him sensible, that the\r\nperson whom he injured did not deserve to be treated in that manner.\r\nWhat chiefly enrages us against the man who injures or insults us, is\r\nthe little account which he seems to make of us, the unreasonable\r\npreference which he gives to himself above us, and that absurd\r\nself-love, by which he seems to imagine, that other people may be\r\nsacrificed at any time, to his conveniency or his humour. The glaring\r\nimpropriety of his conduct, the gross insolence and injustice which it\r\nseems to involve in it, often shock and exasperate us more than all\r\nthe mischief which we have suffered. To bring him back to a more just\r\nsense of what is due to other people, to make him sensible of what he\r\nowes us, and of the wrong that he has \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e88\u003c/span\u003e done to us, is frequently\r\nthe principal end proposed in our revenge, which is always imperfect\r\nwhen it cannot \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from acomplish\"\u003eaccomplish\u003c/span\u003e this. When our enemy appears to have done\r\nus no injury, when we are sensible that he acted quite properly, that,\r\nin his situation, we should have done the same thing, and that we\r\ndeserved from him all the mischief we met with; in that case, if we\r\nhave the least spark either of candour or justice, we can entertain no\r\nsort of resentment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBefore any thing, therefore, can be the complete and proper object,\r\neither of gratitude or resentment, it must possess three different\r\nqualifications. First, it must be the cause of pleasure in the one\r\ncase, and of pain in the other. Secondly, it must be capable of\r\nfeeling those sensations. And, thirdly, it must not only have produced\r\nthose sensations, but it must have produced them from design, and from\r\na design that is approved of in the one case, and disapproved of in\r\nthe other. It is by the first qualification, that any object is\r\ncapable of exciting those passions: it is by the second, that it is in\r\nany respect capable of gratifying them: the third qualification is not\r\nonly necessary for their complete satisfaction, but as it gives a\r\npleasure or pain that is both exquisite and peculiar, it is likewise\r\nan additional exciting cause of those passions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs what gives pleasure or pain, therefore, either in one way or\r\nanother, is the sole exciting cause of gratitude and resentment;\r\nthough the intentions of any person should be ever so proper and\r\nbeneficent, on the one hand, or ever so improper and malevolent on the\r\nother; yet, if he has failed in producing either the good or the evil\r\nwhich he intended, as one of the exciting causes is wanting in both\r\ncases, less gratitude seems due to him in the one, and less resentment\r\nin the other. And, on the contrary, though in the intentions of any\r\nperson, there was either no laudable degree of benevolence on the one\r\nhand, or no blamable degree of malice on the other; yet, if his\r\nactions should produce either great good or great evil, as one of the\r\nexciting causes takes place upon both these occasions, some gratitude\r\nis apt to arise towards him in the one, and some resentment in the\r\nother. A shadow of merit seems to fall upon him in the first, a shadow\r\nof demerit in the second. And, as the consequences of actions are\r\naltogether under the empire of Fortune, hence arises her influence\r\nupon the sentiments of mankind with regard to merit and demerit.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page88\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Extent of this Influence of Fortune.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e effect of this influence of fortune is, first, to diminish our\r\nsense of the merit or demerit of those actions which arose from the\r\nmost laudable or blamable intentions, when they fail of producing\r\ntheir proposed effects: and, secondly, to increase our sense of the\r\nmerit or demerit of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page89\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e89\u003c/span\u003e actions, beyond what is due to the motives or\r\naffections from which they proceed, when they accidentally give\r\noccasion either to extraordinary pleasure or pain.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e1. First, I say, though the intentions of any person should be ever\r\nso proper and beneficent, on the one hand, or ever so improper and\r\nmalevolent, on the other, yet, if they fail in producing their\r\neffects, his merit seems imperfect in the one case, and his demerit\r\nincomplete in the other. Nor is this irregularity of sentiment felt\r\nonly by those who are immediately affected by the consequence of any\r\naction. It is felt, in some measure, even by the impartial spectator.\r\nThe man who solicits an office for another, without obtaining it, is\r\nregarded as his friend, and seems to deserve his love and affection.\r\nBut the man who not only solicits, but procures it, is more peculiarly\r\nconsidered as his patron and benefactor, and is entitled to his\r\nrespect and gratitude. The person obliged, we are apt to think, may,\r\nwith some justice, imagine himself on a level with the first: but we\r\ncannot enter into his sentiments, if he does not feel himself inferior\r\nto the second. It is common indeed to say, that we are equally obliged\r\nto the man who has endeavoured to serve, as to him who actually did\r\nso. It is the speech which we constantly make upon every unsuccessful\r\nattempt of this kind; but which, like all other fine speeches, must be\r\nunderstood with a grain of allowance. The sentiments which a man of\r\ngenerosity entertains for the friend who fails, may often indeed be\r\nnearly the same with those which he conceives for him who succeeds:\r\nand the more generous he is, the more nearly will those sentiments\r\napproach to an exact level. With the truly generous, to be beloved, to\r\nbe esteemed by those whom they themselves think worthy of esteem,\r\ngives more pleasure, and thereby excites more gratitude, than all the\r\nadvantages which they can ever expect from those sentiments. When they\r\nlose those advantages therefore, they seem to lose but a trifle, which\r\nis scarce worth regarding. They still however lose something. Their\r\npleasure therefore, and consequently their gratitude, is not perfectly\r\ncomplete: and accordingly if, between the friend who fails and the\r\nfriend who succeeds, all other circumstances are equal, there will,\r\neven in the noblest and best mind, be some little difference of\r\naffection in favour of him who succeeds. Nay, so unjust are mankind in\r\nthis respect, that though the intended benefit should be procured, yet\r\nif it is not procured by the means of a particular benefactor, they\r\nare apt to think that less gratitude is due to the man, who with the\r\nbest intentions in the world could do no more than help it a little\r\nforward. As their gratitude is in this case divided among the\r\ndifferent persons who contributed to their pleasure, a smaller share\r\nof it seems due to any one. Such a person, we hear men commonly say,\r\nintended no doubt to serve us; and we really believe exerted himself\r\nto the utmost of his abilities for that purpose. We are not, however,\r\nobliged to him for this benefit; \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page90\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e90\u003c/span\u003e since, had it not been for the\r\nconcurrence of others, all that he could have done would never have\r\nbrought it about. This consideration, they imagine, should, even in\r\nthe eyes of the impartial spectator, diminish the debt which they owe\r\nto him. The person himself who has unsuccessfully endeavoured to\r\nconfer a benefit, has by no means the same dependency upon the\r\ngratitude of the man whom he meant to oblige, nor the same sense of\r\nhis own merit towards him, which he would have had in the case of\r\nsuccess.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEven the merit of talents and abilities which some accident has\r\nhindered from producing their effects, seems in some measure\r\nimperfect, even to those who are fully convinced of their capacity to\r\nproduce them. The general who has been hindered by the envy of\r\nministers from gaining some great advantage over the enemies of his\r\ncountry, regrets the loss of the opportunity for ever after. Nor is it\r\nonly upon account of the public that he regrets it. He laments that he\r\nwas hindered from performing an action which would have added a new\r\nlustre to his character in his own eyes, as well as in those of every\r\nother person. It satisfies neither himself nor others to reflect that\r\nthe plan or design was all that depended on him, that no greater\r\ncapacity was required to execute it than what was necessary to concert\r\nit: that he was allowed to be every way capable of executing it, and\r\nthat had he been permitted to go on, success was infallible. He still\r\ndid not execute it; and though he might deserve all the approbation\r\nwhich is due to a magnanimous and great design, he still wanted the\r\nactual merit of having performed a great action. To take the\r\nmanagement of any affair of public concern from the man who has almost\r\nbrought it to a conclusion, is regarded as the most invidious\r\ninjustice. As he had done so much, he should, we think, have been\r\nallowed to acquire the complete merit of putting an end to it. It was\r\nobjected to Pompey, that he came in upon the victories of Lucullus,\r\nand gathered those laurels which were due to the fortune and valour of\r\nanother. The glory of Lucullus, it seems, was less complete even in\r\nthe opinion of his own friends, when he was not permitted to finish\r\nthat conquest which his conduct and courage had put in the power of\r\nalmost any man to finish. It mortifies an architect when his plans are\r\neither not executed at all, or when they are so far altered as to\r\nspoil the effect of the building. The plan, however, is all that\r\ndepends upon the architect. The whole of his genius is, to good\r\njudges, as completely discovered in that as in the actual execution.\r\nBut a plan does not, even to the most intelligent, give the same\r\npleasure as a noble and magnificent building. They may discover as\r\nmuch both of taste and genius in the one as in the other. But their\r\neffects are still vastly different, and the amusement derived from the\r\nfirst, never approaches to the wonder and admiration which are\r\nsometimes excited by the second. We may believe of many men, that\r\ntheir talents are \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page91\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e91\u003c/span\u003e superior to those of Cæsar and Alexander; and\r\nthat in the same situations they would perform still greater actions.\r\nIn the mean time, however, we do not behold them with that\r\nastonishment and admiration with which those two heroes have been\r\nregarded in all ages and nations. The calm judgments of the mind may\r\napprove of them more, but they want the splendour of great actions to\r\ndazzle and transport it. The superiority of virtues and talents has\r\nnot, even upon those who acknowledge that superiority, the same effect\r\nwith the superiority of achievements.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to do good seems thus, in\r\nthe eyes of ungrateful mankind, to be diminished by the miscarriage,\r\nso does likewise the demerit of an unsuccessful attempt to do evil.\r\nThe design to commit a crime, how clearly soever it may be proved, is\r\nscarce ever punished with the same severity as the actual commission\r\nof it. The case of treason is perhaps the only exception. That crime\r\nimmediately affecting the being of the government itself, the\r\ngovernment is naturally more jealous of it than of any other. In the\r\npunishment of treason, the sovereign resents the injuries which are\r\nimmediately done to himself: in the punishment of other crimes he\r\nresents those which are done to other men. It is his own resentment\r\nwhich he indulges in the one case; it is that of his subjects which by\r\nsympathy he enters into in the other. In the first case, therefore, as\r\nhe judges in his own cause, he is very apt to be more violent and\r\nsanguinary in his punishments than the impartial spectator can approve\r\nof. His resentment too rises here upon smaller occasions, and does not\r\nalways, as in other cases, wait for the perpetration of the crime, or\r\neven for the attempt to commit it. A treasonable concert, though\r\nnothing has been done, or even attempted in consequence of it, nay, a\r\ntreasonable conversation, is in many countries punished in the same\r\nmanner as the actual commission of treason. With regard to all other\r\ncrimes, the mere design, upon which no attempt has followed, is seldom\r\npunished at all, and is never punished severely. A criminal design,\r\nand a criminal action, it may be said indeed, do not necessarily\r\nsuppose the same degree of depravity, and ought not therefore to be\r\nsubjected to the same punishment. We are capable, it may be said, of\r\nresolving, and even of taking measures to execute, many things which,\r\nwhen it comes to the point, we feel ourselves altogether incapable of\r\nexecuting. But this reason can have no place when the design has been\r\ncarried the length of the last attempt. The man, however, who fires a\r\npistol at his enemy but misses him, is punished with death by the laws\r\nof scarce any country. By the old law of Scotland, though he should\r\nwound him, yet, unless death ensues within a certain time, the\r\nassassin is not liable to the last punishment. The resentment of\r\nmankind, however, runs so high against this crime, their terror for\r\nthe man who shows himself capable of committing it is so great, that\r\nthe mere attempt to \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page92\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e92\u003c/span\u003e commit it ought in all countries to be\r\ncapital. The attempt to commit smaller crimes is almost always\r\npunished very lightly, and sometimes is not punished at all. The\r\nthief, whose hand has been caught in his neighbour’s pocket before he\r\nhad taken any thing out of it, is punished with ignominy only. If he\r\nhad got time to take away an handkerchief, he might have been put to\r\ndeath. The house-breaker, who has been found setting a ladder to his\r\nneighbour’s window, but had not got into it, is not exposed to the\r\ncapital punishment. The attempt to ravish is not punished as a rape.\r\nThe attempt to seduce a married woman is not punished at all, though\r\nseduction is punished severely. Our resentment against the person who\r\nonly attempted to do a mischief, is seldom so strong as to bear us out\r\nin inflicting the same punishment upon him, which we should have\r\nthought due if he had actually done it. In the one case, the joy of\r\nour deliverance alleviates our sense of the atrocity of his conduct;\r\nin the other, the grief of our misfortune increases it. His real\r\ndemerit, however, is undoubtedly the same in both cases, since his\r\nintentions were equally criminal; and there is in this respect,\r\ntherefore an irregularity in the sentiments of all men, and a\r\nconsequent relaxation of discipline in the laws of, I believe, all\r\nnations of the most civilized, as well as of the most barbarous. The\r\nhumanity of a civilized people disposes them either to dispense with,\r\nor to mitigate punishments, wherever their natural indignation is not\r\ngoaded on by the consequences of the crime. Barbarians, on the other\r\nhand, when no actual consequence has happened from any action, are not\r\napt to be very delicate or inquisitive about the motives.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe person himself who either from passion, or from the influence\r\nof bad company, has resolved, and perhaps taken measures to perpetrate\r\nsome crime, but who has fortunately been prevented by an accident\r\nwhich put it out of his power, is sure, if he has any remains of\r\nconscience, to regard this event all his life after as a great and\r\nsignal deliverance. He can never think of it without returning thanks\r\nto Heaven, for having been thus graciously pleased to save him from\r\nthe guilt in which he was just ready to plunge himself, and to hinder\r\nhim from rendering all the rest of his life a scene of horror,\r\nremorse, and repentance. But though his hands are innocent, he is\r\nconscious that his heart is equally guilty as if he had actually\r\nexecuted what he was so fully resolved upon. It gives great ease to\r\nhis conscience, however, to consider that the crime was not executed,\r\nthough he knows that the failure arose from no virtue in him. He still\r\nconsiders himself as less deserving of punishment and resentment; and\r\nthis good fortune either diminishes, or takes away altogether, all\r\nsense of guilt. To remember how much he was resolved upon it, has no\r\nother effect than to make him regard his escape as the greater and\r\nmore miraculous: for he still fancies that he has escaped, and he\r\nlooks back upon the danger to which his peace of mind was exposed,\r\nwith that terror, with which one \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page93\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e93\u003c/span\u003e who is in safety may sometimes\r\nremember the hazard he was in of falling over a precipice, and shudder\r\nwith horror at the thought.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e2. The second effect of this influence of fortune, is to increase\r\nour sense of the merit or demerit of actions beyond what is due to the\r\nmotives or affection from which they proceed, when they happen to give\r\noccasion to extraordinary pleasure or pain. The agreeable or\r\ndisagreeable effects of the action often throw a shadow of merit or\r\ndemerit upon the agent, though in his intention there was nothing that\r\ndeserved either praise or blame, or at least that deserved them in the\r\ndegree in which we are apt to bestow them. Thus, even the messenger of\r\nbad news is disagreeable to us, and, on the contrary, we feel a sort\r\nof gratitude for the man who brings us good tidings. For a moment we\r\nlook upon them both as the authors, the one of our good, the other of\r\nour bad fortune, and regard them in some measure as if they had really\r\nbrought about the events which they only give an account of. The first\r\nauthor of our joy is naturally the object of a transitory gratitude:\r\nwe embrace him with warmth and affection, and should be glad, during\r\nthe instant of our prosperity, to reward him as for some signal\r\nservice. By the custom of all courts, the officer, who brings the news\r\nof a victory, is entitled to considerable preferments, and the general\r\nalways chooses one of his principal favourites to go upon so agreeable\r\nan errand. The first author of our sorrow is, on the contrary, just as\r\nnaturally the object of a transitory resentment. We can scarce avoid\r\nlooking upon him with chagrin and uneasiness; and the rude and brutal\r\nare apt to vent upon him that spleen which his intelligence gives\r\noccasion to. Tigranes, King of Armenia, struck off the head of the man\r\nwho brought him the first account of the approach of a formidable\r\nenemy. To punish in this manner the author of bad tidings, seems\r\nbarbarous and inhuman: yet, to reward the messenger of good news, is\r\nnot disagreeable to us; we think it suitable to the bounty of kings.\r\nBut why do we make this difference, since, if there is no fault in the\r\none, neither is there any merit in the other? It is because any sort\r\nof reason seems sufficient to authorize the exertion of the social and\r\nbenevolent affections; but it requires the most solid and substantial\r\nto make us enter into that of the unsocial and malevolent.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though in general we are averse to enter into the unsocial and\r\nmalevolent affections, though we lay it down for a rule that we ought\r\nnever to approve of their gratification, unless so far as the\r\nmalicious and unjust intention of the person, against whom they are\r\ndirected, renders him their proper object; yet, upon some occasions,\r\nwe relax of this severity. When the negligence of one man has\r\noccasioned some unintended damage to another, we generally enter so\r\nfar into the resentment of the sufferer, as to approve of his\r\ninflicting a punishment upon the offender much beyond what the offence\r\nwould have appeared to deserve, had no such unlucky consequence\r\nfollowed from it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page94\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e94\u003c/span\u003e There is a degree of negligence, which would appear to deserve\r\nsome chastisement though it should occasion no damage to any body.\r\nThus, if a person should throw a large stone over a wall into a public\r\nstreet without giving warning to those who might be passing by, and\r\nwithout regarding where it was likely to fall, he would undoubtedly\r\ndeserve some chastisement. A very accurate police would punish so\r\nabsurd an action, even though it had done no mischief. The person who\r\nhas been guilty of it, shows an insolent contempt of the happiness and\r\nsafety of others. There is real injustice in his conduct. He wantonly\r\nexposes his neighbour to what no man in his senses would choose to\r\nexpose himself, and evidently wants that sense of what is due to his\r\nfellow-creatures, which is the basis of justice and of society. Gross\r\nnegligence therefore is, in the law, said to be almost equal to\r\nmalicious design. (Lata culpa prope dolum est.) When any unlucky\r\nconsequences happen from such carelessness, the person who has been\r\nguilty of it, is often punished as if he had really intended those\r\nconsequences; and his conduct, which was only thoughtless and\r\ninsolent, and what deserved some chastisement, is considered as\r\natrocious, and as liable to the severest punishment. Thus if, by the\r\nimprudent action above-mentioned, he should accidentally kill a man,\r\nhe is, by the laws of many countries, particularly by the old law of\r\nScotland, liable to the last punishment. And though this is no doubt\r\nexcessively severe, it is not altogether inconsistent with our natural\r\nsentiments. Our just indignation against the folly and inhumanity of\r\nhis conduct is exasperated by our sympathy with the unfortunate\r\nsufferer. Nothing, however, would appear more shocking to our natural\r\nsense of equity, than to bring a man to the scaffold merely for having\r\nthrown a stone carelessly into the street without hurting any body.\r\nThe folly and inhumanity of his conduct, however, would in this case\r\nbe the same; but still our sentiments would be very different. The\r\nconsideration of this difference may satisfy us how much the\r\nindignation, even of the spectator, is apt to be animated by the\r\nactual consequences of the action. In cases of this kind there will,\r\nif I am not mistaken, be found a great degree of severity in the laws\r\nof almost all nations; as I have already observed that in those of an\r\nopposite kind there was a very general relaxation of discipline.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere is another degree of negligence which does not involve in it\r\nany sort of injustice. The person who is guilty of it treats his\r\nneighbour as he treats himself, means no harm to any body, and is far\r\nfrom entertaining any insolent contempt for the safety and happiness\r\nof others. He is not, however, so careful and circumspect in his\r\nconduct as he ought to be, and deserves upon this account some degree\r\nof blame and censure, but no sort of punishment. Yet if, by a\r\nnegligence (Culpa levis) of this kind he should occasion some damage\r\nto another person, he is by the laws of, I believe, all countries,\r\nobliged to compensate it. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page95\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e95\u003c/span\u003e And though this is, no doubt, a real\r\npunishment, and what no mortal would have thought of inflicting upon\r\nhim, had it not been for the unlucky accident which his conduct gave\r\noccasion to; yet this decision of the law is approved of by the\r\nnatural sentiments of all mankind. Nothing, we think, can be more just\r\nthan that one man should not suffer by the carelessness of another;\r\nand that the damage occasioned by blamable negligence, should be made\r\nup by the person who was guilty of it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere is another species of negligence (Culpa levissima), which\r\nconsists merely in a want of the most anxious timidity and\r\ncircumspection, with regard to all the possible consequences of our\r\nactions. The want of this painful attention, when no bad consequences\r\nfollow from it, is so far from being regarded as blamable, that the\r\ncontrary quality is rather considered as such. That timid\r\ncircumspection which is afraid of every thing, is never regarded as a\r\nvirtue, but as a quality which more than any other incapacitates for\r\naction and business. Yet when, from a want of this excessive care, a\r\nperson happens to occasion some damage to another, he is often by the\r\nlaw obliged to compensate it. Thus, by the Aquilian law, the man, who\r\nnot being able to manage a horse that had accidentally taken fright,\r\nshould happen to ride down his neighbour’s slave, is obliged to\r\ncompensate the damage. When an accident of this kind happens, we are\r\napt to think that he ought not to have rode such a horse, and to\r\nregard his attempting it as an unpardonable levity; though without\r\nthis accident we should not only have made no such reflection, but\r\nshould have regarded his refusing it as the effect of timid weakness,\r\nand of an anxiety about merely possible events, which it is to no\r\npurpose to be aware of. The person himself, who by an accident even of\r\nthis kind has involuntarily hurt another, seems to have some sense of\r\nhis own ill desert, with regard to him. He naturally runs up to the\r\nsufferer to express his concern for what has happened, and to make\r\nevery acknowledgment in his power. If he has any sensibility, he\r\nnecessarily desires to compensate the damage, and to do every thing he\r\ncan to appease that animal resentment which he is sensible will be apt\r\nto arise in the breast of the sufferer. To make no apology, to offer\r\nno atonement, is regarded as the highest brutality. Yet why should he\r\nmake an apology more than any other person? Why should he, since he\r\nwas equally innocent with any other by-stander, be thus singled out\r\nfrom among all mankind, to make up for the bad fortune of another?\r\nThis task would surely never be imposed upon him, did not even the\r\nimpartial spectator feel some indulgence for what may be regarded as\r\nthe unjust resentment of that other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page96\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e96\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the final Cause of this Irregularity of\r\nSentiments.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eUCH\u003c/span\u003e is the effect of the good or bad consequence of actions upon\r\nthe sentiments both of the person who performs them, and of others;\r\nand thus, Fortune, which governs the world, has some influence where\r\nwe should be least willing to allow her any, and directs in some\r\nmeasure the sentiments of mankind, with regard to the character and\r\nconduct both of themselves and others. That the world judges by the\r\nevent, and not by the design, has been in all ages the complaint, and\r\nis the great discouragement of virtue. Every body agrees to the\r\ngeneral maxim, that as the event does not depend on the agent, it\r\nought to have no influence upon our sentiments, with regard to the\r\nmerit or propriety of his conduct. But when we come to particulars, we\r\nfind that our sentiments are scarce in any one instance exactly\r\nconformable to what this equitable maxim would direct. The happy or\r\nunprosperous event of any action, is not only apt to give us a good or\r\nbad opinion of the prudence with which it was conducted, but almost\r\nalways too animates our gratitude or resentment, our sense of the\r\nmerit or demerit of the design.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNature, however, when she implanted the seeds of this irregularity\r\nin the human breast, seems, as upon all other occasions, to have\r\nintended the happiness and perfection of the species. If the\r\nhurtfulness of the design, if the malevolence of the affection, were\r\nalone the causes which excited our resentment, we should feel all the\r\nfuries of that passion against any person in whose breast we suspected\r\nor believed such designs or affections were harboured, though they had\r\nnever broke out into any actions. Sentiments, thoughts, intentions,\r\nwould become the objects of punishment; and if the indignation of\r\nmankind run as high against them as against actions; if the baseness\r\nof the thought which had given birth to no action, seemed in the eyes\r\nof the world as much to call aloud for vengeance as the baseness of\r\nthe action, every court of judicature would become a real inquisition.\r\nThere would be no safety for the most innocent and circumspect\r\nconduct. Bad wishes, bad views, bad designs, might still be suspected:\r\nand while these excited the same indignation with bad conduct, while\r\nbad intentions were as much resented as bad actions, they would\r\nequally expose the person to punishment and resentment. Actions,\r\ntherefore, which either produce actual evil, or attempt to produce it,\r\nand thereby put us in the immediate fear of it, are by the Author of\r\nnature rendered the only proper and approved objects of human\r\npunishment and resentment. Sentiments, designs, affections, though it\r\nis from these that according to cool reason human actions derive their\r\nwhole merit or demerit, are placed by the great Judge of hearts beyond\r\nthe limits of every human jurisdiction, and are reserved for the\r\ncognisance of his own unerring tribunal. That necessary rule of\r\njustice, therefore, that \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page97\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e97\u003c/span\u003e men in this life are liable to\r\npunishment for their actions only, not for their designs and\r\nintentions, is founded upon this salutary and useful irregularity in\r\nhuman sentiments concerning merit or demerit, which at first sight\r\nappears so absurd and unaccountable. But every part of nature, when\r\nattentively surveyed, equally demonstrates the providential care of\r\nits Author, and we may admire the wisdom and goodness of God even in\r\nthe weakness and folly of men.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNor is that irregularity of sentiments altogether without its\r\nutility, by which the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to serve, and\r\nmuch more that of mere good inclinations and kind wishes, appears to\r\nbe imperfect. Man was made for action, and to promote by the exertion\r\nof his faculties such changes in the external circumstances both of\r\nhimself and others, as may seem most favourable to the happiness of\r\nall. He must not be satisfied with indolent benevolence, nor fancy\r\nhimself the friend of mankind, because in his heart he wishes well to\r\nthe prosperity of the world. That he may call forth the whole vigour\r\nof his soul, and strain every nerve, in order to produce those ends\r\nwhich it is the purpose of his being to advance, Nature has taught\r\nhim, that neither himself nor mankind can be fully satisfied with his\r\nconduct, nor bestow upon it the full measure of applause, unless he\r\nhas actually produced them. He is made to know, that the praise of\r\ngood intentions, without the merit of good offices, will be but of\r\nlittle avail to excite either the loudest acclamations of the world,\r\nor even the highest degree of self applause. The man who has performed\r\nno single action of importance, but whose whole conversation and\r\ndeportment express the justest, the noblest, and most generous\r\nsentiments, can be entitled to demand no very high reward, even though\r\nhis inutility should be owing to nothing but the want of an\r\nopportunity to serve. We can still refuse it him without blame. We can\r\nstill ask him, What have you done? What actual service can you\r\nproduce, to entitle you to so great a recompense? We esteem you, and\r\nlove you; but we owe you nothing. To reward indeed that latent virtue\r\nwhich has been useless only for want of an opportunity to serve, to\r\nbestow upon it those honours and preferments, which, though in some\r\nmeasure it may be said to deserve them, it could not with propriety\r\nhave insisted upon, is the effect of the most divine benevolence. To\r\npunish, on the contrary, for the affections of the heart only, where\r\nno crime has been committed, is the most insolent and barbarous\r\ntyranny. The benevolent affections seem to deserve most praise, when\r\nthey do not wait till it becomes almost a crime for them not to exert\r\nthemselves. The malevolent, on the contrary, can scarce be too tardy,\r\ntoo slow, or deliberate.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is even of considerable importance, that the evil which is done\r\nwithout design should be regarded as a misfortune to the doer as well\r\nas to the sufferer. Man is thereby taught to reverence the happiness\r\nof his brethren, to tremble lest he should, even unknowingly, do any\r\nthing \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page98\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e98\u003c/span\u003e that can hurt them, and to dread that animal resentment\r\nwhich, he feels, is ready to burst out against him, if he should,\r\nwithout design, be the unhappy instrument of their calamity. As in the\r\nancient heathen religion, that holy ground which had been consecrated\r\nto some god, was not to be trod upon but upon solemn and necessary\r\noccasions, and the man who had even ignorantly violated it, became\r\npiacular from that moment, and, until proper atonement should be made,\r\nincurred the vengeance of that powerful and invisible being to whom it\r\nhad been set apart; so by the wisdom of nature, the happiness of every\r\ninnocent man is, in the same manner, rendered holy, consecrated, and\r\nhedged round against the approach of every other man; not to be\r\nwantonly trod upon, not even to be, in any respect, ignorantly and\r\ninvoluntarily violated, without requiring some expiation, some\r\natonement in proportion to the greatness of such undesigned violation.\r\nA man of humanity, who accidentally, and without the smallest degree\r\nof blamable negligence, has been the cause of the death of another\r\nman, feels himself piacular, though not guilty. During his whole life\r\nhe considers this accident as one of the greatest misfortunes that\r\ncould have befallen him. If the family of the slain is poor, and he\r\nhimself in tolerable circumstances, he immediately takes them under\r\nhis protection, and, without any other merit, thinks them entitled to\r\nevery degree of favour and kindness. If they are in better\r\ncircumstances, he endeavours by every submission, by every expression\r\nof sorrow, by rendering them every good office which he can devise or\r\nthey accept of, to atone for what has happened, and to propitiate, as\r\nmuch as possible, their, perhaps natural, though no doubt most unjust\r\nresentment, for the great, though involuntary, offence which he has\r\ngiven unto them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe distress which an innocent person feels, who, by some accident,\r\nhas been led to do something which, if it had been done with knowledge\r\nand design, would have justly exposed him to the deepest reproach, has\r\ngiven occasion to some of the finest and most interesting scenes both\r\nof the ancient and of the modern drama. It is this fallacious sense of\r\nguilt, if I may call it so, which constitutes the whole distress of\r\nOedipus and Jocasta upon the Greek, of Monimia and Isabella upon the\r\nEnglish, theatre. They are all in the highest degree piacular, though\r\nnot one of them is in the smallest degree guilty.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNotwithstanding, however, all these seeming irregularities of\r\nsentiment, if man should unfortunately either give occasion to those\r\nevils which he did not intend, or fail in producing that good which he\r\nintended, Nature has not left his innocence altogether without\r\nconsolation, nor his virtue altogether without reward. He then calls\r\nto his assistance that just and equitable maxim, That those events\r\nwhich did not depend upon our conduct, ought not to diminish the\r\nesteem that is due to us. He summons up his whole magnanimity and\r\nfirmness of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e99\u003c/span\u003e soul, and strives to regard himself, not in the light\r\nin which he at present appears, but in that in which he ought to\r\nappear, in which he would have appeared had his generous designs been\r\ncrowned with success, and in which he would still appear,\r\nnotwithstanding their miscarriage, if the sentiments of mankind were\r\neither altogether candid and equitable, or even perfectly consistent\r\nwith themselves. The more candid and humane part of mankind entirely\r\ngo along with the efforts which he thus makes to support himself in\r\nhis own opinion. They exert their whole generosity and greatness of\r\nmind, to correct in themselves this irregularity of human nature, and\r\nendeavour to regard his unfortunate magnanimity in the same light in\r\nwhich, had it been successful, they would, without any such generous\r\nexertion, have naturally been disposed to consider it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003e \u003ca id=\"page99\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ci\u003ePart Ⅲ. Of the Foundation of our Judgments concerning our own\r\nSentiments and Conduct, and of the Sense of Duty.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Principle of Self-approbation and of Self-disapprobation.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eN\u003c/span\u003e the two foregoing parts of this discourse, I have chiefly\r\nconsidered the origin and foundation of our judgments concerning the\r\nsentiments and conduct of others. I come now to consider more\r\nparticularly the origin of those concerning our own.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe principle by which we naturally either approve or disapprove of\r\nour own conduct, seems to be altogether the same with that by which we\r\nexercise the like judgments concerning the conduct of other people. We\r\neither approve or disapprove of the conduct of another man according\r\nas we feel that, when we bring his case home to ourselves, we either\r\ncan or cannot entirely sympathize with the sentiments and motives\r\nwhich directed it. And, in the same manner, we either approve or\r\ndisapprove of our own conduct, according as we feel that, when we\r\nplace ourselves in the situation of another man, and view it, as it\r\nwere, with his eyes and from his station, we either can or cannot\r\nentirely enter into and sympathize with the sentiments and motives\r\nwhich influenced it. We can never survey our own sentiments and\r\nmotives, we can never form any judgment concerning them; unless we\r\nremove ourselves, as it were, from our own natural station, and\r\nendeavour to view them as at a certain distance from us. But we can do\r\nthis in no other way than by endeavouring to view them with the eyes\r\nof other people, or as other people are likely to view them. Whatever\r\njudgment we can form concerning them, accordingly, must always bear\r\nsome secret reference, either to what are, or to what, upon a certain\r\ncondition, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page100\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e100\u003c/span\u003e would be, or to what, we imagine, ought to be the\r\njudgment of others. We endeavour to examine our own conduct as we\r\nimagine any other fair and impartial spectator would examine it. If,\r\nupon placing ourselves in his situation, we thoroughly enter into all\r\nthe passions and motives which influenced it, we approve of it, by\r\nsympathy with the approbation of this supposed equitable judge. If\r\notherwise, we enter into his disapprobation, and condemn it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWere it possible that a human creature could grow up to manhood in\r\nsome solitary place, without any communication with his own species,\r\nhe could no more think of his own character, of the propriety or\r\ndemerit of his own sentiments and conduct, of the beauty or deformity\r\nof his own mind, than of the beauty or deformity of his own face. All\r\nthese are objects which he cannot easily see, which naturally he does\r\nnot look at, and with regard to which he is provided with no mirror\r\nwhich can present them to his view. Bring him into society, and he is\r\nimmediately provided with the mirror which he wanted before. It is\r\nplaced in the countenance and behaviour of those he lives with, which\r\nalways mark when they enter into, and when they disapprove of his\r\nsentiments; and it is here that he first views the propriety and\r\nimpropriety of his own passions, the beauty and deformity of his own\r\nmind. To a man who from his birth was a stranger to society, the\r\nobjects of his passions, the external bodies which either pleased or\r\nhurt him, would occupy his whole attention. The passions themselves,\r\nthe desires or aversions, the joys or sorrows, which those objects\r\nexcited, though of all things the most immediately present to him,\r\ncould scarce ever be the objects of his thoughts. The idea of them\r\ncould never interest him so much as to call upon his attentive\r\nconsideration. The consideration of his joy could in him excite no new\r\njoy, nor that of his sorrow any new sorrow, though the consideration\r\nof the causes of those passions might often excite both. Bring him\r\ninto society and all his own passions will immediately become the\r\ncauses of new passions. He will observe that mankind approve of some\r\nof them, and are disgusted by others. He will be elevated in the one\r\ncase, and cast down in the other; his desires and aversions, his joys\r\nand sorrows, will now often become the causes of new desires and new\r\naversions, new joys and new sorrows: they will now, therefore,\r\ninterest him deeply, and often call upon his most attentive\r\nconsideration.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOur first ideas of personal beauty and deformity, are drawn from\r\nthe shape and appearance of others, not from our own. We soon become\r\nsensible, however, that others exercise the same criticism upon us. We\r\nare pleased when they approve of our figure, and are disobliged when\r\nthey seem to be disgusted. We become anxious to know how far our\r\nappearance deserves either their blame or approbation. We examine our\r\npersons limb by limb, and by placing ourselves before a looking-glass,\r\nor by some such expedient, endeavour as much as \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page101\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e101\u003c/span\u003e possible, to\r\nview ourselves at the distance and with the eyes of other people. If,\r\nafter this examination, we are satisfied with our own appearance, we\r\ncan more easily support the most disadvantageous judgments of others.\r\nIf, on the contrary, we are sensible that we are the natural objects\r\nof distaste, every appearance of their disapprobation mortifies us\r\nbeyond all measure. A man who is tolerably handsome, will allow you to\r\nlaugh at any little irregularity in his person; but all such jokes are\r\ncommonly unsupportable to one who is really deformed. It is evident,\r\nhowever, that we are anxious about our own beauty and deformity, only\r\nupon account of its effect upon others. If we had no connexion with\r\nsociety, we should be altogether indifferent about either.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the same manner our first moral criticisms are exercised upon\r\nthe characters and conduct of other people; and we are all very\r\nforward to observe how each of these affects us. But we soon learn,\r\nthat other people are equally frank with regard to our own. We become\r\nanxious to know how far we deserve their censure or applause, and\r\nwhether to them we must necessarily appear those agreeable or\r\ndisagreeable creatures which they represent us. We begin, upon this\r\naccount, to examine our own passions and conduct, and to consider how\r\nthese must appear to them; by considering how they would appear to us\r\nif in their situation. We suppose ourselves the spectators of our own\r\nbehaviour, and endeavour to imagine what effect it would, in this\r\nlight, produce upon us. This is the only looking-glass by which we\r\ncan, in some measure, with the eyes of other people, scrutinize the\r\npropriety of our own conduct. If in this view it pleases us, we are\r\ntolerably satisfied. We can be more indifferent about the applause,\r\nand, in some measure, despise the censure of the world; secure that,\r\nhowever misunderstood or misrepresented, we are the natural and proper\r\nobjects of approbation. On the contrary, if we are doubtful about it,\r\nwe are often, upon that very account, more anxious to gain their\r\napprobation, and, provided we have not already, as they say, shaken\r\nhands with infamy, we are altogether distracted at the thoughts of\r\ntheir censure, which then strikes us with double severity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen I endeavour to examine my own conduct, when I endeavour to\r\npass sentence upon it, and either to approve or condemn it, it is\r\nevident that, in all such cases, I divide myself, as it were, into two\r\npersons; and that I, the examiner and judge, represent a different\r\ncharacter from that other I, the person whose conduct is examined into\r\nand judged of. The first is the spectator, whose sentiments with\r\nregard to my own conduct I endeavour to enter into, by placing myself\r\nin his situation, and by considering how it would appear to me, when\r\nseen from that particular point of view. The second is the agent, the\r\nperson whom I properly call myself, and of whose conduct, under the\r\ncharacter of a spectator, I was endeavouring to form some opinion. The\r\nfirst is the judge; the second the person judged of. But that the\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e102\u003c/span\u003e judge should, in every respect, be the same with the person\r\njudged of, is as impossible, as that the cause should, in every\r\nrespect, be the same with the effect.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo be amiable and to be meritorious; that is, to deserve love and\r\nto deserve reward, are the great characters of virtue; and to be\r\nodious and punishable, of vice. But all these characters have an\r\nimmediate reference to the sentiments of others. Virtue is not said to\r\nbe amiable, or to be meritorious, because it is the object of its own\r\nlove, or of its own gratitude; but because it excites those sentiments\r\nin other men. The consciousness that it is the object of such\r\nfavourable regards, is the source of that inward tranquillity and\r\nself-satisfaction with which it is naturally attended, as the\r\nsuspicion of the contrary gives occasion to the torments of vice. What\r\nso great happiness as to be beloved, and to know that we deserve to be\r\nbeloved? What so great misery as to be hated, and to know that we\r\ndeserve to be hated?\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page102\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Love of Praise, and of that of\r\nPraise-worthiness; and of the dread of Blame, and of that of\r\nBlame-worthiness.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eM\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eAN\u003c/span\u003e naturally desires, not only to be loved, but to be lovely; or\r\nto be that thing which is the natural and proper object of love. He\r\nnaturally dreads, not only to be hated, but to be hateful; or to be\r\nthat thing which is the natural and proper object of hatred. He\r\ndesires, not only praise, but praise-worthiness; or to be that thing\r\nwhich, though it should be praised by nobody, is, however, the natural\r\nand proper object of praise. He dreads, not only blame, but\r\nblame-worthiness; or to be that thing which, though it should be\r\nblamed by nobody, is, however, the natural and proper object of\r\nblame.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe love of praise-worthiness is by no means derived altogether\r\nfrom the love of praise. Those two principles, though they resemble\r\none another, though they are connected, and often blended with one\r\nanother, are yet, in many respects, distinct and independent of one\r\nanother.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe love and admiration which we naturally conceive for those whose\r\ncharacter and conduct we approve of, necessarily dispose us to desire\r\nto become ourselves the objects of the like agreeable sentiments, and\r\nto be as amiable and as admirable as those whom we love and admire the\r\nmost. Emulation, the anxious desire that we ourselves should excel, is\r\noriginally founded in our admiration of the excellence of others.\r\nNeither can we be satisfied with being merely admired for what other\r\npeople are admired. We must at least believe ourselves to be admirable\r\nfor what they are admirable. But, in order to attain this\r\nsatisfaction, we must become the impartial spectators of our own\r\ncharacter and conduct. We must endeavour to view them with the eyes of\r\nother \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page103\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e103\u003c/span\u003e people, or as other people are likely to view them. When\r\nseen in this light, if they appear to us as we wish, we are happy and\r\ncontented. But it greatly confirms this happiness and contentment when\r\nwe find that other people, viewing them with those very eyes with\r\nwhich we, in imagination only, were endeavouring to view them, see\r\nthem precisely in the same light in which we ourselves had seen them.\r\nTheir approbation necessarily confirms our own self-approbation. Their\r\npraise necessarily strengthens our own sense of our own\r\npraise-worthiness. In this case, so far is the love of\r\npraise-worthiness from being derived altogether from that of praise;\r\nthat the love of praise seems, at least in a great measure, to be\r\nderived from that of praise-worthiness.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe most sincere praise can give little pleasure when it cannot be\r\nconsidered as some sort of proof of praise-worthiness. It is by no\r\nmeans sufficient that, from ignorance or mistake, esteem and\r\nadmiration should, in some way or other, be bestowed upon us. If we\r\nare conscious that we do not deserve to be so favourably thought of,\r\nand that if the truth were known, we should be regarded with very\r\ndifferent sentiments, our satisfaction is far from being complete. The\r\nman who applauds us either for actions which we did not perform, or\r\nfor motives which had no sort of influence upon our conduct, applauds\r\nnot us, but another person. We can derive no sort of satisfaction from\r\nhis praises. To us they should be more mortifying than any censure,\r\nand should perpetually call to our minds, the most humbling of all\r\nreflections, the reflection of what we ought to be, but what we are\r\nnot. A woman who paints, could derive, one should imagine, but little\r\nvanity from the compliments that are paid to her complexion. These, we\r\nshould expect, ought rather to put her in mind of the sentiments which\r\nher real complexion would excite, and mortify her the more by the\r\ncontrast. To be pleased with such groundless applause is a proof of\r\nthe most superficial levity and weakness. It is what is properly\r\ncalled vanity, and is the foundation of the most ridiculous and\r\ncontemptible vices, the vices of affectation and common lying; follies\r\nwhich, if experience did not teach us how common they are, one should\r\nimagine the least spark of common sense would save us from. The\r\nfoolish liar, who endeavours to excite the admiration of the company\r\nby the relation of adventures which never had any existence; the\r\nimportant coxcomb, who gives himself airs of rank and distinction\r\nwhich he well knows he has no just pretensions to; are both of them,\r\nno doubt, pleased with the applause which they fancy they meet with.\r\nBut their vanity arises from so gross an illusion of the imagination,\r\nthat it is difficult to conceive how any rational creature should be\r\nimposed upon by it. When they place themselves in the situation of\r\nthose whom they fancy they have deceived, they are struck with the\r\nhighest admiration for their own persons. They look upon themselves,\r\nnot in that light in which, they know, they ought to appear to their\r\ncompanions, but in that in which they believe their \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page104\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e104\u003c/span\u003e companions\r\nactually look upon them. Their superficial weakness and trivial folly\r\nhinder them from ever turning their eyes inwards, or from seeing\r\nthemselves in that despicable point of view in which their own\r\nconsciences must tell them that they would appear to every body, if\r\nthe real truth should ever come to be known.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs ignorant and groundless praise can give no solid joy, no\r\nsatisfaction that will bear any serious examination, so, on the\r\ncontrary, it often gives real comfort to reflect, that though no\r\npraise should actually be bestowed upon us, our conduct, however, has\r\nbeen such as to deserve it, and has been in every respect suitable to\r\nthose measures and rules by which praise and approbation are naturally\r\nand commonly bestowed. We are pleased, not only with praise, but with\r\nhaving done what is praise-worthy. We are pleased to think that we\r\nhave rendered ourselves the natural objects of approbation, though no\r\napprobation should ever actually be bestowed upon us: and we are\r\nmortified to reflect that we have justly merited the blame of those we\r\nlive with, though that sentiment should never actually be exerted\r\nagainst us. The man who is conscious to himself that he has exactly\r\nobserved those measures of conduct which experience informs him are\r\ngenerally agreeable, reflects with satisfaction on the propriety of\r\nhis own behaviour. When he views it in the light in which the\r\nimpartial spectator would view it, he thoroughly enters into all the\r\nmotives which influenced it. He looks back upon every part of it with\r\npleasure and approbation, and though mankind should never be\r\nacquainted with what he has done, he regards himself, not so much\r\naccording to the light in which they actually regard him, as according\r\nto that in which they would regard him if they were better informed.\r\nHe anticipates the applause and admiration which in this case would be\r\nbestowed upon him, and he applauds and admires himself by sympathy\r\nwith sentiments, which do not indeed actually take place, but which\r\nthe ignorance of the public alone hinders from taking place, which he\r\nknows are the natural and ordinary effects of such conduct, which his\r\nimagination strongly connects with it, and which he has acquired a\r\nhabit of conceiving as something that naturally and in propriety ought\r\nto follow from it. Men have voluntarily thrown away life to acquire\r\nafter death a renown which they could no longer enjoy. Their\r\nimagination, in the mean time, anticipated that fame which was in\r\nfuture times to be bestowed upon them. Those applauses which they were\r\nnever to hear rung in their ears; the thoughts of that admiration,\r\nwhose effects they were never to feel, played about their hearts,\r\nbanished from their breasts the strongest of all natural fears, and\r\ntransported them to perform actions which seem almost beyond the reach\r\nof human nature. But in point of reality there is surely no great\r\ndifference between that approbation which is not to be bestowed till\r\nwe can no longer enjoy it, and that which, indeed, is never to be\r\nbestowed, but which would be bestowed, if the world was ever made to\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page105\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e105\u003c/span\u003e understand properly the real circumstances of our behaviour. If\r\nthe one often produces such violent effects, we cannot wonder that the\r\nother should always be highly regarded.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNature, when she formed man for society, endowed him with an\r\noriginal desire to please, and an original aversion to offend his\r\nbrethren. She taught him to feel pleasure in their favourable, and\r\npain in their unfavourable regard. She rendered their approbation most\r\nflattering and most agreeable to him for its own sake; and their\r\ndisapprobation most mortifying and most offensive.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut this desire of the approbation, and this aversion to the\r\ndisapprobation of his brethren, would not alone have rendered him fit\r\nfor that society for which he was made. Nature, accordingly, has\r\nendowed him, not only with a desire of being approved of, but with a\r\ndesire of being what ought to be approved of; or of being what he\r\nhimself approves of in other men. The first desire could only have\r\nmade him wish to appear to be fit for society. The second was\r\nnecessary in order to render him anxious to be really fit. The first\r\ncould only have prompted him to the affectation of virtue, and to the\r\nconcealment of vice. The second was necessary in order to inspire him\r\nwith the real love of virtue, and with the real abhorrence of vice. In\r\nevery well-formed mind this second desire seems to be the strongest of\r\nthe two. It is only the weakest and most superficial of mankind who\r\ncan be much delighted with that praise which they themselves know to\r\nbe altogether unmerited. A weak man may sometimes be pleased with it,\r\nbut a wise man rejects it upon all occasions. But, though a wise man\r\nfeels little pleasure from praise where he knows there is no\r\npraise-worthiness, he often feels the highest in doing what he knows\r\nto be praise-worthy, though he knows equally well that no praise is\r\never to be bestowed upon it. To obtain the approbation of mankind,\r\nwhere no approbation is due, can never be an object of any importance\r\nto him. To obtain that approbation where it is really due, may\r\nsometimes be an object of no great importance to him. But to be that\r\nthing which deserves approbation, must always be an object of the\r\nhighest.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo desire, or even to accept of praise, where no praise is due, can\r\nbe the effect only of the most contemptible vanity. To desire it where\r\nit is really due is to desire no more than that a most essential act\r\nof justice should be done to us. The love of just fame, of true glory,\r\neven for its own sake, and independent of any advantage which he can\r\nderive from it, is not unworthy even of a wise man. He sometimes,\r\nhowever, neglects, and even despises it; and he is never more apt to\r\ndo so than when he has the most perfect assurance of the perfect\r\npropriety of every part of his own conduct. His self-approbation, in\r\nthis case, stands in need of no confirmation from the approbation of\r\nother men. It is alone sufficient, and he is contented with it. This\r\nself-approbation, if not the only, is at least the principal object,\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page106\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e106\u003c/span\u003e about which he can or ought to be anxious. The love of it is the\r\nlove of virtue.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs the love and admiration which we naturally conceive for some\r\ncharacters, dispose us to wish to become ourselves the proper objects\r\nof such agreeable sentiments; so the hatred and contempt which we as\r\nnaturally conceive for others, dispose us, perhaps still more\r\nstrongly, to dread the very thought of resembling them in any respect.\r\nNeither is it, in this case, too, so much the thought of being hated\r\nand despised that we are afraid of, as that of being hateful and\r\ndespicable. We dread the thought of doing any thing which can render\r\nus the just and proper objects of the hatred and contempt of our\r\nfellow-creatures; even though we had the most perfect security that\r\nthose sentiments were never actually to be exerted against us. The man\r\nwho has broke through all those measures of conduct, which can alone\r\nrender him agreeable to mankind, though he should have the most\r\nperfect assurance that what he had done was for ever to be concealed\r\nfrom every human eye, it is all to no purpose. When he looks back upon\r\nit, and views it in the light in which the impartial spectator would\r\nview it, he finds that he can enter into none of the motives which\r\ninfluenced it. He is abashed and confounded at the thoughts of it, and\r\nnecessarily feels a very high degree of that shame which he would be\r\nexposed to, if his actions should ever come to be generally known. His\r\nimagination, in this case too, anticipates the contempt and derision\r\nfrom which nothing saves him but the ignorance of those he lives with.\r\nHe still feels that he is the natural object of these sentiments, and\r\nstill trembles at the thought of what he would suffer, if they were\r\never actually exerted against him. But if what he had been guilty of\r\nwas not merely one of those improprieties which are the objects of\r\nsimple disapprobation, but one of those enormous crimes which excite\r\ndetestation and resentment, he could never think of it, as long as he\r\nhad any sensibility left, without feeling all the agony of horror and\r\nremorse; and though he could be assured that no man was ever to know\r\nit, and could even bring himself to believe that there was no God to\r\nrevenge it, he would still feel enough of both these sentiments to\r\nembitter the whole of his life: he would still regard himself as the\r\nnatural object of the hatred and indignation of all his\r\nfellow-creatures; and, if his heart was not grown callous by the habit\r\nof crimes, he could not think without terror and astonishment even of\r\nthe manner in which mankind would look upon him, of what would be the\r\nexpression of their countenance and of their eyes, if the dreadful\r\ntruth should ever come to be known. These natural pangs of an\r\naffrighted conscience are the dæmons, the avenging furies, which, in\r\nthis life, haunt the guilty, which allow them neither quiet nor\r\nrepose, which often drive them to despair and distraction, from which\r\nno assurance of secrecy can protect them, from which no principles of\r\nirreligion can entirely deliver them, and from which \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page107\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e107\u003c/span\u003e nothing can\r\nfree them but the vilest and most abject of all states, a complete\r\ninsensibility to honour and infamy, to vice and virtue. Men of the\r\nmost detestable characters, who, in the execution of the most dreadful\r\ncrimes, had taken their measures so coolly as to avoid even the\r\nsuspicion of guilt, have sometimes been driven, by the horror of their\r\nsituation, to discover, of their own accord, what no human sagacity\r\ncould ever have investigated. By acknowledging their guilt, by\r\nsubmitting themselves to the resentment of their offended\r\nfellow-citizens, and, by thus satiating that vengeance of which they\r\nwere sensible that they had become the proper objects, they hoped, by\r\ntheir death to reconcile themselves, at least in their own\r\nimagination, to the natural sentiments of mankind; to be able to\r\nconsider themselves as less worthy of hatred and resentment; to atone,\r\nin some measure, for their crimes, and, by thus becoming the objects\r\nrather of compassion than of horror, if possible, to die in peace and\r\nwith the forgiveness of all their fellow-creatures. Compared to what\r\nthey felt before the discovery, even the thought of this, it seems was\r\nhappiness.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn such cases, the horror of blame-worthiness seems, even in\r\npersons who cannot be suspected of any extraordinary delicacy or\r\nsensibility of character, completely to conquer the dread of blame. In\r\norder to allay that horror, in order to pacify, in some degree, the\r\nremorse of their own consciences, they voluntarily submitted\r\nthemselves both to the reproach and to the punishment which they knew\r\nwere due to their crimes, but which, at the same time, they might\r\neasily have avoided.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThey are the most frivolous and superficial of mankind only who can\r\nbe much delighted with that praise which they themselves know to be\r\naltogether unmerited. Unmerited reproach, however, is frequently\r\ncapable of mortifying very severely even men of more than ordinary\r\nconstancy. Men of the most ordinary constancy, indeed, easily learn to\r\ndespise those foolish tales which are so frequently circulated in\r\nsociety, and which, from their own absurdity and falsehood, never fail\r\nto die away in the course of a few weeks, or of a few days. But an\r\ninnocent man, though of more than ordinary constancy, is often, not\r\nonly shocked, but most severely mortified by the serious, though\r\nfalse, imputation of a crime; especially when that imputation happens\r\nunfortunately to be supported by some circumstances which gave it an\r\nair of probability. He is humbled to find that any body should think\r\nso meanly of his character as to suppose him capable of being guilty\r\nof it. Though perfectly conscious of his own innocence, the very\r\nimputation seems often, even in his own imagination, to throw a shadow\r\nof disgrace and dishonour upon his character. His just indignation,\r\ntoo, at so very gross an injury, which, however, it may frequently be\r\nimproper and sometimes even impossible to revenge, is itself a very\r\npainful sensation. There is no greater tormentor of the human breast\r\nthan violent resentment which cannot be gratified. An innocent man,\r\nbrought to \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page108\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e108\u003c/span\u003e the scaffold by the false imputation of an infamous\r\nor odious crime, suffers the most cruel misfortune which it is\r\npossible for innocence to suffer. The agony of his mind may, in this\r\ncase, frequently be greater than that of those who suffer for the like\r\ncrimes, of which they have been actually guilty. Profligate criminals,\r\nsuch as common thieves and highwaymen, have frequently little sense of\r\nthe baseness of their own conduct, and consequently no remorse.\r\nWithout troubling themselves about the justice or injustice of the\r\npunishment, they have always been accustomed to look upon the gibbet\r\nas a lot very likely to fall to them. When it does fall to them,\r\ntherefore, they consider themselves only as not quite so lucky as some\r\nof their companions, and submit to their fortune, without any other\r\nuneasiness than what may arise from the fear of death; a fear which,\r\neven by such worthless wretches, we frequently see, can be so easily,\r\nand so very completely conquered. The innocent man, on the contrary,\r\nover and above the uneasiness which this fear may occasion, is\r\ntormented by his own indignation at the injustice which has been done\r\nto him. He is struck with horror at the thoughts of the infamy which\r\nthe punishment may shed upon his memory, and foresees, with the most\r\nexquisite anguish, that he is hereafter to be remembered by his\r\ndearest friends and relations, not with regret and affection, but with\r\nshame, and even with horror for his supposed disgraceful conduct: and\r\nthe shades of death appear to close round him with a darker and more\r\nmelancholy gloom than naturally belongs to them. Such fatal accidents,\r\nfor the tranquillity of mankind, it is to be hoped, happen very rarely\r\nin any country; but they happen sometimes in all countries, even in\r\nthose where justice is in general very well administered. The\r\nunfortunate Calas, a man of much more than ordinary constancy (broke\r\nupon the wheel and burnt at Tholouse for the supposed murder of his\r\nown son, of which he was perfectly innocent), seemed, with his last\r\nbreath, to deprecate, not so much the cruelty of the punishment, as\r\nthe disgrace which the imputation might bring upon his memory. After\r\nhe had been broke, and was just going to be thrown into the fire, the\r\nmonk, who attended the execution, exhorted him to confess the crime\r\nfor which he had been condemned. ‘My father,’ said Calas, ‘can you\r\nyourself bring yourself to believe that I am guilty?‘\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo persons in such unfortunate circumstances, that humble\r\nphilosophy which confines its views to this life, can afford, perhaps,\r\nbut little consolation. Every thing that could render either life or\r\ndeath respectable is taken from them. They are condemned to death and\r\nto everlasting infamy. Religion can alone afford them any effectual\r\ncomfort. She alone can tell them that it is of little importance what\r\nman may think of their conduct, while the all-seeing Judge of the\r\nworld approves of it. She alone can present to them the view of\r\nanother world; a world of more candour, humanity, and justice, than\r\nthe present; where their \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page109\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e109\u003c/span\u003e innocence is in due time to be\r\ndeclared, and their virtue to be finally rewarded: and the same great\r\nprinciple which can alone strike terror into triumphant vice, affords\r\nthe only effectual consolation to disgraced and insulted\r\ninnocence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn smaller offences, as well as in greater crimes, it frequently\r\nhappens that a person of sensibility is much more hurt by the unjust\r\nimputation, than the real criminal is by the actual guilt. A woman of\r\ngallantry laughs even at the well-founded surmises which are\r\ncirculated concerning her conduct. The worst founded surmise of the\r\nsame kind is a mortal stab to an innocent virgin. The person who is\r\ndeliberately guilty of a disgraceful action, we may lay it down, I\r\nbelieve, as a general rule, can seldom have much sense of the\r\ndisgrace; and the person who is habitually guilty of it, can scarce\r\never have any.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen every man, even of middling understanding, so readily despises\r\nunmerited applause, how it comes to pass that unmerited reproach\r\nshould often be capable of mortifying so severely men of the soundest\r\nand best judgment, may, perhaps, deserve some consideration.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePain, I have already had occasion to observe, is, in almost all\r\ncases, a more pungent sensation than the opposite and correspondent\r\npleasure. The one, almost always, depresses us much more below the\r\nordinary, or what may be called the natural, state of our happiness,\r\nthan the other ever raises us above it. A man of sensibility is apt to\r\nbe more humiliated by just censure than he is ever elevated by just\r\napplause. Unmerited applause a wise man rejects with contempt upon all\r\noccasions; but he often feels very severely the injustice of unmerited\r\ncensure. By suffering himself to be applauded for what he has not\r\nperformed, by assuming a merit which does not belong to him, he feels\r\nthat he is guilty of a mean falsehood, and deserves, not the\r\nadmiration, but the contempt of those very persons who, by mistake,\r\nhad been led to admire him. It may, perhaps, give him some\r\nwell-founded pleasure to find that he has been, by many people,\r\nthought capable of performing what he did not perform. But, though he\r\nmay be obliged to his friends for their good opinion, he would think\r\nhimself guilty of the greatest baseness if he did not immediately\r\nundeceive them. It gives him little pleasure to look upon himself in\r\nthe light in which other people actually look upon him, when he is\r\nconscious that, if they knew the truth, they would look upon him in a\r\nvery different light. A weak man, however, is often much delighted\r\nwith viewing himself in this false and delusive light. He assumes the\r\nmerit of every laudable action that is ascribed to him, and pretends\r\nto that of many which nobody ever thought of ascribing to him. He\r\npretends to have done what he never did, to have written what another\r\nwrote, to have invented what another discovered; and is led into all\r\nthe miserable vices of plagiarism and common lying. But though no man\r\nof \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page110\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e110\u003c/span\u003e middling good sense can derive much pleasure from the\r\nimputation of a laudable action which he never performed, yet a wise\r\nman may suffer great pain from the serious imputation of a crime which\r\nhe never committed. Nature, in this case, has rendered the pain, not\r\nonly more pungent than the opposite and correspondent pleasure, but\r\nshe has rendered it so in a much greater than the ordinary degree. A\r\ndenial rids a man at once of the foolish and ridiculous pleasure; but\r\nit will not always rid him of the pain. When he refuses the merit\r\nwhich is ascribed to him, nobody doubts his veracity. It may be\r\ndoubted when he denies the crime which he is accused of. He is at once\r\nenraged at the falsehood of the imputation, and mortified to find that\r\nany credit should be given to it. He feels that his character is not\r\nsufficient to protect him. He feels that his brethren, far from\r\nlooking upon him in that light in which he anxiously desires to be\r\nviewed by them, think him capable of being guilty of what he is\r\naccused of. He knows perfectly that he has not been guilty. He knows\r\nperfectly what he has done; but, perhaps, scarce any man can know\r\nperfectly what he himself is capable of doing. What the peculiar\r\nconstitution of his own mind may or may not admit of, is, perhaps,\r\nmore or less a matter of doubt to every man. The trust and good\r\nopinion of his friends and neighbours, tends more than any thing to\r\nrelieve him from this most disagreeable doubt; their distrust and\r\nunfavourable opinion to increase it. He may think himself very\r\nconfident that their unfavourable judgment is wrong: but this\r\nconfidence can seldom be so great as to hinder that judgment from\r\nmaking some impression upon him; and the greater his sensibility, the\r\ngreater his delicacy, the greater his worth in short, this impression\r\nis likely to be the greater.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe agreement or disagreement both of the sentiments and judgments\r\nof other people with our own, is, in all cases, it must be observed,\r\nof more or less importance to us, exactly in proportion as we\r\nourselves are more or less uncertain about the propriety of our own\r\nsentiments, about the accuracy of our own judgments.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA man of sensibility may sometimes feel great uneasiness lest he\r\nshould have yielded too much even to what may be called an honourable\r\npassion; to his just indignation, perhaps, at the injury which may\r\nhave been done either to himself or to his friend. He is anxiously\r\nafraid lest, meaning only to act with spirit, and to do justice, he\r\nmay, from the too great vehemence of his emotion, have done a real\r\ninjury to some other person; who, though not innocent, may not have\r\nbeen altogether so guilty as he at first apprehended. The opinion of\r\nother people becomes, in this case, of the utmost importance to him.\r\nTheir approbation is the most healing balsam; their disapprobation,\r\nthe bitterest and most tormenting poison that can be poured into his\r\nuneasy mind. When he is perfectly satisfied with every part of his own\r\nconduct, the judgment of other people is often of less importance to\r\nhim.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page111\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e111\u003c/span\u003e There are some very noble and beautiful arts, in which the\r\ndegree of excellence can be determined only by a certain nicety of\r\ntaste, of which the decisions, however, appear always, in some\r\nmeasure, uncertain. There are others, in which the success admits,\r\neither of clear demonstration, or very satisfactory proof. Among the\r\ncandidates for excellence in those different arts, the anxiety about\r\nthe public opinion is always much greater in the former than in the\r\nlatter.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe beauty of poetry is a matter of such nicety, that a young\r\nbeginner can scarce ever be certain that he has attained it. Nothing\r\ndelights him so much, therefore, as the favourable judgments of his\r\nfriends and of the public; and nothing mortifies him so severely as\r\nthe contrary. The one establishes, the other shakes, the good opinion\r\nwhich he is anxious to entertain concerning his own performances.\r\nExperience and success may in time give him a little more confidence\r\nin his own judgment. He is at all times, however, liable to be most\r\nseverely mortified by the unfavourable judgments of the public. Racine\r\nwas so disgusted by the indifferent success of his Phædra, the finest\r\ntragedy, perhaps, that is extant in any language, that, though in the\r\nvigour of his life, and at the height of his abilities, he resolved to\r\nwrite no more for the stage. That great poet used frequently to tell\r\nhis son, that the most paltry and impertinent criticism had always\r\ngiven him more pain than the highest and justest eulogy had ever given\r\nhim pleasure. The extreme sensibility of Voltaire to the slightest\r\ncensure of the same kind is well known to every body. The Dunciad of\r\nMr. Pope is an everlasting monument of how much the most correct, as\r\nwell as the most elegant and harmonious of all the English poets, had\r\nbeen hurt by the criticisms of the lowest and most contemptible\r\nauthors. Gray (who joins to the sublimity of Milton the elegance and\r\nharmony of Pope, and to whom nothing is wanting to render him,\r\nperhaps, the first poet in the English language, but to have written a\r\nlittle more) is said to have been so much hurt by a foolish and\r\nimpertinent parody of two of his finest odes, that he never afterwards\r\nattempted any considerable work. Those men of letters who value\r\nthemselves upon what is called fine writing in prose, approach\r\nsomewhat to the sensibility of poets.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMathematicians, on the contrary, who may have the most perfect\r\nassurance, both of the truth and of the importance of their\r\ndiscoveries, are frequently very indifferent about the reception which\r\nthey may meet with from the public. The two greatest mathematicians\r\nthat I ever had the honour to be known to, and I believe, the two\r\ngreatest that have lived in my time, Dr. Robert Simpson of Glasgow,\r\nand Dr. Matthew Stewart of Edinburgh, never seemed to feel even the\r\nslightest uneasiness from the neglect with which the ignorance of the\r\npublic received some of their most valuable works. The great work of\r\nSir Isaac Newton, \u003ci\u003ehis Mathematical Principles of Natural\r\nPhilosophy\u003c/i\u003e, I \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page112\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e112\u003c/span\u003e have been told, was for several years\r\nneglected by the public. The tranquillity of that great man, it is\r\nprobable, never suffered, upon that account, the interruption of a\r\nsingle quarter of an hour. Natural philosophers, in their independency\r\nupon the public opinion, approach nearly to mathematicians, and, in\r\ntheir judgments concerning the merit of their own discoveries and\r\nobservations, enjoy some degree of the same security and\r\ntranquillity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe morals of those different classes of men of letters are,\r\nperhaps, sometimes somewhat affected by this very great difference in\r\ntheir situation with regard to the public.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMathematicians and natural philosophers, from their independency\r\nupon the public opinion, have little temptation to form themselves\r\ninto factions and cabals, either for the support of their own\r\nreputation, or for the depression of that of their rivals. They are\r\nalmost always men of the most amiable simplicity of manners, who live\r\nin good harmony with one another, are the friends of one another’s\r\nreputation, enter into no intrigue in order to secure the public\r\napplause, but are pleased when their works are approved of, without\r\nbeing either much vexed or very angry when they are neglected.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is not always the same case with poets, or with those who value\r\nthemselves upon what is called fine writing. They are very apt to\r\ndivide themselves into a sort of literary faction; each cabal being\r\noften avowedly, and almost always secretly, the mortal enemy of the\r\nreputation of every other, and employing all the mean arts of intrigue\r\nand solicitation to pre-occupy the public opinion in favour of the\r\nworks of its own members, and against those of its enemies and rivals.\r\nIn France, Despreaux and Racine did not think it below them to set\r\nthemselves at the head of a literary cabal, in order to depress the\r\nreputation, first of Quinault and Perreault, and afterwards of\r\nFontenelle and La Motte, and even to treat the good La Fontaine with a\r\nspecies of most disrespectful kindness. In England, the amiable Mr.\r\nAddison did not think it unworthy of his gentle and modest character\r\nto set himself at the head of a little cabal of the same kind, in\r\norder to keep down the rising reputation of Mr. Pope. Mr. Fontenelle,\r\nin writing the lives and characters of the members of the academy of\r\nsciences, a society of mathematicians and natural philosophers, has\r\nfrequent opportunities of celebrating the amiable simplicity of their\r\nmanners; a quality which, he observes, was so universal among them as\r\nto be characteristical, rather of that whole class of men of letters,\r\nthan of any individual. Mr. D’Alembert, in writing the lives and\r\ncharacters of the members of the French Academy, a society of poets\r\nand fine writers, or of those who are supposed to be such, seems not\r\nto have had such frequent opportunities of making any remark of this\r\nkind, and no where pretends to represent this amiable quality as\r\ncharacteristical of that class of men of letters whom he\r\ncelebrates.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page113\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e113\u003c/span\u003e Our uncertainty concerning our own merit, and our anxiety to\r\nthink favourably of it, should together naturally enough make us\r\ndesirous to know the opinion of other people concerning it; to be more\r\nthan ordinarily elevated when that opinion is favourable, and to be\r\nmore than ordinarily mortified when it is otherwise: but they should\r\nnot make us desirous either of obtaining the favourable, or of\r\navoiding the unfavourable opinion, by intrigue and cabal. When a man\r\nhas bribed all the judges, the most unanimous decision of the court,\r\nthough it may gain him his law-suit, cannot give him any assurance\r\nthat he was in the right: and had he carried on his law-suit merely to\r\nsatisfy himself that he was in the right, he never would have bribed\r\nthe judges. But though he wished to find himself in the right, he\r\nwished likewise to gain his law-suit; and therefore he bribed the\r\njudges. If praise were of no consequence to us, but as a proof of our\r\nown praise-worthiness, we never should endeavour to obtain it by unfair\r\nmeans. But, though to wise men it is, at least in doubtful cases, of\r\nprincipal consequence upon this account; it is likewise of some\r\nconsequence upon its own account: and therefore (we cannot, indeed,\r\nupon such occasions, call them wise men), but men very much above the\r\ncommon level have sometimes attempted both to obtain praise, and to\r\navoid blame, by very unfair means.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePraise and blame express what actually are, praise-worthiness and\r\nblame-worthiness what naturally ought to be, the sentiments of other\r\npeople with regard to our character and conduct. The love of praise is\r\nthe desire of obtaining the favourable sentiments of our brethren. The\r\nlove of praise-worthiness is the desire of rendering ourselves the\r\nproper objects of those sentiments. So far those two principles\r\nresemble and are akin to one another. The like affinity and\r\nresemblance take place between dread of blame and that of\r\nblame-worthiness.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe man who desires to do, or who actually does, a praise-worthy\r\naction, may likewise desire the praise which is due to it, and\r\nsometimes, perhaps, more than is due to it. The two principles are in\r\nthis case blended together. How far his conduct may have been\r\ninfluenced by the one, and how far by the other, may frequently be\r\nunknown even to himself. It must almost always be so to other people.\r\nThey who are disposed to lessen the merit of his conduct, impute it\r\nchiefly or altogether to the mere love of praise, or to what they call\r\nmere vanity. They who are disposed to think more favourably of it,\r\nimpute it chiefly or altogether to the love of praise-worthiness; to\r\nthe love of what is really honourable and noble in human conduct; to\r\nthe desire, not merely of obtaining, but of deserving the approbation\r\nand applause of his brethren. The imagination of the spectator throws\r\nupon it either the one colour or the other, according either to his\r\nhabits of thinking, or to the favour or dislike which he may bear to\r\nthe person whose conduct he is considering.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page114\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e114\u003c/span\u003e Some splenetic philosophers, in judging of human nature, have\r\ndone as peevish individuals are apt to do in judging of the conduct of\r\none another, and have imputed to the love of praise, or to what they\r\ncall vanity, every action which ought to be ascribed to that of\r\npraise-worthiness. I shall hereafter have occasion to give an account\r\nof some of their systems, and shall not at present stop to examine\r\nthem.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eVery few men can be satisfied with their own private consciousness\r\nthat they have attained those qualities, or performed those actions,\r\nwhich they admire and think praise-worthy in other people; unless it\r\nis, at the same time, generally acknowledged that they possess the\r\none, or have performed the other; or, in other words, unless they have\r\nactually obtained that praise which they think due both to the one and\r\nto the other. In this respect, however, men differ considerably from\r\none another. Some seem indifferent about the praise, when, in their\r\nown minds, they are perfectly satisfied that they have attained the\r\npraise-worthiness. Others appear much less anxious about the\r\npraise-worthiness than about the praise.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNo man can be completely, or even tolerably satisfied, with having\r\navoided every thing blame-worthy in his conduct, unless he has\r\nlikewise avoided the blame or the reproach. A wise man may frequently\r\nneglect praise, even when he has best deserved it; but, in all matters\r\nof serious consequence, he will most carefully endeavour so to\r\nregulate his conduct as to avoid, not only blame-worthiness, but, as\r\nmuch as possible, every probable imputation of blame. He will never,\r\nindeed, avoid blame by doing any thing which he judges blame-worthy;\r\nby omitting any part of his duty, or by neglecting any opportunity of\r\ndoing any thing which he judges to be really and greatly\r\npraise-worthy. But, with these modifications, he will most anxiously\r\nand carefully avoid it. To show much anxiety about praise, even for\r\npraise-worthy actions, is seldom a mark of great wisdom, but generally\r\nof some degree of weakness. But, in being anxious to avoid the shadow\r\nof blame or reproach, there may be no weakness, but frequently there\r\nmay be the most praise-worthy prudence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e‘Many people,’ says Cicero, ‘despise glory, who are yet most\r\nseverely mortified by unjust reproach; and that most inconsistently.’\r\nThis inconsistency, however, seems to be founded in the unalterable\r\nprinciples of human nature.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe all-wise Author of Nature has, in this manner, taught man to\r\nrespect the sentiments and judgments of his brethren; to be more or\r\nless pleased when they approve of his conduct, and to be more or less\r\nhurt when they disapprove of it. He has made man, if I may say so, the\r\nimmediate judge of mankind; and has, in this respect, as in many\r\nothers, created him after his own image, and appointed him his\r\nvicegerent upon earth, to superintend the behaviour of his brethren.\r\nThey are taught by nature, to acknowledge that power and jurisdiction\r\nwhich \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page115\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e115\u003c/span\u003e has thus been conferred upon him, to be more or less\r\nhumbled and mortified when they have incurred his censure, and to be\r\nmore or less elated when they have obtained his applause.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though man has, in this manner, been rendered the immediate\r\njudge of mankind, he has been rendered so only in the first instance;\r\nand an appeal lies from his sentence to a much higher tribunal, to the\r\ntribunal of their own consciences, to that of the supposed impartial\r\nand well-informed spectator, to that of the man within the breast, the\r\ngreat judge and arbiter of their conduct The jurisdictions of those\r\ntwo tribunals are founded upon principles which, though in some\r\nrespects resembling and akin, are, however, in reality different and\r\ndistinct. The jurisdiction of the man without, is founded altogether\r\nin the desire of actual praise, and in the aversion to actual blame.\r\nThe jurisdiction of the man within, is founded altogether in the\r\ndesire of praise-worthiness, and in the aversion to blame-worthiness;\r\nin the desire of possessing those qualities, and performing those\r\nactions, which we love and admire in other people; and in the dread of\r\npossessing those qualities, and performing those actions, which we\r\nhate and despise in other people. If the man without should applaud\r\nus, either for actions which we have not performed, or for motives\r\nwhich had no influence upon us; the man within can immediately humble\r\nthat pride and elevation of mind which such groundless acclamations\r\nmight otherwise occasion, by telling us, that as we know that we do\r\nnot deserve them, we render ourselves despicable by accepting them.\r\nIf, on the contrary, the man without should reproach us, either for\r\nactions which we never performed, or for motives which had no\r\ninfluence upon those which we may have performed, the man within may\r\nimmediately correct this false judgment, and assure us, that we are by\r\nno means the proper objects of that censure which has so unjustly been\r\nbestowed upon us. But in this and in some other cases, the man within\r\nseems sometimes, as it were, astonished and confounded by the\r\nvehemence and clamour of the man without. The violence and loudness\r\nwith which blame is sometimes poured out upon us, seems to stupify and\r\nbenumb our natural sense of praise-worthiness and blame-worthiness; and\r\nthe judgments of the man within, though not, perhaps, absolutely\r\naltered or perverted, are, however, so much shaken in the steadiness\r\nand firmness of their decision, that their natural effect, in securing\r\nthe tranquillity of the mind, is frequently in a great measure\r\ndestroyed. We scarce dare to absolve ourselves, when all our brethren\r\nappear loudly to condemn us. The supposed impartial spectator of our\r\nconduct seems to give his opinion in our favour with fear and\r\nhesitation; when that of all the real spectators, when that of all\r\nthose with whose eyes and from whose station he endeavours to consider\r\nit, is unanimously and violently against us. In such cases, this\r\ndemigod within the breast appears, like the demigods of the poets,\r\nthough \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page116\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e116\u003c/span\u003e partly of immortal, yet partly too of mortal extraction.\r\nWhen his judgments are steadily and firmly directed by the sense of\r\npraise-worthiness and blame-worthiness, he seems to act suitably to his\r\ndivine extraction: but when he suffers himself to be astonished and\r\nconfounded by the judgments of ignorant and weak man, he discovers his\r\nconnexion with mortality, and appears to act suitably, rather to the\r\nhuman, than to the divine, part of his origin.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn such cases, the only effectual consolation of humbled and\r\nafflicted man lies in an appeal to a still higher tribunal, to that of\r\nthe all-seeing Judge of the world, whose eye can never be deceived,\r\nand whose judgments can never be perverted. A firm confidence in the\r\nunerring rectitude of this great tribunal, before which his innocence\r\nis in due time to be declared, and his virtue to be finally rewarded,\r\ncan alone support him under the weakness and despondency of his own\r\nmind, under the perturbation and astonishment of the man within the\r\nbreast, whom nature has set up as, in this life, the great guardian,\r\nnot only of his innocence, but of his tranquillity. Our happiness in\r\nthis life is thus, upon many occasions, dependent upon the humble hope\r\nand expectation of a life to come: a hope and expectation deeply\r\nrooted in human nature; which can alone support its lofty ideas of its\r\nown dignity; can alone illumine the dreary prospect of its continually\r\napproaching mortality, and maintain its cheerfulness under all the\r\nheaviest calamities to which, from the disorders of this life, it may\r\nsometimes be exposed. That there is a world to come, where exact\r\njustice will be done to every man, where every man will be ranked with\r\nthose who, in the moral and intellectual qualities, are really his\r\nequals; where the owner of those humble talents and virtues which,\r\nfrom being depressed by fortunes, had, in this life, no opportunity of\r\ndisplaying themselves; which were unknown, not only to the public, but\r\nwhich he himself could scarce be sure that he possessed, and for which\r\neven the man within the breast could scarce venture to afford him any\r\ndistinct and clear testimony; where that modest, silent, and unknown\r\nmerit, will be placed upon a level, and sometimes above those who, in\r\nthis world, had enjoyed the highest reputation, and who, from the\r\nadvantage of their situation, had been enabled to perform the most\r\nsplendid and dazzling actions; is a doctrine, in every respect so\r\nvenerable, so comfortable to the weakness, so flattering to the\r\ngrandeur of human nature, that the virtuous man who has the misfortune\r\nto doubt of it, cannot possibly avoid wishing most earnestly and\r\nanxiously to believe it. It could never have been exposed to the\r\nderision of the scoffer, had not the distribution of rewards and\r\npunishments, which some of its most zealous assertors have taught us\r\nwas to be made in that world to come, been too frequently in direct\r\nopposition to all our moral sentiments.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat the assiduous courtier is often more favoured than the\r\nfaithful and active servant; that attendance and adulation are often\r\nshorter \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page117\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e117\u003c/span\u003e and surer roads to preferment than merit or service; and\r\nthat a campaign at Versailles or St. James’s is often worth two either\r\nin Germany or Flanders, is a complaint which we have all heard from\r\nmany a venerable, but discontented, old officer. But what is\r\nconsidered as the greatest reproach even to the weakness of earthly\r\nsovereigns, has been ascribed, as an act of justice, to divine\r\nperfection; and the duties of devotion, the public and private worship\r\nof the Deity, have been represented, even by men of virtue and\r\nabilities, as the sole virtues which can either entitle to reward or\r\nexempt from punishment in the life to come. They were the virtues\r\nperhaps, most suitable to their station, and in which they themselves\r\nchiefly excelled; and we are all naturally disposed to over-rate the\r\nexcellencies of our own characters. In the discourse which the\r\neloquent and philosophical Massillon pronounced, on giving his\r\nbenediction to the standards of the regiment of Catinat, there is the\r\nfollowing address to the officers: ‘What is most deplorable in your\r\nsituation, gentlemen, is, that in a life hard and painful, in which\r\nthe services and the duties sometimes go beyond the rigour and\r\nseverity of the most austere cloisters; you suffer always in vain for\r\nthe life to come, and frequently even for this life. Alas! the\r\nsolitary monk in his cell, obliged to mortify the flesh and to subject\r\nit to the spirit, is supported by the hope of an assured recompense,\r\nand by the secret unction of that grace which softens the yoke of the\r\nLord. But you, on the bed of death, can you dare to represent to Him\r\nyour fatigues and the daily hardships of your employment? can you dare\r\nto solicit Him for any recompense? and in all the exertions that you\r\nhave made, in all the violences that you have done to yourselves, what\r\nis there that He ought to place to His own account? The best days of\r\nyour life, however, have been sacrificed to your profession, and ten\r\nyears’ service has more worn out your body, than would, perhaps, have\r\ndone a whole life of repentance and mortification. Alas! my brother,\r\none single day of those sufferings, consecrated to the Lord, would,\r\nperhaps, have obtained you an eternal happiness. One single action,\r\npainful to nature, and offered up to Him, would, perhaps, have secured\r\nto you the inheritance of the saints. And you have done all this, and\r\nin vain, for this world.’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo compare, in this manner, the futile mortifications of a\r\nmonastery, to the ennobling hardships and hazards of war; to suppose\r\nthat one day, or one hour, employed in the former should, in the eye\r\nof the great Judge of the world, have more merit than a whole life\r\nspent honourably in the latter, is surely contrary to all our moral\r\nsentiments: to all the principles by which nature has taught us to\r\nregulate our contempt or admiration. It is this spirit, however,\r\nwhich, while it has reserved the celestial regions for monks and\r\nfriars, or for those whose conduct and conversation resembled those of\r\nmonks and friars, has condemned to the infernal all the heroes, all\r\nthe statesmen and lawgivers, all the poets \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e118\u003c/span\u003e and philosophers of\r\nformer ages; all those who have invented, improved, or excelled in the\r\narts, which contribute to the subsistence, to the conveniency, or to\r\nthe ornament of human life; all the great protectors, instructors, and\r\nbenefactors of mankind; all those to whom our natural sense of\r\npraise-worthiness forces us to ascribe the highest merit and most\r\nexalted virtue. Can we wonder that so strange an application of this\r\nmost respectable doctrine should sometimes have exposed it to contempt\r\nand derision; with those at least who had themselves, perhaps, no\r\ngreat taste or turn for the devout and contemplative virtues?\u003ca href=\"#Footnote3\" id=\"FnAnchor3\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e3\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\r\n\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"Footnote3\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchor3\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e3\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cspan class=\"poembox\"\u003e\r\n\u003cspan class=\"poem\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"large\"\u003e\r\n Vous y grillez sage et docte Platon,\u003cbr\u003e Divin Homere,\r\neloquent Ciceron, etc. \u003ci\u003eSee\u003c/i\u003e Voltaire.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page118\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Influence and Authority of\r\nConscience.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eB\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eUT\u003c/span\u003e though the approbation of his own conscience can scarce, upon\r\nsome extraordinary occasions, content the weakness of man; though the\r\ntestimony of the supposed impartial spectator of the great inmate of\r\nthe breast, cannot always alone support him; yet the influence and\r\nauthority of this principle is, upon all occasions, very great; and it\r\nis only by consulting this judge within, that we can ever see what\r\nrelates to ourselves in its proper shape and dimensions; or that we\r\ncan ever make any proper comparison between our own interests and\r\nthose of other people.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs to the eye of the body, objects appear great or small, not so\r\nmuch according to their real dimensions, as according to the nearness\r\nor distance of their situation; so do they likewise to what may be\r\ncalled the natural eye of the mind: and we remedy the defects of both\r\nthese organs pretty much in the same manner. In my present situation\r\nan immense landscape of lawns, and woods, and distant mountains, seems\r\nto do no more than cover the little window which I write by, and to be\r\nout of all proportion less than the chamber in which I am sitting. I\r\ncan form a just comparison between those great objects and the little\r\nobjects around me, in no other way, than by transporting myself, at\r\nleast in fancy, to a different station, from whence I can survey both\r\nat nearly equal distances, and thereby form some judgment of their\r\nreal proportions. Habit and experience have taught me to do this so\r\neasily and so readily, that I am scarce sensible that I do it; and a\r\nman must be, in some measure, acquainted with the philosophy of\r\nvision, before he can be thoroughly convinced, how little those\r\ndistant objects would appear to the eye, if the imagination, from a\r\nknowledge of their real magnitudes, did not swell and dilate them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the same manner, to the selfish and original passions of human\r\nnature, the loss or gain of a very small interest of our own, appears\r\nto be of vastly more importance, excites a much more passionate joy or\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page119\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e119\u003c/span\u003e sorrow, a much more ardent desire or aversion, than the greatest\r\nconcern of another with, whom we have no particular connexion. His\r\ninterests, as long as they are surveyed from this station, can never\r\nbe put into the balance with our own, can never restrain us from doing\r\nwhatever may tend to promote our own, how ruinous so ever to him.\r\nBefore we can make any proper comparison of those opposite interests,\r\nwe must change our position. We must view them, neither from our own\r\nplace nor yet from his, neither with our own eyes nor yet with his,\r\nbut from the place and with the eyes of a third person, who has no\r\nparticular connexion with either, and who judges with impartiality\r\nbetween us. Here, too, habit and experience have taught us to do this\r\nso easily and so readily, that we are scarce sensible that we do it;\r\nand it requires, in this case too, some degree of reflection, and even\r\nof philosophy, to convince us, how little interest we should take in\r\nthe greatest concerns of our neighbour, how little we should be\r\naffected by whatever relates to him, if the sense of propriety and\r\njustice did not correct the otherwise natural inequality of our\r\nsentiments.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eLet us suppose that the great empire of China, with all its myriads\r\nof inhabitants, was suddenly swallowed up by an earthquake, and let us\r\nconsider how a man of humanity in Europe, who had no sort of connexion\r\nwith that part of the world, would be affected upon receiving\r\nintelligence of this dreadful calamity. He would, I imagine, first of\r\nall, express very strongly his sorrow for the misfortune of that\r\nunhappy people, he would make many melancholy reflections upon the\r\nprecariousness of human life, and the vanity of all the labours of\r\nman, which could thus be annihilated in a moment. He would, too,\r\nperhaps, if he was a man of speculation, enter into many reasonings\r\nconcerning the effects which this disaster might produce upon the\r\ncommerce of Europe, and the trade and business of the world in\r\ngeneral. And when all this fine philosophy was over, when all these\r\nhumane sentiments had been once fairly expressed, he would pursue his\r\nbusiness or his pleasure, take his repose or his diversion, with the\r\nsame ease and tranquillity, as if no such accident had happened. The\r\nmost frivolous disaster which could befal himself would occasion a\r\nmore real disturbance. If he was to lose his little finger to-morrow,\r\nhe would not sleep to-night; but, provided he never saw them, he will\r\nsnore with the most profound security over the ruin of a hundred\r\nmillions of his brethren, and the destruction of that immense\r\nmultitude seems plainly an object less interesting to him, than this\r\npaltry misfortune of his own. To prevent, therefore, this paltry\r\nmisfortune to himself, would a man of humanity be willing to sacrifice\r\nthe lives of a hundred millions of his brethren, provided he had never\r\nseen them? Human nature startles with horror at the thought, and the\r\nworld, in its greatest depravity and corruption, never produced such a\r\nvillain as could be capable of entertaining it. But what makes this\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page120\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e120\u003c/span\u003e difference? When our passive feelings are almost always so\r\nsordid and so selfish, how comes it that our active principles should\r\noften be so generous and so noble? When we are always so much more\r\ndeeply affected by whatever concerns ourselves than by whatever\r\nconcerns other men, what is it which prompts the generous, upon all\r\noccasions, and the mean upon many, to sacrifice their own interests to\r\nthe greater interests of others? It is not the soft power of humanity,\r\nit is not that feeble spark of benevolence which Nature has lighted up\r\nin the human heart, that is thus capable of counteracting the\r\nstrongest impulses of self-love. It is a stronger power, a more\r\nforcible motive, which exerts itself upon such occasions. It is\r\nreason, principle, conscience, the inhabitant of the breast, the man\r\nwithin, the great judge and arbiter of our conduct. It is he who,\r\nwhenever we are about to act so as to affect the happiness of others,\r\ncalls to us, with a voice capable of astonishing the most presumptuous\r\nof our passions, that we are but one of the multitude, in no respect\r\nbetter than any other in it; and when we prefer ourselves so\r\nshamefully and so blindly to others, we become the proper objects of\r\nresentment, abhorrence, and execration. It is from him only that we\r\nlearn the real littleness of ourselves, and of whatever relates to\r\nourselves, and the natural misrepresentations of self-love can be\r\ncorrected only by the eye of this impartial spectator. It is he who\r\nshows us the propriety of generosity and the deformity of injustice;\r\nthe propriety of resigning the greatest interests of our own, for the\r\nyet greater interests of others, and the deformity of doing the\r\nsmallest injury to another, in order to obtain the greatest benefit to\r\nourselves. It is not the love of our neighbour, it is not the love of\r\nmankind, which upon many occasions prompts us to the practice of those\r\ndivine virtues. It is a stronger love, a more powerful affection,\r\nwhich generally takes place upon such occasions; the love of what is\r\nhonourable and noble, of the grandeur, and dignity, and superiority of\r\nour own characters.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen the happiness or misery of others depends in any respect upon\r\nour conduct, we dare not, as self-love might suggest to us, prefer the\r\ninterest of one to that of many. The man within immediately calls to\r\nus, that we value ourselves too much and other people too little, and\r\nthat, by doing so, we render ourselves the proper object of the\r\ncontempt and indignation of our brethren. Neither is this sentiment\r\nconfined to men of extraordinary magnanimity and virtue. It is deeply\r\nimpressed upon every tolerably good soldier, who feels that he would\r\nbecome the scorn of his companions, if he could be supposed capable of\r\nshrinking from danger, or of hesitating, either to expose or to throw\r\naway his life, when the good of the service required it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOne individual must never prefer himself so much even to any other\r\nindividual, as to hurt or injure that other, in order to benefit\r\nhimself, though the benefit to the one should be much greater than the\r\nhurt or \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page121\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e121\u003c/span\u003e injury to the other. The poor man must neither defraud\r\nnor steal from the rich, though the acquisition might be much more\r\nbeneficial to the one than the loss could be hurtful to the other. The\r\nman within immediately calls to him in this case too, that he is no\r\nbetter than his neighbour, and that by his unjust preference he\r\nrenders himself the proper object of the contempt and indignation of\r\nmankind; as well as of the punishment which that contempt and\r\nindignation must naturally dispose them to inflict, for having thus\r\nviolated one of those sacred rules, upon the tolerable observation of\r\nwhich depend the whole security and peace of human society. There is\r\nno commonly honest man who does not more dread the inward disgrace of\r\nsuch an action, the indelible stain which it would for ever stamp upon\r\nhis own mind, than the greatest external calamity which, without any\r\nfault of his own, could possibly befal him; and who does not inwardly\r\nfeel the truth of that great stoical maxim, that for one man to\r\ndeprive another unjustly of any thing, or unjustly to promote his own\r\nadvantage by the loss or disadvantage of another, is more contrary to\r\nnature, than death, than poverty, than pain, than all the misfortunes\r\nwhich can affect him, either in his body, or in his external\r\ncircumstances.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen the happiness or misery of others, indeed, in no respect\r\ndepends upon our conduct, when our interests are altogether separated\r\nand detached from theirs, so that there is neither connexion nor\r\ncompetition between them, we do not always think it so necessary to\r\nrestrain, either our natural and, perhaps, improper anxiety about our\r\nown affairs, or our natural and, perhaps, equally improper\r\nindifference about those of other men. The most vulgar education\r\nteaches us to act, upon all important occasions, with some sort of\r\nimpartiality between ourselves and others, and even the ordinary\r\ncommerce of the world is capable of adjusting our active principles to\r\nsome degree of propriety. But it is the most artificial and refined\r\neducation only, it has been said, which can correct the inequalities\r\nof our passive feelings; and we must for this purpose, it has been\r\npretended, have recourse to the severest, as well as to the\r\nprofoundest philosophy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTwo different sets of philosophers have attempted to teach us this\r\nhardest of all the lessons of morality. One set have laboured to\r\nincrease our sensibility to the interests of others; another, to\r\ndiminish that to our own. The first would have us feel for others as\r\nwe naturally feel for ourselves. The second would have us feel for\r\nourselves as we naturally feel for others. Both, perhaps, have carried\r\ntheir doctrines a good deal beyond the just standard of nature and\r\npropriety.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe first are those whining and melancholy moralists, who are\r\nperpetually reproaching us with our happiness, while so many of our\r\nbrethren are in misery,\u003ca href=\"#Footnote1n\" id=\"FnAnchor1n\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e1*\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e who regard as impious the natural joy of\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page122\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e122\u003c/span\u003e prosperity, which does not think of the many wretches that are\r\nat every instant labouring under all sorts of calamities, in the\r\nlanguor of poverty, in the agony of disease, in the horrors of death,\r\nunder the insults and oppressions of their enemies. Commiseration for\r\nthose miseries which we never saw, which we never heard of, but which\r\nwe may be assured are at all times infesting such numbers of our\r\nfellow-creatures, ought, they think, to damp the pleasures of the\r\nfortunate, and to render a certain melancholy dejection habitual to\r\nall men. But first of all, this extreme sympathy with misfortunes\r\nwhich we know nothing about, seems altogether absurd and unreasonable.\r\nTake the whole earth at an average, for one man who suffers pain or\r\nmisery, you will find twenty in prosperity and joy, or at least in\r\ntolerable circumstances. No reason, surely, can be assigned why we\r\nshould rather weep with the one than rejoice with the twenty. This\r\nartificial commiseration, besides, is not only absurd, but seems\r\naltogether unattainable; and those who affect this character have\r\ncommonly nothing but a certain affected and sentimental sadness,\r\nwhich, without reaching the heart, serves only to render the\r\ncountenance and conversation impertinently dismal and disagreeable.\r\nAnd last of all, this disposition of mind, though it could be\r\nattained, would be perfectly useless, and could serve no other purpose\r\nthan to render miserable the person who possessed it. Whatever\r\ninterest we take in the fortune of those with whom we have no\r\nacquaintance or connexion, and who are placed altogether out of the\r\nsphere of our activity, can produce only anxiety to ourselves without\r\nany manner of advantage to them. To what purpose should we trouble\r\nourselves about the world in the moon? All men, even those at the\r\ngreatest distance, are no doubt entitled to our good wishes, and our\r\ngood wishes we naturally give them. But if, notwithstanding, they\r\nshould be unfortunate, to give ourselves any anxiety upon that\r\naccount, seems to be no part of our duty. That we should be but little\r\ninterested, therefore, in the fortune of those whom we can neither\r\nserve nor hurt, and who are in every respect so very remote from us,\r\nseems wisely ordered by nature; and if it were possible to alter in\r\nthis respect the original constitution of our frame, we could yet gain\r\nnothing by the change.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"Footnote1n\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchor1n\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e1*\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e “Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,” \u0026amp;c. See\r\nThomson’s Seasons, Winter. See also Pascal.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is never objected to us that we have too little fellow-feeling\r\nwith the joy of success. Wherever envy does not prevent it, the favour\r\nwhich we bear to prosperity is rather apt to be too great; and the\r\nsame moralists who blame us for want of sufficient sympathy with the\r\nmiserable, reproach us for the levity with which we are too apt to\r\nadmire and almost to worship the fortunate and the powerful.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAmong the moralists who endeavour to correct the natural inequality\r\nof our passive feelings by diminishing our sensibility to what\r\npeculiarly concerns ourselves, we may count all the ancient sects of\r\nphilosophers, but particularly the ancient Stoics. Man, according to\r\nthe Stoics, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page123\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e123\u003c/span\u003e ought to regard himself, not as something separated\r\nand detached, but as a citizen of the world, a member of the vast\r\ncommonwealth of nature. To the interest of this great community, he\r\nought at all times to be willing that his own little interest should\r\nbe sacrificed. Whatever concerns himself, ought to affect him no more\r\nthan whatever concerns any other equally important part of this\r\nimmense system. We should view ourselves, not in the light in which\r\nour own selfish passions are apt to place us, but in the light in\r\nwhich any other citizen of the world would view us. What befalls\r\nourselves we should regard as what befalls our neighbour, or, what\r\ncomes to the same thing, as our neighbour regards what befalls us.\r\n‘When our neighbour,’ says Epictetus, ‘loses his wife, or his son,\r\nthere is nobody who is not sensible that this is a human calamity, a\r\nnatural event altogether according to the ordinary course of things;\r\nbut when the same thing happens to ourselves, then we cry out, as if\r\nwe had suffered the most dreadful misfortune. We ought, however, to\r\nremember how we were affected when this accident happened to another,\r\nand such as we were in his case, such ought we to be in our own.’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThose private misfortunes, for which our feelings are apt to go\r\nbeyond the bounds of propriety, are of two different kinds. They are\r\neither such as affect us only indirectly, by affecting, in the first\r\nplace, some other persons who are particularly dear to us; such as our\r\nparents, our children, our brothers and sisters, our intimate friends;\r\nor they are such as affect ourselves immediately and directly, either\r\nin our body, in our fortune, or in our reputation; such as pain,\r\nsickness, approaching death, poverty, disgrace, etc.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn misfortunes of the first kind, our emotions may, no doubt, go\r\nvery much beyond what exact propriety will admit of; but they may\r\nlikewise fall short of it, and they frequently do so. The man who\r\nshould feel no more for the death or distress of his own father, or\r\nson, than for those of any other man’s father or son, would appear\r\nneither a good son nor a good father. Such unnatural indifference, far\r\nfrom exciting our applause, would incur our highest disapprobation. Of\r\nthese domestic affections, however, some are most apt to offend by\r\ntheir excess, and others by their defect. Nature, for the wisest\r\npurposes, has rendered, in most men, perhaps in all men, parental\r\ntenderness a much stronger affection than filial piety. The\r\ncontinuance and propagation of the species depend altogether upon the\r\nformer, and not upon the latter. In ordinary cases, the existence\r\nand preservation of the child depend altogether upon the care of the\r\nparents. Those of the parents seldom depend upon that of the child.\r\nNature, therefore, has rendered the former affection so strong, that\r\nit generally requires not to be excited, but to be moderated; and\r\nmoralists seldom endeavour to teach us how to indulge, but generally\r\nhow to restrain our fondness, our excessive attachment, the unjust\r\npreference which we \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page124\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e124\u003c/span\u003e are disposed to give to our own children\r\nabove those of other people. They exhort us, on the contrary, to an\r\naffectionate attention to our parents, and to make a proper return to\r\nthem, in their old age, for the kindness which they had shown to us in\r\nour infancy and youth. In the Decalogue we are commanded to honour our\r\nfathers and mothers. No mention is made of the love of our children.\r\nNature has sufficiently prepared us for the performance of this latter\r\nduty. Men are seldom accused of affecting to be fonder of their\r\nchildren than they really are. They have sometimes been suspected of\r\ndisplaying their piety to their parents with too much ostentation. The\r\nostentatious sorrow of widows has, for a like reason, been suspected\r\nof insincerity. We should respect, could we believe it sincere, even\r\nthe excess of such kind affections; and though we might not perfectly\r\napprove, we should not severely condemn it. That it appears\r\npraise-worthy, at least in the eyes of those who affect it, the very\r\naffectation is a proof.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEven the excess of those kind affections which are most apt to\r\noffend by their excess, though it may appear blamable, never appears\r\nodious. We blame the excessive fondness and anxiety of a parent, as\r\nsomething which may, in the end, prove hurtful to the child, and\r\nwhich, in the mean time, is excessively inconvenient to the parent;\r\nbut we easily pardon it, and never regard it with hatred and\r\ndetestation. But the defect of this usually excessive affection\r\nappears always peculiarly odious. The man who appears to feel nothing\r\nfor his own children, but who treats them upon all occasions with\r\nunmerited severity and harshness, seems of all brutes the most\r\ndetestable. The sense of propriety, so far from requiring us to\r\neradicate altogether that extraordinary sensibility which we naturally\r\nfeel for the misfortunes of our nearest connections, is always much\r\nmore offended by the defect, than it ever is by the excess of that\r\nsensibility. The stoical apathy is, in such cases, never agreeable,\r\nand all the metaphysical sophism by which it is supported can seldom\r\nserve any other purpose than to blow up the hard insensibility of a\r\ncoxcomb to ten times its native impertinence. The poets and romance\r\nwriters, who best paint the refinements and delicacies of love and\r\nfriendship, and of all other private and domestic affections, Racine\r\nand Voltaire; Richardson, Maurivaux, and Riccoboni; are, in such\r\ncases, much better instructors than the philosophers Zeno, Chrysippus,\r\nor Epictetus.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat moderated sensibility to the misfortunes of others, which does\r\nnot disqualify us for the performance of any duty; the melancholy and\r\naffectionate remembrance of our departed friends; \u003ci\u003ethe pang\u003c/i\u003e, as\r\nGray says, \u003ci\u003eto secret sorrow dear\u003c/i\u003e; are by no means undelicious\r\nsensations. Though they outwardly wear the features of pain and grief,\r\nthey are all inwardly stamped with the ennobling characters of virtue\r\nand of self-approbation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is otherwise in the misfortunes which affect ourselves\r\nimmediately \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page125\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e125\u003c/span\u003e and directly, either in our body, in our fortune, or\r\nin our reputation. The sense of propriety is much more apt to be\r\noffended by the excess, than by the defect of our sensibility, and\r\nthere are but few cases in which we can approach too near to the\r\nstoical apathy and indifference.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat we have very little fellow-feeling with any of the passions\r\nwhich take their origin from the body, has already been observed. That\r\npain which is occasioned by an evident cause; such as, the cutting or\r\ntearing of the flesh; is, perhaps, the affection of the body with\r\nwhich the spectator feels the most lively sympathy. The approaching\r\ndeath of his neighbour, too, seldom fails to affect him a good deal.\r\nIn both cases, however, he feels so very little in comparison of what\r\nthe person principally concerned feels, that the latter can scarce\r\never offend the former by appearing to suffer with too much ease.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe mere want of fortune, mere poverty, excites little compassion.\r\nIts complaints are too apt to be the objects rather of contempt than\r\nof fellow-feeling. We despise a beggar; and, though his importunities\r\nmay extort an alms from us, he is scarce ever the object of any\r\nserious commiseration. The fall from riches to poverty, as it commonly\r\noccasions the most real distress to the sufferer, so it seldom fails\r\nto excite the most sincere commiseration in the spectator. Though, in\r\nthe present state of society, this misfortune can seldom happen\r\nwithout some misconduct, and some very considerable misconduct too, in\r\nthe sufferer; yet he is almost always so much pitied that he is scarce\r\never allowed to fall into the lowest state of poverty; but by the\r\nmeans of his friends, frequently by the indulgence of those very\r\ncreditors who have much reason to complain of his imprudence, is\r\nalmost always supported in some degree of decent, though humble,\r\nmediocrity. To persons under such misfortunes, we could, perhaps,\r\neasily pardon some degree of weakness; but at the same time, they who\r\ncarry the firmest countenance, who accommodate themselves with the\r\ngreatest ease to their new situation, who seem to feel no humiliation\r\nfrom the change, but to rest their rank in the society, not upon their\r\nfortune, but upon their character and conduct, are always the most\r\napproved of, and command our highest and most affectionate\r\nadmiration.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs, of all the external misfortunes which can affect an innocent\r\nman immediately and directly, the undeserved loss of reputation is\r\ncertainly the greatest; so a considerable degree of sensibility to\r\nwhatever can bring on so great a calamity, does not always appear\r\nungraceful or disagreeable. We often esteem a young man the more, when\r\nhe resents, though with some degree of violence, any unjust reproach\r\nthat may have been thrown upon his character or his honour. The\r\naffliction of an innocent young lady, on account of the groundless\r\nsurmises which may have been circulated concerning her conduct,\r\nappears often perfectly amiable. Persons of an advanced age, whom long\r\nexperience of the folly and injustice of the world has taught to pay\r\nlittle regard, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page126\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e126\u003c/span\u003e either to its censure or to its applause, neglect\r\nand despise obloquy, and do not even deign to honour its futile\r\nauthors with any serious resentment. This indifference, which is\r\nfounded altogether on a firm confidence in their own well-tried and\r\nwell-established characters, would be disagreeable in young people,\r\nwho neither can nor ought to have any such confidence. It might in\r\nthem be supposed to forebode, in their advancing years, a most\r\nimproper insensibility to real honour and infamy of character.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn all other private misfortunes which affect ourselves immediately\r\nand directly, we can very seldom offend by appearing to be too little\r\naffected. We frequently remember our sensibility to the misfortunes of\r\nothers with pleasure and satisfaction. We can seldom remember that to\r\nour own, without some degree of shame and humiliation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf we examine the different shades and gradations of weakness and\r\nself-command, as we meet with them in common life, we shall very\r\neasily satisfy ourselves that this control of our passive feeling must\r\nbe acquired, not from the abstruse syllogisms of a quibbling\r\ndialectic, but from that great discipline which Nature has established\r\nfor the acquisition of this and of every other virtue; a regard to the\r\nsentiments of the real or supposed spectator of our conduct.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA very young child has no self-command; but, whatever are its\r\nemotions, whether fear, or grief, or anger, it endeavours always, by\r\nthe violence of his outcries, to alarm, as much as it can, the\r\nattention of its nurse or of its parents. While it remains under the\r\ncustody of such partial protectors, its anger is the first and,\r\nperhaps, the only passion which it is taught to moderate. By noise and\r\nthreatening they are, for their own ease, often obliged to frighten it\r\ninto good temper; and the passion which incites it to attack, is\r\nrestrained by that which teaches it to attend to its own safety. When\r\nit is old enough to go to school, or to mix with its equals, it soon\r\nfinds that they have no such indulgent partiality. It naturally wishes\r\nto gain their favour, and to avoid their hatred or contempt. Regard\r\neven to its own safety teaches it to do so; and it soon finds that it\r\ncan do so in no other way than by moderating not only its anger, but\r\nall its other passions, to the degree which its play-fellows and\r\ncompanions are likely to be pleased with. It thus enters into the\r\ngreat school of self-command, it studies to be more and more master of\r\nitself, and begins to exercise over its own feelings a discipline\r\nwhich the practice of the longest life is very seldom sufficient to\r\nbring to complete perfection.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn all private misfortunes, in pain, in sickness, in sorrow, the\r\nweakest man, when his friend, and still more when a stranger visits\r\nhim, is immediately impressed with the view in which they are likely\r\nto look upon his situation. Their view calls off his attention from\r\nhis own view; and his breast is, in some measure, becalmed the moment\r\nthey come into his presence. This effect is produced instantaneously\r\nand, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page127\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e127\u003c/span\u003e as it were, mechanically; but, with a weak man, it is not\r\nof long continuance. His own view of his situation immediately recurs\r\nupon him. He abandons himself, as before, to sighs and tears and\r\nlamentations; and endeavours, like a child that has not yet gone to\r\nschool, to produce some sort of harmony between his own grief and the\r\ncompassion of the spectator, not by moderating the former, but by\r\nimportunately calling upon the latter.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWith a man of a little more firmness, the effect is somewhat more\r\npermanent. He endeavours, as much as he can, to fix his attention upon\r\nthe view which the company are likely to take of his situation. He\r\nfeels, at the same time, the esteem and approbation which they\r\nnaturally conceive for him when he thus preserves his tranquillity;\r\nand, though under the pressure of some recent and great calamity,\r\nappears to feel for himself no more than what they really feel for\r\nhim. He approves and applauds himself by sympathy with their\r\napprobation, and the pleasure which he derives from this sentiment\r\nsupports and enables him more easily to continue this generous effort.\r\nIn most cases he avoids mentioning his own misfortune; and his\r\ncompany, if they are tolerably well bred, are careful to say nothing\r\nwhich can put him in mind of it. He endeavours to entertain them, in\r\nhis usual way, upon indifferent subjects, or, if he feels himself\r\nstrong enough to venture to mention his misfortune, he endeavours to\r\ntalk of it as, he thinks, they are capable of talking of it, and even\r\nto feel it no further than they are capable of feeling it. If he has\r\nnot, however, been well inured to the hard discipline of self-command,\r\nhe soon grows weary of this restraint. A long visit fatigues him; and,\r\ntowards the end of it, he is constantly in danger of doing, what he\r\nnever fails to do the moment it is over, of abandoning himself to all\r\nthe weakness of excessive sorrow. Modern good manners, which are\r\nextremely indulgent to human weakness, forbid, for some time, the\r\nvisits of strangers to persons under great family distress, and permit\r\nthose only of the nearest relations and most intimate friends. The\r\npresence of the latter, it is thought, will impose less restraint than\r\nthat of the former; and the sufferers can more easily accommodate\r\nthemselves to the feelings of those, from whom they have reason to\r\nexpect a more indulgent sympathy. Secret enemies, who fancy that they\r\nare not known to be such, are frequently fond of making those\r\ncharitable visits as early as the most intimate friends. The weakest\r\nman in the world, in this case, endeavours to support his manly\r\ncountenance, and, from indignation and contempt of their malice to\r\nbehave with as much gaiety and ease as he can.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe man of real constancy and firmness, the wise and just man who\r\nhas been thoroughly bred in the great school of self-command, in the\r\nbustle and business of the world, exposed, perhaps, to the violence\r\nand injustice of faction, and to the hardships and hazards of war,\r\nmaintains this control of his passive feelings upon all occasions; and\r\nwhether in \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page128\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e128\u003c/span\u003e solitude or in society, wears nearly the same\r\ncountenance, and is affected very nearly in the same manner. In\r\nsuccess and in disappointment, in prosperity and in adversity, before\r\nfriends and before enemies, he has often been under the necessity of\r\nsupporting this manhood. He has never dared to forget for one moment\r\nthe judgment which the impartial spectator would pass upon his\r\nsentiments and conduct. He has never dared to suffer the man within\r\nhis breast to be absent one moment from his attention. With the eyes\r\nof this great inmate he has always been accustomed to regard whatever\r\nrelates to himself. This habit has become perfectly familiar to him.\r\nHe has been in the constant practice, and, indeed, under the constant\r\nnecessity, of modelling, or of endeavouring to model, not only his\r\noutward conduct and behaviour, but, as much as he can, even his inward\r\nsentiments and feelings, according to those of this awful and\r\nrespectable judge. He does not merely affect the sentiments of the\r\nimpartial spectator. He really adopts them. He almost identifies\r\nhimself with, he almost becomes himself that impartial spectator, and\r\nscarce even feels but as that great arbiter of his conduct directs him\r\nto feel.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe degree of the self-approbation with which every man, upon such\r\noccasions, surveys his own conduct, is higher or lower, exactly in\r\nproportion to the degree of self-command which is necessary in order\r\nto obtain that self-approbation. Where little self-command is\r\nnecessary, little self-approbation is due. The man who has only\r\nscratched his finger, cannot much applaud himself, though he should\r\nimmediately appear to have forgot this paltry misfortune. The man who\r\nhas lost his leg by a cannon shot, and who, the moment after, speaks\r\nand acts with his usual coolness and tranquillity, as he exerts a much\r\nhigher degree of self-command, so he naturally feels a much higher\r\ndegree of self-approbation. With most men, upon such an accident,\r\ntheir own natural view of their own misfortune would force itself upon\r\nthem with such a vivacity and strength of colouring, as would entirely\r\nefface all thought of every other view. They would feel nothing, they\r\ncould attend to nothing, but their own pain and their own fear; and\r\nnot only the judgment of the ideal man within the breast, but that of\r\nthe real spectators who might happen to be present, would be entirely\r\noverlooked and disregarded.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe reward which Nature bestows upon good behaviour under\r\nmisfortune, is thus exactly proportioned to the degree of that good\r\nbehaviour. The only compensation she could possibly make for the\r\nbitterness of pain and distress is thus, too, in equal degrees of good\r\nbehaviour, exactly proportioned to the degree of that pain and\r\ndistress. In proportion to the degree of self-command which is\r\nnecessary in order to conquer our natural sensibility, the pleasure\r\nand pride of the conquest are so much the greater; and this pleasure\r\nand pride are so great that no man can be altogether unhappy who\r\ncompletely enjoys them. Misery \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page129\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e129\u003c/span\u003e and wretchedness can never enter\r\nthe breast in which dwells complete self-satisfaction; and though it\r\nmay be too much, perhaps, to say, with the Stoics, that, under such an\r\naccident as that above mentioned, the happiness of a wise man is in\r\nevery respect equal to what it could have been under any other\r\ncircumstances; yet it must be acknowledged, at least, that this\r\ncomplete enjoyment of his own self-applause, though it may not\r\naltogether extinguish, must certainly very much alleviate his sense of\r\nhis own sufferings.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn such paroxysms of distress, if I may be allowed to call them so,\r\nthe wisest and firmest man, in order to preserve his equanimity, is\r\nobliged, I imagine, to make a considerable, and even a painful\r\nexertion. His own natural feeling of his own distress, his own natural\r\nview of his own situation, presses hard upon him, and he cannot,\r\nwithout a very great effort, fix his attention upon that of the\r\nimpartial spectator. Both views present themselves to him at the same\r\ntime. His sense of honour, his regard to his own dignity, directs him\r\nto fix his whole attention upon the one view. His natural, his\r\nuntaught, and undisciplined feelings, are continually calling it off\r\nto the other. He does not, in this case, perfectly identify himself\r\nwith the ideal man within the breast, he does not become himself the\r\nimpartial spectator of his own conduct. The different views of both\r\ncharacters exist in his mind separate and distinct from one another,\r\nand each directing him to a behaviour different from that to which the\r\nother directs him. When he follows that view which honour and dignity\r\npoint out to him, Nature does not, indeed, leave him without a\r\nrecompense. He enjoys his own complete self-approbation, and the\r\napplause of every candid and impartial spectator. By her unalterable\r\nlaws, however, he still suffers; and the recompense which she bestows,\r\nthough very considerable, is not sufficient completely to compensate\r\nthe sufferings which those laws inflict. Neither is it fit that it\r\nshould. If it did completely compensate them, he could, from\r\nself-interest, have no motive for avoiding an accident which must\r\nnecessarily diminish his utility both to himself and to society; and\r\nNature, from her parental care of both, meant that he should anxiously\r\navoid all such accidents. He suffers, therefore; and though in the\r\nagony of the paroxysm, he maintains, not only the manhood of his\r\ncountenance, but sedateness and sobriety of judgment, it requires his\r\nutmost and most fatiguing exertions to do so.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBy the constitution of human nature, however, agony can never be\r\npermanent; and, if he survives the paroxysm, he soon comes, without\r\nany effort, to enjoy his ordinary tranquillity. A man with a wooden\r\nleg suffers, no doubt, and foresees that he must continue to suffer\r\nduring the remainder of his life, a very considerable inconveniency.\r\nHe soon comes to view it, however, exactly as every impartial\r\nspectator views it; as an inconveniency under which he can enjoy all\r\nthe ordinary pleasures both of solitude and of society. He soon\r\nidentifies \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page130\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e130\u003c/span\u003e himself with the ideal man within the breast, he soon\r\nbecomes himself the impartial spectator of his own situation. He no\r\nlonger weeps, he no longer laments, he no longer grieves over it, as a\r\nweak man may sometimes do in the beginning. The view of the impartial\r\nspectator becomes so perfectly habitual to him, that, without effort,\r\nwithout exertion, he never thinks of surveying his misfortune in any\r\nother view.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe never-failing certainty with which all men, sooner or later,\r\naccommodate themselves to whatever becomes their permanent situation,\r\nmay, perhaps, induce us to think that the Stoics were, at least, thus\r\nfar very nearly in the right; that, between one permanent situation\r\nand another, there was, with regard to real happiness, no essential\r\ndifference: or that, if there were any difference, it was no more than\r\njust sufficient to render some of them the objects of simple choice or\r\npreference; but not of any earnest or anxious desire: and others, of\r\nsimple rejection, as being fit to be set aside or avoided; but not of\r\nany earnest or anxious aversion. Happiness consists in tranquillity\r\nand enjoyment. Without tranquillity there can be no enjoyment; and\r\nwhere there is perfect tranquillity there is scarce any thing which is\r\nnot capable of amusing. But in every permanent situation, where there\r\nis no expectation of change, the mind of every man, in a longer or\r\nshorter time, returns to its natural and usual state of tranquillity.\r\nIn prosperity, after a certain time, it falls back to that state; in\r\nadversity, after a certain time, it rises up to it. In the confinement\r\nand solitude of the Bastile, after a certain time, the fashionable and\r\nfrivolous Count de Lauzun recovered tranquillity enough to be capable\r\nof amusing himself with feeding a spider. A mind better furnished\r\nwould, perhaps, have both sooner recovered its tranquillity, and\r\nsooner found, in its own thoughts, a much better amusement.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe great source of both the misery and disorders of human life,\r\nseems to arise from over-rating the difference between one permanent\r\nsituation and another. Avarice over-rates the difference between\r\npoverty and riches: ambition, that between a private and a public\r\nstation: vain-glory, that between obscurity and extensive reputation.\r\nThe person under the influence of any of those extravagant passions,\r\nis not only miserable in his actual situation, but is often disposed\r\nto disturb the peace of society, in order to arrive at that which he\r\nso foolishly admires. The slightest observation, however, might\r\nsatisfy him, that, in all the ordinary situations of human life, a\r\nwell-disposed mind may be equally calm, equally cheerful, and equally\r\ncontented. Some of those situations may, no doubt, deserve to be\r\npreferred to others: but none of them can deserve to be pursued with\r\nthat passionate ardour which drives us to violate the rules either of\r\nprudence or of justice; or to corrupt the future tranquillity of our\r\nminds, either by shame from the remembrance of our own folly, or by\r\nremorse from the horror of our own injustice. Wherever prudence does\r\nnot direct, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page131\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e131\u003c/span\u003e wherever justice does not permit, the attempt to\r\nchange our situation, the man who does attempt it, plays at the most\r\nunequal of all games of hazard, and stakes every thing against scarce\r\nany thing. What the favourite of the King of Epirus said to his\r\nmaster, may be applied to men in all the ordinary situations of human\r\nlife. When the king had recounted to him, in their proper order, all\r\nthe conquests which he proposed to make, and had come to the last of\r\nthem; And what does your Majesty propose to do then? said the\r\nfavourite:—I propose then, said the king, to enjoy myself with my\r\nfriends, and endeavour to be good company over a bottle.—And what\r\nhinders your Majesty from doing so now? replied the favourite. In the\r\nmost glittering and exalted situation that our idle fancy can hold out\r\nto us, the pleasures from which we propose to derive our real\r\nhappiness, are almost always the same with those which, in our actual,\r\nthough humble station, we have at all times at hand, and in our power.\r\nExcept the frivolous pleasures of vanity and superiority, we may find,\r\nin the most humble station, where there is only personal liberty,\r\nevery other which the most exalted can afford; and the pleasures of\r\nvanity and superiority are seldom consistent with perfect\r\ntranquillity, the principle and foundation of all real and\r\nsatisfactory enjoyment. Neither is it always certain that, in the\r\nsplendid situation which we aim at, those real and satisfactory\r\npleasures can be enjoyed with the same security as in the humble one\r\nwhich we are so very eager to abandon. Examine the records of history,\r\nrecollect what has happened within the circle of your own experience,\r\nconsider with attention what has been the conduct of almost all the\r\ngreatly unfortunate, either in private or public life, whom you may\r\nhave either read of, or heard of, or remember; and you will find that\r\nthe misfortunes of by far the greater part of them have arisen from\r\ntheir not knowing when they were well, when it was proper for them to\r\nsit still and to be contented. The inscription upon the tomb-stone of\r\nthe man who had endeavoured to mend a tolerable constitution by taking\r\nphysic; ‘\u003ci\u003eI was well; I wished to be better; here I am\u003c/i\u003e;’ may\r\ngenerally be applied with great justness to the distress of\r\ndisappointed avarice and ambition.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt may be thought a singular, but I believe it to be a just,\r\nobservation, that, in the misfortunes which admit of some remedy, the\r\ngreater part of men do not either so readily or so universally recover\r\ntheir natural and usual tranquillity, as in those which plainly admit\r\nof none. In misfortunes of the latter kind, it is chiefly in what may\r\nbe called the paroxysm, or in the first attack, that we can discover\r\nany sensible difference between the sentiments and behaviour of the\r\nwise and those of the weak man. In the end, Time, the great and\r\nuniversal comforter, gradually composes the weak man to the same\r\ndegree of tranquillity which a regard to his own dignity, which\r\nmanhood teaches the wise man to assume in the beginning. The case of\r\nthe man with the wooden \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page132\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e132\u003c/span\u003e leg is an obvious example of this. In\r\nthe irreparable misfortunes occasioned by the death of children, or of\r\nfriends and relations, even a wise man may for some time indulge\r\nhimself in some degree of moderated sorrow. An affectionate, but weak\r\nwoman, is often, upon such occasions, almost perfectly distracted.\r\nTime, however, in a longer or shorter period, never fails to compose\r\nthe weakest woman to the same degree of tranquillity as the strongest\r\nman. In all the irreparable calamities which affect himself\r\nimmediately and directly, a wise man endeavours, from the beginning,\r\nto anticipate and to enjoy before-hand, that tranquillity which he\r\nforesees the course of a few months, or a few years, will certainly\r\nrestore to him in the end.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the misfortunes for which the nature of things admits, or seems\r\nto admit, of a remedy, but in which the means of applying that remedy\r\nare not within the reach of the sufferer, his vain and fruitless\r\nattempts to restore himself to his former situation, his continual\r\nanxiety for their success, his repeated disappointments upon their\r\nmiscarriage, are what chiefly hinder him from resuming his natural\r\ntranquillity, and frequently render miserable, during the whole of his\r\nlife, a man to whom a greater misfortune, but which plainly admitted\r\nof no remedy, would not have given a fortnight’s disturbance. In the\r\nfall from royal favour to disgrace, from power to insignificancy, from\r\nriches to poverty, from liberty to confinement, from strong health to\r\nsome, lingering, chronical, and perhaps incurable disease, the man who\r\nstruggles the least, who most easily and readily acquiesces in the\r\nfortune which has fallen to him, very soon recovers his usual and\r\nnatural tranquillity, and surveys the most disagreeable circumstances\r\nof his actual situation in the same light, or, perhaps, in a much less\r\nunfavourable light, than that in which the most indifferent spectator\r\nis disposed to survey them. Faction, intrigue, and cabal, disturb the\r\nquiet of the unfortunate statesman. Extravagant projects, visions of\r\ngold mines, interrupt the repose of the ruined bankrupt. The prisoner,\r\nwho is continually plotting to escape from his confinement, cannot\r\nenjoy that careless security which even a prison can afford him. The\r\nmedicines of the physician are often the greatest torment of the\r\nincurable patient. The monk who, in order to comfort Joanna of\r\nCastile, upon the death of her husband Philip, told her of a king,\r\nwho, fourteen years after his decease, had been restored to life\r\nagain, by the prayers of his afflicted queen, was not likely, by his\r\nlegendary tale, to restore sedateness to the distempered mind of that\r\nunhappy princess. She endeavoured to repeat the same experiment in\r\nhopes of the same success; resisted for a long time the burial of her\r\nhusband, soon after raised his body from the grave, attended it almost\r\nconstantly herself, and watched, with all the impatient anxiety of\r\nfrantic expectation, the happy moment when her wishes were to be\r\ngratified by the revival of her beloved Philip.\u003ca href=\"#Footnote4\" id=\"FnAnchor4\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e4\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"Footnote4\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchor4\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e4\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e See Robertson’s Charles Ⅴ. vol. ii. pp. 14 and 15,\r\nfirst edit.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page133\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e133\u003c/span\u003e Our sensibility to the feelings of others, so far from being\r\ninconsistent with the manhood of self-command, is the very principle\r\nupon which that manhood is founded. The very same principle or\r\ninstinct which, in the misfortune of our neighbour, prompts us to\r\ncompassionate his sorrow; in our own misfortune, prompts us to\r\nrestrain the abject and miserable lamentations of our own sorrow. The\r\nsame principle or instinct which, in his prosperity and success,\r\nprompts us to congratulate his joy; in our own prosperity and success,\r\nprompts us to restrain the levity and intemperance of our own joy. In\r\nboth cases, the propriety of our own sentiments and feelings seems to\r\nbe exactly in proportion to the vivacity and force with which we enter\r\ninto and conceive his sentiments and feelings.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe man of the most perfect virtue, the man whom we naturally love\r\nand revere the most, is he who joins, to the most perfect command of\r\nhis own original and selfish feelings, the most exquisite sensibility\r\nboth to the original and sympathetic feelings of others. The man who,\r\nto all the soft, the amiable, and the gentle virtues, joins all the\r\ngreat, the awful, and the respectable, must surely be the natural and\r\nproper object of our highest love and admiration.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe person best fitted by nature for acquiring the former of those\r\ntwo sets of virtues, is likewise necessarily best fitted for acquiring\r\nthe latter. The man who feels the most for the joys and sorrows of\r\nothers, is best fitted for acquiring the most complete control of his\r\nown joys and sorrows. The man of the most exquisite humanity, is\r\nnaturally the most capable of acquiring the highest degree of\r\nself-command. He may not, however, always have acquired it; and it\r\nvery frequently happens that he has not. He may have lived too much in\r\nease and tranquillity. He may have never been exposed to the violence\r\nof faction, or to the hardships and hazards of war. He may have never\r\nexperienced the insolence of his superiors, the jealous and malignant\r\nenvy of his equals, or the pilfering injustice of his inferiors. When,\r\nin an advanced age, some accidental change of fortune exposes him to\r\nall these, they all make too great an impression upon him. He has the\r\ndisposition which fits him for acquiring the most perfect\r\nself-command; but he has never had the opportunity of acquiring it.\r\nExercise and practice have been wanting; and without these no habit\r\ncan ever be tolerably established. Hardships, dangers, injuries,\r\nmisfortunes, are the only masters under whom we can learn the exercise\r\nof this virtue. But these are all masters to whom nobody willingly\r\nputs himself to school.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe situations in which the gentle virtue of humanity can be most\r\nhappily cultivated, are by no means the same with those which are best\r\nfitted for forming the austere virtue of self-command. The man who is\r\nhimself at ease can best attend to the distress of others. The man who\r\nis himself exposed to hardships is most immediately called \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page134\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e134\u003c/span\u003e upon\r\nto attend to, and to control his own feelings. In the mild sunshine of\r\nundisturbed tranquillity, in the calm retirement of undissipated and\r\nphilosophical leisure, the soft virtue of humanity flourishes the\r\nmost, and is capable of the highest improvement. But, in such\r\nsituations, the greatest and noblest exertions of self-command have\r\nlittle exercise. Under the boisterous and stormy sky of war and\r\nfaction, of public tumult and confusion, the sturdy severity of\r\nself-command prospers the most, and can be the most successfully\r\ncultivated. But, in such situations, the strongest suggestions of\r\nhumanity must frequently be stifled or neglected; and every such\r\nneglect necessarily tends to weaken the principle of humanity. As it\r\nmay frequently be the duty of a soldier not to take, so it may\r\nsometimes be his duty not to give quarter; and the humanity of the man\r\nwho has been several times under the necessity of submitting to this\r\ndisagreeable duty, can scarce fail to suffer a considerable\r\ndiminution. For his own ease, he is too apt to learn to make light of\r\nthe misfortunes which he is so often under the necessity of\r\noccasioning; and the situations which call forth the noblest exertions\r\nof self-command, by imposing the necessity of violating sometimes the\r\nproperty, and sometimes the life of our neighbour, always tend to\r\ndiminish, and too often to extinguish altogether, that sacred regard\r\nto both, which is the foundation of justice and humanity. It is upon\r\nthis account, that we so frequently find in the world men of great\r\nhumanity who have little self-command, but who are indolent and\r\nirresolute, and easily disheartened, either by difficulty or danger,\r\nfrom the most honourable pursuits; and, on the contrary, men of the\r\nmost perfect self-command, whom no difficulty can discourage, no\r\ndanger appal, and who are at all times ready for the most daring and\r\ndesperate enterprises, but who, at the same time, seem to be hardened\r\nagainst all sense either of justice or humanity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn solitude, we are apt to feel too strongly whatever relates to\r\nourselves: we are apt to over-rate the good offices we may have done,\r\nand the injuries we may have suffered: we are apt to be too much\r\nelated by our own good, and too much dejected by our own bad fortune.\r\nThe conversation of a friend brings us to a better, that of a stranger\r\nto a still better, temper. The man within the breast, the abstract and\r\nideal spectator of our sentiments and conduct, requires often to be\r\nawakened and put in mind of his duty, by the presence of the real\r\nspectator: and it is always from that spectator, from whom we can\r\nexpect the least sympathy and indulgence, that we are likely to learn\r\nthe most complete lesson of self-command.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAre you in adversity? Do not mourn in the darkness of solitude, do\r\nnot regulate your sorrow according to the indulgent sympathy of your\r\nintimate friends; return, as soon as possible, to the daylight of the\r\nworld and of society. Live with strangers, with those who know\r\nnothing, or care nothing about your misfortune; do not even shun the\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page135\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e135\u003c/span\u003e company of enemies; but give yourself the pleasure of mortifying\r\ntheir malignant joy, by making them feel how little you are affected\r\nby your calamity, and how much you are above it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAre you in prosperity? Do not confine the enjoyment of your good\r\nfortune to your own house, to the company of your own friends, perhaps\r\nof your flatterers, of those who build upon your fortune the hopes of\r\nmending their own; frequent those who are independent of you, who can\r\nvalue you only for your character and conduct, and not for your\r\nfortune. Neither seek nor shun, neither intrude yourself into nor run\r\naway from the society of those who were once your superiors, and who\r\nmay be hurt at finding you their equal, or, perhaps, even their\r\nsuperior. The impertinence of their pride may, perhaps, render their\r\ncompany too disagreeable: but if it should not, be assured that it is\r\nthe best company you can possibly keep; and if, by the simplicity of\r\nyour unassuming demeanour, you can gain their favour and kindness, you\r\nmay rest satisfied that you are modest enough, and that your head has\r\nbeen in no respect turned by your good fortune.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe propriety of our moral sentiments is never so apt to be\r\ncorrupted, as when the indulgent and partial spectator is at hand,\r\nwhile the indifferent and impartial one is at a great distance.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf the conduct of one independent nation towards another, neutral\r\nnations are the only indifferent and impartial spectators. But they\r\nare placed at so great a distance that they are almost quite out of\r\nsight. When two nations are at variance, the citizen of each pays\r\nlittle regard to the sentiments which foreign nations may entertain\r\nconcerning his conduct. His whole ambition is to obtain the\r\napprobation of his own fellow-citizens; and as they are all animated\r\nby the same hostile passions which animate himself, he can never\r\nplease them so much as by enraging and offending their enemies. The\r\npartial spectator is at hand: the impartial one at a great distance.\r\nIn war and negotiation, therefore, the laws of justice are very seldom\r\nobserved. Truth and fair dealing are almost totally disregarded.\r\nTreaties are violated; and the violation, if some advantage is gained\r\nby it, sheds scarce any dishonour upon the violator. The ambassador\r\nwho dupes the minister of a foreign nation, is admired and applauded.\r\nThe just man who disdains either to take or to give any advantage, but\r\nwho would think it less dishonourable to give than to take one; the\r\nman who, in all private transactions, would be the most beloved and\r\nthe most esteemed; in those public transactions is regarded as a fool\r\nand an idiot, who does not understand his business; and he incurs\r\nalways the contempt, and sometimes even the detestation of his\r\nfellow-citizens. In war, not only what are called the laws of nations,\r\nare frequently violated, without bringing (among his own\r\nfellow-citizens, whose judgments he only regards) any considerable\r\ndishonour upon the violator; but those laws themselves are, the\r\ngreater part of them, laid down with \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page136\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e136\u003c/span\u003e very little regard to the\r\nplainest and most obvious rules of justice. That the innocent, though\r\nthey may have some connexion or dependency upon the guilty (which,\r\nperhaps, they themselves cannot help), should not, upon that account,\r\nsuffer or be punished for the guilty, is one of the plainest and most\r\nobvious rules of justice. In the most unjust war, however, it is\r\ncommonly the sovereign or the rulers only who are guilty. The subjects\r\nare almost always perfectly innocent. Whenever it suits the\r\nconveniency of a public enemy, however, the goods of the peaceable\r\ncitizens are seized both at land and at sea; their lands are laid\r\nwaste, their houses are burnt, and they themselves, if they presume to\r\nmake any resistance, are murdered or led into captivity; and all this\r\nin the most perfect conformity to what are called the laws of\r\nnations.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe animosity of hostile factions, whether civil or ecclesiastical,\r\nis often still more furious than that of hostile nations; and their\r\nconduct towards one another is often still more atrocious. What may be\r\ncalled the laws of faction have often been laid down by grave authors\r\nwith still less regard to the rules of justice than what are called\r\nthe laws of nations. The most ferocious patriot never stated it as a\r\nserious question, Whether faith ought to be kept with public enemies?—Whether faith ought to be kept with rebels? Whether faith ought to be\r\nkept with heretics? are questions which have been often furiously\r\nagitated by celebrated doctors both civil and ecclesiastical. It is\r\nneedless to observe, I presume, that both rebels and heretics are\r\nthose unlucky persons, who, when things have come to a certain degree\r\nof violence, have the misfortune to be of the weaker party. In a\r\nnation distracted by faction, there are, no doubt, always a few,\r\nthough commonly but a very few, who preserve their judgment untainted\r\nby the general contagion. They seldom amount to more than, here and\r\nthere, a solitary individual, without any influence, excluded, by his\r\nown candour, from the confidence of either party, and who, though he\r\nmay be one of the wisest, is necessarily, upon that very account, one\r\nof the most insignificant men in the society. All such people are held\r\nin contempt and derision, frequently in detestation, by the zealots of\r\nboth parties.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA true party-man hates and despises candour; and, in reality, there\r\nis no vice which could so effectually disqualify him for the trade of\r\na party-man as that single virtue. The real, revered, and impartial\r\nspectator, therefore, is, upon no occasion, at a greater distance than\r\namidst the violence and rage of contending parties. To them, it may be\r\nsaid, that such a spectator scarce exists any where in the universe.\r\nEven to the great Judge of the universe, they impute all their own\r\nprejudices, and often view that Divine Being as animated by all their\r\nown vindictive and implacable passions. Of all the corrupters of moral\r\nsentiments, therefore, faction and fanaticism have always been by far\r\nthe greatest.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e137\u003c/span\u003e Concerning the subject of self-command, I shall only observe\r\nfurther, that our admiration for the man who, under the heaviest and\r\nmost unexpected misfortunes, continues to behave with fortitude and\r\nfirmness, always supposes that his sensibility to those misfortunes is\r\nvery great, and such as it requires a very great effort to conquer or\r\ncommand. The man who was altogether insensible to bodily pain, could\r\ndeserve no applause from enduring the torture with the most perfect\r\npatience and equanimity. The man who had been created without the\r\nnatural fear of death, could claim no merit from preserving his\r\ncoolness and presence of mind in the midst of the most dreadful\r\ndangers. It is one of the extravagancies of Seneca, that the Stoical\r\nwise man was, in this respect, superior even to a god; that the\r\nsecurity of the god was altogether the benefit of nature, which had\r\nexempted him from suffering; but that the security of the wise man was\r\nhis own benefit, and derived altogether from himself and from his own\r\nexertions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe sensibility of some men, however, to some of the objects which\r\nimmediately affect themselves, is sometimes so strong as to render all\r\nself-command impossible. No sense of honour can control the fears of\r\nthe man who is weak enough to faint, or to fall into convulsions, upon\r\nthe approach of danger. Whether such weakness of nerves, as it has\r\nbeen called, may not, by gradual exercise and proper discipline, admit\r\nof some cure, may, perhaps, be doubtful. It seems certain that it\r\nought never to be trusted or employed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page137\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Nature of Self-deceit, and of the Origin and\r\nUse of general Rules.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eN\u003c/span\u003e order to pervert the rectitude of our own judgments concerning\r\nthe propriety of our own conduct, it is not always necessary that the\r\nreal and impartial spectator should be at a great distance. When he is\r\nat hand, when he is present, the violence and injustice of our own\r\nselfish passions are sometimes sufficient to induce the man within the\r\nbreast to make a report very different from what the real\r\ncircumstances of the case are capable of authorising.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere are two different occasions upon which we examine our own\r\nconduct, and endeavour to view it in the light in which the impartial\r\nspectator would view it: first, when we are about to act; and\r\nsecondly, after we have acted. Our views are apt to be very partial in\r\nboth cases; but they are apt to be most partial when it is of most\r\nimportance that they should be otherwise.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen we are about to act, the eagerness of passion will seldom\r\nallow us to consider what we are doing, with the candour of an\r\nindifferent person. The violent emotions which at that time agitate\r\nus, discolour our views of things, even when we are endeavouring to\r\nplace ourselves \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page138\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e138\u003c/span\u003e in the situation of another, and to regard the\r\nobjects that interest us in the light in which they will naturally\r\nappear to him. The fury of our own passions constantly calls us back\r\nto our own place, where every thing appears magnified and\r\nmisrepresented by self-love. Of the manner in which those objects\r\nwould appear to another, of the view which he would take of them, we\r\ncan obtain, if I may say so, but instantaneous glimpses, which vanish\r\nin a moment, and which, even while they last, are not altogether just.\r\nWe cannot even for that moment divest ourselves entirely of the heat\r\nand keenness with which our peculiar situation inspires us, nor\r\nconsider what we are about to do with the complete impartiality of an\r\nequitable judge. The passions, upon this account, as Father\r\nMalebranche says, all justify themselves, and seem reasonable and\r\nproportioned to their objects, as long as we continue to feel\r\nthem.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen the action is over, indeed, and the passions which prompted it\r\nhave subsided, we can enter more coolly into the sentiments of the\r\nindifferent spectator. What before interested us is now become almost\r\nas indifferent to us as it always was to him, and we can now examine\r\nour own conduct with his candour and impartiality. The man of today is\r\nno longer agitated by the same passions which distracted the man of\r\nyesterday: and when the paroxysm of emotion, in the same manner as\r\nwhen the paroxysm of distress, is fairly over, we can identify\r\nourselves, as it were, with the ideal man within the breast, and, in\r\nour own character, view, as in the one case, our own situation, so in\r\nthe other, our own conduct, with the severe eyes of the most impartial\r\nspectator. But our judgments now are often of little importance in\r\ncomparison of what they were before; and can frequently produce\r\nnothing but vain regret and unavailing repentance; without always\r\nsecuring us from the like errors in time to come. It is seldom,\r\nhowever, that they are quite candid even in this case. The opinion\r\nwhich we entertain of our own character depends entirely on our\r\njudgment concerning our past conduct. It is so disagreeable to think\r\nill of ourselves, that we often purposely turn away our view from\r\nthose circumstances which might render that judgment unfavourable. He\r\nis a bold surgeon, they say, whose hand does not tremble when he\r\nperforms an operation upon his own person; and he is often equally\r\nbold who does not hesitate to pull off the mysterious veil of\r\nself-delusion, which covers from his view the deformities of his own\r\nconduct. Rather than see our own behaviour under so disagreeable an\r\naspect, we too often, foolishly and weakly, endeavour to exasperate\r\nanew those unjust passions which had formerly misled us; we endeavour\r\nby artifice to awaken our old hatreds, and irritate afresh our almost\r\nforgotten resentments: we even exert ourselves for this miserable\r\npurpose, and thus persevere in injustice, merely because we once were\r\nunjust, and because we are ashamed and afraid to see that we were\r\nso.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page139\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e139\u003c/span\u003e So partial are the views of mankind with regard to the\r\npropriety of their own conduct, both at the time of action and after\r\nit; and so difficult is it for them to view it in the light in which\r\nany indifferent spectator would consider it. But if it was by a\r\npeculiar faculty, such as the moral sense is supposed to be, that they\r\njudged of their own conduct, if they were endued with a particular\r\npower of perception which distinguished the beauty or deformity of\r\npassions and affections; as then passions would be more immediately\r\nexposed to the view of this faculty, it would judge more accurately\r\nconcerning them, than concerning those of other men, of which it had\r\nonly a more distant prospect.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis self-deceit, this fatal weakness of mankind, is the source of\r\nhalf the disorders of human life. If we saw ourselves in the light in\r\nwhich others see us, or in which they would see us if they knew all, a\r\nreformation would generally be unavoidable. We could not otherwise\r\nendure the sight exposed to us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNature, however, has not left this weakness, which is of so much\r\nimportance, altogether without a remedy; nor has she abandoned us\r\nentirely to the delusions of self-love. Our continual observations\r\nupon the conduct of others, insensibly lead us to form to ourselves\r\ncertain general rules concerning what is fit and proper either to be\r\ndone or to be avoided. Some of their actions shock all our natural\r\nsentiments. We hear every body about us express the like detestation\r\nagainst them. This still further confirms, and even exasperates our\r\nnatural sense of their deformity. It satisfies us that we view them in\r\nthe proper light, when we see other people view them in the same\r\nlight. We resolve never to be guilty of the like, nor ever, upon any\r\naccount, to render ourselves in this manner the objects of universal\r\ndisapprobation. We thus naturally lay down to ourselves a general\r\nrule, that all such actions are to be avoided, as tending to render us\r\nodious, contemptible, or punishable, the objects of all those\r\nsentiments for which we have the greatest dread and aversion. Other\r\nactions, on the contrary, call forth our approbation, and we hear\r\nevery body around us express the same favourable opinion concerning\r\nthem. Every body is eager to honour and reward them. They excite all\r\nthose sentiments for which we have by nature the strongest desire; the\r\nlove, the gratitude, the admiration of mankind. We become ambitious of\r\nperforming the like; and thus naturally lay down to ourselves a rule\r\nof another kind, that every opportunity of acting in this manner is to\r\nbe sought after.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is thus that the general rules of morality are formed. They are\r\nultimately founded upon experience of what, in particular instances,\r\nour moral faculties, our natural sense of merit and propriety,\r\napprove, or disapprove of. We do not originally approve or condemn\r\nparticular actions; because, upon examination, they appear to be\r\nagreeable or inconsistent with a certain general rule. The general\r\nrule, on the contrary, is formed, by finding from experience, that all\r\nactions of a \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page140\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e140\u003c/span\u003e certain kind, or circumstanced in a certain manner,\r\nare approved or disapproved of. To the man who first saw an inhuman\r\nmurder, committed from avarice, envy, or unjust resentment, and upon\r\none too that loved and trusted the murderer, who beheld the last\r\nagonies of the dying person, who heard him, with his expiring breath,\r\ncomplain more of the perfidy and ingratitude of his false friend, than\r\nof the violence which had been done to him, there could be no\r\noccasion, in order to conceive how horrible such an action was, that\r\nhe should reflect, that one of the most sacred rules of conduct was\r\nwhat prohibited the taking away the life of an innocent person, that\r\nthis was a plain violation of that rule, and consequently a very\r\nblamable action. His detestation of this crime, it is evident, would\r\narise instantaneously and antecedent to his having formed to himself\r\nany such general rule. The general rule, on the contrary, which he\r\nmight afterwards form, would be founded upon the detestation which he\r\nfelt necessarily arise in his own breast, at the thought of this and\r\nevery other particular action of the same kind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen we read in history or romance, the account of actions either\r\nof generosity or of baseness, the admiration which we conceive for the\r\none, and the contempt which we feel for the other, neither of them\r\narise from reflecting that there are certain general rules which\r\ndeclare all actions of the one kind admirable, and all actions of the\r\nother contemptible. Those general rules, on the contrary, are all\r\nformed from the experience we have had of the effects which actions of\r\nall different kinds naturally produce upon us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAn amiable action, a respectable action, an horrid action, are all\r\nof them actions which naturally excite for the person who performs\r\nthem, the love, the respect, or the horror of the spectator. The\r\ngeneral rules which determine what actions are, and what are not, the\r\nobjects of each of those sentiments, can be formed no other way than\r\nby observing what actions actually and in fact excite them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen these general rules, indeed, have been formed, when they are\r\nuniversally acknowledged and established, by the concurring sentiments\r\nof mankind, we frequently appeal to them as to the standards of\r\njudgment, in debating concerning the degree of praise or blame that is\r\ndue to certain actions of a complicated and dubious nature. They are\r\nupon these occasions commonly cited as the ultimate foundations of\r\nwhat is just and unjust in human conduct; and this circumstance seems\r\nto have misled several very eminent authors, to draw up their systems\r\nin such a manner, as if they had supposed that the original judgments\r\nof mankind with regard to right and wrong, were formed like the\r\ndecisions of a court of judicatory, by considering first the general\r\nrule, and then, secondly, whether the particular action under\r\nconsideration fell properly within its comprehension.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThose general rules of conduct, when they have been fixed in our\r\nmind by habitual reflection, are of great use in correcting the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page141\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e141\u003c/span\u003e\r\nmisrepresentations of self-love concerning what is fit and proper to\r\nbe done in our particular situation. The man of furious resentment, if\r\nhe was to listen to the dictates of that passion, would perhaps regard\r\nthe death of his enemy, as but a small compensation for the wrong, he\r\nimagines, he has received; which, however, may be no more than a very\r\nslight provocation. But his observations upon the conduct of others,\r\nhave taught him how horrible all such sanguinary revenges appear.\r\nUnless his education has been very singular, he has laid it down to\r\nhimself as an inviolable rule, to abstain from them upon all\r\noccasions. This rule preserves its authority with him, and renders him\r\nincapable of being guilty of such a violence. Yet the fury of his own\r\ntemper may be such, that had this been the first time in which he\r\nconsidered such an action, he would undoubtedly have determined it to\r\nbe quite just and proper, and what every impartial spectator would\r\napprove of. But that reverence for the rule which past experience has\r\nimpressed upon him, checks the impetuosity of his passion, and helps\r\nhim to correct the too partial views which self-love might otherwise\r\nsuggest, of what was proper to be done in his situation. If he should\r\nallow himself to be so far transported by passion as to violate this\r\nrule, yet, even in this case, he cannot throw off altogether the awe\r\nand respect with which he has been accustomed to regard it. At the\r\nvery time of acting, at the moment in which passion mounts the\r\nhighest, he hesitates and trembles at the thought of what he is about\r\nto do: he is secretly conscious to himself that he is breaking through\r\nthose measures of conduct which, in all his cool hours, he had\r\nresolved never to infringe, which he had never seen infringed by\r\nothers without the highest disapprobation, and of which the\r\ninfringement, his own mind forebodes, must soon render him the object\r\nof the same disagreeable sentiments. Before he can take the last fatal\r\nresolution, he is tormented with all the agonies of doubt and\r\nuncertainty; he is terrified at the thought of violating so sacred a\r\nrule, and at the same time is urged and goaded on by the fury of his\r\ndesires to violate it. He changes his purpose every moment; sometimes\r\nhe resolves to adhere to his principle, and not indulge a passion\r\nwhich may corrupt the remaining part of his life with the horrors of\r\nshame and repentance; and a momentary calm takes possession of his\r\nbreast, from the prospect of that security and tranquillity which he\r\nwill enjoy when he thus determines not to expose himself to the hazard\r\nof a contrary conduct. But immediately the passion rouses anew, and\r\nwith fresh fury drives him on to commit what he had the instant before\r\nresolved to abstain from. Wearied and distracted with those continual\r\nirresolutions, he at length, from a sort of despair, makes the last\r\nfatal and irrecoverable step; but with that terror and amazement with\r\nwhich one flying from an enemy, throws himself over a precipice, where\r\nhe is sure of meeting with more certain destruction than from any\r\nthing that pursues him from behind. Such \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e142\u003c/span\u003e are his sentiments even\r\nat the time of acting; though he is then, no doubt, less sensible of\r\nthe impropriety of his own conduct than afterwards, when his passion\r\nbeing gratified and palled, he begins to view what he has done in the\r\nlight in which others are apt to view it; and actually feels, what he\r\nhad only foreseen very imperfectly before, the stings of remorse and\r\nrepentance begin to agitate and torment him.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page142\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅴ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Influence and Authority of the general Rules of\r\nMorality, and that they are justly regarded as the Laws of the\r\nDeity.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e regard of those general rules of conduct, is what is properly\r\ncalled a sense of duty, a principle of the greatest consequence in\r\nhuman life, and the only principle by which the bulk of mankind are\r\ncapable of directing their actions. Many men behave very decently, and\r\nthrough the whole of their lives avoid any considerable degree of\r\nblame, who yet, perhaps, never felt the sentiment upon the propriety\r\nof which we found our approbation of their conduct, but acted merely\r\nfrom a regard to what they saw were the established rules of\r\nbehaviour. The man who has received great benefits from another\r\nperson, may, by the natural coldness of his temper, feel but a very\r\nsmall degree of the sentiment of gratitude. If he has been virtuously\r\neducated, however, he will often have been made to observe how odious\r\nthose actions appear which denote a want of this sentiment, and how\r\namiable the contrary. Though his heart therefore is not warmed with\r\nany grateful affection, he will strive to act as if it was, and will\r\nendeavour to pay all those regards and attentions to his patron which\r\nthe liveliest gratitude could suggest. He will visit him regularly; he\r\nwill behave to him respectfully; he will never talk of him but with\r\nexpressions of the highest esteem, and of the many obligations which\r\nhe owes to him. And what is more, he will carefully embrace every\r\nopportunity of making a proper return for past services. He may do all\r\nthis too without any hypocrisy or blamable dissimulation, without any\r\nselfish intention of obtaining new favours, and without any design of\r\nimposing either upon his benefactor or the public. The motive of his\r\nactions may be no other than a reverence for the established rule of\r\nduty, a serious and earnest desire of acting, in every respect,\r\naccording to the law of gratitude. A wife, in the same manner, may\r\nsometimes not feel that tender regard for her husband which is\r\nsuitable to the relation that subsists between them. If she has been\r\nvirtuously educated, however, she will endeavour to act as if she felt\r\nit, to be careful, officious, faithful, and sincere, and to be\r\ndeficient in none of those attentions which the sentiment of conjugal\r\naffection could have prompted her to perform. Such a friend, and such\r\na wife, are neither of them, undoubtedly, the very best of their \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page143\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e143\u003c/span\u003e\r\nkinds; and though both of them may have the most serious and earnest\r\ndesire to fulfil every part of their duty, yet they will fail in many\r\nnice and delicate regards, they will miss many opportunities of\r\nobliging, which they could never have overlooked if they had possessed\r\nthe sentiment that is proper to their situation. Though not the very\r\nfirst of their kinds, however, they are perhaps the second; and if the\r\nregard to the general rules of conduct has been very strongly\r\nimpressed upon them, neither of them will fail in any very essential\r\npart of their duty. None but those of the happiest mould are capable\r\nof suiting, with exact justness, their sentiments and behaviour to the\r\nsmallest difference of situation, and of acting upon all occasions\r\nwith the most delicate and accurate propriety. The coarse clay of\r\nwhich the bulk of mankind are formed, cannot be wrought up to such\r\nperfection. There is scarce any man, however, who by discipline,\r\neducation, and example, may not be so impressed with a regard to\r\ngeneral rules, as to act upon almost every occasion with tolerable\r\ndecency, and through the whole of his life to avoid any considerable\r\ndegree of blame.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWithout this sacred regard to general rules, there is no man whose\r\nconduct can be much depended upon. It is this which constitutes the\r\nmost essential difference between a man of principle and honour and a\r\nworthless fellow. The one adheres, on all occasions, steadily and\r\nresolutely to his maxims, and preserves through the whole of his life\r\none even tenor of conduct. The other, acts variously and accidentally,\r\nas humour, inclination, or interest chance to be uppermost. Nay, such\r\nare the inequalities of humour to which all men are subject, that\r\nwithout this principle, the man who, in all his cool hours, had the\r\nmost delicate sensibility to the propriety of conduct, might often be\r\nled to act absurdly upon the most frivolous occasions, and when it was\r\nscarce possible to assign any serious motive for his behaving in this\r\nmanner. Your friend makes you a visit when you happen to be in a\r\nhumour which makes it disagreeable to receive him: in your present\r\nmood his civility is very apt to appear an impertinent intrusion; and\r\nif you were to give way to the views of things which at this time\r\noccur, though civil in your temper, you would behave to him with\r\ncoldness and contempt. What renders you incapable of such a rudeness,\r\nis nothing but a regard to the general rules of civility and\r\nhospitality, which prohibit it. That habitual reverence which your\r\nformer experience has taught you for these, enables you to act, upon\r\nall such occasions, with nearly equal propriety, and hinders those\r\ninequalities of temper, to which all men are subject, from influencing\r\nyour conduct in any very sensible degree. But if without regard to\r\nthese general rules, even the duties of politeness, which are so\r\neasily observed, and which one can scarce have any serious motive to\r\nviolate, would yet be so frequently violated, what would become of the\r\nduties of justice, of truth, of chastity, of fidelity, which it is\r\noften so difficult to observe, and which there may be so \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page144\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e144\u003c/span\u003e many\r\nstrong motives to violate? But upon the tolerable observance of these\r\nduties depends the very existence of human society, which would\r\ncrumble into nothing if mankind were not generally impressed with a\r\nreverence for those important rules of conduct.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis reverence is still further enhanced by an opinion which is\r\nfirst impressed by nature, and afterwards confirmed by reasoning and\r\nphilosophy, that those important rules of morality are the commands\r\nand laws of the Deity, who will finally reward the obedient and punish\r\nthe transgressors of their duty.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis opinion or apprehension, I say, seems first to be impressed by\r\nnature. Men are naturally led to ascribe to those mysterious beings,\r\nwhatever they are, which happen, in any country to be the objects of\r\nreligious fear, all their own sentiments and passions. They have no\r\nother, they can conceive no other to ascribe to them. Those unknown\r\nintelligences which they imagine but see not, must necessarily be\r\nformed with some sort of resemblance to those intelligences of which\r\nthey have experience. During the ignorance and darkness of pagan\r\nsuperstition, mankind seem to have formed the ideas of their\r\ndivinities with so little delicacy, that they ascribed to them,\r\nindiscriminately, all the passions of human nature, those not excepted\r\nwhich do the least honour to our species, such as lust, hunger,\r\navarice, envy, revenge. They could not fail, therefore, to ascribe to\r\nthose beings, for the excellence of whose nature they still conceived\r\nthe highest admiration, those sentiments and qualities which are the\r\ngreat ornaments of humanity, and which seem to raise it to a\r\nresemblance of divine perfection, the love of virtue and beneficence,\r\nand the abhorrence of vice and injustice. The man who was injured,\r\ncalled upon Jupiter to be witness of the wrong that was done to him,\r\nand could not doubt, but that divine being would behold it with the\r\nsame indignation which would animate the meanest of mankind, who\r\nlooked on when injustice was committed. The man who did the injury,\r\nfelt himself to be the proper object of the detestation and resentment\r\nof mankind; and his natural fears led him to impute the same\r\nsentiments to those awful beings, whose presence he could not avoid,\r\nand whose power he could not resist. These natural hopes, and fears,\r\nand suspicions, were propagated by sympathy, and confirmed by\r\neducation; and the gods were universally represented and believed to\r\nbe the rewarders of humanity and mercy, and the avengers of perfidy\r\nand injustice. And thus religion, even in its rudest form, gave a\r\nsanction to the rules of morality, long before the age of artificial\r\nreasoning and philosophy. That the terrors of religion should thus\r\nenforce the natural sense of duty, was of too much importance to the\r\nhappiness of mankind, for nature to leave it dependent upon the\r\nslowness and uncertainty of philosophical researches.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThese researches, however, when they came to take place, confirmed\r\nthose original anticipations of nature. Upon whatever we suppose that\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page145\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e145\u003c/span\u003e moral faculties are founded, whether upon a certain modification\r\nof reason, upon an original instinct, called a moral sense, or upon\r\nsome other principle of our nature, it cannot be doubted, that they\r\nwere given us for the direction of our conduct in this life. They\r\ncarry along with them the most evident badges of this authority, which\r\ndenote that they were set up within us to be the supreme arbiters of\r\nall our actions, to superintend all our senses, passions, and\r\nappetites, and to judge how each of them was either to be indulged or\r\nrestrained. Our moral faculties are by no means, as some have\r\npretended, upon a level in this respect with the other faculties and\r\nappetites of our nature, endowed with no more right to restrain these\r\nlast, than these last are to restrain them. No other faculty or\r\nprinciple of action judges of any other. Love does not judge of\r\nresentment, nor resentment of love. Those two passions may be opposite\r\nto one another, but cannot, with any propriety, be said to approve or\r\ndisapprove of one another. But it is the peculiar office of those\r\nfaculties now under our consideration to judge, to bestow censure or\r\napplause upon all the other principles of our nature. They may be\r\nconsidered as a sort of senses of which those principles are the\r\nobjects. Every sense is supreme over its own objects. There is no\r\nappeal from the eye with regard to the beauty of colours, nor from the\r\near with regard to the harmony of sounds, nor from the taste with\r\nregard to the agreeableness of flavours. Each of those senses judges\r\nin the last resort of its own objects. Whatever gratifies the taste is\r\nsweet, whatever pleases the eye is beautiful, whatever soothes the ear\r\nis harmonious. The very essence of each of those qualities consists in\r\nits being fitted to please the sense to which it is addressed. It\r\nbelongs to our moral faculties, in the same manner to determine when\r\nthe ear ought to be soothed, when the eye ought to be indulged, when\r\nthe taste ought to be gratified, when and how far every other\r\nprinciple of our nature ought either to be indulged or restrained.\r\nWhat is agreeable to our moral faculties, is fit, and right, and\r\nproper to be done; the contrary wrong, unfit, and improper. The\r\nsentiments which they approve of, are graceful and becoming: the\r\ncontrary, ungraceful and unbecoming. The very words, right, wrong,\r\nfit, improper, graceful, unbecoming, mean only what pleases or\r\ndispleases those faculties.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSince these, therefore, were plainly intended to be the governing\r\nprinciples of human nature, the rules which they prescribe are to be\r\nregarded as the commands and laws of the Deity, promulgated by those\r\nvicegerents which he has thus set up within us. All general rules are\r\ncommonly denominated laws: thus the general rules which bodies observe\r\nin the communication of motion, are called the laws of motion. But\r\nthose general rules which our moral faculties observe in approving or\r\ncondemning whatever sentiment or action is subjected to their\r\nexamination, may much more justly be denominated such. They have a\r\nmuch greater resemblance to what are properly called laws, those \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page146\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e146\u003c/span\u003e\r\ngeneral rules which the sovereign lays down to direct the conduct of\r\nhis subjects. Like them they are rules to direct the free actions of\r\nmen: they are prescribed most surely by a lawful superior, and are\r\nattended too with the sanction of rewards and punishments. Those\r\nvicegerents of God within us, never fail to punish the violation of\r\nthem, by the torments of inward shame, and self-condemnation; and on\r\nthe contrary, always reward obedience with tranquillity of mind, with\r\nfull contentment and self-satisfaction.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere are innumerable other considerations which serve to confirm\r\nthe same conclusion. The happiness of mankind, as well as of all other\r\nrational creatures, seems to have been the original purpose intended\r\nby the Author of nature, when he brought them into existence. No other\r\nend seems worthy of that supreme wisdom and divine benignity which we\r\nnecessarily ascribe to him; and this opinion, which we are led to by\r\nthe abstract consideration of his infinite perfections, is still more\r\nconfirmed by the examination of the works of nature, which seem all\r\nintended to promote happiness, and to guard against misery. But by\r\nacting accordingly to the dictates of our moral faculties, we\r\nnecessarily pursue the most effectual means for promoting the\r\nhappiness of mankind, and may therefore be said, in some sense, to\r\nco-operate with the Deity, and to advance as far as in our power the\r\nplan of Providence. By acting otherwise, on the contrary, we seem to\r\nobstruct, in some measure, the scheme which the Author of nature has\r\nestablished for the happiness and perfection of the world, and to\r\ndeclare ourselves, if I may say so, in some measure the enemies of\r\nGod. Hence we are naturally encouraged to hope for his extraordinary\r\nfavour and reward in the one case, and to dread his sure vengeance and\r\npunishment in the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere are besides many other reasons, and many other natural\r\nprinciples, which all tend to confirm and inculcate the same salutary\r\ndoctrine. If we consider the general rules by which external\r\nprosperity and adversity are commonly distributed in this life, we\r\nshall find, that notwithstanding the disorder in which all things\r\nappear to be in this world, yet even here every virtue naturally meets\r\nwith its proper reward, with the recompense which is most fit to\r\nencourage and promote it; and this too so surely, that it requires a\r\nvery extraordinary concurrence of circumstances entirely to disappoint\r\nit. What is the reward most proper for encouraging industry, prudence,\r\nand circumspection? Success in every sort of business. And is it\r\npossible that in the whole of life these virtues should fail of\r\nattaining it? Wealth and external honours are their proper recompense,\r\nand the recompense which they can seldom fail of acquiring. What\r\nreward is most proper for promoting the practice of truth, justice,\r\nand humanity? The confidence, the esteem, the love of those we live\r\nwith. Humanity does not desire to be great, but to be beloved. It is\r\nnot in being rich that truth \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page147\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e147\u003c/span\u003e and justice would rejoice, but in\r\nbeing trusted and believed, recompenses which those virtues must\r\nalmost always acquire. By some very extraordinary and unlucky\r\ncircumstance, a good man may come to be suspected of a crime of which\r\nhe was altogether incapable, and upon that account be most unjustly\r\nexposed for the remaining part of his life to the horror and aversion\r\nof mankind. By an accident of this kind he may be said to lose his\r\nall, notwithstanding his integrity and justice; in the same manner as\r\na cautious man, notwithstanding his utmost circumspection, may be\r\nruined by an earthquake or an inundation. Accidents of the first kind,\r\nhowever, are perhaps still more rare, and still more contrary to the\r\ncommon course of things than those of the second; and it still remains\r\ntrue, that the practice of truth, justice, and humanity is a certain\r\nand almost infallible method of acquiring what these virtues chiefly\r\naim at, the confidence and love of those we live with. A person may be\r\nvery easily misrepresented with regard to a particular action; but it\r\nis scarce possible that he should be so with regard to the general\r\ntenor of his conduct. An innocent man may be believed to have done\r\nwrong: this, however, will rarely happen. On the contrary, the\r\nestablished opinion of the innocence of his manners, will often lead\r\nus to absolve him where he has really been in the fault,\r\nnotwithstanding very strong presumptions. A knave, in the same manner,\r\nmay escape censure, or even meet with applause, for a particular\r\nknavery, in which his conduct is not understood. But no man was ever\r\nhabitually such, without being almost universally known to be so, and\r\nwithout being even frequently suspected of guilt, when he was in\r\nreality perfectly innocent. And so far as vice and virtue can be\r\neither punished or rewarded by the sentiments and opinions of mankind,\r\nthey both, according to the common course of things meet even here\r\nwith something more than exact and impartial justice.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though the general rules by which prosperity and adversity are\r\ncommonly distributed, when considered in this cool and philosophical\r\nlight, appear to be perfectly suited to the situation of mankind in\r\nthis life, yet they are by no means suited to some of our natural\r\nsentiments. Our natural love and admiration for some virtues is such,\r\nthat we should wish to bestow on them all sorts of honours and\r\nrewards, even those which we must acknowledge to be the proper\r\nrecompenses of other qualities, with which those virtues are not\r\nalways accompanied. Our detestation, on the contrary, for some vices\r\nis such, that we should desire to heap upon them every sort of\r\ndisgrace and disaster, those not excepted which are the natural\r\nconsequences of very different qualities. Magnanimity, generosity, and\r\njustice, command so high a degree of admiration, that we desire to see\r\nthem crowned with wealth, and power, and honours of every kind, the\r\nnatural consequences of prudence, industry, and application; qualities\r\nwith which those virtues are not inseparably connected. Fraud,\r\nfalsehood, brutality, and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page148\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e148\u003c/span\u003e violence, on the other hand, excite in\r\nevery human breast such scorn and abhorrence, that our indignation\r\nrouses to see them possess those advantages which they may in some\r\nsense be said to have merited, by the diligence and industry with\r\nwhich they are sometimes attended. The industrious knave cultivates\r\nthe soil, the indolent man leaves it uncultivated. Who ought to reap\r\nthe harvest? Who starve, and who live in plenty? The natural course of\r\nthings decides it in favour of the knave: the natural sentiments of\r\nmankind in favour of the man of virtue. Man judges, that the good\r\nqualities of the one are greatly over-recompensed by those advantages\r\nwhich they tend to procure him, and that the omissions of the other\r\nare by far too severely punished by the distress which they naturally\r\nbring upon him; and human laws, the consequences of human sentiments,\r\nforfeit the life and the estate of the industrious and cautious\r\ntraitor, and reward, by extraordinary recompenses, the fidelity and\r\npublic spirit of the improvident and careless good citizen. Thus man\r\nis by Nature directed to correct, in some measure, that distribution\r\nof things which she herself would otherwise have made. The rules which\r\nfor this purpose she prompts him to follow, are different from those\r\nwhich she herself observes. She bestows upon every virtue, and upon\r\nevery vice, that precise reward or punishment which is best fitted to\r\nencourage the one, or to restrain the other. She is directed by this\r\nsole consideration, and pays little regard to the different degrees of\r\nmerit and demerit, which they may seem to possess in the sentiments\r\nand passions of man. Man, on the contrary, pays regard to this only,\r\nand would endeavour to render the state of every virtue precisely\r\nproportioned to that degree of love and esteem, and of every vice to\r\nthat degree of contempt and abhorrence, which he himself conceives for\r\nit. The rules which she follows are fit for her, as, those which he\r\nfollows are for him: but both are calculated to promote the same great\r\nend, the order of the world, and the perfection and happiness of human\r\nnature.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though man is thus employed to alter that distribution of\r\nthings which natural events would make, if left to themselves; though,\r\nlike the gods of the poets, he is perpetually interposing, by\r\nextraordinary means, in favour of virtue, and in opposition to vice,\r\nand, like them, endeavours to turn away the arrow that is aimed at the\r\nhead of the righteous, but to accelerate the sword of destruction that\r\nis lifted up against the wicked; yet he is by no means able to render\r\nthe fortune of either quite suitable to his own sentiments and wishes.\r\nThe natural course of things cannot be entirely controlled by the\r\nimpotent endeavours of man: the current is too rapid and too strong\r\nfor him to stop it; and though the rules which direct it appear to\r\nhave been established for the wisest and best purposes, they sometimes\r\nproduce effects which shock all his natural sentiments. That a great\r\ncombination of men should prevail over a small one; that those who\r\nengage in an \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page149\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e149\u003c/span\u003e enterprise with forethought and all necessary\r\npreparation, should prevail over such as oppose them without any; and\r\nthat every end should be acquired by those means only which nature has\r\nestablished for acquiring it, seems to be a rule not only necessary\r\nand unavoidable in itself, but even useful and proper for rousing the\r\nindustry and attention of mankind. Yet, when, in consequence of this\r\nrule, violence and artifice prevail over sincerity and justice, what\r\nindignation does it not excite in the breast of every human spectator?\r\nWhat sorrow and compassion for the sufferings of the innocent, and\r\nwhat furious resentment against the success of the oppressor? We are\r\nequally grieved and enraged at the wrong that is done, but often find\r\nit altogether out of our power to redress it. When we thus despair of\r\nfinding any force upon earth which can check the triumph of injustice,\r\nwe naturally appeal to heaven, and hope that the great Author of our\r\nnature will himself execute hereafter what all the principles which he\r\nhas given us for the direction of our conduct prompt us to attempt\r\neven here; that he will complete the plan which he himself has thus\r\ntaught us to begin; and will, in a life to come, render to every one\r\naccording to the works which he has performed in this world. And thus\r\nwe are led to the belief of a future state, not only by the\r\nweaknesses, by the hopes and fears of human nature, but by the noblest\r\nand best principles which belong to it, by the love of virtue, and by\r\nthe abhorrence of vice and injustice.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e‘Does it suit the greatness of God,’ says the eloquent and\r\nphilosophical bishop of Clermont, with that passionate and\r\nexaggerating force of imagination, which seems sometimes to exceed the\r\nbounds of decorum; ‘does it suit the greatness of God, to leave the\r\nworld which he has created in so universal a disorder? To see the\r\nwicked prevail almost always over the just; the innocent dethroned by\r\nthe usurper; the father become the victim of the ambition of an\r\nunnatural son; the husband expiring under the stroke of a barbarous\r\nand faithless wife? From the height of his greatness ought God to\r\nbehold those melancholy events as a fantastical amusement, without\r\ntaking any share in them? Because he is great, should he be weak, or\r\nunjust, or barbarous? Because men are little, ought they to be allowed\r\neither to be dissolute without punishment or virtuous without reward?\r\nO God! if this is the character of your Supreme Being; if it is you\r\nwhom we adore under such dreadful ideas; I can no longer acknowledge\r\nyou for my father, for my protector, for the comforter of my sorrow,\r\nthe support of my weakness, the rewarder of my fidelity. You would\r\nthen be no more than an indolent and fantastical tyrant, who\r\nsacrifices mankind to his vanity, and who has brought them out of\r\nnothing only to make them serve for the sport of his leisure and of\r\nhis caprice.’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen the general rules which determine the merit and demerit of\r\nactions, come thus to be regarded as the laws of an all-powerful\r\nBeing, who watches over our conduct and, who, in a life to come, will\r\nreward \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e150\u003c/span\u003e the observance, and punish the breach of them; they\r\nnecessarily acquire a new sacredness from this consideration. That our\r\nregard to the will of the Deity ought to be the supreme rule of our\r\nconduct, can be doubted of by nobody who believes his existence. The\r\nvery thought of disobedience appears to involve in it the most\r\nshocking impropriety. How vain, how absurd would it be for man, either\r\nto oppose or to neglect the commands that were laid upon him by\r\nInfinite Wisdom, and Infinite Power! How unnatural, how impiously\r\nungrateful, not to reverence the precepts that were prescribed to him\r\nby the infinite goodness of his Creator, even though no punishment was\r\nto follow their violation. The sense of propriety too is here well\r\nsupported by the strongest motives of self-interest. The idea that,\r\nhowever we may escape the observation of man, or be placed above the\r\nreach of human punishment, yet we are always acting under the eye, and\r\nexposed to the punishment of God, the great avenger of injustice, is a\r\nmotive capable of restraining the most headstrong passions, with those\r\nat least who, by constant reflection, have rendered it familiar to\r\nthem.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is in this manner that religion enforces the natural sense of\r\nduty: and hence it is, that mankind are generally disposed to place\r\ngreat confidence in the probity of those who seem deeply impressed\r\nwith religious sentiments. Such persons, they imagine, act under an\r\nadditional tie, besides those which regulate the conduct of other men.\r\nThe regard to the propriety of action, as well as to reputation, the\r\nregard to the applause of his own breast, as well as to that of\r\nothers, are motives which they suppose have the influence over the\r\nreligious man, as over the man of the world. But the former lies under\r\nanother restraint, and never acts deliberately but as in the presence\r\nof that Great Superior who is finally to recompense him according to\r\nhis deeds. A greater trust is reposed, upon this account, in the\r\nregularity and exactness of his conduct. And wherever the natural\r\nprinciples of religion are not corrupted by the factious and party\r\nzeal of some worthless cabal; wherever the first duty which it\r\nrequires, is to fulfil all the obligations of morality; wherever men\r\nare not taught to regard frivolous observances, as more immediate\r\nduties of religion than acts of justice and beneficence; and to\r\nimagine, that by sacrifices, and ceremonies, and vain supplications,\r\nthey can bargain with the Deity for fraud, and perfidy, and violence,\r\nthe world undoubtedly judges right in this respect, and justly places\r\na double confidence in the rectitude of the religious man’s\r\nbehaviour.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page150\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅵ.—\u003ci\u003eIn what Cases the Sense of Duty ought to be the sole\r\nPrinciple of our Conduct; and in what Cases it ought to concur with\r\nother Motives.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eR\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eELIGION\u003c/span\u003e affords such strong motives to the practice of virtue, and\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page151\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e151\u003c/span\u003e guards us by such powerful restraints from the temptations of\r\nvice, that many have been led to suppose, that religious principles\r\nwere the sole laudable motives of action. We ought neither, they said,\r\nto reward from gratitude, nor punish from resentment; we ought neither\r\nto protect the helplessness of our children, nor afford support to the\r\ninfirmities of our parents, from natural affection. All affections for\r\nparticular objects, ought to be extinguished in our breast, and one\r\ngreat affection take the place of all others, the love of the Deity,\r\nthe desire of rendering ourselves agreeable to him, and of directing\r\nour conduct, in every respect, according to his will. We ought not to\r\nbe grateful from gratitude, we ought not to be charitable from\r\nhumanity, we ought not to be public-spirited from the love of our\r\ncountry, nor generous and just from the love of mankind. The sole\r\nprinciple and motive of our conduct in the performance of all those\r\ndifferent duties, ought to be a sense that God has commanded us to\r\nperform them. I shall not at present take time to examine this opinion\r\nparticularly; I shall only observe, that we should not have expected\r\nto have found it entertained by any sect, who professed themselves of\r\na religion in which, as it is the first precept to love the Lord our\r\nGod with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our strength,\r\nso it is the second to love our neighbour as we love ourselves; and we\r\nlove ourselves surely for our own sakes, and not merely because we are\r\ncommanded to do so. That the sense of duty should be the sole\r\nprinciple of our conduct, is no where the precept of Christianity; but\r\nthat it should be the ruling and the governing one, as philosophy, and\r\nas, indeed, common sense directs. It may be a question, however, in\r\nwhat cases our actions ought to arise chiefly or entirely from a sense\r\nof duty, or from a regard to general rules; and in what cases some\r\nother sentiment or affection ought to concur, and have a principal\r\ninfluence on our conduct.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe decision of this question, which cannot, perhaps, be given with\r\nany very great accuracy, will depend upon two different circumstances;\r\nfirst, upon the natural agreeableness or deformity of the sentiment or\r\naffection which would prompt us to any action independent of all\r\nregard to general rules; and, secondly, upon the precision and\r\nexactness, or the looseness and inaccuracy, of the rules\r\nthemselves.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅠ. First, I say, it will depend upon the natural agreeableness or\r\ndeformity of the affection itself, how far our actions ought to arise\r\nfrom it, or entirely proceed from a regard to the general rule.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAll those graceful and admired actions, to which the benevolent\r\naffections would prompt us, ought to proceed as much from the passions\r\nthemselves, as from any regard to the general rules of conduct. A\r\nbenefactor thinks himself but ill requited, if the person upon whom he\r\nhas bestowed his good offices, repays them merely from a cold sense of\r\nduty, and without any affection to his person. A husband is\r\ndissatisfied with the most obedient wife, when he imagines her conduct\r\nis animated \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page152\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e152\u003c/span\u003e by no other principle besides her regard to what the\r\nrelation she stands in requires. Though a son should fail in none of\r\nthe offices of filial duty, yet if he wants that affectionate\r\nreverence which it so well becomes him to feel, the parent may justly\r\ncomplain of his indifference. Nor could a son be quite satisfied with\r\na parent who, though he performed all the duties of his situation, had\r\nnothing of that fatherly fondness which might have been expected from\r\nhim. With regard to all such benevolent and social affections, it is\r\nagreeable to see the sense of duty employed rather to restrain than to\r\nenliven them, rather to hinder us from doing too much, than to prompt\r\nus to do what we ought. It gives us pleasure to see a father obliged\r\nto check his own fondness for his children, a friend obliged to set\r\nbounds to his natural generosity, a person who has received a benefit,\r\nobliged to restrain the too sanguine gratitude of his own temper.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe contrary maxim takes place with regard to the malevolent and\r\nunsocial passions. We ought to reward from the gratitude and\r\ngenerosity of our own hearts, without any reluctance, and without\r\nbeing obliged to reflect how great the propriety of rewarding: but we\r\nought always to punish with reluctance, and more from a sense of the\r\npropriety of punishing, than from any savage disposition to revenge.\r\nNothing is more graceful than the behaviour of the man who appears to\r\nresent the greatest injuries, more from a sense that they deserve, and\r\nare the proper objects of resentment, than from feeling himself the\r\nfuries of that disagreeable passion; who, like a judge, considers only\r\nthe general rule, which determines what vengeance is due for each\r\nparticular offence; who, in executing that rule, feels less for what\r\nhimself has suffered, than for what the offender is about to suffer;\r\nwho, though in wrath, does ever remember mercy, and is disposed to\r\ninterpret the rule in the most gentle and favourable manner, and to\r\nallow all the alleviations which the most candid humanity could,\r\nconsistently with good sense, admit of.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs the selfish passions, according to what has formerly been\r\nobserved, hold, in other respects, a sort of middle place, between the\r\nsocial and unsocial affections, so do they likewise in this. The\r\npursuit of the objects of private interest, in all common, little, and\r\nordinary cases, ought to flow rather from a regard to the general\r\nrules which prescribe such conduct, than from any passion for the\r\nobjects themselves; but upon more important and extraordinary\r\noccasions, we should be awkward, insipid, and ungraceful, if the\r\nobjects themselves did not appear to animate us with a considerable\r\ndegree of passion. To be anxious, or to be laying a plot either to\r\ngain or to save a single shilling, would degrade the most vulgar\r\ntradesman in the opinion of all his neighbours. Let his circumstances\r\nbe ever so mean, no attention to any such small matters, for the sake\r\nof the things themselves, must appear in his conduct. His situation\r\nmay require the most severe œconomy and the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page153\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e153\u003c/span\u003e most exact\r\nassiduity: but each particular exertion of that œconomy and\r\nassiduity must proceed, not so much from a regard for that particular\r\nsaving or gain, as for the general rule which to him prescribes, with\r\nthe utmost rigour, such a tenor of conduct. His parsimony to-day must\r\nnot arise from a desire of the particular three-pence which he will\r\nsave by it, nor his attendance in his shop from a passion for the\r\nparticular ten-pence which he will acquire by it: both the one and the\r\nother ought to proceed solely from a regard to the general rule, which\r\nprescribes, with the most unrelenting severity, this plan of conduct\r\nto all persons in his way of life. In this consists the difference\r\nbetween the character of a miser and that of a person of exact\r\nœconomy and assiduity. The one is anxious about small matters for\r\ntheir own sake; the other attends to them only in consequence of the\r\nscheme of life which he has laid down to himself.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is quite otherwise with regard to the more extraordinary and\r\nimportant objects of self-interest. A person appears mean-spirited,\r\nwho does not pursue these with some degree of earnestness for their\r\nown sake. We should despise a prince who was not anxious about\r\nconquering or defending a province. We should have little respect for\r\na private gentleman who did not exert himself to gain an estate, or\r\neven a considerable office, when he could acquire them without either\r\nmeanness or injustice. A member of parliament who shews no keenness\r\nabout his own election, is abandoned by his friends, as altogether\r\nunworthy of their attachment. Even a tradesman is thought a\r\npoor-spirited fellow among his neighbours, who does not bestir himself\r\nto get what they call an extraordinary job, or some uncommon\r\nadvantage. This spirit and keenness constitutes the difference between\r\nthe man of enterprise and the man of dull regularity. Those great\r\nobjects of self-interest, of which the loss or acquisition quite\r\nchanges the rank of the person, are the objects of the passion\r\nproperly called ambition; a passion, which when it keeps within the\r\nbounds of prudence and justice, is always admired in the world, and\r\nhas even sometimes a certain irregular greatness, which dazzles the\r\nimagination, when it passes the limits of both these virtues, and is\r\nnot only unjust but extravagant. Hence the general admiration for\r\nheroes and conquerors, and even for statesmen, whose projects have\r\nbeen very daring and extensive though altogether devoid of justice,\r\nsuch as those of the Cardinals of Richlieu and of Retz. The objects of\r\navarice and ambition differ only in their greatness. A miser is as\r\nfurious about a halfpenny, as a man of ambition about the conquest of\r\na kingdom.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅡ. Secondly, I say, it will depend partly upon the precision and\r\nupon the exactness, or the looseness and the inaccuracy of the general\r\nrules themselves, how far our conduct ought to proceed entirely from a\r\nregard to them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe general rules of almost all the virtues, the general rules\r\nwhich \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page154\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e154\u003c/span\u003e determine what are the offices of prudence, of charity, of\r\ngenerosity, of gratitude, of friendship, are in many respects loose\r\nand inaccurate, admit of many exceptions, and require so many\r\nmodifications, that it is scarce possible to regulate our conduct\r\nentirely by a regard to them. The common proverbial maxims of\r\nprudence, being founded in universal experience, are perhaps the best\r\ngeneral rules which can be given about it. To affect, however, a very\r\nstrict and literal adherence to them would evidently be the most\r\nabsurd and ridiculous pedantry. Of all the virtues I have just now\r\nmentioned, gratitude is that, perhaps, of which the rules are the most\r\nprecise, and admit of the fewest exceptions. That as soon as we can we\r\nshould make a return of equal, and if possible of superior, value to\r\nthe services we have received, would seem to be a pretty plain rule,\r\nand one which admitted of scarce any exceptions. Upon the most\r\nsuperficial examination, however, this rule will appear to be in the\r\nhighest degree loose and inaccurate, and to admit of ten thousand\r\nexceptions. If your benefactor attended you in your sickness, ought\r\nyou to attend him in his? or can you fulfil the obligation of\r\ngratitude, by making a return of a different kind? If you ought to\r\nattend him, how long ought you to attend him? The same time which he\r\nattended you, or longer, and how much longer? If your friend lent you\r\nmoney in your distress, ought you to lend him money in his? How much\r\nought you to lend him? When ought you to lend him? Now, or to-morrow,\r\nor next month? And for how long a time? It is evident, that no general\r\nrule can be laid down, by which a precise answer can, in all cases, be\r\ngiven to any of these questions. The difference between his character\r\nand yours, between his circumstances and yours, may be such, that you\r\nmay be perfectly grateful, and justly refuse to lend him a half-penny:\r\nand, on the contrary, you may be willing to lend, or even to give him\r\nten times the sum which he lent you, and yet justly be accused of the\r\nblackest ingratitude, and of not having fulfilled the hundredth part\r\nof the obligation you lie under. As the duties of gratitude, however,\r\nare perhaps the most sacred of all those which the beneficent virtues\r\nprescribe to us, so the general rules which determine them are, as I\r\nsaid before, the most accurate. Those which ascertain the actions\r\nrequired by friendship, humanity, hospitality, generosity, are still\r\nmore vague and indeterminate.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere is, however, one virtue of which the general rules determine\r\nwith the greatest exactness every external action which it requires.\r\nThis virtue is justice. The rules of justice are accurate in the\r\nhighest degree, and admit of no exceptions or modifications, but such\r\nas may be ascertained as accurately as the rules themselves, and which\r\ngenerally, indeed, flow from the very same principles with them. If I\r\nowe a man ten pounds, justice requires that I should precisely pay him\r\nten pounds, either at the time agreed upon, or when he demands it.\r\nWhat I ought to perform, how much I ought to perform, when and where I\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page155\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e155\u003c/span\u003e ought to perform it, the whole nature and circumstances of the\r\naction prescribed, are all of them precisely fixed and determined.\r\nThough it may be awkward and pedantic, therefore, to affect too strict\r\nan adherence to the common rules of prudence or generosity, there is\r\nno pedantry in sticking fast by the rules of justice. On the contrary,\r\nthe most sacred regard is due to them; and the actions which this\r\nvirtue requires are never so properly performed, as when the chief\r\nmotive for performing them is a reverential and religious regard to\r\nthose general rules which require them. In the practice of the other\r\nvirtues, our conduct should rather be directed by a certain idea of\r\npropriety, by a certain taste for a particular tenor of conduct, than\r\nby any regard to a precise maxim or rule; and we should consider the\r\nend and foundation of the rule, more than the rule itself. But it is\r\notherwise with regard to justice: the man who in that refines the\r\nleast, and adheres with the most obstinate steadfastness to the\r\ngeneral rules themselves, is the most commendable, and the most to be\r\ndepended upon. Though the end of the rules of justice be, to hinder us\r\nfrom hurting our neighbour, it may frequently be a crime to violate\r\nthem, though we could pretend with some pretext of reason, that this\r\nparticular violation could do no hurt. A man often becomes a villain\r\nthe moment he begins, even in his own heart, to chicane in this\r\nmanner. The moment he thinks of departing from the most staunch and\r\npositive adherence to what those inviolable precepts prescribe to him,\r\nhe is no longer to be trusted, and no man can say what degree of guilt\r\nhe may not arrive at. The thief imagines he does no evil, when he\r\nsteals from the rich, what he supposes they may easily want, and what\r\npossibly they may never even know has been stolen from them. The\r\nadulterer imagines he does no evil, when he corrupts the wife of his\r\nfriend, provided he covers his intrigue from the suspicion of the\r\nhusband, and does not disturb the peace of the family. When once we\r\nbegin to give way to such refinements, there is no enormity so gross\r\nof which we may not be capable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe rules of justice may be compared to the rules of grammar; the\r\nrules of the other virtues, to the rules which critics lay down for\r\nthe attainment of what is sublime and elegant in composition. The one,\r\nare precise, accurate, and indispensable. The other, are loose, vague,\r\nand indeterminate, and present us rather with a general idea of the\r\nperfection we ought to aim at, than afford us any certain and\r\ninfallible directions for acquiring it. A man may learn to write\r\ngrammatically by rule, with the most absolute infallibility; and so,\r\nperhaps, he may be taught to act justly. But there are no rules whose\r\nobservance will infallibly lead us to the attainment of elegance or\r\nsublimity in writing; though there are some which may help us, in some\r\nmeasure, to correct, and ascertain the vague ideas which we might\r\notherwise have entertained of those perfections. And there are no\r\nrules by the knowledge of which we can infallibly be taught to act\r\nupon all occasions with \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page156\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e156\u003c/span\u003e prudence, with just magnanimity, or\r\nproper beneficence: though there are some which may enable us to\r\ncorrect and ascertain, in several respects, the imperfect ideas which\r\nwe might otherwise have entertained of those virtues—the rules of\r\njustice.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt may sometimes happen, that with the most serious and earnest\r\ndesire of acting so as to deserve approbation, we may mistake the\r\nproper rules of conduct, and thus be misled by that very principle\r\nwhich ought to direct us. It is in vain to expect, that in this case\r\nmankind should entirely approve of our behaviour. They cannot enter\r\ninto that absurd idea of duty which influenced us, nor go along with\r\nany of the actions which follow from it. There is still, however,\r\nsomething respectable in the character and behaviour of one who is\r\nthus betrayed into vice, by a wrong sense of duty, or by what is\r\ncalled an erroneous conscience. How fatally soever he maybe misled by\r\nit, he is still, with the generous and humane, more the object of\r\ncommiseration than of hatred or resentment. They lament the weakness\r\nof human nature, which exposes us to such unhappy delusions, even\r\nwhile we are most sincerely labouring after perfection, and\r\nendeavouring to act according to the best principle which can possibly\r\ndirect us. False notions of religion are almost the only causes which\r\ncan occasion any very gross perversion of our natural sentiments in\r\nthis way; and that principle which gives the greatest authority to the\r\nrules of duty, is alone capable of distorting our ideas of them in any\r\nconsiderable degree. In all other cases, common sense is sufficient to\r\ndirect us, if not to the most exquisite propriety of conduct, yet to\r\nsomething which is not very far from it; and provided we are in\r\nearnest desirous to do well, our behaviour will always, upon the\r\nwhole, be praiseworthy. That to obey the will of the Deity, is the\r\nfirst rule of duty, all men are agreed. But concerning the particular\r\ncommandments which that will may impose upon us, they differ widely\r\nfrom one another. In this, therefore, the greatest mutual forbearance\r\nand toleration is due; and though the defence of society requires that\r\ncrimes should be punished, from whatever motives they proceed, yet a\r\ngood man will always punish them with reluctance, when they evidently\r\nproceed from false notions of religious duty. He will never feel\r\nagainst those who commit them that indignation which he feels against\r\nother criminals, but will rather regret, and sometimes even admire\r\ntheir unfortunate firmness and magnanimity, at the very time that he\r\npunishes their crime. In the tragedy of Mahomet, one of the finest of\r\nMr. Voltaire’s, it is well represented, what ought to be our\r\nsentiments for crimes which proceed from such motives. In that\r\ntragedy, two young people of different sexes, of the most innocent and\r\nvirtuous dispositions, and without any other weakness except what\r\nendears them the more to us, a mutual fondness for one another, are\r\ninstigated by the strongest motives of a false religion, to commit a\r\nhorrid murder, that shocks all the principles of human nature. A \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page157\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e157\u003c/span\u003e\r\nvenerable old man, who had expressed the most tender affection for\r\nthem both, for whom, notwithstanding he was the avowed enemy of their\r\nreligion, they had both conceived the highest reverence and esteem,\r\nand who was in reality their father, though they did not know him to\r\nbe such, is pointed out to them as a sacrifice which God had expressly\r\nrequired at their hands, and they are commanded to kill him. While\r\nabout executing this crime, they are tortured with all the agonies\r\nwhich can arise from the struggle between the idea of the\r\nindispensableness of religious duty on the one side, and compassion,\r\ngratitude, reverence for the age, and love for the humanity and virtue\r\nof the person whom they are going to destroy, on the other. The\r\nrepresentation of this exhibits one of the most interesting, and\r\nperhaps the most instructive spectacle that was ever introduced upon\r\nany theatre. The sense of duty, however, at last prevails over all the\r\namiable weaknesses of human nature. They execute the crime imposed\r\nupon them; but immediately discover their error, and the fraud which\r\nhad deceived them, and are distracted with horror, remorse, and\r\nresentment. Such as are our sentiments for the unhappy Seid and\r\nPalmira, such ought we to feel for every person who is in this manner\r\nmisled by religion, when we are sure that it is really religion which\r\nmisleads him, and not the pretence of it, which is made too often a\r\ncover to some of the worst of human passions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs a person may act wrong by following a wrong sense of duty, so\r\nnature may sometimes prevail, and lead him to act right in opposition\r\nto it. We cannot in this case be displeased to see that motive\r\nprevail, which we think ought to prevail though the person himself is\r\nso weak as to think otherwise. As his conduct, however, is the effect\r\nof weakness, not principle, we are far from bestowing upon it any\r\nthing that approaches to complete approbation. A bigoted Roman\r\nCatholic, who, during the massacre of St. Bartholomew, had been so\r\novercome by compassion, as to save some unhappy Protestants, whom he\r\nthought it his duty to destroy, would not seem to be entitled to that\r\nhigh applause which we should have bestowed upon him, had he exerted\r\nthe same generosity with complete self-approbation. We might be\r\npleased with the humanity of his temper, but we should still regard\r\nhim with a sort of pity which is altogether inconsistent with the\r\nadmiration that is due to perfect virtue. It is the same case with all\r\nthe other passions. We do not dislike to see them exert themselves\r\nproperly, even when a false notion of duty would direct the person to\r\nrestrain them. A very devout Quaker, who upon being struck upon one\r\ncheek, instead of turning up the other, should so far forget his\r\nliteral interpretation of our Saviour’s precept, as to bestow some\r\ngood discipline upon the brute that insulted him, would not be\r\ndisagreeable to us. We should laugh and be diverted with his spirit,\r\nand rather like him the better for it. But we should by no means\r\nregard him with that respect and esteem which would seem due to one\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e158\u003c/span\u003e who, upon a like occasion, had acted properly from a just sense\r\nof what was proper to be done. No action can properly be called\r\nvirtuous, which is not accompanied with the sentiment of\r\nself-approbation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003e \u003ca id=\"page158\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ci\u003ePart Ⅳ. Of the Effect of Utility upon the Sentiment of\r\nApprobation.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003e Of the Beauty which the Appearance of Utility bestows\r\nupon all the Productions of Art, and of the extensive Influence of\r\nthis Species of Beauty.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAT\u003c/span\u003e utility is one of the principal sources of beauty has been\r\nobserved by every body, who has considered with any attention what\r\nconstitutes the nature of beauty. The conveniency of a house gives\r\npleasure to the spectator as well as its regularity, and he is as much\r\nhurt when he observes the contrary defect, as when he sees the\r\ncorrespondent windows of different forms, or the door not placed\r\nexactly in the middle of the building. That the fitness of any system\r\nor machine to produce the end for which it was intended, bestows a\r\ncertain propriety and beauty upon the whole, and renders the very\r\nthought and contemplation of it agreeable, is so obvious that nobody\r\nhas over-looked it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe cause too, why utility pleases, has of late been assigned by an\r\ningenious and agreeable philosopher, who joins the greatest depth of\r\nthought to the greatest elegance of expression, and possesses the\r\nsingular and happy talent of treating the abstrusest subjects not only\r\nwith the most perfect perspicuity, but with the most lively eloquence.\r\nThe utility of any object, according to him, pleases the master by\r\nperpetually suggesting to him the pleasure or conveniency which it is\r\nfitted to promote. Every time he looks at it, he is put in mind of\r\nthis pleasure; and the object in this manner becomes a source of\r\nperpetual satisfaction and enjoyment. The spectator enters by sympathy\r\ninto the sentiments of the master, and necessarily views the object\r\nunder the same agreeable aspect. When we visit the palaces of the\r\ngreat, we cannot help conceiving the satisfaction we should enjoy if\r\nwe ourselves were the masters, and were possessed of so much artful\r\nand ingeniously contrived accommodation. A similar account is given\r\nwhy the appearance of inconveniency should render any object\r\ndisagreeable both to the owner and to the spectator.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut that this fitness, this happy contrivance of any production of\r\nart, should often be more valued, than the very end for which it was\r\nintended; and that the exact adjustment of the means for attaining any\r\nconveniency or pleasure, should frequently be more regarded, than that\r\nvery conveniency or pleasure, in the attainment of which their whole\r\nmerit would seem to consist, has not, so far as I know, been yet taken\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page159\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e159\u003c/span\u003e notice of by any body. That this, however, is very frequently\r\nthe case, may be observed in a thousand instances, both in the most\r\nfrivolous and in the most important concerns of human life.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen a person comes into his chamber, and finds the chairs all\r\nstanding in the middle of the room, he is angry with his servant, and\r\nrather than see them continue in that disorder, perhaps takes the\r\ntrouble himself to set them all in their places with their backs to\r\nthe wall. The whole propriety of this new situation arises from its\r\nsuperior conveniency in leaving the floor free and disengaged. To\r\nattain this conveniency he voluntarily puts himself to more trouble\r\nthan all he could have suffered from the want of it; since nothing was\r\nmore easy, than to have set himself down upon one of them, which is\r\nprobably what he does when his labour is over. What he wanted,\r\ntherefore, it seems, was not so much this conveniency, as that\r\narrangement of things which promotes it. Yet it is this conveniency\r\nalone which may ultimately recommend that arrangement, and bestows\r\nupon it the whole of its propriety and beauty.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA watch, in the same manner, that falls behind above two minutes in\r\na day, is despised by one curious in watches. He sells it perhaps for\r\na couple of guineas, and purchases another at fifty, which will not\r\nlose above a minute in a fortnight. The sole use of watches, however,\r\nis to tell us what o’clock it is, and to hinder us from breaking any\r\nengagement, or suffering any other inconveniency by our ignorance in\r\nthat particular point. But the person so nice with regard to this\r\nmachine, will not always be found either more scrupulously punctual\r\nthan other men, or more anxiously concerned upon any other account, to\r\nknow precisely what time of day it is. What interests him is not so\r\nmuch the attainment of this piece of knowledge, as the perfection of\r\nthe machine which enables him to attain it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHow many people ruin themselves by laying out money on trinkets of\r\nfrivolous utility? What pleases these lovers of toys is not so much\r\nthe utility, as the aptness of the machines which are fitted to\r\npromote it. All their pockets are stuffed with little conveniences.\r\nThey contrive new pockets, unknown in the clothes of other people, in\r\norder to carry a greater number. They walk about loaded with a\r\nmultitude of baubles, in weight and sometimes in value not inferior to\r\nan ordinary Jew’s-box, some of which may sometimes be of some little\r\nuse, but all of which might at all times be very well spared, and of\r\nwhich the whole utility is not worth the fatigue of bearing the\r\nburden.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNor is it only with regard to such frivolous objects that our\r\nconduct is influenced by this principle; it is often the secret motive\r\nof the most serious and important pursuits of both private and public\r\nlife.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe poor man’s son, whom Heaven in its anger has visited with\r\nambition, when he begins to look around him, admires the condition of\r\nthe rich. He finds the cottage of his father too small for his \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page160\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e160\u003c/span\u003e\r\naccommodation, and fancies he should be lodged more at his ease in a\r\npalace. He is displeased with being obliged to walk a-foot, or to\r\nendure the fatigue of riding on horseback. He sees his superiors\r\ncarried about in machines, and imagines that in one of these he could\r\ntravel with less inconveniency. He feels himself naturally indolent,\r\nand willing to serve himself with his own hands as little as possible;\r\nand judges, that a numerous retinue of servants would save him from a\r\ngreat deal of trouble. He thinks if he had attained all these, he\r\nwould sit still contentedly, and be quiet, enjoying himself in the\r\nthought of the happiness and tranquillity of his situation. He is\r\nenchanted with the distant idea of this felicity. It appears in his\r\nfancy like the life of some superior rank of beings, and, in order to\r\narrive at it, he devotes himself for ever to the pursuit of wealth and\r\ngreatness. To obtain the conveniences which these afford, he submits\r\nin the first year, nay, in the first month of his application, to more\r\nfatigue of body and more uneasiness of mind than he could have\r\nsuffered through the whole of his life from the want of them. He\r\nstudies to distinguish himself in some laborious profession. With the\r\nmost unrelenting industry he labours night and day to acquire talents\r\nsuperior to all his competitors. He endeavours next to bring those\r\ntalents into public view, and with equal assiduity solicits every\r\nopportunity of employment. For this purpose he makes his court to all\r\nmankind; he serves those whom he hates, and is obsequious to those\r\nwhom he despises. Through the whole of his life he pursues the idea of\r\na certain artificial and elegant repose which he may never arrive at,\r\nfor which he sacrifices a real tranquillity that is at all times in\r\nhis power, and which, if in the extremity of old age he should at last\r\nattain to it, he will find to be in no respect preferable to that\r\nhumble security and contentment which he had abandoned for it. It is\r\nthen, in the last dregs of life, his body wasted with toil and\r\ndiseases, his mind galled and ruffled by the memory of a thousand\r\ninjuries and disappointments which he imagines he has met with from\r\nthe injustice of his enemies, or from the perfidy and ingratitude of\r\nhis friends, that he begins at last to find that wealth and greatness\r\nare mere trinkets of frivolous utility, no more adapted for procuring\r\nease of body or tranquillity of mind than the tweezer-cases of the\r\nlover of toys; and, like them too, more troublesome to the person who\r\ncarries them about with him than all the advantages they can afford\r\nhim are commodious. There is no other real difference between them,\r\nexcept that the conveniences of the one are somewhat more observable\r\nthan those of the other. The palaces, the gardens, the equipage, the\r\nretinue of the great, are objects of which the obvious conveniency\r\nstrikes every body. They do not require that their masters should\r\npoint out to us wherein consists their utility. Of our own accord we\r\nreadily enter into it, and by sympathy enjoy and thereby applaud the\r\nsatisfaction which they are fitted to afford him. But the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page161\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e161\u003c/span\u003e\r\ncuriosity of a tooth-pick, of an ear-picker, of a machine for cutting\r\nthe nails, or of any other trinket of the same kind, is not so\r\nobvious. Their conveniency may perhaps be equally great, but it is not\r\nso striking, and we do not so readily enter into the satisfaction of\r\nthe man who possesses them. They are therefore less reasonable\r\nsubjects of vanity than the magnificence of wealth and greatness; and\r\nin this consists the sole advantage of these last. They more\r\neffectually gratify that love of distinction so natural to man. To one\r\nwho was to live alone in a desolate island it might be a matter of\r\ndoubt, perhaps, whether a palace, or a collection of such small\r\nconveniencies as are commonly contained in a tweezer-case, would\r\ncontribute most to his happiness and enjoyment. If he is to live in\r\nsociety, indeed, there can be no comparison, because in this, as in\r\nall other cases, we constantly pay more regard to the sentiments of\r\nthe spectator, than to those of the person principally concerned, and\r\nconsider rather how his situation will appear to other people, than\r\nhow it will appear to himself. If we examine, however, why the\r\nspectator distinguishes with such admiration the condition of the rich\r\nand the great, we shall find that is is not so much upon account of\r\nthe superior ease or pleasure which they are supposed to enjoy, as of\r\nthe numberless artificial and elegant contrivances for promoting this\r\nease or pleasure. He does not even imagine that they are really\r\nhappier than other people: but he imagines that they possess more\r\nmeans of happiness. And it is the ingenious and artful adjustment of\r\nthose means to the end for which they were intended, that is the\r\nprincipal source of his admiration. But in the languor of disease and\r\nthe weariness of old age, the pleasures of the vain and empty\r\ndistinctions of greatness disappear. To one, in this situation, they\r\nare no longer capable of recommending those toilsome pursuits in which\r\nthey had formerly engaged him. In his heart he curses ambition, and\r\nvainly regrets the ease and the indolence of youth, pleasures which\r\nare fled for ever, and which he has foolishly sacrificed for what,\r\nwhen he has got it, can afford him no real satisfaction. In this\r\nmiserable aspect does greatness appear to every man when reduced\r\neither by spleen or disease to observe with attention his own\r\nsituation, and to consider what it is that is really wanting to his\r\nhappiness. Power and riches appear then to be, what they are, enormous\r\nand operose machines contrived to produce a few trifling conveniencies\r\nto the body, consisting of springs the most nice and delicate, which\r\nmust be kept in order with the most anxious attention, and which in\r\nspite of all our care are ready every moment to burst into pieces, and\r\nto crush in their ruins their unfortunate possessor. They are immense\r\nfabrics, which it requires the labour of a life to raise, which\r\nthreaten every moment to overwhelm the person that dwells in them, and\r\nwhich while they stand, though they may save him from some smaller\r\ninconveniencies, can protect him from none of the severer \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page162\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e162\u003c/span\u003e\r\ninclemencies of the season. They keep off the summer shower, not the\r\nwinter storm, but leave him always as much, and sometimes more,\r\nexposed than before, to anxiety, to fear, and to sorrow; to diseases,\r\nto danger, and to death.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though this splenetic philosophy, which in time of sickness or\r\nlow spirits is familiar to every man, thus entirely depreciates those\r\ngreat objects of human desire, when in better health and in better\r\nhumour, we never fail to regard them under a more agreeable aspect.\r\nOur imagination, which in pain and sorrow seems to be confined and\r\ncooped up within our own persons, in times of ease and prosperity\r\nexpands itself to every thing around us. We are then charmed with the\r\nbeauty of that accommodation which reigns in the palaces and\r\nœconomy of the great: and admire how every thing is adapted to\r\npromote their ease, to prevent their wants, to gratify their wishes,\r\nand to amuse and entertain their most frivolous desires. If we\r\nconsider the real satisfaction which all these things are capable of\r\naffording, by itself and separated from the beauty of that arrangement\r\nwhich is fitted to promote it, it will always appear in the highest\r\ndegree contemptible and trifling. But we rarely view it in this\r\nabstract and philosophical light. We naturally confound it in our\r\nimagination with the order, the regular and harmonious movement of the\r\nsystem, the machine or œconomy by means of which it is produced.\r\nThe pleasures of wealth and greatness, when considered in this complex\r\nview, strike the imagination as something grand and beautiful and\r\nnoble, of which the attainment is well worth all the toil and anxiety\r\nwhich we are so apt to bestow upon it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAnd it is well that nature imposes upon us in this manner. It is\r\nthis deception which rouses and keeps in continual motion the industry\r\nof mankind. It is this which first prompted them to cultivate the\r\nground, to build houses, to found cities and commonwealths, and to\r\ninvent and improve all the sciences and arts, which ennoble and\r\nembellish human life; which have entirely changed the whole face of\r\nthe globe, have turned the rude forests of nature into agreeable and\r\nfertile plains, and made the trackless and barren ocean a new fund of\r\nsubsistence, and the great high road of communication to the different\r\nnations of the earth. The earth by these labours of mankind has been\r\nobliged to redouble her natural fertility, and to maintain a greater\r\nmultitude of inhabitants. It is to no purpose, that the proud and\r\nunfeeling landlord views his extensive fields, and without a thought\r\nfor the wants of his brethren, in imagination consumes himself the\r\nwhole harvest that grows upon them. The homely and vulgar proverb,\r\nthat the eye is larger than the belly, never was more fully verified\r\nthan with regard to him. The capacity of his stomach bears no\r\nproportion to the immensity of his desires, and will receive no more\r\nthan that of the meanest peasant. The rest he is obliged to distribute\r\namong those, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page163\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e163\u003c/span\u003e who prepare, in the nicest manner, that little\r\nwhich he himself makes use of, among those who fit up the palace in\r\nwhich this little is to be consumed, among those who provide and keep\r\nin order all the different baubles and trinkets which are employed in\r\nthe œconomy of greatness; all of whom thus derive from his luxury\r\nand caprice, that share of the necessaries of life, which they would\r\nin vain have expected from his humanity or his justice. The produce of\r\nthe soil maintains at all times nearly that number of inhabitants\r\nwhich it is capable of maintaining. The rich only select from the heap\r\nwhat is most precious and agreeable. They consume little more than the\r\npoor, and in spite of their natural selfishness and rapacity, though\r\nthey mean only their own conveniency, though the sole end which they\r\npropose from the labours of all the thousands whom they employ, be the\r\ngratification of their own vain and insatiable desires, they divide\r\nwith the poor the produce of all their improvements. They are led by\r\nan invisible hand to make nearly the same distribution of the\r\nnecessaries of life, which would have been made, had the earth been\r\ndivided into equal portions among all its inhabitants, and thus\r\nwithout intending it, without knowing it, advance the interest of the\r\nsociety, and afford means to the multiplication of the species. When\r\nProvidence divided the earth among a few lordly masters, it neither\r\nforgot nor abandoned those who seemed to have been left out in the\r\npartition. These last, too, enjoy their share of all that it produces.\r\nIn what constitutes the real happiness of human life, they are in no\r\nrespect inferior to those who would seem so much above them. In ease\r\nof the body and peace of the mind, all the different ranks of life are\r\nnearly upon a level, and the beggar, who suns himself by the side of\r\nthe highway, possesses that security which kings are fighting for.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe same principle, the same love of system, the same regard to the\r\nbeauty of order, of art and contrivance, frequently serves to\r\nrecommend those institutions which tend to promote the public welfare.\r\nWhen a patriot exerts himself for the improvement of any part of the\r\npublic police, his conduct does not always arise from pure sympathy\r\nwith the happiness of those who are to reap the benefit of it. It is\r\nnot commonly from a fellow-feeling with carriers and waggoners that a\r\npublic-spirited man encourages the mending of high roads. When the\r\nlegislature establishes premiums and other encouragements to advance\r\nthe linen or woollen manufactures, its conduct seldom proceeds from\r\npure sympathy with the wearer of cheap or fine cloth, and much less\r\nfrom that with the manufacturer or merchant. The perfection of police,\r\nthe extension of trade and manufactures, are noble and magnificent\r\nobjects. The contemplation of them pleases us, and we are interested\r\nin whatever can tend to advance them. They make part of the great\r\nsystem of government, and the wheels of the political machine seem to\r\nmove with more harmony and ease by means of them. We \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page164\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e164\u003c/span\u003e take\r\npleasure in beholding the perfection of so beautiful and grand a\r\nsystem, and we are uneasy till we remove any obstruction that can in\r\nthe least disturb or encumber the regularity of its motions. All\r\nconstitutions of government, however, are valued only in proportion as\r\nthey tend to promote the happiness of those who live under them. This\r\nis their sole use and end. From a certain spirit of system, however,\r\nfrom a certain love of art and contrivance, we sometimes seem to value\r\nthe means more than the end, and to be eager to promote the happiness\r\nof our fellow-creatures, rather from a view to perfect and improve a\r\ncertain beautiful and orderly system, than from any immediate sense or\r\nfeeling of what they either suffer or enjoy. There have been men of\r\nthe greatest public spirit, who have shown themselves in other\r\nrespects not very sensible to the feelings of humanity. And on the\r\ncontrary, there have been men of the greatest humanity, who seem to\r\nhave been entirely devoid of public spirit. Every man may find in the\r\ncircle of his acquaintance instances both of the one kind and the\r\nother. Who had ever less humanity, or more public spirit, than the\r\ncelebrated legislator of Muscovy? The social and well-natured James\r\nthe First of Great Britain seems, on the contrary, to have had scarce\r\nany passion, either for the glory or the interest of his country.\r\nWould you awaken the industry of the man who seems almost dead to\r\nambition, it will often be to no purpose to describe to him the\r\nhappiness of the rich and the great; to tell him that they are\r\ngenerally sheltered from the sun and the rain, that they are seldom\r\nhungry, that they are seldom cold, and that they are rarely exposed to\r\nweariness, or to want of any kind. The most eloquent exhortation of\r\nthis kind will have little effect upon him. If you would hope to\r\nsucceed, you must describe to him the conveniency and arrangement of\r\nthe different apartments in their palaces; you must explain to him the\r\npropriety of their equipages, and point out to him the number, the\r\norder, and the different offices of all their attendants. If any thing\r\nis capable of making impression upon him, this will. Yet all these\r\nthings tend only to keep off the sun and the rain, and save them from\r\nhunger and cold, from want and weariness. In the same manner, if you\r\nwould implant public virtue in the breast of him who seems heedless of\r\nthe interest of his country, it will often be to no purpose to tell\r\nhim, what superior advantages the subjects of a well-governed state\r\nenjoy; that they are better lodged, that they are better clothed, that\r\nthey are better fed. These considerations will commonly make no great\r\nimpression. You will be more likely to persuade, if you describe the\r\ngreat system of public police which procures these advantages, if you\r\nexplain the connexions and dependencies of its several parts, their\r\nmutual subordination to one another, and their general subserviency to\r\nthe happiness of the society; if you show how this system might be\r\nintroduced into his own country, what it is that hinders it from\r\ntaking place there at present, how those \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e165\u003c/span\u003e obstructions might be\r\nremoved, and all the several wheels of the machine of government be\r\nmade to move with more harmony and smoothness, without grating upon\r\none another, or mutually retarding one another’s motions. It is scarce\r\npossible that a man should listen to a discourse of this kind, and not\r\nfeel himself animated to some degree of public spirit. He will, at\r\nleast for a moment, feel some desire to remove those obstructions, and\r\nto put into motion so beautiful and so orderly a machine. Nothing\r\ntends so much to promote public spirit as the study of politics, of\r\nthe several systems of civil government, their advantages and\r\ndisadvantages, of the constitution of our own country, its situation,\r\nand interest with regard to foreign nations, its commerce, its\r\ndefence, the disadvantages it labours under, the dangers to which it\r\nmay be exposed, how to remove the one, and how to guard against the\r\nother. Upon this account political disquisition, if just and\r\nreasonable and practicable, are of all the works of speculation the\r\nmost useful. Even the weakest and the worst of them are not altogether\r\nwithout their utility. They serve at least to animate the public\r\npassions of men, and rouse them to seek out the means of promoting the\r\nhappiness of the society.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page165\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Beauty which the Appearance of Utility bestows\r\nupon the Characters and the Actions of Men; and how far the Perception\r\nof this Beauty may be regarded as one of the original Principles of\r\nApprobation.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e characters of men, as well as the contrivances of art, or the\r\ninstitutions of civil government, may be fitted either to promote or\r\nto disturb the happiness both of the individual and of the society.\r\nThe prudent, the equitable, the active, resolute, and sober character\r\npromises prosperity and satisfaction, both to the person himself and\r\nto every one connected with him. The rash, the insolent, the slothful,\r\neffeminate, and voluptuous, on the contrary, forebodes ruin to the\r\nindividual, and misfortune to all who have any thing to do with him.\r\nThe first turn of mind has at least all the beauty which can belong to\r\nthe most perfect machine that was ever invented for promoting the most\r\nagreeable purpose: and the second, all the deformity of the most\r\nawkward and clumsy contrivance. What institution of government could\r\ntend so much to promote the happiness of mankind as the general\r\nprevalence of wisdom and virtue? All government is but an imperfect\r\nremedy for the deficiency of these. Whatever beauty, therefore, can\r\nbelong to civil government upon account of its utility, must in a far\r\nsuperior degree belong to these. On the contrary, what civil policy\r\ncan be so ruinous and destructive as the vices of men? The fatal\r\neffects of bad government arise from nothing, but that it does not\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page166\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e166\u003c/span\u003e sufficiently guard against the mischiefs which human wickedness\r\nso often gives occasion to.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis beauty and deformity which characters appear to derive from\r\ntheir usefulness or inconveniency, are apt to strike, in a peculiar\r\nmanner, those who consider, in an abstract and philosophical light,\r\nthe actions and conduct of mankind. When a philosopher goes to examine\r\nwhy humanity is approved of, or cruelty condemned, he does not always\r\nform to himself, in a very clear and distinct manner, the conception\r\nof any one particular action either of cruelty or of humanity, but is\r\ncommonly contented with the vague and indeterminate idea which the\r\ngeneral names of those qualities suggest to him. But it is in\r\nparticular instances only that the propriety or impropriety, the merit\r\nor demerit of actions is very obvious and discernible. It is only when\r\nparticular examples are given that we perceive distinctly either the\r\nconcord or disagreement between our two affections and those of the\r\nagent, or feel a social gratitude arise towards him in the one case,\r\nor a sympathetic resentment in the other. When we consider virtue and\r\nvice in an abstract and general manner, the qualities by which they\r\nexcite these several sentiments seem in a great measure to disappear,\r\nand the sentiments themselves become less obvious and discernible. On\r\nthe contrary, the happy effects of the one and the fatal consequences\r\nof the other seem then to rise up to the view, and as it were to stand\r\nout and distinguish themselves from all the other qualities of\r\neither.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe same ingenious and agreeable author who first explained why\r\nutility pleases, has been so struck with this view of things, as to\r\nresolve our whole approbation of virtue into a perception of this\r\nspecies of beauty which results from the appearance of utility. No\r\nqualities of the mind, he observes, are approved of as virtuous, but\r\nsuch as are useful or agreeable either to the person himself or to\r\nothers; and no qualities are disapproved of as vicious but such as\r\nhave a contrary tendency. And Nature, indeed, seems to have so happily\r\nadjusted our sentiments of approbation and disapprobation, to the\r\nconveniency both of the individual and of the society, that after the\r\nstrictest examination it will be found, I believe, that this is\r\nuniversally the case. But still I affirm, that it is not the view of\r\nthis utility or hurtfulness which is either the first or principal\r\nsource of our approbation and disapprobation. These sentiments are no\r\ndoubt enhanced and enlivened by the perception of the beauty or\r\ndeformity which results from this utility or hurtfulness. But still, I\r\nsay, that they were originally and essentially different from this\r\nperception.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFor first of all, it seems impossible that the approbation of\r\nvirtue should be a sentiment of the same kind with that by which we\r\napprove of a convenient and well-contrived building; or that we should\r\nhave no other reason for praising a man than that for which we commend\r\na chest of drawers.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page167\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e167\u003c/span\u003e And secondly, it will be found, upon examination, that the\r\nusefulness of any disposition of mind is seldom the first ground of\r\nour approbation; and that the sentiment of approbation always involves\r\nin it a sense of propriety quite distinct from the perception of\r\nutility. We may observe this with regard to all the qualities which\r\nare approved of as virtuous, both those which, according to this\r\nsystem, are originally valued as useful to ourselves, as well as those\r\nwhich are esteemed on account of their usefulness to others.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe qualities most useful to ourselves are, first of all, superior\r\nreason and understanding, by which we are capable of discerning the\r\nremote consequences of all our actions, and of fore-seeing the\r\nadvantage or detriment which is likely to result from them: and\r\nsecondly, self-command, by which we are enabled to abstain from\r\npresent pleasure or to endure present pain, in order to obtain a\r\ngreater pleasure, or to avoid a greater pain in some future time. In\r\nthe union of those two qualities consists the virtue of prudence, of\r\nall the virtues that which is the most useful to the individual.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWith regard to the first of those qualities, it has been observed\r\non a former occasion, that superior reason and understanding are\r\noriginally approved of as just and right and accurate, and not merely\r\nas useful or advantageous. It is in the abstruser sciences,\r\nparticularly in the higher parts of mathematics, that the greatest and\r\nmost admired exertions of human reason have been displayed. But the\r\nutility of those sciences, either to the individual or to the public,\r\nis not very obvious, and to prove it, requires a discussion which is\r\nnot always very easily comprehended. It was not, therefore, their\r\nutility which first recommended them to the public admiration. This\r\nquality was but little insisted upon, till it became necessary to make\r\nsome reply to the reproaches of those, who, having themselves no taste\r\nfor such sublime discoveries, endeavoured to depreciate them as\r\nuseless.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat self-command, in the same manner, by which we restrain our\r\npresent appetites, in order to gratify them more fully upon another\r\noccasion, is approved of, as much under the aspect of propriety, as\r\nunder that of utility. When we act in this manner, the sentiments\r\nwhich influence our conduct seem exactly to coincide with those of the\r\nspectator. The spectator, however, does not feel the solicitations of\r\nour present appetites.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo him the pleasure which we are to enjoy a week hence, or a year\r\nhence, is just as interesting as that which we are to enjoy this\r\nmoment. When for the sake of the present, therefore, we sacrifice the\r\nfuture, our conduct appears to him absurd and extravagant in the\r\nhighest degree, and he cannot enter into the principles which\r\ninfluence it. On the contrary, when we abstain from present pleasure,\r\nin order to secure greater pleasure to come, when we act as if the\r\nremote object interested us as much as that which immediately presses\r\nupon the senses, as our \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page168\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e168\u003c/span\u003e affections exactly correspond with his\r\nown, he cannot fail to approve of our behaviour: and as he knows from\r\nexperience, how few are capable of this self-command, he looks upon\r\nour conduct with a considerable degree of wonder and admiration. Hence\r\narises that eminent esteem with which all men naturally regard a\r\nsteady perseverance in the practice of frugality, industry, and\r\napplication, though directed to no other purpose than the acquisition\r\nof fortune. The resolute firmness of the person who acts in this\r\nmanner, and in order to obtain a great though remote advantage, not\r\nonly gives up all present pleasures, but endures the greatest labour\r\nboth of mind and body, necessarily commands our approbation. That view\r\nof his interest and happiness which appears to regulate his conduct,\r\nexactly tallies with the idea which we naturally form of it. There is\r\nthe most perfect correspondence between his sentiments and our own,\r\nand at the same time, from our experience of the common weakness of\r\nhuman nature, it is a correspondence which we could not reasonably\r\nhave expected. We not only approve, therefore, but in some measure\r\nadmire his conduct, and think it worthy of a considerable degree of\r\napplause. It is the consciousness of this merited approbation and\r\nesteem which is alone capable of supporting the agent in this tenor of\r\nconduct. The pleasure which we are to enjoy ten years hence interests\r\nus so little in comparison with that which we may enjoy today, the\r\npassion which the first excites, is naturally so weak in comparison\r\nwith that violent emotion which the second is apt to give occasion to,\r\nthat the one could never be any balance to the other, unless it was\r\nsupported by the sense of propriety, by the consciousness that we\r\nmerited the esteem and approbation of every body, by acting in the one\r\nway, and that we became the proper objects of their contempt and\r\nderision by behaving in the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHumanity, justice, generosity, and public spirit, are the qualities\r\nmost useful to others. Wherein consists the propriety of humanity and\r\njustice has been explained upon a former occasion, where it was shown\r\nhow much our esteem and approbation of those qualities depended upon\r\nthe concord between the affections of the agent and those of the\r\nspectators.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe propriety of generosity and public spirit is founded upon the\r\nsame principle with that of justice. Generosity is different from\r\nhumanity. Those two qualities, which at first sight seem so nearly\r\nallied, do not always belong to the same person. Humanity is the\r\nvirtue of a woman, generosity of a man. The fair sex, who have\r\ncommonly much more tenderness than ours, have seldom so much\r\ngenerosity. That women rarely make considerable donations, is an\r\nobservation of the civil law. (Raro mulieres donare solent.) Humanity\r\nconsists merely in the exquisite fellow-feeling which the spectator\r\nentertains with the sentiments of the persons principally concerned,\r\nso as to grieve for their sufferings, to resent their injuries, and to\r\nrejoice at their good \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page169\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e169\u003c/span\u003e fortune. The most humane actions require\r\nno self-denial, no self-command, no great exertion of the sense of\r\npropriety. They consist only in doing what this exquisite sympathy\r\nwould of its own accord prompt us to do. But it is otherwise with\r\ngenerosity. We never are generous except when in some respect we\r\nprefer some other person to ourselves, and sacrifice some great and\r\nimportant interest of our own to an equal interest of a friend or of\r\na superior. The man who gives up his pretensions to an office that was\r\nthe great object of his ambition, because he imagines that the\r\nservices of another are better entitled to it; the man who exposes his\r\nlife to defend that of his friend, which he judges to be of more\r\nimportance, neither of them act from humanity, or because they feel\r\nmore exquisitely what concerns that other person that what concerns\r\nthemselves. They both consider those opposite interests, not in the\r\nlight in which they naturally appear to themselves, but in that in\r\nwhich they appear to others. To every bystander, the success or\r\npreservation of this other person may justly be more interesting than\r\ntheir own; but it cannot be so to themselves. When to the interest of\r\nthis other person, therefore, they sacrifice their own, they\r\naccommodate themselves to the sentiments of the spectator, and by an\r\neffort of magnanimity act according to those views of things which\r\nthey feel must naturally occur to any third person. The soldier who\r\nthrows away his life in order to defend that of his officer, would\r\nperhaps be but little affected by the death of that officer, if it\r\nshould happen without any fault of his own; and a very small disaster\r\nwhich had befallen himself might excite a much more lively sorrow. But\r\nwhen he endeavours to act so as to deserve applause, and to make the\r\nimpartial spectator enter into the principles of his conduct, he\r\nfeels, that to every body but himself, his own life is a trifle\r\ncompared with that of his officer, and that when he sacrifices the one\r\nto the other, he acts quite properly and agreeably to what would be\r\nthe natural apprehensions of every impartial bystander.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is the same case with the greater exertions of public spirit.\r\nWhen a young officer exposes his life to acquire some inconsiderable\r\naddition to the dominions of his sovereign, it is not because the\r\nacquisition of the new territory is, to himself, an object more\r\ndesirable than the preservation of his own life. To him his own life\r\nis of infinitely more value than the conquest of a whole kingdom for\r\nthe state which he serves. But when he compares those two objects with\r\none another, he does not view them in the light in which they\r\nnaturally appear to himself, but in that in which they appear to the\r\nnation he fights for. To them the success of the war is of the highest\r\nimportance; the life of a private person of scarce any consequence.\r\nWhen he puts himself in their situation, he immediately feels that he\r\ncannot be too prodigal of his blood, if, by shedding it, he can\r\npromote so valuable a purpose. In thus thwarting, from a sense of duty\r\nand propriety, the strongest of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page170\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e170\u003c/span\u003e all natural propensities,\r\nconsists the heroism of his conduct. There is many an honest\r\nEnglishman, who, in his private station, would be more seriously\r\ndisturbed by the loss of a guinea, than by the national loss of\r\nMinorca, who yet, had it been in his power to defend that fortress,\r\nwould have sacrificed his life a thousand times rather than, through\r\nhis fault, have let it fall into the hands of the enemy. When the\r\nfirst Brutus led forth his own sons to a capital punishment, because\r\nthey had conspired against the rising liberty of Rome, he sacrificed\r\nwhat, if he had consulted his own breast only, would appear to be the\r\nstronger to the weaker affection. Brutus ought naturally to have felt\r\nmuch more for the death of his own sons, than for all that probably\r\nRome could have suffered from the want of so great an example. But he\r\nviewed them, not with the eyes of a father, but with those of a Roman\r\ncitizen. He entered so thoroughly into the sentiments of this last\r\ncharacter, that he paid no regard to that tie, by which he himself was\r\nconnected with them; and to a Roman citizen, the sons even of Brutus\r\nseemed contemptible, when put into the balance with the smallest\r\ninterest of Rome. In these and in all other cases of this kind, our\r\nadmiration is not so much founded upon the utility, as upon the\r\nunexpected, and on that account the great, the noble, and exalted\r\npropriety of such actions. This utility, when we come to view it,\r\nbestows upon them, undoubtedly a new beauty, and upon that account\r\nstill further recommends them to our approbation. This new beauty,\r\nhowever, is chiefly perceived by men of reflection and speculation,\r\nand it is by no means the quality which first recommends such actions\r\nto the natural sentiments of the bulk of mankind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is to be observed, that so far as the sentiment of approbation\r\narises from the perception of this beauty of utility, it has no\r\nreference of any kind to the sentiments of others. If it was possible,\r\ntherefore, that a person should grow up to manhood without any\r\ncommunication with society, his own actions might, notwithstanding, be\r\nagreeable or disagreeable to him on account of their tendency to his\r\nhappiness or disadvantage. He might perceive a beauty of this kind in\r\nprudence, temperance, and good conduct, and a deformity in the\r\nopposite behaviour: he might view his own temper and character with\r\nthat sort of satisfaction with which we consider a well-contrived\r\nmachine, in the one case: or with that sort of distaste and\r\ndissatisfaction with which we regard a very awkward and clumsy\r\ncontrivance, in the other. As these perceptions, however, are merely a\r\nmatter of taste, and have all the feebleness and delicacy of that\r\nspecies of perceptions, upon the justness of which what is properly\r\ncalled taste is founded, they probably would not be much attended to\r\nby one in his solitary and miserable condition. Even though they\r\nshould occur to him, they would by no means have the same effect upon\r\nhim, antecedent to his connexion with society, which they would have\r\nin consequence of that connexion. He \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e171\u003c/span\u003e would not be cast down with\r\ninward shame at the thought of this deformity; nor would he be\r\nelevated with secret triumph of mind from the consciousness of the\r\ncontrary beauty. He would not exult from the notion of deserving\r\nreward in the one case, nor tremble from the suspicion of meriting\r\npunishment in the other. All such sentiments suppose the idea of some\r\nother being, who is the natural judge of the person that feels them;\r\nand it is only by sympathy with the decisions of this arbiter of his\r\nconduct, that he can conceive, either the triumph of self-applause, or\r\nthe shame of self-condemnation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003e \u003ca id=\"page171\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ci\u003ePart Ⅴ.—Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon the\r\nSentiments of Moral Approbation and Disapprobation.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon our\r\nnotions of Beauty and Deformity.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHERE\u003c/span\u003e are other principles besides those already enumerated, which\r\nhave a considerable influence upon the moral sentiments of mankind,\r\nand are the chief causes of the many irregular and discordant opinions\r\nwhich prevail in different ages and nations concerning what is\r\nblamable or praise-worthy. These principles are custom and fashion,\r\nprinciples which extend their dominion over our judgments concerning\r\nbeauty of every kind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen two objects have frequently been seen together, the\r\nimagination acquires a habit of passing easily from the one to the\r\nother. If the first appear, we lay our account that the second is to\r\nfollow. Of their own accord they put us in mind of one another, and\r\nthe attention glides easily along them. Though, independent of custom,\r\nthere should be no real beauty in their union, yet when custom has\r\nthus connected them together, we feel an impropriety in their\r\nseparation. The one we think is awkward when it appears without its\r\nusual companion. We miss something which we expected to find, and the\r\nhabitual arrangement of our ideas is disturbed by the disappointment.\r\nA suit of clothes, for example, seems to want something if they are\r\nwithout the most insignificant ornament which usually accompanies\r\nthem, and we find a meanness or awkwardness in the absence even of a\r\nhaunch button. When there is any natural propriety in the union,\r\ncustom increases our sense of it, and makes a different arrangement\r\nappear still more disagreeable than it would otherwise seem to be.\r\nThose who have been accustomed to see things in a good taste, are more\r\ndisgusted by whatever is clumsy or awkward. Where the conjunction is\r\nimproper, custom either diminishes, or takes away altogether, our\r\nsense of the impropriety. Those who have been accustomed to slovenly\r\ndisorder lose all sense of neatness or elegance. The modes of\r\nfurniture or dress which \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page172\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e172\u003c/span\u003e seem ridiculous to strangers, give no\r\noffence to the people who have been used to them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFashion is different from custom, or rather is a particular species\r\nof it. That is not the fashion which every body wears, but which those\r\nwear who are of a high rank, or character. The graceful, the easy, and\r\ncommanding manners of the great, joined to the usual richness and\r\nmagnificence of their dress, give a grace to the very form which they\r\nhappen to bestow upon it. As long as they continue to use this form,\r\nit is connected in our imaginations with the idea of something that is\r\ngenteel and magnificent, and though in itself it should be\r\nindifferent, it seems, on account of this relation, to have something\r\nabout it that is genteel and magnificent too. As soon as they drop it,\r\nit loses all the grace, which it had appeared to possess before, and\r\nbeing now used only by the inferior ranks of people, seems to have\r\nsomething of their meanness and their awkwardness.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDress and furniture are allowed by all the world to be entirely\r\nunder the dominion of custom and fashion. The influence of those\r\nprinciples, however, is by no means confined to so narrow a sphere,\r\nbut extends itself to whatever is in any respect the object of taste,\r\nto music, to poetry, to architecture. The modes of dress and furniture\r\nare continually changing, and that fashion appearing ridiculous to-day\r\nwhich was admired five years ago, we are experimentally convinced that\r\nit owed its vogue chiefly or entirely to custom and fashion. Clothes\r\nand furniture are not made of very durable materials. A well-fancied\r\ncoat is done in a twelve-month, and cannot continue longer to\r\npropagate, as the fashion, that form according to which it was made.\r\nThe modes of furniture change less rapidly than those of dress;\r\nbecause furniture is commonly more durable. In five or six years,\r\nhowever, it generally undergoes an entire revolution, and every man in\r\nhis own time sees the fashion in this respect change many different\r\nways. The productions of the other arts are much more lasting, and,\r\nwhen happily imagined, may continue to propagate the fashion of their\r\nmake for a much longer time. A well-contrived building may endure many\r\ncenturies: a beautiful air may be delivered down by a sort of\r\ntradition, through many successive generations: a well-written poem\r\nmay last as long as the world; and all of them continue for ages\r\ntogether, to give the vogue to that particular style, to that\r\nparticular taste or manner, according to which each of them was\r\ncomposed. Few men have an opportunity of seeing in their own times the\r\nfashion in any of these arts change very considerably. Few men have so\r\nmuch experience and acquaintance with the different modes which have\r\nobtained in remote ages and nations, as to be thoroughly reconciled to\r\nthem, or to judge with impartiality between them and what takes place\r\nin their own age and country. Few men therefore are willing to allow,\r\nthat custom or fashion have much influence upon their judgments\r\nconcerning what is beautiful \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page173\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e173\u003c/span\u003e or otherwise, in the productions of\r\nany of those arts; but imagine that all the rules, which they think\r\nought to be observed in each of them, are founded upon reason and\r\nnature, not upon habit or prejudice. A very little attention may\r\nconvince them of the contrary, and satisfy them, that the influence of\r\ncustom and fashion over dress and furniture, is not more absolute than\r\nover architecture, poetry, and music.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eCan any reason, for example, be assigned why the Doric capital\r\nshould be appropriated to a pillar, whose height is equal to eight\r\ndiameters; the Ionic volute to one of nine; and the Corinthian foliage\r\nto one of ten? The propriety of each of those appropriations can be\r\nfounded upon nothing but habit and custom. The eye having been used to\r\nsee a particular proportion connected with a particular ornament,\r\nwould be offended if they were not joined together. Each of the five\r\norders has its peculiar ornaments, which cannot be changed for any\r\nother, without giving offence to all those who know any thing of the\r\nrules of architecture. According to some architects, indeed, such is\r\nthe exquisite judgment with which the ancients have assigned to each\r\norder its proper ornaments, that no others can be found which are\r\nequally suitable. It seems, however, a little difficult to be\r\nconceived that these forms, though, no doubt, extremely agreeable,\r\nshould be the only forms which can suit those proportions, or that\r\nthere should not be five hundred others which, antecedent to\r\nestablished custom, would have fitted them equally well. When custom,\r\nhowever, has established particular rules of building, provided they\r\nare not absolutely unreasonable, it is absurd to think of altering\r\nthem for others which are only equally good, or even for others which,\r\nin point of elegance and beauty, have naturally some little advantage\r\nover them. A man would be ridiculous who should appear in public with\r\na suit of clothes quite different from those which are commonly worn,\r\nthough the new dress should in itself be ever so graceful or\r\nconvenient. And there seems to be an absurdity of the same kind in\r\nornamenting a house after a quite different manner from that which\r\ncustom and fashion have prescribed; though the new ornaments should in\r\nthemselves be somewhat superior to the common ones in use.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAccording to the ancient rhetoricians, a certain measure or verse\r\nwas by nature appropriated to each particular species of writing, as\r\nbeing naturally expressive of that character, sentiment, or passion,\r\nwhich ought to predominate in it. One verse, they said, was fit for\r\ngrave and another for gay works, which could not, they thought, be\r\ninterchanged without the greatest impropriety. The experience of\r\nmodern times, however, seems to contradict this principle, though in\r\nitself it would appear to be extremely probable. What is the burlesque\r\nverse in English, is the heroic verse in French. The tragedies of\r\nRacine and the Henriad of Voltaire, are nearly in the same verse\r\nwith,\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eLet me have your advice in a weighty affair.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page174\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e174\u003c/span\u003e The burlesque verse in French, on the contrary, is pretty\r\nmuch the same with the heroic verse of ten syllables in English.\r\nCustom has made the one nation associate the ideas of gravity,\r\nsublimity, and seriousness, to that measure which the other has\r\nconnected with whatever is gay, flippant, and ludicrous. Nothing would\r\nappear more absurd in English, than a tragedy written in the\r\nAlexandrine verses of the French; or in French, than a work of the\r\nsame kind in hexametery, or verses of ten syllables.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAn eminent artist will bring about a considerable change in the\r\nestablished modes of each of those arts, and introduce a new fashion\r\nof writing, music, or architecture. As the dress of an agreeable man\r\nof high rank recommends itself, and how peculiar and fantastical\r\nsoever, comes soon to be admired and imitated; so the excellencies of\r\nan eminent master recommend his peculiarities, and his manner becomes\r\nthe fashionable style in the art which he practises. The taste of the\r\nItalians in music and architecture has, within these fifty years,\r\nundergone a considerable change, from imitating the peculiarities of\r\nsome eminent masters in each of those arts. Seneca is accused by\r\nQuintilian of having corrupted the taste of the Romans, and of having\r\nintroduced a frivolous prettiness in the room of majestic reason and\r\nmasculine eloquence. Sallust and Tacitus have by others been charged\r\nwith the same accusation, though in a different manner. They gave\r\nreputation, it is pretended, to a style, which though in the highest\r\ndegree concise, elegant, expressive, and even poetical, wanted,\r\nhowever, ease, simplicity, and nature, and was evidently the\r\nproduction of the most laboured and studied affectation. How many\r\ngreat qualities must that writer possess, who can thus render his very\r\nfaults agreeable? After the praise of refining the taste of a nation,\r\nthe highest eulogy, perhaps, which can be bestowed upon any author, is\r\nto say, that he corrupted it. In our own language, Mr. Pope and Dr.\r\nSwift have each of them introduced a manner different from what was\r\npractised before, into all works that are written in rhyme, the one in\r\nlong verses, the other in short. The quaintness of Butler has given\r\nplace to the plainness of Swift. The rambling freedom of Dryden, and\r\nthe correct but often tedious and prosaic languor of Addison, are no\r\nlonger the objects of imitation, but all long verses are now written\r\nafter the manner of the nervous precision of Mr. Pope.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNeither is it only over the productions of the arts, that custom\r\nand fashion exert their dominion. They influence our judgments, in the\r\nsame manner, with regard to the beauty of natural objects. What\r\nvarious and opposite forms are deemed beautiful in different species\r\nof things? The proportions which are admired in one animal, are\r\naltogether different from those which are esteemed in another. Every\r\nclass of things has its own peculiar conformation, which is approved\r\nof, and has a beauty of its own, distinct from that of every other\r\nspecies. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page175\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e175\u003c/span\u003e It is upon this account that a learned Jesuit, Father\r\nBuffier, has determined that the beauty of every object consists in\r\nthat form and colour, which is most usual among things of that\r\nparticular sort to which it belongs. Thus, in the human form, the\r\nbeauty of each feature lies in a certain middle, equally removed from\r\na variety of other forms that are ugly. A beautiful nose, for example,\r\nis one that is neither very long, nor very short, neither very\r\nstraight, nor very crooked, but a sort of middle among all these\r\nextremes, and less different from any one of them, than all of them\r\nare from one another. It is the form which nature seems to have aimed\r\nat in them all, which, however, she deviates from in a great variety\r\nof ways, and very seldom hits exactly; but to which all those\r\ndeviations still bear a very strong resemblance. When a number of\r\ndrawings are made after one pattern, though they may all miss it in\r\nsome respects, yet they will all resemble it more than they resemble\r\none another; the general character of the pattern will run through\r\nthem all; the most singular and odd will be those which are most wide\r\nof it; and though very few will copy it exactly, yet the most accurate\r\ndelineations will bear a greater resemblance to the most careless,\r\nthan the careless ones will bear to one another. In the same manner,\r\nin each species of creatures, what is most beautiful bears the\r\nstrongest characters of the general fabric of the species, and has the\r\nstrongest resemblance to the greater part of the individuals with\r\nwhich it is classed. Monsters, on the contrary, or what is perfectly\r\ndeformed, are always most singular and odd, and have the least\r\nresemblance to the generality of that species to which they belong.\r\nAnd thus the beauty of each species, though in one sense the rarest of\r\nall things, because few individuals hit this middle form exactly, yet\r\nin another, is the most common, because all the deviations from it\r\nresemble it more than they resemble one another. The most customary\r\nform, therefore, is in each species of things, according to him, the\r\nmost beautiful. And hence it is that a certain practice and experience\r\nin contemplating each species of objects is requisite before we can\r\njudge of its beauty, or know wherein the middle and most usual form\r\nconsists. The nicest judgment concerning the beauty of the human\r\nspecies will not help us to judge of that of flowers, or horses, or\r\nany other species of things. It is for the same reason that in\r\ndifferent climates, and where different customs and ways of living\r\ntake place, as the generality of any species receives a different\r\nconformation from those circumstances, so different ideas of its\r\nbeauty prevail. The beauty of a Moorish is not exactly the same with\r\nthat of an English horse. What different ideas are formed in different\r\nnations concerning the beauty of the human shape and countenance? A\r\nfair complexion is a shocking deformity upon the coast of Guinea.\r\nThick lips and a flat nose are a beauty. In some nations long ears\r\nthat hang down upon the shoulders are the objects of universal\r\nadmiration. In China if a lady’s foot is so \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e176\u003c/span\u003e large as to be fit\r\nto walk upon, she is regarded as a monster of ugliness. Some of the\r\nsavage nations in North America tie four boards round the heads of\r\ntheir children, and thus squeeze them, while the bones are tender and\r\ngristly, into a form that is almost perfectly square. Europeans are\r\nastonished at the absurd barbarity of this practice, to which some\r\nmissionaries have imputed the singular stupidity of those nations\r\namong whom it prevails. But when they condemn those savages, they do\r\nnot reflect that the ladies in Europe had, till within these very few\r\nyears, been endeavouring, for near a century past, to squeeze the\r\nbeautiful roundness of their natural shape into a square form of the\r\nsame kind. And that, notwithstanding the many distortions and diseases\r\nwhich this practice was known to occasion, custom had rendered it\r\nagreeable among some of the most civilized nations which, perhaps, the\r\nworld has ever beheld.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch is the system of this learned and ingenious father, concerning\r\nthe nature of beauty; of which the whole charm, according to him,\r\nwould thus seem to arise from its falling in with the habits which\r\ncustom had impressed upon the imagination, with regard to things of\r\neach particular kind. I cannot, however, be induced to believe that\r\nour sense even of external beauty is founded altogether on custom. The\r\nutility of any form, its fitness for the useful purposes for which it\r\nwas intended evidently recommends it, and renders it agreeable to us,\r\nindependent of custom. Certain colours are more agreeable than others,\r\nand give more delight to the eye the first time it ever beholds them.\r\nA smooth surface is more agreeable than a rough one. Variety is more\r\npleasing than a tedious undiversified uniformity. Connected variety,\r\nin which each new appearance seems to be introduced by what went\r\nbefore it, and in which all the adjoining parts seem to have some\r\nnatural relation to one another, is more agreeable than a disjointed\r\nand disorderly assemblage of unconnected objects. But though I cannot\r\nadmit that custom is the sole principle of beauty, yet I can so far\r\nallow the truth of this ingenious system as to grant, that there is\r\nscarce any one external form so beautiful as to please, if quite\r\ncontrary to custom and unlike whatever we have ever been used to in\r\nthat particular species of things: or so deformed as not to be\r\nagreeable, if custom uniformly supports it, and habituates us to see\r\nit in every single individual of the kind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page176\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon Moral\r\nSentiments.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eINCE\u003c/span\u003e our sentiments concerning beauty of every kind, are so much\r\ninfluenced by custom and fashion, it cannot be expected, that those,\r\nconcerning the beauty of conduct, should be entirely exempted from\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page177\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e177\u003c/span\u003e the dominion of those principles. Their influence here, however,\r\nseems to be much less than it is every where else. There is, perhaps,\r\nno form of external objects, how absurd and fantastical soever, to\r\nwhich custom will not reconcile us, or which fashion will not render\r\neven agreeable. But the characters and conduct of a Nero, or a\r\nClaudius, are what no custom will ever reconcile us to, what no\r\nfashion will ever render agreeable; but the one will always be the\r\nobject of dread and hatred; the other of scorn and derision. The\r\nprinciples of the imagination, upon which our sense of beauty depends,\r\nare of a very nice and delicate nature, and may easily be altered by\r\nhabit and education: but the sentiments of moral approbation and\r\ndisapprobation, are founded on the strongest and most vigorous\r\npassions of human nature; and though they may be warped, cannot be\r\nentirely perverted.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though the influence of custom and fashion upon moral\r\nsentiments, is not altogether so great, it is however perfectly\r\nsimilar to what it is every where else. When custom and fashion\r\ncoincide with the natural principles of right and wrong, they heighten\r\nthe delicacy of our sentiments, and increase our abhorrence for every\r\nthing which approaches to evil. Those who have been educated in what\r\nis really good company, not in what is commonly called such, who have\r\nbeen accustomed to see nothing in the persons whom they esteemed and\r\nlived with, but justice, modesty, humanity, and good order; are more\r\nshocked with whatever seems to be inconsistent with the rules which\r\nthose virtues prescribe. Those, on the contrary, who have had the\r\nmisfortune to be brought up amidst violence, licentiousness,\r\nfalsehood, and injustice, lose, though not all sense of the\r\nimpropriety of such conduct, yet all sense of its dreadful enormity,\r\nor of the vengeance and punishment due to it. They have been\r\nfamiliarized with it from their infancy, custom has rendered it\r\nhabitual to them, and they are very apt to regard it as, what is\r\ncalled, the way of the world, something which either may, or must be\r\npractised, to hinder us from being made the dupes of our own\r\nintegrity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFashion, too, will sometimes give reputation to a certain degree of\r\ndisorder, and, on the contrary, discountenance qualities which deserve\r\nesteem. In the reign of Charles Ⅱ. a degree of licentiousness was\r\ndeemed the characteristic of a liberal education. It was connected,\r\naccording to the notions of those times, with generosity, sincerity,\r\nmagnanimity, loyalty, and proved that the person who acted in this\r\nmanner, was a gentleman, and not a puritan. Severity of manners, and\r\nregularity of conduct, on the other hand, were altogether\r\nunfashionable, and were connected, in the imagination of that age,\r\nwith cant, cunning, hypocrisy, and low manners. To superficial minds,\r\nthe vices of the great seem at all times agreeable. They connect them,\r\nnot only with the splendour of fortune, but with many superior\r\nvirtues, which they ascribe to their superiors; with the spirit of\r\nfreedom and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page178\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e178\u003c/span\u003e independency, with frankness, generosity, humanity,\r\nand politeness. The virtues of the inferior ranks of people, on the\r\ncontrary, their parsimonious frugality, their painful industry, and\r\nrigid adherence to rules, seems to them mean and disagreeable. They\r\nconnect them, both with the meanness of the station to which those\r\nqualities do commonly belong, and with many great vices which, they\r\nsuppose, very usually accompany them; such as an abject, cowardly,\r\nill-natured, lying, and pilfering disposition.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe objects with which men in the different professions and states\r\nof life are conversant, being very different, and habituating them to\r\nvery different passions, naturally form in them very different\r\ncharacters and manners. We expect in each rank and profession, a\r\ndegree of those manners, which, experience has taught us, belong to\r\nit. But as in each species of things, we are particularly pleased with\r\nthe middle conformation, which, in every part and feature, agrees most\r\nexactly with the general standard which nature seems to have\r\nestablished for things of that kind; so in each rank, or, if I may say\r\nso, in each species of men, we are particularly pleased, if they have\r\nneither too much, nor too little of the character which usually\r\naccompanies their particular condition and situation. A man, we say,\r\nshould look like his trade and profession; yet the pedantry of every\r\nprofession is disagreeable. The different periods of life have, for\r\nthe same reason, different manners assigned to them. We expect in old\r\nage, that gravity and sedateness which its infirmities, its long\r\nexperience, and its worn-out sensibility seem to render both natural\r\nand respectable; and we lay our account to find in youth that\r\nsensibility, that gaiety and sprightly vivacity which experience\r\nteaches us to expect from the lively impressions that all interesting\r\nobjects are apt to make upon the tender and unpractised senses of that\r\nearly period of life. Each of those two ages, however, may easily have\r\ntoo much of these peculiarities which belong to it. The flirting\r\nlevity of youth, and the immovable insensibility of old age, are\r\nequally disagreeable. The young, according to the common saying, are\r\nmost agreeable when in their behaviour there is something of the\r\nmanners of the old, and the old, when they retain something of the\r\ngaiety of the young. Either of them, however, may easily have too much\r\nof the manners of the other. The extreme coldness, and the dull\r\nformality, which are pardoned in old age, make youth ridiculous. The\r\nlevity, the carelessness, and the vanity, which are indulged in youth,\r\nwill render old age contemptible.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe peculiar character and manners which we are led by custom to\r\nappropriate to each rank and profession, have sometimes perhaps a\r\npropriety independent of custom; and are what we should approve of\r\nfor their own sakes, if we took into consideration all the different\r\ncircumstances which naturally affect those in each different state of\r\nlife. The propriety of a person’s behaviour, depends not upon its\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page179\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e179\u003c/span\u003e suitableness to any one circumstance of his situation, but to\r\nall the circumstances, which, when we bring his case home to\r\nourselves, we feel, should naturally call upon his attention. If he\r\nappears to be so much occupied by any one of them, as entirely to\r\nneglect the rest, we disapprove of his conduct, as something which we\r\ncannot entirely go along with, because not properly adjusted to all\r\nthe circumstances of his situation: yet, perhaps, the emotion he\r\nexpresses for the object which principally interests him, does not\r\nexceed what we should entirely sympathize with, and approve of, in one\r\nwhose attention was not required by any other thing. A parent in\r\nprivate life might, upon the loss of an only son, express without\r\nblame a degree of grief and tenderness, which would be unpardonable in\r\na general at the head of an army, when glory, and the public safety,\r\ndemanded so great a part of his attention. As different objects ought,\r\nupon common occasions, to occupy the attention of men of different\r\nprofessions, so different passions ought naturally to become habitual\r\nto them; and when we bring home to ourselves their situation in this\r\nparticular respect, we must be sensible, that every occurrence should\r\nnaturally affect them more or less, according as the emotion which it\r\nexcites, coincides or disagrees with the fixed habit and temper of\r\ntheir minds. We cannot expect the same sensibility to the gay\r\npleasures and amusements of life in a clergyman, which we lay our\r\naccount with in an officer. The man whose peculiar occupation it is to\r\nkeep the world in mind of that awful futurity which awaits him, who is\r\nto announce what may be the fatal consequences of every deviation from\r\nthe rules of duty, and who is himself to set the example of the most\r\nexact conformity, seems to be the messenger of tidings, which cannot,\r\nin propriety, be delivered either with levity or indifference. His\r\nmind is supposed to be continually occupied with what is too grand and\r\nsolemn, to leave any room for the impressions of those frivolous\r\nobjects, which fill up the attention of the dissipated and the gay. We\r\nreadily feel therefore, that, independent of custom, there is a\r\npropriety in the manners which custom has allotted to this profession;\r\nand that nothing can be more suitable to the character of a clergyman,\r\nthan that grave, that austere and abstracted severity, which we are\r\nhabituated to expect in his behaviour. These reflections are so very\r\nobvious, that there is scarce any man so inconsiderate, as not, at\r\nsome time, to have made them, and to have accounted to himself in this\r\nmanner for his approbation of the useful character of the clerical\r\norder.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe foundation of the customary character of some other professions\r\nis not so obvious, and our approbation of it is founded entirely in\r\nthe habit, without being either confirmed or enlivened by any\r\nreflections of this kind. We are led by custom, for example, to annex\r\nthe character of gaiety, levity, and sprightly freedom, as well as of\r\nsome degree of dissipation, to the military profession. Yet, if we\r\nwere \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page180\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e180\u003c/span\u003e to consider what mood or tone of temper would be most\r\nsuitable to this situation, we should be apt to determine, perhaps,\r\nthat the most serious and thoughtful turn of mind would best become\r\nthose whose lives are continually exposed to uncommon danger, and who\r\nshould therefore be more constantly occupied with the thoughts of\r\ndeath and its consequences than other men. It is this very\r\ncircumstance, however, which is not improbably the occasion why the\r\ncontrary turn of mind prevails so much among men of this profession.\r\nIt requires so great an effort to conquer the fear of death, when we\r\nsurvey it with steadiness and attention, that those who are constantly\r\nexposed to it, find it easier to turn away their thoughts from it\r\naltogether, to wrap themselves up in careless security and\r\nindifference, and to plunge themselves, for this purpose, into every\r\nsort of amusement and dissipation. A camp is not the element of a\r\nthoughtful or a melancholy man: persons of that cast, indeed, are\r\noften abundantly determined, and are capable, by a great effort, of\r\ngoing on with inflexible resolution to the most unavoidable death. But\r\nto be exposed to continual, though less imminent danger, to be obliged\r\nto exert, for a long time, a degree of this effort, exhausts and\r\ndepresses the mind, and renders it incapable of all happiness and\r\nenjoyment. The gay and careless, who have occasion to make no effort\r\nat all, who fairly resolve never to look before them, but to lose in\r\ncontinual pleasures and amusements all anxiety about their situation,\r\nmore easily support such circumstances. Whenever, by any peculiar\r\ncircumstances, an officer has no reason to lay his account with being\r\nexposed to any uncommon danger, he is very apt to lose the gaiety and\r\ndissipated thoughtlessness of his character. The captain of a city\r\nguard is commonly as sober, careful, and penurious an animal as the\r\nrest of his fellow-citizens. A long peace is, for the same reason,\r\nvery apt to diminish the difference between the civil and the military\r\ncharacter. The ordinary situation, however, of men of this profession,\r\nrenders gaiety, and a degree of dissipation, so much their usual\r\ncharacter; and custom has, in our imagination, so strongly connected\r\nthis character with this state of life, that we are very apt to\r\ndespise any man, whose peculiar humour or situation renders him\r\nincapable of acquiring it. We laugh at the grave and careful faces of\r\na city guard, which so little resemble those of their profession. They\r\nthemselves seem often to be ashamed of the regularity of their own\r\nmanners, and, not to be out of the fashion of their trade, are fond of\r\naffecting that levity, which is by no means natural to them. Whatever\r\nis the deportment which we have been accustomed to see in a\r\nrespectable order of men, it comes to be so associated in our\r\nimagination with that order, that whenever we see the one, we lay our\r\naccount that we are to meet with the other, and when disappointed,\r\nmiss something which we expected to find. We are embarrassed, and put\r\nto a stand, and know not how to address ourselves to a character,\r\nwhich plainly \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page181\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e181\u003c/span\u003e affects to be of a different species from those\r\nwith which we should have been disposed to class it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe different situations of different ages and countries are apt,\r\nin the same manner, to give different characters to the generality of\r\nthose who live in them, and their sentiments concerning the particular\r\ndegree of each quality, that is either blamable or praise-worthy, vary\r\naccording to that degree which is usual in their own country, and in\r\ntheir own times. That degree of politeness which would be highly\r\nesteemed, perhaps would be thought effeminate adulation, in Russia,\r\nwould be regarded as rudeness and barbarism at the court of France.\r\nThat degree of order and frugality, which, in a Polish nobleman, would\r\nbe considered as excessive parsimony, would be regarded as\r\nextravagance in a citizen of Amsterdam. Every age and country look\r\nupon that degree of each quality, which is commonly to be met with in\r\nthose who are esteemed among themselves, as the golden mean of that\r\nparticular talent or virtue. And as this varies, according as their\r\ndifferent circumstances render different qualities more or less\r\nhabitual to them, their sentiments concerning the exact propriety of\r\ncharacter and behaviour vary accordingly.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAmong civilized nations, the virtues which are founded upon\r\nhumanity, are more cultivated than those which are founded upon\r\nself-denial and the command of the passions. Among rude and barbarous\r\nnations, it is quite otherwise, the virtues of self-denial are more\r\ncultivated than those of humanity. The general security and happiness\r\nwhich prevail in ages of civility and politeness, afford little\r\nexercise to the contempt of danger, to patience in enduring labour,\r\nhunger, and pain. Poverty may easily be avoided, and the contempt of\r\nit therefore almost ceases to be a virtue. The abstinence from\r\npleasure becomes less necessary, and the mind is more at liberty to\r\nunbend and to indulge its natural inclinations in all those particular\r\nrespects.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAmong savages and barbarians it is quite otherwise. Every savage\r\nundergoes a sort of Spartan discipline, and by the necessity of his\r\nsituation is inured to every sort of hardship. He is in continual\r\ndanger: he is often exposed to the greatest extremities of hunger, and\r\nfrequently dies of pure want. His circumstances not only habituate him\r\nto every sort of distress, but teach him to give way to none of the\r\npassions which that distress is apt to excite. He can expect from his\r\ncountrymen no sympathy or indulgence for such weakness. Before we can\r\nfeel much for others, we must in some measure be at ease ourselves. If\r\nour own misery pinches us very severely, we have no leisure to attend\r\nto that of our neighbour: and all savages are too much occupied with\r\ntheir own wants and necessities, to give much attention to those of\r\nanother person. A savage, therefore, whatever be the nature of his\r\ndistress, expects no sympathy from those about him, and disdains, upon\r\nthat account, to expose himself, by allowing the least weakness to\r\nescape \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page182\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e182\u003c/span\u003e him. His passions, how furious and violent soever, are\r\nnever permitted to disturb the serenity of his countenance or the\r\ncomposure of his conduct and behaviour. The savages in North America,\r\nwe are told, assume upon all occasions the greatest indifference, and\r\nwould think themselves degraded if they should ever appear in any\r\nrespect to be overcome, either by love, or grief, or resentment. Their\r\nmagnanimity and self-command, in this respect, are almost beyond the\r\nconception of Europeans. In a country in which all men are upon a\r\nlevel, with regard to rank and fortune, it might be expected that the\r\nmutual inclinations of the two parties should be the only thing\r\nconsidered in marriages, and should be indulged without any sort of\r\ncontrol. This, however, is the country in which all marriages, without\r\nexception, are made up by the parents, and in which a young man would\r\nthink himself disgraced for ever, if he showed the least preference of\r\none woman above another, or did not express the most complete\r\nindifference, both about the time when, and the person to whom, he was\r\nto be married. The weakness of love, which is so indulged in ages of\r\nhumanity and politeness, is regarded among savages as the most\r\nunpardonable effeminacy. Even after the marriage, the two parties seem\r\nto be ashamed of a connexion which is founded upon so sordid a\r\nnecessity. They do not live together. They see one another by stealth\r\nonly. They both continue to dwell in the houses of their respective\r\nfathers, and the open cohabitation of the two sexes, which is\r\npermitted without blame in all other countries, is here considered as\r\nthe most indecent and unmanly sensuality. Nor is it only over this\r\nagreeable passion that they exert this absolute self-command. They\r\noften bear, in the sight of all their countrymen, with injuries,\r\nreproach, and the grossest insults, with the appearance of the\r\ngreatest insensibility, and without expressing the smallest\r\nresentment. When a savage is made prisoner of war, and receives, as is\r\nusual, the sentence of death from his conquerors, he hears it without\r\nexpressing any emotion, and afterwards submits to the most dreadful\r\ntorments, without ever bemoaning himself, or discovering any other\r\npassion but contempt of his enemies. While he is hung by the shoulders\r\nover a slow fire, he derides his tormentors, and tells them with how\r\nmuch more ingenuity he himself had tormented such of their countrymen\r\nas had fallen into his hands. After he has been scorched and burnt,\r\nand lacerated in all the most tender and sensible parts of his body\r\nfor several hours together, he is often allowed, in order to prolong\r\nhis misery, a short respite, and is taken down from the stake: he\r\nemploys this interval in talking upon all indifferent subjects,\r\ninquires after the news of the country, and seems indifferent about\r\nnothing but his own situation. The spectators express the same\r\ninsensibility; the sight of so horrible an object seems to make no\r\nimpression upon them; they scarce look at the prisoner, except when\r\nthey lend a hand to torment him. At other times they smoke tobacco,\r\nand amuse themselves \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page183\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e183\u003c/span\u003e with any common object, as if no such\r\nmatter was going on. Every savage is said to prepare himself from his\r\nearliest youth for this dreadful end. He composes, for this purpose,\r\nwhat they call the song of death, a song which he is to sing when he\r\nhas fallen into the hands of his enemies, and is expiring under the\r\ntortures which they inflict upon him. It consists of insults upon his\r\ntormentors, and expresses the highest contempt of death and pain. He\r\nsings this song upon all extraordinary occasions, when he goes out to\r\nwar, when he meets his enemies in the field, or whenever he has a mind\r\nto show that he has familiarised his imagination to the most dreadful\r\nmisfortunes, and that no human event can daunt his resolution or alter\r\nhis purpose. The same contempt of death and torture prevails among all\r\nother savage nations. There is not a negro from the coast of Africa,\r\nwho does not in this respect, possess a degree of magnanimity which\r\nthe soul of his sordid master is too often scarce capable of\r\nconceiving. Fortune never exerted more cruelly her empire over\r\nmankind, than when she subjected those nations of heroes to the refuse\r\nof the jails of Europe, to wretches who possess the virtues neither of\r\nthe countries which they come from, nor of those which they go to, and\r\nwhose levity, brutality, and baseness, expose them to the contempt of\r\nthe vanquished.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis heroic and unconquerable firmness, which the custom and\r\neducation of his country demand of every savage, is not required of\r\nthose who are brought up to live in civilized societies. If these last\r\ncomplain when they are in pain, if they grieve when they are in\r\ndistress, if they allow themselves either to be overcome by love, or\r\nto be discomposed by anger, they are easily pardoned. Such weaknesses\r\nare not apprehended to affect the essential parts of their character.\r\nAs long as they do not allow themselves to be transported to do\r\nanything contrary to justice or humanity, they lose but little\r\nreputation, though the serenity of their countenance, or the composure\r\nof their discourse and behaviour should be somewhat ruffled and\r\ndisturbed. A humane and polished people, who have more sensibility to\r\nthe passions of others, can more readily enter into an animated and\r\npassionate behaviour, and can more easily pardon some little excess.\r\nThe person principally concerned is sensible of this; and being\r\nassured of the equity of his judges, indulges himself in stronger\r\nexpressions of passion, and is less afraid of exposing himself to\r\ntheir contempt by the violence of his emotions. We can venture to\r\nexpress more emotion in the presence of a friend than in that of a\r\nstranger, because we expect more indulgence from the one than from the\r\nother. And in the same manner the rules of decorum amongst civilized\r\nnations, admit of a more animated behaviour, than is approved of among\r\nbarbarians. The first converse together with the openness of friends;\r\nthe second with the reserve of strangers. The emotion and vivacity\r\nwith which the French and the Italians, the two most polished nations\r\nupon the continent, express \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page184\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e184\u003c/span\u003e themselves on occasions that are at\r\nall interesting, surprise at first those strangers who happen to be\r\ntravelling among them, and who, having been educated among a people of\r\nduller sensibility, cannot enter into this passionate behaviour, of\r\nwhich they have never seen any example in their own country. A young\r\nFrench nobleman will weep in the presence of the whole court upon\r\nbeing refused a regiment. An Italian, says the Abbot Du Bos, expresses\r\nmore emotion on being condemned in a fine of twenty shillings, than an\r\nEnglishman on receiving the sentence of death. Cicero, in the times of\r\nthe highest Roman politeness, could, without degrading himself, weep\r\nwith all the bitterness of sorrow in the sight of the whole senate and\r\nthe whole people; as it is evident he must have done in the end of\r\nalmost every oration. The orators of the earlier and ruder ages of\r\nRome could not probably, consistent with the manners of the times,\r\nhave expressed themselves with so much emotion. It would have been\r\nregarded, I suppose, as a violation of nature and propriety in the\r\nScipios, in the Leliuses, and in the elder Cato, to have exposed so\r\nmuch tenderness to the view of the public. Those ancient warriors\r\ncould express themselves with order, gravity, and good judgment: but\r\nare said to have been strangers to that sublime and passionate\r\neloquence which was first introduced into Rome, not many years before\r\nthe birth of Cicero, by the two Gracchi, by Crassus, and by Sulpitius.\r\nThis animated eloquence, which has been long practised, with or\r\nwithout success, both in France and Italy, is but just beginning to be\r\nintroduced into England. So wide is the difference between the degrees\r\nof self-command which are required in civilized and in barbarous\r\nnations, and by such different standards do they judge of the\r\npropriety of behaviour.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis difference gives occasion to many others that are not less\r\nessential. A polished people being accustomed to give way, in some\r\nmeasure, to the movements of nature, become frank, open, and sincere.\r\nBarbarians, on the contrary, being obliged to smother and conceal the\r\nappearance of every passion, necessarily acquire the habits of\r\nfalsehood and dissimulation. It is observed by all those who have been\r\nconversant with savage nations, whether in Asia, Africa, or America,\r\nthat they are equally impenetrable, and that, when they have a mind to\r\nconceal the truth, no examination is capable of drawing it from them.\r\nThey cannot be trepanned by the most artful questions. The torture\r\nitself is incapable of making them confess any thing which they have\r\nno mind to tell. The passions of a savage too, though they never\r\nexpress themselves by an outward emotion, but lie concealed in the\r\nbreast of the sufferer, are, notwithstanding, all mounted to the\r\nhighest pitch of fury. Though he seldom shows any symptoms of anger,\r\nyet his vengeance, when he comes to give way to it, is always\r\nsanguinary and dreadful. The least affront drives him to despair. His\r\ncountenance and discourse indeed, are still sober and composed, and\r\nexpress nothing \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page185\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e185\u003c/span\u003e but the most perfect tranquillity of mind: but\r\nhis actions are often the most furious and violent. Among the North\r\nAmericans it is not uncommon for persons of the tenderest age and more\r\nfearful sex to drown themselves upon receiving only a slight reprimand\r\nfrom their mothers, and this too without expressing any passion, or\r\nsaying any thing, except, \u003ci\u003eyou shall no longer have a daughter\u003c/i\u003e.\r\nIn civilized nations the passions of men are not commonly so furious\r\nor so desperate. They are often clamorous and noisy, but are seldom\r\nvery hurtful; and seem frequently to aim at no other satisfaction, but\r\nthat of convincing the spectator, that they are in the right to be so\r\nmuch moved, and of procuring his sympathy and approbation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAll these effects of custom and fashion, however, upon the moral\r\nsentiments of mankind, are inconsiderable, in comparison of those\r\nwhich they give occasion to in some other cases; and it is not\r\nconcerning the general style of character and behaviour, that those\r\nprinciples produce the greatest perversion of judgment, but concerning\r\nthe propriety or impropriety of particular usages.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe different manners which custom teaches us to approve of in the\r\ndifferent professions and states of life, do not concern things of the\r\ngreatest importance. We expect truth and justice from an old man as\r\nwell as from a young, from a clergyman as well as from an officer; and\r\nit is in matters of small moment only that we look for the\r\ndistinguishing marks of their respective characters. With regard to\r\nthese, too, there is often some unobserved circumstance which, if it\r\nwas attended to, would show us, that, independent of custom, there was\r\na propriety in the character which custom had taught us to allot to\r\neach profession. We cannot complain, therefore, in this case, that the\r\nperversion of natural sentiment is very great. Though the manners of\r\ndifferent nations require different degrees of the same quality, in\r\nthe character which they think worthy of esteem, yet the worst that\r\ncan be said to happen even here, is that the duties of one virtue are\r\nsometimes extended so as to encroach a little upon the precincts of\r\nsome other. The rustic hospitality that is in fashion among the Poles\r\nencroaches, perhaps, a little upon œconomy and good order; and the\r\nfrugality that is esteemed in Holland, upon generosity and\r\ngood-fellowship. The hardiness demanded of savages diminishes their\r\nhumanity; and, perhaps, the delicate sensibility required in civilized\r\nnations, sometimes destroys the masculine firmness of the character.\r\nIn general, the style of manners which takes place in any nation, may\r\ncommonly upon the whole be said to be that which is most suitable to\r\nits situation. Hardiness is the character most suitable to the\r\ncircumstances of a savage; sensibility to those of one who lives in a\r\nvery civilized country. Even here, therefore, we cannot complain that\r\nthe moral sentiments of men, as displayed by them, are very grossly\r\nperverted.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is not therefore in the general style of conduct or behaviour\r\nthat \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page186\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e186\u003c/span\u003e custom authorises the widest departure from what is the\r\nnatural propriety of action. With regard to particular usages, its\r\ninfluence is often much more destructive of good morals, and it is\r\ncapable of establishing, as lawful and blameless, particular actions,\r\nwhich shock the very plainest principles of right and wrong.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eCan there be greater barbarity, for example, than to hurt an\r\ninfant? Its helplessness, its innocence, its amiableness, call forth\r\nthe compassion, even of an enemy, and not to spare that tender age is\r\nregarded as the most furious effort of an enraged and cruel conqueror.\r\nWhat then should we imagine must be the heart of a parent who could\r\ninjure that weakness which even a furious enemy is afraid to violate?\r\nYet the exposition, that is, the murder of new-born infants, was a\r\npractice allowed of in almost all the states of Greece, even among the\r\npolite and civilized Athenians; and whenever the circumstances of the\r\nparent rendered it inconvenient to bring up the child, to abandon it\r\nto hunger or to wild beasts was regarded without blame or censure.\r\nThis practice had probably begun in times of the most savage\r\nbarbarity. The imaginations of men had been first made familiar with\r\nit in that earliest period of society, and the uniform continuance of\r\nthe custom had hindered them afterwards from perceiving its enormity.\r\nWe find, at this day, that this practice prevails among all savage\r\nnations; and in that rudest and lowest state of society it is\r\nundoubtedly more pardonable than in any other. The extreme indigence\r\nof a savage is often such that he himself is frequently exposed to the\r\ngreatest extremity of hunger, he often dies of pure want, and it is\r\nfrequently impossible for him to support both himself and his child.\r\nWe cannot wonder, therefore, that in this case he should abandon it.\r\nOne who, in flying from an enemy, whom it was impossible to resist,\r\nshould throw down his infant, because it retarded his flight, would\r\nsurely be excusable; since, by attempting to save it, he could only\r\nhope for the consolation of dying with it. That in this state of\r\nsociety, therefore, a parent should be allowed to judge whether he can\r\nbring up his child, ought not to surprise us so greatly. In the latter\r\nages of Greece, however, the same thing was permitted from views of\r\nremote interest or conveniency, which could by no means excuse it.\r\nUninterrupted custom had by this time so thoroughly authorised the\r\npractice, that not only the loose maxims of the world tolerated this\r\nbarbarous prerogative, but even the doctrine of philosophers, which\r\nought to have been more just and accurate, was led away by the\r\nestablished custom, and upon this, as upon many other occasions,\r\ninstead of censuring, supported the horrible abuse, by far-fetched\r\nconsiderations of public utility. Aristotle talks of it as of what the\r\nmagistrate ought upon many occasions to encourage. The humane Plato is\r\nof the same opinion, and, with all that love of mankind which seems to\r\nanimate all his writings, no where marks this practice with\r\ndisapprobation. When custom can give sanction to so dreadful a\r\nviolation of humanity; we \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e187\u003c/span\u003e may well imagine that there is scarce\r\nany particular practice so gross which it cannot authorise. Such a\r\nthing, we hear men every day saying, is commonly done, and they seem\r\nto think this a sufficient apology for what, in itself, is the most\r\nunjust and unreasonable conduct.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere is an obvious reason why custom should never pervert our\r\nsentiments with regard to the general style and character of conduct\r\nand behaviour, in the same degree as with regard to the propriety or\r\nunlawfulness of particular usages. There never can be any such custom.\r\nNo society could subsist a moment, in which the usual strain of men’s\r\nconduct and behaviour was of a piece with the horrible practice I have\r\njust now mentioned.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003e \u003ca id=\"page187\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ci\u003ePart Ⅵ.—Of the Character of Virtue.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNTRODUCTION\u003c/span\u003e.—When we consider the character of any individual, we\r\nnaturally view it under two different aspects; first, as it may affect\r\nhis own happiness; and secondly, as it may affect that of other\r\npeople.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—OF THE CHARACTER OF THE INDIVIDUAL, SO FAR AS IT AFFECTS\r\nHIS OWN HAPPINESS; OR OF PRUDENCE.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e preservation and healthful state of the body seem to be the\r\nobjects which Nature first recommends to the care of every individual.\r\nThe appetites of hunger and thirst, the agreeable or disagreeable\r\nsensations of pleasure and pain, of heat and cold, \u0026amp;c., may be\r\nconsidered as lessons delivered by the voice of Nature herself,\r\ndirecting him what he ought to choose, and what he ought to avoid, for\r\nthis purpose. The first lessons which he is taught by those to whom\r\nhis childhood is entrusted, tend, the greater part of them, to the\r\nsame purpose. Their principal object is to teach him how to keep out\r\nof harm’s way.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs he grows up, he soon learns that some care and foresight are\r\nnecessary for providing the means of gratifying those natural\r\nappetites, of procuring pleasure and avoiding pain, of procuring the\r\nagreeable and avoiding the disagreeable temperature of heat and cold.\r\nIn the proper direction of this care and foresight consists the art of\r\npreserving and increasing what is called his external fortune.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThough it is in order to supply the necessities and conveniencies\r\nof the body, that the advantages of external fortune are originally\r\nrecommended to us, yet we cannot live long in the world without\r\nperceiving that the respect of our equals, our credit and rank in the\r\nsociety we live in, depend very much upon the degree in which we\r\npossess, or are supposed to possess, those advantages. The desire of\r\nbecoming the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page188\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e188\u003c/span\u003e proper objects of this respect, of deserving and\r\nobtaining this credit and rank among our equals, is, perhaps, the\r\nstrongest of all our desires, and our anxiety to obtain the advantages\r\nof fortune is accordingly much more excited and irritated by this\r\ndesire, than by that of supplying all the necessities and\r\nconveniencies of the body, which are always very easily supplied to\r\nus.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOur rank and credit among our equals, too, depend very much upon,\r\nwhat, perhaps, a virtuous man would wish them to depend entirely, our\r\ncharacter and conduct, or upon the confidence, esteem, and good-will,\r\nwhich these naturally excite in the people we live with.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe care of the health, of the fortune, of the rank and reputation\r\nof the individual, the objects upon which his comfort and happiness in\r\nthis life are supposed principally to depend, is considered as the\r\nproper business of that virtue which is commonly called Prudence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe suffer more, it has already been observed, when we fall from a\r\nbetter to a worse situation, than we ever enjoy when we rise from a\r\nworse to a better. Security, therefore, is the first and the principal\r\nobject of prudence. It is averse to expose our health, our fortune,\r\nour rank, or reputation, to any sort of hazard. It is rather cautious\r\nthan enterprising, and more anxious to preserve the advantages which\r\nwe already possess, than forward to prompt us to the acquisition of\r\nstill greater advantages. The methods of improving our fortune, which\r\nit principally recommends to us, are those which expose to no loss or\r\nhazard; real knowledge and skill in our trade or profession, assiduity\r\nand industry in the exercise of it, frugality, and even some degree of\r\nparsimony, in all our expenses.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe prudent man always studies seriously and earnestly to\r\nunderstand whatever he professes to understand, and not merely to\r\npersuade other people that he understands it; and though his talents\r\nmay not always be very brilliant, they are always perfectly genuine.\r\nHe neither endeavours to impose upon you by the cunning devices of an\r\nartful impostor, nor by the arrogant airs of an assuming pedant, nor\r\nby the confident assertions of a superficial and impudent pretender.\r\nHe is not ostentatious even of the abilities which he really\r\npossesses. His conversation is simple and modest, and he is averse to\r\nall the quackish arts by which other people so frequently thrust\r\nthemselves into public notice and reputation. For reputation in his\r\nprofession he is naturally disposed to rely a good deal upon the\r\nsolidity of his knowledge and abilities; and he does not always think\r\nof cultivating the favour of those little clubs and cabals, who, in\r\nthe superior arts and sciences, so often erect themselves into the\r\nsupreme judges of merit; and who make it their business to celebrate\r\nthe talents and virtues of one another, and to decry whatever can come\r\ninto competition with them. If he ever connects himself with any\r\nsociety of this kind, it is merely in self-defence, not with a view to\r\nimpose upon the public, but to \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page189\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e189\u003c/span\u003e hinder the public from being\r\nimposed upon, to his disadvantage, by the clamours, the whispers, or\r\nthe intrigues, either of that particular society, or of some other of\r\nthe same kind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe prudent man is always sincere, and feels horror at the very\r\nthought of exposing himself to the disgrace which attends upon the\r\ndetection of falsehood. But though always sincere, he is not always\r\nfrank and open; and though he never tells any thing but the truth, he\r\ndoes not always think himself bound, when not properly called upon, to\r\ntell the whole truth. As he is cautious in his actions, so he is\r\nreserved in his speech; and never rashly or unnecessarily obtrudes his\r\nopinion concerning either things or persons.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe prudent man, though not always distinguished by the most\r\nexquisite sensibility, is always very capable of friendship. But his\r\nfriendship is not that ardent and passionate, but too often transitory\r\naffection, which appears so delicious to the generosity of youth and\r\ninexperience. It is a sedate, but steady and faithful attachment to a\r\nfew well-tried and well-chosen companions; in the choice of whom he is\r\nnot guided by the giddy admiration of shining accomplishments, but by\r\nthe sober esteem of modesty, discretion, and good conduct. But though\r\ncapable of friendship, he is not always much disposed to general\r\nsociality. He rarely frequents, and more rarely figures in those\r\nconvivial societies which are distinguished for the jollity and gaiety\r\nof their conversation. Their way of life might too often interfere\r\nwith the regularity of his temperance, might interrupt the steadiness\r\nof his industry, or break in upon the strictness of his frugality.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though his conversation may not always be very sprightly or\r\ndiverting, it is always perfectly inoffensive. He hates the thought of\r\nbeing guilty of any petulance or rudeness. He never assumes\r\nimpertinently over any body, and, upon all common occasions, is\r\nwilling to place himself rather below than above his equals. Both in\r\nhis conduct and conversation, he is an exact observer of decency, and\r\nrespects with an almost religious scrupulosity, all the established\r\ndecorums and ceremonials of society. And, in this respect, he sets a\r\nmuch better example than has frequently been done by men of much more\r\nsplendid talents and virtues, who, in all ages, from that of Socrates\r\nand Aristippus, down to that of Dr. Swift and Voltaire, and from that\r\nof Philip and Alexander the Great, down to that of the great Czar\r\nPeter of Muscovy, have too often distinguished themselves by the most\r\nimproper and even insolent contempt of all the ordinary decorums of\r\nlife and conversation, and who have thereby set the most pernicious\r\nexample to those who wish to resemble them, and who too often content\r\nthemselves with imitating their follies, without even attempting to\r\nattain their perfections.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the steadiness of his industry and frugality, in his steadily\r\nsacrificing the ease and enjoyment of the present moment for the\r\nprobable \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page190\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e190\u003c/span\u003e expectation of the still greater ease and enjoyment of\r\na more distant but more lasting period of time, the prudent man is\r\nalways both supported and rewarded by the entire approbation of the\r\nimpartial spectator, and of the representative of the impartial\r\nspectator, the man within the breast. The impartial spectator does not\r\nfeel himself worn out by the present labour of those whose conduct he\r\nsurveys; nor does he feel himself solicited by the importunate calls\r\nof their present appetites. To him their present, and what is likely\r\nto be their future, situation, are very nearly the same: he sees them\r\nnearly at the same distance, and is affected by them very nearly in\r\nthe same manner. He knows, however, that to the persons principally\r\nconcerned, they are very far from being the same, and that they\r\nnaturally affect \u003ci\u003ethem\u003c/i\u003e in a very different manner. He cannot\r\ntherefore but approve, and even applaud, that proper exertion of\r\nself-command, which enables them to act as if their present and their\r\nfuture situation affected them nearly in the same manner in which they\r\naffect him.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe man who lives within his income, is naturally contented with\r\nhis situation, which, by continual, though small accumulations, is\r\ngrowing better and better every day. He is enabled gradually to relax,\r\nboth in the rigour of his parsimony and in the severity of his\r\napplication; and he feels with double satisfaction this gradual\r\nincrease of ease and enjoyment, from having felt before the hardship\r\nwhich attended the want of them. He has no anxiety to change so\r\ncomfortable a situation and does not go in quest of new enterprises\r\nand adventures, which might endanger, but could not well increase the\r\nsecure tranquillity which he actually enjoys. If he enters into any\r\nnew projects or enterprises, they are likely to be well concerted and\r\nwell prepared. He can never be hurried or driven into them by any\r\nnecessity, but has always time and leisure to deliberate soberly and\r\ncoolly concerning what are likely to be their consequences.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe prudent man is not willing to subject himself to any\r\nresponsibility which his duty does not impose upon him. He is not a\r\nbustler in business where he has no concern; is not a meddler in other\r\npeople’s affairs; is not a professed counsellor or adviser, who\r\nobtrudes his advice where nobody is asking it. He confines himself, as\r\nmuch as his duty will permit, to his own affairs, and has no taste for\r\nthat foolish importance which many people wish to derive from\r\nappearing to have some influence in the management of those of other\r\npeople. He is averse to enter into any party disputes, hates faction,\r\nand is not always very forward to listen to the voice even of noble\r\nand great ambition. When distinctly called upon, he will not decline\r\nthe service of his country, but he will not cabal in order to force\r\nhimself into it, and would be much better pleased that the public\r\nbusiness were well managed by some other person, than that he himself\r\nshould have the trouble, and incur the \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from resposibility\"\u003eresponsibility\u003c/span\u003e, of managing\r\nit. In the bottom of his heart he \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page191\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e191\u003c/span\u003e would prefer the undisturbed\r\nenjoyment of secure tranquillity, not only to all the vain splendour\r\nof successful ambition, but to the real and solid glory of performing\r\nthe greatest and most magnanimous actions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePrudence, in short, when directed merely to the care of the health,\r\nof the fortune, and the rank and reputation of the individual, though\r\nit is regarded as a most respectable, and even in some degree, as an\r\namiable and agreeable quality, yet it never is considered as one,\r\neither of the most endearing, or of the most ennobling of the virtues.\r\nIt commands a certain cold esteem, but does not seem entitled to any\r\nvery ardent love or admiration.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWise and judicious conduct, when directed to greater and nobler\r\npurposes than the care of the health, the fortune, the rank and\r\nreputation of the individual, is frequently and very properly called\r\nprudence. We talk of the prudence of the great general, of the great\r\nstatesman, of the great legislator. Prudence is, in all these cases,\r\ncombined with many greater and more splendid virtues, with valour,\r\nwith extensive and strong benevolence, with a sacred regard to the\r\nrules of justice, and all these supported by a proper degree of\r\nself-command. This superior prudence, when carried to the highest\r\ndegree of perfection, necessarily supposes the art, the talent, and\r\nthe habit or disposition of acting with the most perfect propriety in\r\nevery possible circumstance and situation. It necessarily supposes the\r\nutmost perfection of all the intellectual and of all the moral\r\nvirtues. It is the best head joined to the best heart. It is the most\r\nperfect wisdom combined with the most perfect virtue. It constitutes\r\nvery nearly the character of the Academical or Peripatetic sage, as\r\nthe superior prudence does that of the Epicurean.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMere imprudence, or the mere want of the capacity to take care of\r\none’s-self, is, with the generous and humane, the object of\r\ncompassion; with those of less delicate sentiments, of neglect, or, at\r\nworst, of contempt, but never of hatred or indignation. When combined\r\nwith other vices, however, it aggravates in the highest degree the\r\ninfamy and disgrace which would otherwise attend them. The artful\r\nknave, whose dexterity and address exempt him, though not from strong\r\nsuspicions, yet from punishment or distinct detection, is too often\r\nreceived in the world with an indulgence which he by no means\r\ndeserves. The awkward and foolish one, who, for want of this dexterity\r\nand address, is convicted and brought to punishment, is the object of\r\nuniversal hatred, contempt, and derision. In countries where great\r\ncrimes frequently pass unpunished, the most atrocious actions become\r\nalmost familiar, and cease to impress the people with that horror\r\nwhich is universally felt in countries where an exact administration\r\nof justice takes place. The injustice is the same in both countries;\r\nbut the imprudence is often very different. In the latter, great\r\ncrimes are evidently great follies. In the former, they are not always\r\nconsidered as \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e192\u003c/span\u003e such. In Italy, during the greater part of the\r\nsixteenth century, assassinations, murders, and even murders under\r\ntrust, seem to have been almost familiar among the superior ranks of\r\npeople. Cæsar Borgia invited four of the little princes in his\r\nneighbourhood, who all possessed little sovereignties, and commanded\r\nlittle armies of their own, to a friendly conference at Senigaglia,\r\nwhere, as soon as they arrived, he put them all to death. This\r\ninfamous action, though certainly not approved of even in that age of\r\ncrimes, seems to have contributed very little to the discredit, and\r\nnot in the least to the ruin of the perpetrator. That ruin happened a\r\nfew years after from causes altogether disconnected with this crime.\r\nMachiavel, not indeed a man of the nicest morality even for his own\r\ntimes, was resident, as minister from the republic of Florence, at the\r\ncourt of Cæsar Borgia when this crime was committed. He gives a very\r\nparticular account of it, and in that pure, elegant, and simple\r\nlanguage which distinguishes all his writings. He talks of it very\r\ncoolly; is pleased with the address with which Cæsar Borgia conducted\r\nit; has much contempt for the dupery and weakness of the sufferers;\r\nbut no compassion for their miserable and untimely death, and no sort\r\nof indignation at the cruelty and falsehood of their murderer. The\r\nviolence and injustice of great conquerors are often regarded with\r\nfoolish wonder and admiration; those of petty thieves, robbers, and\r\nmurderers, with contempt, hatred, and even horror upon all occasions.\r\nThe former, though they are a hundred times more mischievous and\r\ndestructive, yet when successful, they often pass for deeds of the\r\nmost heroic magnanimity. The latter are always viewed with hatred and\r\naversion, as the follies, as well as the crimes, of the lowest and\r\nmost worthless of mankind. The injustice of the former is certainly,\r\nat least, as great as that of the latter; but the folly and imprudence\r\nare not near so great. A wicked and worthless man of parts often goes\r\nthrough the world with much more credit than he deserves. A wicked and\r\nworthless fool appears always, of all mortals, the most hateful, as\r\nwell as the most contemptible. As prudence combined with other\r\nvirtues, constitutes the noblest; so imprudence combined with other\r\nvices, constitutes the vilest of all characters.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page192\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eSECT. Ⅱ.—O\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eF THE\u003c/span\u003e C\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHARACTER OF THE\u003c/span\u003e I\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNDIVIDUAL, SO FAR AS IT CAN\r\nAFFECT THE\u003c/span\u003e H\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eAPPINESS OF OTHER\u003c/span\u003e P\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEOPLE\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNTRODUCTION\u003c/span\u003e.—The character of every individual, so far as it can\r\naffect the happiness of other people, must do so by its disposition\r\neither to hurt or to benefit them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eProper resentment for injustice attempted, or actually committed,\r\nis the only motive which, in the eyes of the impartial spectator, can\r\njustify our hurting or disturbing in any respect the happiness of our\r\nneighbour. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e193\u003c/span\u003e To do so from any other motive is itself a violation\r\nof the laws of justice, which force ought to be employed either to\r\nrestrain or to punish. The wisdom of every state or commonwealth\r\nendeavours, as well as it can, to employ the force of the society to\r\nrestrain those who are subject to its authority from hurting or\r\ndisturbing the happiness of one another. The rules which it\r\nestablishes for this purpose, constitute the civil and criminal law of\r\neach particular state or country. The principles upon which those\r\nrules either are, or ought to be founded, are the subject of a\r\nparticular science, of all sciences by far the most important, but\r\nhitherto, perhaps, the least cultivated, that of natural\r\njurisprudence; concerning which it belongs not to our present subject\r\nto enter into any detail. A sacred and religious regard not to hurt or\r\ndisturb in any respect the happiness of our neighbour, even in those\r\ncases where no law can properly protect him, constitutes the character\r\nof the perfectly innocent and just man; a character which, when\r\ncarried to a certain delicacy of attention, is always highly\r\nrespectable and even venerable for its own sake, and can scarce ever\r\nfail to be accompanied with many other virtues, with great feeling for\r\nother people, with great humanity and great benevolence. It is a\r\ncharacter sufficiently understood, and requires no further\r\nexplanation. In the present section I shall only endeavour to\r\nexplain the foundation of that order which nature seems to have traced\r\nout for the distribution of our good offices, or for the direction and\r\nemployment of our very limited powers of beneficence: first, towards\r\nindividuals; and secondly, towards societies.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe same unerring wisdom, it will be found, which regulates every\r\nother part of her conduct, directs, in this respect too, the order of\r\nher recommendations; which are always stronger or weaker in proportion\r\nas our beneficence is more or less necessary, or can be more or less\r\nuseful.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page193\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Order in which Individuals are recommended by\r\nNature to our Care and Attention.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eE\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eVERY\u003c/span\u003e man, as the Stoics used to say, is first and principally\r\nrecommended to his own care; and every man is certainly, in every\r\nrespect, fitter and abler to take care of himself than of any other\r\nperson. Every man feels his own pleasures and his own pains more\r\nsensibly than those of other people. The former are the original\r\nsensations; the latter the reflected or sympathetic images of those\r\nsensations. The former may be said to be the substance; the latter the\r\nshadow.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAfter himself, the members of his own family, those who usually\r\nlive in the same house with him, his parents, his children, his\r\nbrothers and sisters, are naturally the objects of his warmest\r\naffections. They are naturally and usually the persons upon whose\r\nhappiness or misery his conduct must have the greatest influence. He\r\nis more habituated to \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page194\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e194\u003c/span\u003e sympathize with them. He knows better how\r\nevery thing is likely to affect them, and his sympathy with them is\r\nmore precise and determinate, than it can be with the greater part of\r\nother people. It approaches nearer, in short, to what he feels for\r\nhimself.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis sympathy too, and the affections which are founded on it, are\r\nby nature more strongly directed towards his children than towards his\r\nparents, and his tenderness for the former seems generally a more\r\nactive principle, than his reverence and gratitude towards the latter.\r\nIn the natural state of things, it has already been observed, the\r\nexistence of the child, for some time after it comes into the world,\r\ndepends altogether upon the care of the parent; that of the parent\r\ndoes not naturally depend upon the care of the child. In the eye of\r\nnature, it would seem, a child is a more important object than an old\r\nman; and excites a much more lively, as well as a much more universal\r\nsympathy. It ought to do so. Every thing may be expected, or at least\r\nhoped, from the child. In ordinary cases, very little can be either\r\nexpected or hoped from the old man. The weakness of childhood\r\ninterests the affections of the most brutal and hard-hearted. It is\r\nonly to the virtuous and humane, that the infirmities of old age are\r\nnot the objects of contempt and aversion. In ordinary cases, an old\r\nman dies without being much regretted by any body. Scarce a child can\r\ndie without rending asunder the heart of somebody.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe earliest friendships, the friendships which are naturally\r\ncontracted when the heart is most susceptible of that feeling, are\r\nthose among brothers and sisters. Their good agreement, while they\r\nremain in the same family, is necessary for its tranquillity and\r\nhappiness. They are capable of giving more pleasure or pain to one\r\nanother than to the greater part of other people. Their situation\r\nrenders their mutual sympathy of the utmost importance to their common\r\nhappiness; and, by the wisdom of nature, the same situation, by\r\nobliging them to accommodate to one another, renders that sympathy\r\nmore habitual, and thereby more lively, more distinct, and more\r\ndeterminate.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe children of brothers and sisters are naturally connected by the\r\nfriendship which, after separating into different families, continues\r\nto take place between their parents. Their good agreement improves the\r\nenjoyment of that friendship; their discord would disturb it. As they\r\nseldom live in the same family, however, though of more importance to\r\none another than to the greater part of other people, they are of much\r\nless than brothers and sisters. As their mutual sympathy is less\r\nnecessary, so it is less habitual, and therefore proportionally\r\nweaker.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe children of cousins, being still less connected, are of still\r\nless importance to one another; and the affection gradually diminishes\r\nas the relation grows more and more remote.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat is called affection, is in reality nothing but habitual\r\nsympathy. Our concern in the happiness or misery of those who are the\r\nobjects of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page195\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e195\u003c/span\u003e what we call our affections; our desire to promote\r\nthe one, and to prevent the other; are either the actual feeling of\r\nthat habitual sympathy, or the necessary consequences of that feeling.\r\nRelations being usually placed in situations which naturally create\r\nthis habitual sympathy, it is expected that a suitable degree of\r\naffection should take place among them. We generally find that it\r\nactually does take place; we therefore naturally expect that it\r\nshould; and we are, upon that account, more shocked when, upon any\r\noccasion, we find that it does not. The general rule is established,\r\nthat persons related to one another in a certain degree, ought always\r\nto be affected towards one another in a certain manner, and that there\r\nis always the highest impropriety, and sometimes even a sort of\r\nimpiety, in their being affected in a different manner. A parent\r\nwithout parental tenderness, a child devoid of all filial reverence,\r\nappear monsters, the objects, not of hatred only, but of horror to\r\ntheir neighbours.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThough in a particular instance, the circumstances which usually\r\nproduce those natural affections, as they are called, may, by some\r\naccident, not have taken place, yet respect for the general rule will\r\nfrequently, in some measure, supply their place, and produce something\r\nwhich, though not altogether the same, may bear, however, a very\r\nconsiderable resemblance to those affections. A father is apt to be\r\nless attached to a child, who, by some accident, has been separated\r\nfrom him in its infancy, and who does not return to him till it is\r\ngrown up to manhood. The father is apt to feel less paternal\r\ntenderness for the child; the child, less filial reverence for the\r\nfather. Brothers and sisters, when they have been educated in distant\r\ncountries, are apt to feel a similar diminution of affection. With the\r\ndutiful and the virtuous, however, respect for the general rule will\r\nfrequently produce something which, though by no means the same, yet\r\nmay very much resemble those natural affections. Even during the\r\nseparation, the father and the child, the brothers or the sisters, are\r\nby no means indifferent to one another. They all consider one another\r\nas persons to and from whom certain affections are due, and they live\r\nin the hopes of being some time or another in a situation to enjoy\r\nthat friendship which ought naturally to have taken place among\r\npersons so nearly connected. Till they meet, the absent son, the\r\nabsent brother, are frequently the favourite son, the favourite\r\nbrother. They have never offended, or, if they have, it is so long\r\nago, that the offence is forgotten, as some childish trick not worth\r\nthe remembering. Every account they have heard of one another, if\r\nconveyed by people of any tolerable good nature, has been, in the\r\nhighest degree, flattering and favourable. The absent son, the absent\r\nbrother, is not like other ordinary sons and brothers; but an\r\nall-perfect son, an all-perfect brother; and the most romantic hopes\r\nare entertained of the happiness to be enjoyed in the friendship and\r\nconversation of such persons. When they meet, it is \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page196\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e196\u003c/span\u003e often with\r\nso strong a disposition to conceive that habitual sympathy which\r\nconstitutes the family affection, that they are very apt to fancy they\r\nhave actually conceived it, and to behave to one another as if they\r\nhad. Time and experience, however, I am afraid, too frequently\r\nundeceive them. Upon a more familiar acquaintance, they frequently\r\ndiscover in one another habits, humours, and inclinations, different\r\nfrom what they expected, to which, from want of habitual sympathy,\r\nfrom want of the real principle and foundation of what is properly\r\ncalled family-affection, they cannot now easily accommodate\r\nthemselves. They have never lived in the situation which almost\r\nnecessarily forces that easy accommodation, and though they may now be\r\nsincerely desirous to assume it, they have really become incapable of\r\ndoing so. Their familiar conversation and intercourse soon become less\r\npleasing to them, and, upon that account, less frequent. They may\r\ncontinue to live with one another in the mutual exchange of all\r\nessential good offices, and with every other external appearance of\r\ndecent regard. But that cordial satisfaction, that delicious sympathy,\r\nthat confidential openness and ease, which naturally take place in the\r\nconversation of those who have lived long and familiarly with one\r\nanother, it seldom happens that they can completely enjoy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is only, however, with the dutiful and the virtuous, that the\r\ngeneral rule has even this slender authority. With the dissipated, the\r\nprofligate, and the vain, it is entirely disregarded. They are so far\r\nfrom respecting it, that they seldom talk of it but with the most\r\nindecent derision; and an early and long separation of this kind never\r\nfails to estrange them most completely from one another. With such\r\npersons, respect for the general rule can at best produce only a cold\r\nand affected civility (a very slender semblance of real regard); and\r\neven this, the slightest offence, the smallest opposition of interest,\r\ncommonly puts an end to altogether.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe education of boys at distant great schools, of young men at\r\ndistant colleges, of young ladies in distant nunneries and\r\nboarding-schools, seems, in the higher ranks of life, to have hurt\r\nmost essentially the domestic morals, and consequently the domestic\r\nhappiness, both of France and England. Do you wish to educate your\r\nchildren to be dutiful to their parents, to be kind and affectionate\r\nto their brothers and sisters? put them under the necessity of being\r\ndutiful children, of being kind and affectionate brothers and sisters:\r\neducate them in your own house. From their parent’s house, they may,\r\nwith propriety and advantage, go out every day to attend public\r\nschools: but let their dwelling be always at home. Respect for you\r\nmust always impose a very useful restraint upon their conduct; and\r\nrespect for them may frequently impose no useless restraint upon your\r\nown. Surely no acquirement, which can possibly be derived from what is\r\ncalled a public education, can make any sort of compensation for what\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page197\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e197\u003c/span\u003e is almost certainly and necessarily lost by it. Domestic\r\neducation is the institution of nature; public education, the\r\ncontrivance of man. It is surely unnecessary to say, which is likely\r\nto be the wisest.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn some tragedies and romances, we meet with many beautiful and\r\ninteresting scenes, founded upon what is called, the force of blood,\r\nor upon the wonderful affection which near relations are supposed to\r\nconceive for one another, even before they know that they have any\r\nsuch connection. This force of blood, however, I am afraid, exists no\r\nwhere but in tragedies and romances. Even in tragedies and romances,\r\nit is never supposed to take place between any relations, but those\r\nwho are naturally bred up in the same house; between parents and\r\nchildren, between brothers and sisters. To imagine any such mysterious\r\naffection between cousins, or even between aunts or uncles, and\r\nnephews or nieces, would be too ridiculous.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn pastoral countries, and in all countries where the authority of\r\nlaw is not alone sufficient to give perfect security to every member\r\nof the state, all the different branches of the same family commonly\r\nchoose to live in the neighbourhood of one another. Their association\r\nis frequently necessary for their common defence. They are all, from\r\nthe highest to the lowest, of more or less importance to one another.\r\nTheir concord strengthens their necessary association: their discord\r\nalways weakens, and might destroy it. They have more intercourse with\r\none another, than with the members of any other tribe. The remotest\r\nmembers of the same tribe claim some connection with one another; and,\r\nwhere all other circumstances are equal, expect to be treated with\r\nmore distinguished attention than is due to those who have no such\r\npretensions. It is not many years ago that, in the Highlands of\r\nScotland, the chieftain used to consider the poorest man of his clan,\r\nas his cousin and relation. The same extensive regard to kindred is\r\nsaid to take place among the Tartars, the Arabs, the Turkomans, and, I\r\nbelieve, among all other nations who are nearly in the same state of\r\nsociety in which the Scots Highlanders were about the beginning of the\r\npresent century.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn commercial countries, where the authority of law is always\r\nperfectly sufficient to protect the meanest man in the state, the\r\ndescendants of the same family, having no such motive for keeping\r\ntogether, naturally separate and disperse, as interest or inclination\r\nmay direct. They soon cease to be of importance to one another; and,\r\nin a few generations, not only lose all care about one another, but\r\nall remembrance of their common origin, and of the connection which\r\ntook place among their ancestors. Regard for remote relations becomes,\r\nin every country, less and less, according as this state of\r\ncivilization has been longer and more completely established. It has\r\nbeen longer and more completely established in England than in\r\nScotland; and remote relations are, accordingly, more considered in\r\nthe latter country than in the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page198\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e198\u003c/span\u003e former, though, in this respect,\r\nthe difference between the two countries is growing less and less\r\nevery day. Great lords, indeed, are, in every country, proud of\r\nremembering and acknowledging their connection with one another,\r\nhowever remote. The remembrance of such illustrious relations flatters\r\nnot a little the family pride of them all; and it is neither from\r\naffection, nor from any thing which resembles affection, but from the\r\nmost frivolous and childish of all vanities, that this remembrance is\r\nso carefully kept up. Should some more humble, though, perhaps, much\r\nnearer kinsman, presume to put such great men in mind of his relation\r\nto their family, they seldom fail to tell him that they are bad\r\ngenealogists, and miserably ill-informed concerning their own family\r\nhistory. It is not in that order that we are to expect any\r\nextraordinary extension of, what is called, natural affection.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI consider what is called natural affection as more the effect of\r\nthe moral than of the supposed physical connection between the parent\r\nand the child. A jealous husband, indeed, notwithstanding the moral\r\nconnection, notwithstanding the child’s having been educated in his\r\nown house, often regards, with hatred and aversion, that unhappy child\r\nwhich he supposes to be the offspring of his wife’s infidelity. It is\r\nthe lasting monument of a most disagreeable adventure; of his own\r\ndishonour, and of the disgrace of his family.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAmong well-disposed people, the necessity or conveniency of mutual\r\naccommodation, very frequently produces a friendship not unlike that\r\nwhich takes place among those who are born to live in the same family.\r\nColleagues in office, partners in trade, call one another brothers;\r\nand frequently feel towards one another as if they really were so.\r\nTheir good agreement is an advantage to all; and, if they are\r\ntolerably reasonable people, they are naturally disposed to agree. We\r\nexpect that they should do so; and their disagreement is a sort of a\r\nsmall scandal. The Romans expressed this sort of attachment by the\r\nword \u003ci\u003enecessitudo\u003c/i\u003e, which, from the etymology, seems to denote\r\nthat it was imposed by the necessity of the situation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEven the trifling circumstance of living in the same neighbourhood,\r\nhas some effect of the same kind. We respect the face of a man whom we\r\nsee every day, provided he has never offended us. Neighbours can be\r\nvery convenient, and they can be very troublesome, to one another. If\r\nthey are good sort of people, they are naturally disposed to agree. We\r\nexpect their good agreement; and to be a bad neighbour is a very bad\r\ncharacter. There are certain small good offices, accordingly, which\r\nare universally allowed to be due to a neighbour in preference to any\r\nother person who has no such connection.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis natural disposition to accommodate and to assimilate, as much\r\nas we can, our own sentiments, principles, and feelings, to those\r\nwhich we see fixed and rooted in the persons whom we are obliged to\r\nlive and converse a great deal with, is the cause of the contagious\r\neffects of both \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page199\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e199\u003c/span\u003e good and bad company. The man who associates\r\nchiefly with the wise and the virtuous, though he may not himself\r\nbecome either wise or virtuous, cannot help conceiving a certain\r\nrespect at least for wisdom and virtue; and the man who associates\r\nchiefly with the profligate and the dissolute, though he may not\r\nhimself become profligate and dissolute, must soon lose, at least, all\r\nhis original abhorrence of profligacy and dissolution of manners. The\r\nsimilarity of family characters, which we so frequently see\r\ntransmitted through several successive generations, may, perhaps, be\r\npartly owing to this disposition to assimilate ourselves to those whom\r\nwe are obliged to live and converse a great deal with. The family\r\ncharacter, however, like the family countenance, seems to be owing,\r\nnot altogether to the moral, but partly too to the physical\r\nconnection. The family countenance is certainly altogether owing to\r\nthe latter.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut of all attachments to an individual, that which is founded\r\naltogether upon esteem and approbation of his good conduct and\r\nbehaviour, confirmed by much experience and long acquaintance, is, by\r\nfar, the most respectable. Such friendships, arising not from a\r\nconstrained sympathy, not from a sympathy which has been assumed and\r\nrendered habitual for the sake of convenience and accommodation; but\r\nfrom a natural sympathy, from an involuntary feeling that the persons\r\nto whom we attach ourselves are the natural and proper objects of\r\nesteem and approbation; can exist only among men of virtue. Men of\r\nvirtue only can feel that entire confidence in the conduct and\r\nbehaviour of one another, which can, at all times, assure them that\r\nthey can never either offend or be offended by one another. Vice is\r\nalways capricious: virtue only is regular and orderly. The attachment\r\nwhich is founded upon the love of virtue, as it is certainly, of all\r\nattachments, the most virtuous; so it is likewise the happiest, as\r\nwell as the most permanent and secure. Such friendships need not be\r\nconfined to a single person, but may safely embrace all the wise and\r\nvirtuous, with whom we have been long and intimately acquainted, and\r\nupon whose wisdom and virtue we can, upon that account, entirely\r\ndepend. They who would confine friendship to two persons, seem to\r\nconfound the wise security of friendship with the jealousy and folly\r\nof love. The hasty, fond, and foolish intimacies of young people,\r\nfounded, commonly, upon some slight similarity of character,\r\naltogether unconnected with good conduct, upon a taste, perhaps, for\r\nthe same studies, the same amusements, the same diversions, or upon\r\ntheir agreement in some singular principle or opinion, not commonly\r\nadopted; those intimacies which a freak begins, and which a freak puts\r\nan end to, how agreeable soever they may appear while they last, can\r\nby no means deserve the sacred and the venerable name of\r\nfriendship.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf all the persons, however, whom nature points out for our\r\npeculiar beneficence, there are none to whom it seems more properly\r\ndirected \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page200\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e200\u003c/span\u003e than to those whose beneficence we have ourselves\r\nalready experienced. Nature, which formed men for that mutual kindness\r\nso necessary for their happiness, renders every man the peculiar\r\nobject of kindness to the persons to whom he himself has been kind.\r\nThough their gratitude should not always correspond to his\r\nbeneficence, yet the sense of his merit, the sympathetic gratitude of\r\nthe impartial spectator, will always correspond to it. The general\r\nindignation of other people against the baseness of their ingratitude\r\nwill even, sometimes, increase the general sense of his merit. No\r\nbenevolent man ever lost altogether the fruits of his benevolence. If\r\nhe does not always gather them from the persons from whom he ought to\r\nhave gathered them, he seldom fails to gather them, and with a tenfold\r\nincrease, from other people. Kindness is the parent of kindness; and\r\nif to be beloved by our brethren be the great object of our ambition,\r\nthe surest way of obtaining it is, by our conduct to show that we\r\nreally love them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAfter the persons who are recommended to our beneficence, either\r\ntheir connection with ourselves, by their personal qualities, or by\r\ntheir past services, come those who are pointed out, not indeed to,\r\nwhat is called, our friendship, but to our benevolent attention and\r\ngood offices; those who are distinguished by their extraordinary\r\nsituation; the greatly fortunate and the greatly unfortunate, the rich\r\nand the powerful, the poor and the wretched. The distinction of ranks,\r\nthe peace and order of society, are, in a great measure, founded upon\r\nthe respect which we naturally conceive for the former. The relief and\r\nconsolation of human misery depend altogether upon our compassion for\r\nthe latter. The peace and order of society, is of more importance than\r\neven the relief of the miserable. Our respect for the great,\r\naccordingly, is most apt to offend by its excess; our fellow-feeling\r\nfor the miserable, by its defect. Moralists exhort us to charity and\r\ncompassion. They warn us against the fascination of greatness. This\r\nfascination, indeed, is so powerful, that the rich and the great are\r\ntoo often preferred to the wise and the virtuous. Nature has wisely\r\njudged that the distinction of ranks, the peace and order of society,\r\nwould rest more securely upon the plain and palpable difference of\r\nbirth and fortune, than upon the invisible and often uncertain\r\ndifference of wisdom and virtue. The undistinguishing eyes of the\r\ngreat mob of mankind can well enough perceive the former: it is with\r\ndifficulty that the nice discernment of the wise and the virtuous can\r\nsometimes distinguish the latter. In the order of all those\r\nrecommendations to virtue, the benevolent wisdom of nature is equally\r\nevident.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt may, perhaps, be unnecessary to observe, that the combination of\r\ntwo or more of those exciting causes of kindness, increases the\r\nkindness. The favour and partiality which, when there is no envy in\r\nthe case, we naturally bear to greatness, are much increased when it\r\nis joined with wisdom and virtue. If, notwithstanding that wisdom and\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e201\u003c/span\u003e virtue, the great man should fall into those misfortunes, those\r\ndangers and distresses, to which the most exalted stations are often\r\nthe most exposed, we are much more deeply interested in his fortune\r\nthan we should be in that of a person equally virtuous, but in a more\r\nhumble situation. The most interesting subjects of tragedies and\r\nromances are the misfortunes of virtuous and magnanimous kings and\r\nprinces. If, by the wisdom and manhood of their exertions, they should\r\nextricate themselves from those misfortunes, and recover completely\r\ntheir former superiority and security, we cannot help viewing them\r\nwith the most enthusiastic and even extravagant admiration. The grief\r\nwhich we felt for their distress, the joy which we feel for their\r\nprosperity, seem to combine together in enhancing that partial\r\nadmiration which we naturally conceive both for the station and the\r\ncharacter.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen those different beneficent affections happen to draw different\r\nways, to determine by any precise rules in what cases we ought to\r\ncomply with the one, and in what with the other, is, perhaps,\r\naltogether impossible. In what cases friendship ought to yield to\r\ngratitude, or gratitude to friendship; in what cases the strongest of\r\nall natural affections ought to yield to a regard for the safety of\r\nthose superiors upon whose safety often depends that of the whole\r\nsociety; and in what cases natural affection may, without impropriety,\r\nprevail over that regard; must be left altogether to the decision of\r\nthe man within the breast, the supposed impartial spectator, the great\r\njudge and arbiter of our conduct. If we place ourselves completely in\r\nhis situation, if we really view ourselves with his eyes, and as he\r\nviews us, and listen with diligent and reverential attention to what\r\nhe suggests to us, his voice will never deceive us. We shall stand in\r\nneed of no casuistic rules to direct our conduct. These it is often\r\nimpossible to accommodate to all the different shades and gradations\r\nof circumstance, character, and situation, to differences and\r\ndistinctions which, though not imperceptible, are, by their nicety and\r\ndelicacy, often altogether undefinable. In that beautiful tragedy of\r\nVoltaire, the Orphan of China, while we admire the magnanimity of\r\nZamti, who is willing to sacrifice the life of his own child, in order\r\nto preserve that of the only feeble remnant of his ancient sovereigns\r\nand masters; we not only pardon, but love the maternal tenderness of\r\nIdame, who, at the risk of discovering the important secret of her\r\nhusband, reclaims her infant from the cruel hands of the Tartars, into\r\nwhich it had been delivered.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page201\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Order in which Societies are by Nature\r\nrecommended to our Beneficence.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e same principles that direct the order in which individuals are\r\nrecommended to our beneficence, direct that likewise in which\r\nsocieties \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page202\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e202\u003c/span\u003e are recommended to it. Those to which it is, or may be\r\nof most importance, are first and principally recommended to it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe state or sovereignty in which we have been born and educated,\r\nand under the protection of which we continue to live, is, in ordinary\r\ncases, the greatest society upon whose happiness or misery our good or\r\nbad conduct can have much influence. It is accordingly, by nature,\r\nmost strongly recommended to us. Not only we ourselves, but all the\r\nobjects of our kindest affections, our children, our parents, our\r\nrelations, our friends, our benefactors, all those whom we naturally\r\nlove and revere the most, are commonly comprehended within it; and\r\ntheir prosperity and safety depend in some measure upon its prosperity\r\nand safety. It is by nature, therefore, endeared to us, not only by\r\nall our selfish, but by all our private benevolent affections. Upon\r\naccount of our own connexion with it, its prosperity and glory seem to\r\nreflect some sort of honour upon ourselves. When we compare it with\r\nother societies of the same kind, we are proud of its superiority, and\r\nmortified in some degree if it appears in any respect below them. All\r\nthe illustrious characters which it has produced in former times (for\r\nagainst those of our own times envy may sometimes prejudice us a\r\nlittle), its warriors, its statesmen, its poets, its philosophers, and\r\nmen of letters of all kinds; we are disposed to view with the most\r\npartial admiration, and to rank them (sometimes most unjustly) above\r\nthose of all other nations. The patriot who lays down his life for the\r\nsafety, or even for the vain-glory of this society, appears to act\r\nwith the most exact propriety. He appears to view himself in the light\r\nin which the impartial spectator naturally and necessarily views him,\r\nas but one of the multitude, in the eye of that equitable judge, of no\r\nmore consequence than any other in it, but bound at all times to\r\nsacrifice and devote himself to the safety, to the service, and even\r\nto the glory of the greater number. But though this sacrifice appears\r\nto be perfectly just and proper, we know how difficult it is to make\r\nit, and how few people are capable of making it. His conduct,\r\ntherefore, excites not only our entire approbation, but our highest\r\nwonder and admiration, and seems to merit all the applause which can\r\nbe due to the most heroic virtue. The traitor, on the contrary, who,\r\nin some peculiar situation, fancies he can promote his own little\r\ninterest by betraying to the public enemy that of his native country;\r\nwho, regardless of the judgment of the man within the breast, prefers\r\nhimself, in this respect so shamefully and so basely, to all those\r\nwith whom he has any connexion; appears to be of all villains the most\r\ndetestable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe love of our own nation often disposes us to view, with the most\r\nmalignant jealousy and envy, the prosperity and aggrandisement of any\r\nother neighbouring nation. Independent and neighbouring nations,\r\nhaving no common superior to decide their disputes, all live in\r\ncontinual dread and suspicion of one another. Each sovereign,\r\nexpecting \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page203\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e203\u003c/span\u003e little justice from his neighbours, is disposed to\r\ntreat them with as little as he expects from them. The regard for the\r\nlaws of nations, or for those rules which independent states profess\r\nor pretend to think themselves bound to observe in their dealings with\r\none another, is often very little more than mere pretence and\r\nprofession. From the smallest interest, upon the slightest\r\nprovocation, we see those rules every day, either evaded or directly\r\nviolated without shame or remorse. Each nation foresees, or imagines\r\nit foresees, its own subjugation in the increasing power and\r\naggrandisement of any of its neighbours; and the mean principle of\r\nnational prejudice is often founded upon the noble one of the love of\r\nour own country. The sentence with which the elder Cato is said to\r\nhave concluded every speech which he made in the senate, whatever\r\nmight be the subject, ‘\u003ci\u003eIt is my opinion likewise that Carthage\r\nought to be destroyed\u003c/i\u003e,’ was the natural expression of the savage\r\npatriotism of a strong but coarse mind, enraged almost to madness\r\nagainst a foreign nation from which his own had suffered so much. The\r\nmore humane sentence with which Scipio Nasica is said to have\r\nconcluded all his speeches, ‘\u003ci\u003eIt is my opinion likewise that\r\nCarthage ought not to be destroyed\u003c/i\u003e,’ was the liberal expression of\r\na more enlarged and enlightened mind, who felt no aversion to the\r\nprosperity even of an old enemy, when reduced to a state which could\r\nno longer be formidable to Rome. France and England may each of them\r\nhave some reason to dread the increase of the naval and military power\r\nof the other; but for either of them to envy the internal happiness\r\nand prosperity of the other, the cultivation of its lands, the\r\nadvancement of its manufactures, the increase of its commerce, the\r\nsecurity and number of its ports and harbours, its proficiency in all\r\nthe liberal arts and sciences, is surely beneath the dignity of two\r\nsuch great nations. These are all real improvements of the world we\r\nlive in. Mankind are benefited, human nature is ennobled by them. In\r\nsuch improvements each nation ought, not only to endeavour itself to\r\nexcel, but from the love of mankind, to promote, instead of\r\nobstructing the excellence of its neighbours. These are all proper\r\nobjects of national emulation, not of national prejudice or envy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe love of our own country seems not to be derived from the love\r\nof mankind. The former sentiment is altogether independent of the\r\nlatter, and seems sometimes even to dispose us to act inconsistently\r\nwith it. France may contain, perhaps, near three times the number of\r\ninhabitants which Great Britain contains. In the great society of\r\nmankind, therefore, the prosperity of France should appear to be an\r\nobject of much greater importance than that of Great Britain. The\r\nBritish subject, however, who, upon that account, should prefer upon\r\nall occasions the prosperity of the former to that of the latter\r\ncountry, would not be thought a good citizen of Great Britain. We do\r\nnot love our country merely as a part of the great society of mankind:\r\nwe love \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page204\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e204\u003c/span\u003e it for its own sake, and independently of any such\r\nconsideration. That wisdom which contrived the system of human\r\naffections, as well as that of every other part of nature, seems to\r\nhave judged that the interest of the great society of mankind would be\r\nbest promoted by directing the principal attention of each individual\r\nto that particular portion of it, which was most within the sphere\r\nboth of his abilities and of his understanding.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNational prejudices and hatreds seldom extend beyond neighbouring\r\nnations. We very weakly and foolishly, perhaps, call the French our\r\nnatural enemies; and they perhaps, as weakly and foolishly, consider\r\nus in the same manner. Neither they nor we bear any sort of envy to\r\nthe prosperity of China or Japan. It very rarely happens, however,\r\nthat our good-will towards such distant countries can be exerted with\r\nmuch effect.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe most extensive public benevolence which can commonly be exerted\r\nwith any considerable effect, is that of the statesmen, who project\r\nand form alliances among neighbouring or not very distant nations, for\r\nthe preservation either of, what is called, the balance of power, or\r\nof the general peace and tranquillity of the states within the circle\r\nof their negotiations. The statesmen, however, who plan and execute\r\nsuch treaties, have seldom anything in view, but the interest of their\r\nrespective countries. Sometimes, indeed, their views are more\r\nextensive. The Count d’Avaux, the plenipotentiary of France, at the\r\ntreaty of Munster, would have been willing to sacrifice his life\r\n(according to the Cardinal de Retz, a man not over-credulous in the\r\nvirtue of other people) in order to have restored, by that treaty, the\r\ngeneral tranquillity of Europe. King William seems to have had a zeal\r\nfor the liberty and independency of the greater part of the sovereign\r\nstates of Europe; which, perhaps, might be a good deal stimulated by\r\nhis particular aversion to France, the state from which, during his\r\ntime, that liberty and independency were principally in danger. Some\r\nshare of the same spirit seems to have descended to the first ministry\r\nof Queen Anne.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEvery independent state is divided into many different orders and\r\nsocieties, each of which has its own particular powers, privileges,\r\nand immunities. Every individual is naturally more attached to his own\r\nparticular order or society, than to any other. His own interest, his\r\nown vanity, the interest and vanity of many of his friends and\r\ncompanions, are commonly a good deal connected with it. He is\r\nambitious to extend its privileges and immunities. He is zealous to\r\ndefend them against the encroachments of every other order of\r\nsociety.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eUpon the manner in which any state is divided into the different\r\norders and societies which compose it, and upon the particular\r\ndistribution which has been made of their respective powers,\r\nprivileges, and immunities, depends, what is called, the constitution\r\nof that particular state.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page205\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e205\u003c/span\u003e Upon the ability of each particular order or society to\r\nmaintain its own powers, privileges, and immunities, against the\r\nencroachments of every other, depends the stability of that particular\r\nconstitution. That particular constitution is necessarily more or less\r\naltered, whenever any of its subordinate parts is either raised above\r\nor depressed below whatever had been its former rank and\r\ncondition.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAll those different orders and societies are dependent upon the\r\nstate to which they owe their security and protection. That they are\r\nall subordinate to that state, and established only in subserviency to\r\nits prosperity and preservation, is a truth acknowledged by the most\r\npartial member of every one of them. It may often, however, be hard to\r\nconvince him that the prosperity and preservation of the state\r\nrequires any diminution of the powers, privileges, and immunities of\r\nhis own particular order of society. This partiality, though it may\r\nsometimes be unjust, may not, upon that account, be useless. It checks\r\nthe spirit of innovation. It tends to preserve whatever is the\r\nestablished balance among the different orders and societies into\r\nwhich the state is divided; and while it sometimes appears to obstruct\r\nsome alterations of government which may be fashionable and popular at\r\nthe time, it contributes in reality to the stability and permanency of\r\nthe whole system.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe love of our country seems, in ordinary cases, to involve in it\r\ntwo different principles; first, a certain respect and reverence for\r\nthat constitution or form of government which is actually established;\r\nand secondly, an earnest desire to render the condition of our\r\nfellow-citizens as safe, respectable, and happy as we can. He is not a\r\ncitizen who is not disposed to respect the laws and to obey the civil\r\nmagistrate; and he is certainly not a good citizen who does not wish\r\nto promote, by every means in his power, the welfare of the whole\r\nsociety of his fellow citizens.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn peaceable and quiet times, those two principles generally\r\ncoincide and lead to the same conduct. The support of the established\r\ngovernment seems evidently the best expedient for maintaining the\r\nsafe, respectable, and happy situation of our fellow-citizens; when we\r\nsee that this government actually maintains them in that situation.\r\nBut in times of public discontent, faction, and disorder, those two\r\ndifferent principles may draw different ways, and even a wise man may\r\nbe disposed to think some alteration necessary in that constitution or\r\nform of government, which, in its actual condition, appears plainly\r\nunable to maintain the public tranquillity. In such cases, however, it\r\noften requires, perhaps, the highest effort of political wisdom to\r\ndetermine when a real patriot ought to support and endeavour to\r\nre-establish the authority of the old system, and when we ought to\r\ngive way to the more daring, but often dangerous, spirit of\r\ninnovation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eForeign war and civil faction are the two situations which afford\r\nthe most splendid opportunities for the display of public spirit. The\r\nhero \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page206\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e206\u003c/span\u003e who serves his country successfully in foreign war\r\ngratifies the wishes of the whole nation, and is, upon that account,\r\nthe object of universal gratitude and admiration. In times of civil\r\ndiscord, the leaders of the contending parties, though they may be\r\nadmired by one half of their fellow-citizens, are commonly execrated\r\nby the other. Their characters and the merit of their respective\r\nservices appear commonly more doubtful. The glory which is acquired by\r\nforeign war is, upon this account, almost always more pure and more\r\nsplendid than that which can be acquired in civil faction.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe leader of the successful party, however, if he has authority\r\nenough to prevail upon his own friends to act with proper temper and\r\nmoderation (which he frequently has not), may sometimes render to his\r\ncountry a service much more essential and important than the greatest\r\nvictories and the most extensive conquests. He may re-establish and\r\nimprove the constitution, and from the very doubtful and ambiguous\r\ncharacter of the leader of a party, he may assume the greatest and\r\nnoblest of all characters, that of the reformer and legislator of a\r\ngreat state; and, by the wisdom of his institutions, secure the\r\ninternal tranquillity and happiness of his fellow-citizens for many\r\nsucceeding generations.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAmidst the turbulence and disorder of faction, a certain spirit of\r\nsystem is apt to mix itself with that public spirit which is founded\r\nupon the love of humanity, upon a real fellow-feeling with the\r\ninconveniencies and distresses to which some of our fellow-citizens\r\nmay be exposed. This spirit of system commonly takes the direction of\r\nthat more gentle public spirit, always animates it, and often inflames\r\nit even to the madness of fanaticism. The leaders of the discontented\r\nparty seldom fail to hold out some plausible plan of reformation\r\nwhich, they pretend, will not only remove the inconveniencies and\r\nrelieve the distresses immediately complained of, but will prevent, in\r\nall time coming, any return of the like inconveniencies and\r\ndistresses. They often propose, upon this account, to new model the\r\nconstitution, and to alter, in some of its most essential parts, that\r\nsystem of government under which the subjects of a great empire have\r\nenjoyed, perhaps, peace, security, and even glory, during the course\r\nof several centuries together. The great body of the party are\r\ncommonly intoxicated with the imaginary beauty of this ideal system,\r\nof which they have no experience, but which has been represented to\r\nthem in all the most dazzling colours in which the eloquence of their\r\nleaders could paint it. Those leaders themselves, though they\r\noriginally may have meant nothing but their own aggrandisement, become\r\nmany of them in time the dupes of their own sophistry, and are as\r\neager for this great reformation as the weakest and most foolish of\r\ntheir followers. Even though the leaders should have preserved their\r\nown heads, as indeed they commonly do, free from this fanaticism, yet\r\nthey dare not always disappoint the expectation of their \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page207\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e207\u003c/span\u003e\r\nfollowers; but are often obliged, though contrary to their principle\r\nand their conscience, to act as if they were under the common\r\ndelusion. The violence of the party, refusing all palliatives, all\r\ntemperaments, all reasonable accommodations, by requiring too much\r\nfrequently obtains nothing; and those inconveniencies and distresses\r\nwhich, with a little moderation, might in a great measure have been\r\nremoved and relieved, are left altogether without the hope of a\r\nremedy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe man whose public spirit is prompted altogether by humanity and\r\nbenevolence, will respect the established powers and privileges even\r\nof individuals, and still more those of the great orders and\r\nsocieties, into which the state is divided. Though he should consider\r\nsome of them as in some measure abusive, he will content himself with\r\nmoderating what he often cannot annihilate without great violence.\r\nWhen he cannot conquer the rooted prejudices of the people by reason\r\nand persuasion, he will not attempt to subdue them by force; but will\r\nreligiously observe what, by Cicero, is justly called the divine maxim\r\nof Plato, never to use violence to his country no more than to his\r\nparents. He will accommodate, as well as he can, his public\r\narrangements to the confirmed habits and prejudices of the people; and\r\nwill remedy, as well as he can, the inconveniencies which may flow\r\nfrom the want of those regulations which the people are averse to\r\nsubmit to. When he cannot establish the right, he will not disdain to\r\nameliorate the wrong; but like Solon, when he cannot establish the\r\nbest system of laws, he will try to establish the best that the people\r\ncan bear.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe man of system, on the contrary, is apt to be very wise in his\r\nown conceit: and is often so enamoured with the supposed beauty of his\r\nown ideal plan of government, that he cannot suffer the smallest\r\ndeviation from any part of it. He goes on to establish it completely\r\nand in all its parts, without any regard either to the great\r\ninterests, or to the strong prejudices which may oppose it. He seems\r\nto imagine that he can arrange the different members of a great\r\nsociety with as much ease as the hand arranges the different pieces\r\nupon a chess-board. He does not consider that the pieces upon the\r\nchess-board have no other principle of motion besides that which the\r\nhand impresses upon them; but that, in the great chess-board of human\r\nsociety, every single piece has a principle of motion of its own,\r\naltogether different from that which the legislature might choose to\r\nimpress upon it. If those two principles coincide and act in the same\r\ndirection, the game of human society will go on easily and\r\nharmoniously, and is very likely to be happy and successful. If they\r\nare opposite or different, the game will go on miserably, and human\r\nsociety must be at all times in the highest degree of disorder.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSome general, and even systematical, idea of the perfection of\r\npolicy and law, may no doubt be necessary for directing the views of\r\nthe statesman. But to insist upon establishing, and upon establishing\r\nall \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e208\u003c/span\u003e at once, and in spite of all opposition, every thing which\r\nthat idea may seem to require, must often be the highest degree of\r\narrogance. It is to erect his own judgment into the supreme standard\r\nof right and wrong. It is to fancy himself the only wise and worthy\r\nman in the commonwealth, and that his fellow-citizens should\r\naccommodate themselves to him and not he to them. It is upon this\r\naccount, that of all political speculators, sovereign princes are by\r\nfar the most dangerous. This arrogance is perfectly familiar to them.\r\nThey entertain no doubt of the immense superiority of their own\r\njudgment. When such imperial and royal reformers, therefore,\r\ncondescend to contemplate the constitution of the country which is\r\ncommitted to their government, they seldom see any thing so wrong in\r\nit as the obstructions which it may sometimes oppose to the execution\r\nof their own will. They hold in contempt the divine maxim of Plato,\r\nand consider the state as made for themselves, not themselves for the\r\nstate. The great object of their reformation, therefore, is to remove\r\nthose obstructions; to reduce the authority of the nobility; to take\r\naway the privileges of cities and provinces, and to render both the\r\ngreatest individuals and the greatest orders of the state, as\r\nincapable of opposing their commands, as the weakest and most\r\ninsignificant.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page208\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—\u003ci\u003eOf Universal Benevolence.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHOUGH\u003c/span\u003e our effectual good offices can very seldom be extended to\r\nany wider society than that of our country; our good-will is\r\ncircumscribed by no boundary, but may embrace the immensity of the\r\nuniverse. We cannot form the idea of any innocent and sensible being,\r\nwhose happiness we should not desire, or to whose misery, when\r\ndistinctly brought home to the imagination, we should not have some\r\ndegree of aversion. The idea of a mischievous, though sensible, being,\r\nindeed, naturally provokes our hatred: but the ill-will which, in this\r\ncase, we bear to it, is really the effect of our universal\r\nbenevolence. It is the effect of the sympathy which we feel with the\r\nmisery and resentment of those other innocent and sensible beings,\r\nwhose happiness is disturbed by its malice.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis universal benevolence, how noble and generous soever, can be\r\nthe source of no solid happiness to any man who is not thoroughly\r\nconvinced that all the inhabitants of the universe, the meanest as\r\nwell as the greatest, are under the immediate care and protection of\r\nthat great, benevolent, and all-wise Being, who directs all the\r\nmovements of nature; and who is determined, by his own unalterable\r\nperfections, to maintain in it, at all times, the greatest possible\r\nquantity of happiness. To this universal benevolence, on the contrary,\r\nthe very suspicion of a fatherless world, must be the most melancholy\r\nof all reflections; from the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page209\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e209\u003c/span\u003e thought that all the unknown\r\nregions of infinite and incomprehensible space may be filled with\r\nnothing but endless misery and wretchedness. All the splendour of the\r\nhighest prosperity can never enlighten the gloom with which so\r\ndreadful an idea must necessarily overshadow the imagination; nor, in\r\na wise and virtuous man, can all the sorrow of the most afflicting\r\nadversity ever dry up the joy which necessarily springs from the\r\nhabitual and thorough conviction of the truth of the contrary\r\nsystem.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe wise and virtuous man is at all times willing that his own\r\nprivate interest should be sacrificed to the public interest of his\r\nown particular order or society. He is at all times willing, too, that\r\nthe interest of this order or society should be sacrificed to the\r\ngreater interest of the state or sovereignty, of which it is only a\r\nsubordinate part. He should, therefore, be equally willing that all\r\nthose inferior interests should be sacrificed to the greater interest\r\nof the universe, to the interest of that great society of all sensible\r\nand intelligent beings, of which God himself is the immediate\r\nadministrator and director. If he is deeply impressed with the\r\nhabitual and thorough conviction that this benevolent and all-wise\r\nBeing can admit into the system of his government, no partial evil\r\nwhich is not necessary for the universal good, he must consider all\r\nthe misfortunes which may befal himself, his friends, his society, or\r\nhis country, as necessary for the prosperity of the universe, and\r\ntherefore as what he ought, not only to submit to with resignation,\r\nbut as what he himself, if he had known all the connexions and\r\ndependencies of things, ought sincerely and devoutly to have wished\r\nfor.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNor does this magnanimous resignation to the will of the great\r\nDirector of the universe, seem in any respect beyond the reach of\r\nhuman nature. Good soldiers, who both love and trust their general,\r\nfrequently march with more gaiety and alacrity to the forlorn station,\r\nfrom which they never expect to return, than they would to one where\r\nthere was neither difficulty nor danger. In marching to the latter,\r\nthey could feel no other sentiment than that of the dulness of\r\nordinary duty; in marching to the former, they feel that they are\r\nmaking the noblest exertion which it is possible for man to make. They\r\nknow that their general would not have ordered them upon this station,\r\nhad it not been necessary for the safety of the army, for the success\r\nof the war. They cheerfully sacrifice their own little systems to the\r\nprosperity of a greater system. They take an affectionate leave of\r\ntheir comrades, to whom they wish all happiness and success; and march\r\nout, not only with submissive obedience, but often with shouts of the\r\nmost joyful exultation, to that fatal, but splendid and honourable\r\nstation to which they are appointed. No conductor of an army can\r\ndeserve more unlimited trust, more ardent and zealous affection, than\r\nthe great Conductor of the universe. In the greatest public as well as\r\nprivate disasters, a wise man ought to consider that he himself, his\r\nfriends and countrymen, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e210\u003c/span\u003e have only been ordered upon the forlorn\r\nstation of the universe; that had it not been necessary for the good\r\nof the whole, they would not have been so ordered; and that it is\r\ntheir duty, not only with humble resignation to submit to this\r\nallotment, but to endeavour to embrace it with alacrity and joy. A\r\nwise man should surely be capable of doing what a good soldier holds\r\nhimself at all times in readiness to do.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe idea of that divine Being, whose benevolence and wisdom have,\r\nfrom all eternity, contrived and conducted the immense machine of the\r\nuniverse, so as at all times to produce the greatest possible quantity\r\nof happiness, is certainly of all the objects of human contemplation\r\nby far the most sublime. Every other thought necessarily appears mean\r\nin the comparison. The man whom we believe to be principally occupied\r\nin this sublime contemplation, seldom fails to be the object of our\r\nhighest veneration; and though his life should be altogether\r\ncontemplative, we often regard him with a sort of religious respect\r\nmuch superior to that with which we look upon the most active and\r\nuseful servant of the commonwealth. The Meditations of Marcus\r\nAntoninus, which turn principally upon this subject, have contributed\r\nmore, perhaps, to the general admiration of his character, than all\r\nthe different transactions of his just, merciful, and beneficent\r\nreign.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe administration of the great system of the universe, however,\r\nthe care of the universal happiness of all rational and sensible\r\nbeings, is the business of God and not of man. To man is allotted a\r\nmuch humbler department, but one much more suitable to the weakness of\r\nhis powers, and to the narrowness of his comprehension; the care of\r\nhis own happiness, of that of his family, his friends, his country:\r\nthat he is occupied in contemplating the more sublime, can never be an\r\nexcuse for his neglecting the more humble department; and he must not\r\nexpose himself to the charge which Avidius Cassius is said to have\r\nbrought, perhaps unjustly, against Marcus Antoninus; that while he\r\nemployed himself in philosophical speculations, and contemplated the\r\nprosperity of the universe, he neglected that of the Roman empire. The\r\nmost sublime speculation of the contemplative philosopher can scarce\r\ncompensate the neglect of the smallest active duty.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page210\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—OF SELF-COMMAND.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e man who acts according to the rules of perfect prudence, of\r\nstrict justice, and of proper benevolence, may be said to be perfectly\r\nvirtuous. But the most perfect knowledge of those rules will not alone\r\nenable him to act in this manner: his own passions are very apt to\r\nmislead him: sometimes to drive him and sometimes to seduce him to\r\nviolate all the rules which he himself, in all his sober and cool\r\nhours, approves of. The most perfect knowledge, if it is not supported\r\nby the most perfect self-command, will not always enable him to do his\r\nduty.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page211\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e211\u003c/span\u003e Some of the best of the ancient moralists seem to have\r\nconsidered those passions as divided into two different classes:\r\nfirst, into those which it requires a considerable exertion of\r\nself-command to restrain even for a single moment; and secondly, into\r\nthose which it is easy to restrain for a single moment, or even for a\r\nshort period of time; but which, by their continual and almost\r\nincessant solicitations, are, in the course of a life, very apt to\r\nmislead into great deviations.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFear and anger, together with some other passions which are mixed\r\nor connected with them, constitute the first class. The love of ease,\r\nof pleasure, of applause, and of many other selfish gratifications,\r\nconstitute the second. Extravagant fear and furious anger, it is often\r\ndifficult to restrain even for a single moment. The love of ease, of\r\npleasure, of applause, and other selfish gratifications, it is always\r\neasy to restrain for a single moment, or even for a short period of\r\ntime; but, by their continual solicitations, they often mislead us\r\ninto many weaknesses which we have afterwards much reason to be\r\nashamed of. The former set of passions may often be said to drive, the\r\nlatter to seduce us, from our duty. The command of the former was, by\r\nthe ancient moralists above alluded to, denominated fortitude,\r\nmanhood, and strength of mind; that of the latter, temperance,\r\ndecency, modesty, and moderation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe command of each of those two sets of passions, independent of\r\nthe beauty which it derives from its utility; from its enabling us\r\nupon all occasions to act according to the dictates of prudence, of\r\njustice, and of proper benevolence; has a beauty of its own, and seems\r\nto deserve for its own sake a certain degree of esteem and admiration.\r\nIn the one case, the strength and greatness of the exertion excites\r\nsome degree of that esteem and admiration. In the other, the\r\nuniformity, the equality and unremitting steadiness of that\r\nexertion.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe man who, in danger, in torture, upon the approach of death,\r\npreserves his tranquillity unaltered, and suffers no word, no gesture\r\nto escape him which does not perfectly accord with the feelings of the\r\nmost indifferent spectator, necessarily commands a very high degree of\r\nadmiration. If he suffers in the cause of liberty and justice, for the\r\nsake of humanity and the love of his country, the most tender\r\ncompassion for his sufferings, the strongest indignation against the\r\ninjustice of his persecutors, the warmest sympathetic gratitude for\r\nhis beneficent intentions, the highest sense of his merit, all join\r\nand mix themselves with the admiration of his magnanimity, and often\r\ninflame that sentiment into the most enthusiastic and rapturous\r\nveneration. The heroes of ancient and modern history, who are\r\nremembered with the most peculiar favour and affection, are many of\r\nthem those who, in the cause of truth, liberty, and justice, have\r\nperished upon the scaffold, and who behaved there with that ease and\r\ndignity which became them. Had the enemies of Socrates suffered him to\r\ndie quietly in his bed, the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page212\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e212\u003c/span\u003e glory even of that great philosopher\r\nmight possibly never have acquired that dazzling splendour in which it\r\nhas been beheld in all succeeding ages. In the English history, when\r\nwe look over the illustrious heads which have been engraven by Vertue\r\nand Howbraken, there is scarce any body, I imagine, who does not feel\r\nthat the axe, the emblem of having been beheaded, which is engraved\r\nunder some of the most illustrious of them, under those of the Sir\r\nThomas Mores, of the Raleighs, the Russels, the Sydneys, \u0026amp;c., sheds a\r\nreal dignity and depth of interest over the characters to which it is\r\naffixed, much superior to what they can derive from all the futile\r\nornaments of heraldry, with which they are sometimes accompanied.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNor does this magnanimity give lustre only to the characters of\r\ninnocent and virtuous men. It draws some degree of favourable regard\r\neven upon those of the greatest criminals; and when a robber or\r\nhighwayman is brought to the scaffold, and behaves there with decency\r\nand firmness, though we perfectly approve of his punishment, we often\r\ncannot help regretting that a man who possessed such great and noble\r\npowers should have been capable of such mean enormities.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWar is the great school both for acquiring and exercising this\r\nspecies of magnanimity. Death, as we say, is the king of terrors; and\r\nthe man who has conquered the fear of death, is not likely to lose his\r\npresence of mind at the approach of any other natural evil. In war,\r\nmen become familiar with death, and are thereby necessarily cured of\r\nthat superstitious horror with which it is viewed by the weak and\r\ninexperienced. They consider it merely as the loss of life, and as no\r\nfurther the object of aversion than as life may happen to be that of\r\ndesire. They learn from experience, too, that many seemingly great\r\ndangers are not so great as they appear; and that, with courage,\r\nactivity, and presence of mind, there is often a good probability of\r\nextricating themselves with honour from situations where at first they\r\ncould see no hope. The dread of death is thus greatly diminished; and\r\nthe confidence or hope of escaping it, augmented. They learn to expose\r\nthemselves to danger with less reluctance. They are less anxious to\r\nget out of it, and less apt to lose their presence of mind while they\r\nare in it. It is this habitual contempt of danger and death which\r\nennobles the profession of a soldier, and bestows upon it, in the\r\nnatural apprehensions of mankind, a rank and dignity superior to that\r\nof any other profession; and the skilful and successful exercise of\r\nthis profession, in the service of their country, seems to have\r\nconstituted the most distinguishing feature in the character of the\r\nfavourite heroes of all ages.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eGreat warlike exploit, though undertaken contrary to every\r\nprinciple of justice, and carried on without any regard to humanity,\r\nsometimes interests us, and commands even some degree of a certain\r\nsort of esteem for the very worthless characters which conduct it. We\r\nare \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page213\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e213\u003c/span\u003e interested even in the exploits of the buccaneers; and read\r\nwith some sort of esteem and admiration, the history of the most\r\nworthless men, who, in pursuit of the most criminal purposes, endured\r\ngreater hardships, surmounted greater difficulties, and encountered\r\ngreater dangers, than perhaps any which the course of history gives an\r\naccount of.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe command of anger appears upon many occasions not less generous\r\nand noble than that of fear. The proper expression of just indignation\r\ncomposes many of the most splendid and admired passages both of\r\nancient and modern eloquence. The Philippics of Demosthenes, the\r\nCatalinarians of Cicero, derive their whole beauty from the noble\r\npropriety with which this passion is expressed. But this just\r\nindignation is nothing but anger restrained and properly attempered to\r\nwhat the impartial spectator can enter into. The blustering and noisy\r\npassion which goes beyond this, is always odious and offensive, and\r\ninterests us, not for the angry man, but for the man with whom he is\r\nangry. The nobleness of pardoning appears, upon many occasions,\r\nsuperior even to the most perfect propriety of resenting. When either\r\nproper acknowledgments have been made by the offending party, or even\r\nwithout any such acknowledgments, when the public interest requires\r\nthat the most mortal enemies should unite for the discharge of some\r\nimportant duty, the man who can cast away all animosity, and act with\r\nconfidence and cordiality towards the person who had most grievously\r\noffended him, does seem most justly to merit our highest\r\nadmiration.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe command of anger, however, does not always appear in such\r\nsplendid colours. Fear is contrary to anger, and is often the motive\r\nwhich restrains it; and in such cases the meanness of the motive takes\r\naway all the nobleness of the restraint. Anger prompts to attack, and\r\nthe indulgence of it seems sometimes to show a sort of courage and\r\nsuperiority to fear. The indulgence of anger is sometimes an object of\r\nvanity. That of fear never is. Vain and weak men, among their\r\ninferiors, or those who dare not resist them, often affect to be\r\nostentatiously passionate, and fancy that they show, what is called,\r\nspirit in being so. A bully tells many stories of his own insolence,\r\nwhich are not true, and imagines that he thereby renders himself, if\r\nnot more amiable and respectable, at least more formidable to his\r\naudience. Modern manners, which, by favouring the practice of\r\nduelling, may be said, in some cases, to encourage private revenge,\r\ncontribute, perhaps, a good deal to render, in modern times, the\r\nrestraint of anger by fear still more contemptible than it might\r\notherwise appear to be. There is always something dignified in the\r\ncommand of fear, whatever may be the motive upon which it is founded.\r\nIt is not so with the command of anger. Unless it is founded\r\naltogether in the sense of decency, of dignity, and propriety, it\r\nnever is perfectly agreeable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo act according to the dictates of prudence, of justice, and\r\nproper \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page214\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e214\u003c/span\u003e beneficence, seems to have no great merit where there is\r\nno temptation to do otherwise. But to act with cool deliberation in\r\nthe midst of the greatest dangers and difficulties; to observe\r\nreligiously the sacred rules of justice in spite both of the greatest\r\ninterests which might tempt, and the greatest injuries which might\r\nprovoke us to violate them; never to suffer the benevolence of our\r\ntemper to be damped or discouraged by the malignity and ingratitude of\r\nthe individuals towards whom it may have been exercised; is the\r\ncharacter of the most exalted wisdom and virtue. Self-command is not\r\nonly itself a great virtue, but from it all the other virtues seem to\r\nderive their principal lustre.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe command of fear, the command of anger, are always great and\r\nnoble powers. When they are directed by justice and benevolence, they\r\nare not only great virtues, but increase the splendour of those other\r\nvirtues. They may, however, sometimes be directed by very different\r\nmotives; and in this case, though still great and respectable, they\r\nmay be excessively dangerous. The most intrepid valour may be employed\r\nin the cause of the greatest injustice. Amidst great provocations,\r\napparent tranquillity and good humour may sometimes conceal the most\r\ndetermined and cruel resolution to revenge. The strength of mind\r\nrequisite for such dissimulation, though always and necessarily\r\ncontaminated by the baseness of falsehood, has, however, been often\r\nmuch admired by many people of no contemptible judgment. The\r\ndissimulation of Catherine of Medicis is often celebrated by the\r\nprofound historian Davila; that of Lord Digby, afterwards Earl of\r\nBristol, by the grave and conscientious Lord Clarendon; that of the\r\nfirst Ashley Earl of Shaftesbury, by the judicious Mr. Locke. Even\r\nCicero seems to consider this deceitful character, not indeed as of\r\nthe highest dignity, but as not unsuitable to a certain flexibility of\r\nmanners, which, he thinks may, notwithstanding, be, upon the whole,\r\nboth agreeable and respectable. He exemplifies it by the characters of\r\nHomer’s Ulysses, of the Athenian Themistocles, of the Spartan\r\nLysander, and of the Roman Marcus Crassus. This character of dark and\r\ndeep dissimulation occurs most commonly in times of great public\r\ndisorder; amidst the violence of faction and civil war. When law has\r\nbecome in a great measure impotent, when the most perfect innocence\r\ncannot alone insure safety, regard to self-defence obliges the\r\ngreatest part of men to have recourse to dexterity, to address, and to\r\napparent accommodation to whatever happens to be, at the moment, the\r\nprevailing party. This false character, too, is frequently accompanied\r\nwith the coolest and most determined courage. The proper exercise of\r\nit supposes that courage, as death is commonly the certain consequence\r\nof detection. It may be employed indifferently, either to exasperate\r\nor to allay those furious animosities of adverse factions which impose\r\nthe necessity of assuming it; and though it may sometimes be useful,\r\nit is at least equally liable to be excessively pernicious.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page215\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e215\u003c/span\u003e The command of the less violent and turbulent passions seems\r\nmuch less liable to be abused to any pernicious purpose. Temperance,\r\ndecency, modesty, and moderation, are always amiable, and can seldom\r\nbe directed to any bad end. It is from the unremitting steadiness of\r\nthose gentler exertions of self-command, that the amiable virtue of\r\nchastity, that the respectable virtues of industry and frugality,\r\nderive all that sober lustre which attends them. The conduct of all\r\nthose who are contented to walk in the humble paths of private and\r\npeaceable life, derives from the same principle the greater part of\r\nthe beauty and grace which belong to it; a beauty and grace, which,\r\nthough much less dazzling, is not always less pleasing than those\r\nwhich accompany the more splendid actions of the hero, the statesman,\r\nor the legislator.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAfter what has already been said, in several different parts of\r\nthis discourse, concerning the nature of self-command, I judge it\r\nunnecessary to enter into any further detail concerning those virtues.\r\nI shall only observe at present, that the point of propriety, the\r\ndegree of any passion which the impartial spectator approves of, is\r\ndifferently situated in different passions. In some passions the\r\nexcess is less disagreeable than the defect; and in such passions the\r\npoint of propriety seems to stand high, or nearer to the excess than\r\nto the defect. In other passions, the defect is less disagreeable than\r\nthe excess; and in such passions the point of propriety seems to stand\r\nlow, or nearer to the defect than to the excess. The former are the\r\npassions which the spectator is most, the latter, those which he is\r\nleast disposed to sympathize with. The former, too, are the passions\r\nof which the immediate feeling or sensation is agreeable to the person\r\nprincipally concerned; the latter, those of which it is disagreeable.\r\nIt may be laid down as a general rule, that the passions which the\r\nspectator is most disposed to sympathize with, and in which, upon that\r\naccount, the point of propriety may be said to stand high, are those\r\nof which the immediate feeling or sensation is more or less agreeable\r\nto the person principally concerned: and that, on the contrary, the\r\npassions which the spectator is least disposed to sympathize with, and\r\nin which, upon that account, the point of propriety may be said to\r\nstand low, are those of which the immediate feeling or sensation is\r\nmore or less disagreeable, or even painful, to the person principally\r\nconcerned. This general rule, so far as I have been able to observe,\r\nadmits not of a single exception. A few examples will at once both\r\nsufficiently explain it and demonstrate the truth of it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe disposition to the affections which tend to unite men in\r\nsociety to humanity, kindness, natural affection, friendship, esteem,\r\nmay sometimes be excessive. Even the excess of this disposition,\r\nhowever, renders a man interesting to every body. Though we blame it,\r\nwe still regard it with compassion, and even with kindness, and never\r\nwith dislike. We are more sorry for it than angry at it. To the person\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page216\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e216\u003c/span\u003e himself, the indulgence even of such excessive affections is,\r\nupon many occasions, not only agreeable, but delicious. Upon some\r\noccasions, indeed, especially when directed, as is too often the case,\r\ntowards unworthy objects, it exposes him to much real and heartfelt\r\ndistress. Even upon such occasions, however, a well-disposed mind\r\nregards him with the most exquisite pity, and feels the highest\r\nindignation against those who affect to despise him for his weakness\r\nand imprudence. The defect of this disposition, on the contrary, what\r\nis called hardness of heart, while it renders a man insensible to the\r\nfeelings and distresses of other people, renders other people equally\r\ninsensible to his; and, by excluding him from the friendship of all\r\nthe world, excludes him from the best and most comfortable of all\r\nsocial enjoyments.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe disposition to the affections which drive men from one another,\r\nand which tend, as it were, to break the bands of human society; the\r\ndisposition to anger, hatred, envy, malice, revenge; is, on the\r\ncontrary, much more apt to offend by its excess than by its defect.\r\nThe excess renders a man wretched and miserable in his own mind, and\r\nthe object of hatred, and sometimes even of horror, to other people.\r\nThe defect is very seldom complained of. It may, however, be\r\ndefective. The want of proper indignation is a most essential defect\r\nin the manly character, and, upon many occasions, renders a man\r\nincapable of protecting either himself or his friends from insult and\r\ninjustice. Even that principle, in the excess and improper direction\r\nof which consists the odious and detestable passion of envy, may be\r\ndefective. Envy is that passion which views with malignant dislike the\r\nsuperiority of those who are really entitled to all the superiority\r\nthey possess. The man, however, who, in matters of consequence, tamely\r\nsuffers other people, who are entitled to no such superiority, to rise\r\nabove him or get before him, is justly condemned as mean-spirited.\r\nThis weakness is commonly founded in indolence, sometimes in good\r\nnature, in an aversion to opposition, to bustle and solicitation, and\r\nsometimes, too, in a sort of ill-judged magnanimity, which fancies\r\nthat it can always continue to despise the advantage which it then\r\ndespises, and, therefore, so easily gives up. Such weakness, however,\r\nis commonly followed by much regret and repentance; and what had some\r\nappearance of magnanimity in the beginning frequently gives place to a\r\nmost malignant envy in the end, and to a hatred of that superiority,\r\nwhich those who have once attained it, may often become really\r\nentitled to, by the very circumstance of having attained it. In order\r\nto live comfortably in the world, it is, upon all occasions, as\r\nnecessary to defend our dignity and rank, as it is to defend our life\r\nor our fortune.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOur sensibility to personal danger and distress, like that to\r\npersonal provocation, is much more apt to offend by its excess than by\r\nits defect. No character is more contemptible than that of a coward;\r\nno character is more admired than that of the man who faces death with\r\nintrepidity, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page217\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e217\u003c/span\u003e and maintains his tranquillity and presence of mind\r\namidst the most dreadful dangers. We esteem the man who supports pain\r\nand even torture with manhood and firmness; and we can have little\r\nregard for him who sinks under them, and abandons himself to useless\r\noutcries and womanish lamentations. A fretful temper, which feels,\r\nwith too much sensibility, every little cross accident, renders a man\r\nmiserable in himself and offensive to other people. A calm one, which\r\ndoes not allow its tranquillity to be disturbed, either by the small\r\ninjuries, or by the little disasters incident to the usual course of\r\nhuman affairs; but which, amidst the natural and moral evils infesting\r\nthe world, lays its account and is contented to suffer a little from\r\nboth, is a blessing to the man himself, and gives ease and security to\r\nall his companions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOur sensibility, however, both to our own injuries and to our own\r\nmisfortunes, though generally too strong, may likewise be too weak.\r\nThe man who feels little for his own misfortunes, must always feel\r\nless for those of other people, and be less disposed to relieve them.\r\nThe man who has little resentment for the injuries which are done to\r\nhimself, must always have less for those which are done to other\r\npeople, and be less disposed either to protect or to avenge them. A\r\nstupid insensibility to the events of human life necessarily\r\nextinguishes all that keen and earnest attention to the propriety of\r\nour own conduct, which constitutes the real essence of virtue. We can\r\nfeel little anxiety about the propriety of our own actions, when we\r\nare indifferent about the events which may result from them. The man\r\nwho feels the full distress of the calamity which has befallen him,\r\nwho feels the whole baseness of the injustice which has been done to\r\nhim, but who feels still more strongly what the dignity of his own\r\ncharacter requires; who does not abandon himself to the guidance of\r\nthe undisciplined passions which his situation might naturally\r\ninspire; but who governs his whole behaviour and conduct according to\r\nthose restrained and corrected emotions which the great inmate, the\r\ngreat demi-god within the breast prescribes and approves of; is alone\r\nthe real man of virtue, the only real and proper object of love,\r\nrespect, and admiration. Insensibility and that noble firmness, that\r\nexalted self-command, which is founded in the sense of dignity and\r\npropriety, are so far from being altogether the same, that in\r\nproportion as the former takes place, the merit of the latter is, in\r\nmany cases, entirely taken away.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though the total want of sensibility to personal injury, to\r\npersonal danger and distress, would, in such situations, take away the\r\nwhole merit of self-command, that sensibility, however, may very\r\neasily be too exquisite, and it frequently is so. When the sense of\r\npropriety, when the authority of the judge within the breast, can\r\ncontrol this extreme sensibility, that authority must no doubt appear\r\nvery noble and very great. But the exertion of it may be too\r\nfatiguing; it may have too much to do. The individual, by a great\r\neffort, may behave perfectly \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page218\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e218\u003c/span\u003e well. But the contest between the\r\ntwo principles, the warfare within the breast, may be too violent to\r\nbe at all consistent with internal tranquillity and happiness. The\r\nwise man whom Nature has endowed with this too exquisite sensibility,\r\nand whose too lively feelings have not been sufficiently blunted and\r\nhardened by early education and proper exercise, will avoid, as much\r\nas duty and propriety will permit, the situations for which he is not\r\nperfectly fitted. The man whose feeble and delicate constitution\r\nrenders him too sensible to pain, to hardship, and to every sort of\r\nbodily distress, should not wantonly embrace the profession of a\r\nsoldier. The man of too much sensibility to injury, should not rashly\r\nengage in the contests of faction. Though the sense of propriety\r\nshould be strong enough to command all those sensibilities, the\r\ncomposure of the mind must always be disturbed in the struggle. In\r\nthis disorder the judgment cannot always maintain its ordinary\r\nacuteness and precision; and though he may always mean to act\r\nproperly, he may often act rashly and imprudently, and in a manner\r\nwhich he himself will, in the succeeding part of his life, be for ever\r\nashamed of. A certain intrepidity, a certain firmness of nerves and\r\nhardiness of constitution, whether natural or acquired, are\r\nundoubtedly the best preparatives for all the great exertions of\r\nself-command.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThough war and faction are certainly the best schools for forming\r\nevery man to this hardiness and firmness of temper, though they are\r\nthe best remedies for curing him of the opposite weaknesses, yet, if\r\nthe day of trial should happen to come before he has completely\r\nlearned his lesson, before the remedy has had time to produce its\r\nproper effect, the consequences might not be agreeable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOur sensibility to the pleasures, to the amusements, and enjoyments\r\nof human life, may offend, in the same manner, either by its excess or\r\nby its defect. Of the two, however, the excess seems less disagreeable\r\nthan the defect. Both to the spectator and to the person principally\r\nconcerned, a strong propensity to joy is certainly more pleasing than\r\na dull insensibility to the objects of amusement and diversion. We are\r\ncharmed with the gaiety of youth, and even with the playfulness of\r\nchildhood: but we soon grow weary of the flat and tasteless gravity\r\nwhich too frequently accompanies old age. When this propensity,\r\nindeed, is not restrained by the sense of propriety, when it is\r\nunsuitable to the time or to the place, to the age or to the situation\r\nof the person, when, to indulge it, he neglects either his interest or\r\nhis duty; it is justly blamed as excessive, and as hurtful both to the\r\nindividual and to the society. In the greater part of such cases,\r\nhowever, what is chiefly to be found fault with is, not so much the\r\nstrength of the propensity to joy, as the weakness of the sense of\r\npropriety and duty. A young man who has no relish for the diversions\r\nand amusements that are natural and suitable to his age, who talks of\r\nnothing but his book or his business, is disliked as formal and\r\npedantic; and we give him no credit \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page219\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e219\u003c/span\u003e for his abstinence even from\r\nimproper indulgences, to which he seems to have so little\r\ninclination.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe principle of self-estimation may be too high, and it may\r\nlikewise be too low. It is so very agreeable to think highly, and so\r\nvery disagreeable to think meanly of ourselves, that, to the person\r\nhimself, it cannot well be doubted, but that some degree of excess\r\nmust be much less disagreeable than any degree of defect. But to the\r\nimpartial spectator, it may perhaps be thought, things must appear\r\nquite differently, and that to him, the defect must always be less\r\ndisagreeable than the excess. And in our companions, no doubt, we much\r\nmore frequently complain of the latter than of the former. When they\r\nassume upon us, or set themselves before us, their self-estimation\r\nmortifies our own. Our own pride and vanity prompt us to accuse them\r\nof pride and vanity, and we cease to be the impartial spectators of\r\ntheir conduct. When the same companions, however, suffer any other man\r\nto assume over them a superiority which does not belong to him, we not\r\nonly blame them, but often despise them as mean-spirited. When, on the\r\ncontrary, among other people, they push themselves a little more\r\nforward, and scramble to an elevation disproportioned, as we think, to\r\ntheir merit, though we may not perfectly approve of their conduct, we\r\nare often, upon the whole, diverted with it; and, where there is no\r\nenvy in the case, we are almost always much less displeased with them,\r\nthan we should have been, had they only suffered themselves to sink\r\nbelow their proper station.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn estimating our own merit, in judging of our own character and\r\nconduct, there are two different standards to which we naturally\r\ncompare them. The one is the idea of exact propriety and perfection,\r\nso far as we are each of us capable of comprehending that idea. The\r\nother is that degree of approximation to this idea which is commonly\r\nattained in the world, and which the greater part of our friends and\r\ncompanions, of our rivals and competitors, may have actually arrived\r\nat. We very seldom (I am disposed to think, we never) attempt to judge\r\nof ourselves without giving more or less attention to both these\r\ndifferent standards. But the attention of different men, and even of\r\nthe same man at different times, is often very unequally divided\r\nbetween them; and is sometimes principally directed towards the one,\r\nand sometimes towards the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSo far as our attention is directed towards the first standard, the\r\nwisest and best of us all, can, in his own character and conduct, see\r\nnothing but weakness and imperfection; can discover no ground for\r\narrogance and presumption, but a great deal for humility, regret, and\r\nrepentance. So far as our attention is directed towards the second, we\r\nmay be affected either in the one way or in the other, and feel\r\nourselves, either really above, or really below, the standard with\r\nwhich we seek to compare ourselves.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page220\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e220\u003c/span\u003e The wise and virtuous man directs his principal attention to\r\nthe first standard; the idea of exact propriety and perfection. There\r\nexists in the mind of every man, an idea of this kind, gradually\r\nformed from his observations upon the character and conduct both of\r\nhimself and of other people. It is the slow, gradual, and progressive\r\nwork of the great demigod within the breast, the great judge and\r\narbiter of conduct. This idea is in every man more or less accurately\r\ndrawn, its colouring is more or less just, its outlines are more or\r\nless exactly designed, according to the delicacy and acuteness of that\r\nsensibility, with which those observations were made, and according to\r\nthe care and attention employed in making them. In the wise and\r\nvirtuous man they have been made with the most acute and delicate\r\nsensibility, and the utmost care and attention have been employed in\r\nmaking them. Every day some feature is improved; every day some\r\nblemish is corrected. He has studied this idea more than other people,\r\nhe comprehends it more distinctly, he has formed a much more correct\r\nimage of it, and is much more deeply enamoured of its exquisite and\r\ndivine beauty. He endeavours, as well as he can, to assimilate his own\r\ncharacter to this archetype of perfection. But he imitates the work of\r\na divine artist, which can never be equalled. He feels the imperfect\r\nsuccess of all his best endeavours, and sees, with grief and\r\naffliction, in how many different features the mortal copy falls short\r\nof the immortal original. He remembers, with concern and humiliation,\r\nhow often, from want of attention, from want of judgment, from want of\r\ntemper, he has, both in words and actions, both in conduct and\r\nconversation, violated the exact rules of perfect propriety; and has\r\nso far departed from that model, according to which he wished to\r\nfashion his own character and conduct. When he directs his attention\r\ntowards the second standard, indeed, that degree of excellence which\r\nhis friends and acquaintances have commonly arrived at, he may be\r\nsensible of his own superiority. But, as his principal attention is\r\nalways directed towards the first standard, he is necessarily much\r\nmore humbled by the one comparison, than he ever can be elevated by\r\nthe other. He is never so elated as to look down with insolence even\r\nupon those who are really below him. He feels so well his own\r\nimperfection, he knows so well the difficulty with which he attained\r\nhis own distant approximation to rectitude, that he cannot regard with\r\ncontempt the still greater imperfections of other people. Far from\r\ninsulting over their inferiority, he views it with the most indulgent\r\ncommiseration, and, by his advice as well as example, is at all times\r\nwilling to promote their further advancement. If, in any particular\r\nqualification, they happen to be superior to him (for who is so\r\nperfect as not to have many superiors in many different\r\nqualifications?), far from envying their superiority, he, who knows\r\nhow difficult it is to excel, esteems and honours their excellence,\r\nand never fails to bestow upon it the full measure of applause \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page221\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e221\u003c/span\u003e\r\nwhich it deserves. His whole mind, in short, is deeply impressed, his\r\nwhole behaviour and deportment are distinctly stamped with the\r\ncharacter of real modesty; with that of a very moderate estimation of\r\nhis own merit, and, at the same time, with a very full sense of the\r\nmerit of other people.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn all the liberal and ingenious arts, in painting, in poetry, in\r\nmusic, in eloquence, in philosophy, the great artist feels always the\r\nreal imperfection of his own best works, and is more sensible than any\r\nman how much they fall short of that ideal perfection of which he has\r\nformed some conception, which he imitates as well as he can, but which\r\nhe despairs of ever equalling. It is the inferior artist only, who is\r\never perfectly satisfied with his own performances. He has little\r\nconception of this ideal perfection, about which he has little\r\nemployed his thoughts; and it is chiefly to the works of other\r\nartists, of, perhaps, a still lower order, that he deigns to compare\r\nhis own works. Boileau, the great French poet (in some of his works,\r\nperhaps not inferior to the greatest poet of the same kind, either\r\nancient or modern), used to say, that no great man was ever completely\r\nsatisfied with his own works. His acquaintance Santeuil (a writer of\r\nLatin verses, and who, on account of that school-boy accomplishment,\r\nhad the weakness to fancy himself a poet), assured him that he himself\r\nwas always completely satisfied with \u003ci\u003ehis\u003c/i\u003e own. Boileau replied,\r\nwith, perhaps, an arch ambiguity, that he certainly was the only great\r\nman that ever was so. Boileau, in judging of his own works, compared\r\nthem with the standard of ideal perfection, which, in his own\r\nparticular branch of the poetic art, he had, I presume, meditated as\r\ndeeply, and conceived as distinctly, as it is possible for man to\r\nconceive it. Santeuil, in judging of \u003ci\u003ehis\u003c/i\u003e own works, compared\r\nthem, I suppose, chiefly to those of the other Latin poets of his own\r\ntime, to the great part of whom he was certainly very far from being\r\ninferior. But to support and finish off, if I may say so, the conduct\r\nand conversation of a whole life to some resemblance of this ideal\r\nperfection, is surely much more difficult than to work up to an equal\r\nresemblance any of the productions of any of the ingenious arts. The\r\nartist sits down to his work undisturbed, at leisure, in the full\r\npossession and recollection of all his skill, experience, and\r\nknowledge. The wise man must support the propriety of his own conduct\r\nin health and sickness, in success and in disappointment, in the hour\r\nof fatigue and drowsy indolence, as well as in that of the most\r\nawakened attention. The most sudden and unexpected assaults of\r\ndifficulty and distress must never surprise him. The injustice of\r\nother people must never provoke him to injustice. The violence of\r\nfaction must never confound him. All the hardships and hazards of war\r\nmust never either dishearten or appal him.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf the persons who, in estimating their own merit, in judging of\r\ntheir own character and conduct, direct by far the greater part of\r\ntheir \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page222\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e222\u003c/span\u003e attention to the second standard, to that ordinary degree\r\nof excellence which is commonly attained by other people, there are\r\nsome who really and justly feel themselves very much above it, and\r\nwho, by every intelligent and impartial spectator, are acknowledged to\r\nbe so. The attention of such persons, however, being always\r\nprincipally directed, not to the standard of ideal, but to that of\r\nordinary perfection, they have little sense of their own weaknesses\r\nand imperfections; they have little modesty; and are often assuming,\r\narrogant, and presumptuous; great admirers of themselves, and great\r\ncontemners of other people. Though their characters are in general\r\nmuch less correct, and their merit much inferior to that of the man of\r\nreal and modest virtue; yet their excessive presumption, founded upon\r\ntheir own excessive self-admiration, dazzles the multitude, and often\r\nimposes even upon those who are much superior to the multitude. The\r\nfrequent, and often wonderful, success of the most ignorant quacks and\r\nimpostors, both civil and religious, sufficiently demonstrate how\r\neasily the multitude are imposed upon by the most extravagant and\r\ngroundless pretensions. But when those pretensions are supported by a\r\nvery high degree of real and solid merit, when they are displayed with\r\nall the splendour which ostentation can bestow upon them, when they\r\nare supported by high rank and great power, when they have often been\r\nsuccessfully exerted, and are, upon that account, attended by the loud\r\nacclamations of the multitude; even the man of sober judgment often\r\nabandons himself to the general admiration. The very noise of those\r\nfoolish acclamations often contributes to confound his understanding,\r\nand while he sees those great men only at a certain distance, he is\r\noften disposed to worship them with a sincere admiration, superior\r\neven to that with which they appear to worship themselves. When there\r\nis no envy in the case, we all take pleasure in admiring, and are,\r\nupon that account, naturally disposed, in our own fancies, to render\r\ncomplete and perfect in every respect the characters which, in many\r\nrespects, are so very worthy of admiration. The excessive\r\nself-admiration of those great men is well understood, perhaps, and\r\neven seen through, with some degree of derision, by those wise men who\r\nare much in their familiarity, and who secretly smile at those lofty\r\npretensions, which, by people at a distance, are often regarded with\r\nreverence, and almost with adoration. Such, however, have been, in all\r\nages, the greater part of those men who have procured to themselves\r\nthe most noisy fame, the most extensive reputation; a fame and\r\nreputation, too, which have too often descended to the remotest\r\nposterity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eGreat success in the world, great authority over the sentiments and\r\nopinions of mankind, have very seldom been acquired without some\r\ndegree of this excessive self-admiration. The most splendid\r\ncharacters, the men who have performed the most illustrious actions,\r\nwho have brought about the greatest revolutions, both in the\r\nsituations and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page223\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e223\u003c/span\u003e opinions of mankind; the most successful\r\nwarriors, the greatest statesmen and legislators, the eloquent\r\nfounders and leaders of the most numerous and most successful sects\r\nand parties; have many of them been, not more distinguished for their\r\nvery great merit, than for a degree of presumption and self-admiration\r\naltogether disproportioned even to that very great merit. This\r\npresumption was, perhaps, necessary, not only to prompt them to\r\nundertakings which a more sober mind would never have thought of, but\r\nto command the submission and obedience of their followers to support\r\nthem in such undertakings. When crowned with success, accordingly,\r\nthis presumption has often betrayed them into a vanity that approached\r\nalmost to insanity and folly. Alexander the Great appears, not only to\r\nhave wished that other people should think him a god, but to have been\r\nat least very well-disposed to fancy himself such. Upon his deathbed,\r\nthe most ungodlike of all situations, he requested of his friends\r\nthat, to the respectable list of deities, into which himself had long\r\nbefore been inserted, his old mother Olympia might likewise have the\r\nhonour of being added. Amidst the respectful admiration of his\r\nfollowers and disciples, amidst the universal applause of the public,\r\nafter the oracle, which probably had followed the voice of that\r\napplause, had pronounced him the wisest of men, the great wisdom of\r\nSocrates, though it did not suffer him to fancy himself a god, yet was\r\nnot great enough to hinder him from fancying that he had secret and\r\nfrequent intimations from some invisible and divine being. The sound\r\nhead of Cæsar was not so perfectly sound as to hinder him from being\r\nmuch pleased with his divine genealogy from the goddess Venus; and,\r\nbefore the temple of this pretended great-grandmother, to receive,\r\nwithout rising from his seat, the Roman senate, when that illustrious\r\nbody came to present him with some decrees conferring upon him the\r\nmost extravagant honours. This insolence, joined to some other acts of\r\nan almost childish vanity, little to be expected from an understanding\r\nat once so very acute and comprehensive, seems, by exasperating the\r\npublic jealousy, to have emboldened his assassins, and to have\r\nhastened the execution of their conspiracy. The religion and manners\r\nof modern times give our great men little encouragement to fancy\r\nthemselves either gods or even prophets. Success, however, joined to\r\ngreat popular favour, has often so far turned the heads of the\r\ngreatest of them, as to make them ascribe to themselves both an\r\nimportance and an ability much beyond what they really possessed; and,\r\nby this presumption, to precipitate themselves into many rash and\r\nsometimes ruinous adventures. It is a characteristic almost peculiar\r\nto the great Duke of Marlborough, that ten years of such uninterrupted\r\nand such splendid success as scarce any other general could boast of,\r\nnever betrayed him into a a single rash action, scarce into a single\r\nrash word or expression. The same temperate coolness and self-command\r\ncannot, I think, be ascribed to any other great warrior of later\r\ntimes; not to Prince Eugene, not to \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page224\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e224\u003c/span\u003e the late King of Prussia,\r\nnot \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from the the\"\u003ethe\u003c/span\u003e great Prince of Condé, not even to Gustavus Adolphus.\r\nTurenne seems to have approached the nearest to it; but several\r\ndifferent transactions of his life sufficiently demonstrate that it\r\nwas in him by no means so perfect as it was in the great Duke of\r\nMarlborough.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the humble projects of private life, as well as in the ambitious\r\nand proud pursuits of high stations, great abilities and successful\r\nenterprise, in the beginning, have frequently encouraged to\r\nundertakings which necessarily led to bankruptcy and ruin in the\r\nend.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe esteem and admiration which every impartial spectator conceives\r\nfor the real merit of those spirited, magnanimous, and high-minded\r\npersons, as it is a just and well-founded sentiment, so it is a steady\r\nand permanent one, and altogether independent of their good or bad\r\nfortune. It is otherwise with that admiration which he is apt to\r\nconceive for their excessive self-estimation and presumption. While\r\nthey are successful, indeed, he is often perfectly conquered and\r\noverborne by them. Success covers from his eyes, not only the great\r\nimprudence, but frequently the great injustice of their enterprises;\r\nand far from blaming this defective part of their character, he often\r\nviews it with the most enthusiastic admiration. When they are\r\nunfortunate, however, things change their colours and their names.\r\nWhat was before heroic magnanimity, resumes its proper appellation of\r\nextravagant rashness and folly; and the blackness of that avidity and\r\ninjustice, which was before hid under the splendour of prosperity,\r\ncomes full into view, and blots the whole lustre of their enterprise.\r\nHad Cæsar, instead of gaining, lost the battle of Pharsalia, his\r\ncharacter would, at this hour, have ranked a little above that of\r\nCataline, and the weakest man would have viewed his enterprise against\r\nthe laws of his country in blacker colours, than, perhaps even Cato,\r\nwith all the animosity of a party-man, ever viewed it at the time. His\r\nreal merit, the justness of his taste, the simplicity and elegance of\r\nhis writings, the propriety of his eloquence, his skill in war, his\r\nresources in distress, his cool and sedate judgment in danger, his\r\nfaithful attachment to his friends, his unexampled generosity to his\r\nenemies, would all have been acknowledged; as the real merit of\r\nCataline, who had many great qualities, is acknowledged at this day.\r\nBut the insolence and injustice of his all-grasping ambition would\r\nhave darkened and extinguished the glory of all that real merit.\r\nFortune has in this, as well as in some other respects already\r\nmentioned, great influence over the moral sentiments of mankind, and,\r\naccording as she is either favourable or adverse, can render the same\r\ncharacter the object, either of general love and admiration, or of\r\nuniversal hatred and contempt. This great disorder in our moral\r\nsentiments is by no means, however, without its utility; and we may on\r\nthis, as well as on many other occasions, admire the wisdom of God\r\neven in the weakness and folly of man. Our admiration of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page225\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e225\u003c/span\u003e success\r\nis founded upon the same principle with our respect for wealth and\r\ngreatness, and is equally necessary for establishing the distinction\r\nof ranks and the order of society. By this admiration of success we\r\nare taught to submit more easily to those superiors, whom the course\r\nof human affairs may assign to us; to regard with reverence, and\r\nsometimes even with a sort of respectful affection, that fortunate\r\nviolence which we are no longer capable of resisting; not only the\r\nviolence of such splendid characters as those of a Cæsar or an\r\nAlexander, but often that of the most brutal and savage barbarians, of\r\nan Attila, a Gengis, or a Tamerlane. To all such mighty conquerors the\r\ngreat mob of mankind are naturally disposed to look up with a\r\nwondering, though, no doubt, with a very weak and foolish admiration.\r\nBy this admiration, however, they are taught to acquiesce with less\r\nreluctance under that government which an irresistible force imposes\r\nupon them, and from which no reluctance could deliver them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThough in prosperity, however, the man of excessive self-estimation\r\nmay sometimes appear to have some advantage over the man of correct\r\nand modest virtue; though the applause of the multitude, and of those\r\nwho see them both only at a distance, is often much louder in favour\r\nof the one than it ever is in favour of the other; yet, all things\r\nfairly computed, the real balance of advantage is, perhaps in all\r\ncases, greatly in favour of the latter and against the former. The man\r\nwho neither ascribes to himself, nor wishes that other people should\r\nascribe to him, any other merit besides that which really belongs to\r\nhim, fears no humiliation, dreads no detection; but rests contented\r\nand secure upon the genuine truth and solidity of his own character.\r\nHis admirers may neither be very numerous nor very loud in their\r\napplauses; but the wisest man who sees him the nearest and who knows\r\nhim the best, admires him the most. To a real wise man the judicious\r\nand well-weighed approbation of a single wise man, gives more\r\nheartfelt satisfaction than all the noisy applauses of ten thousand\r\nignorant though enthusiastic admirers. He may say with Parmenides,\r\nwho, upon reading a philosophical discourse before a public assembly\r\nat Athens, and observing, that, except Plato, the whole company had\r\nleft him, continued, notwithstanding, to read on, and said that Plato\r\nalone was audience sufficient for him.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is otherwise with the man of excessive self-estimation. The wise\r\nmen who see him the nearest, admire him the least. Amidst the\r\nintoxication of prosperity, their sober and just esteem falls so far\r\nshort of the extravagance of his own self-admiration, that he regards\r\nit as mere malignity and envy. He suspects his best friends. Their\r\ncompany becomes offensive to him. He drives them from his presence,\r\nand often rewards their services, not only with ingratitude, but with\r\ncruelty and injustice. He abandons his confidence to flatterers and\r\ntraitors, who pretend to idolize his vanity and presumption; and that\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page226\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e226\u003c/span\u003e character which in the beginning, though in some respects\r\ndefective, was, upon the whole, both amiable and respectable, becomes\r\ncontemptible and odious in the end. Amidst the intoxication of\r\nprosperity, Alexander killed Clytus, for having preferred the exploits\r\nof his father Philip to his own; put Calisthenes to death in torture,\r\nfor having refused to adore him in the Persian manner; and murdered\r\nthe great friend of his father, the venerable Parmenio, after having,\r\nupon the most groundless suspicions, sent first to the torture and\r\nafterwards to the scaffold the only remaining son of that old man, the\r\nrest having all before died in his own service. This was that Parmenio\r\nof whom Philip used to say, that the Athenians were very fortunate who\r\ncould find ten generals every year, while he himself, in the whole\r\ncourse of his life, could never find one but Parmenio. It was upon the\r\nvigilance and attention of this Parmenio that he reposed at all times\r\nwith confidence and security, and, in his hours of mirth and jollity,\r\nused to say, ‘Let us drink, my friends: we may do it with safety, for\r\nParmenio never drinks.’ It was this same Parmenio, with whose presence\r\nand counsel, it had been said, Alexander had gained all his victories;\r\nand without his presence and counsel, he had never gained a single\r\nvictory. The humble, admiring, and flattering friends, whom Alexander\r\nleft in power and authority behind him, divided his empire among\r\nthemselves, and after having thus robbed his family and kindred of\r\ntheir inheritance, put, one after another, every single surviving\r\nindividual of them, whether male or female, to death.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe frequently, not only pardon, but thoroughly enter into and\r\nsympathize with the excessive self-estimation of those splendid\r\ncharacters in which we observe a great and distinguished superiority\r\nabove the common level of mankind. We call them spirited, magnanimous,\r\nand high-minded; words which all involve in their meaning a\r\nconsiderable degree of praise and admiration. But we cannot enter into\r\nand sympathize with the excessive self-estimation of those characters\r\nin which we can discern no such distinguished superiority. We are\r\ndisgusted and revolted by it; and it is with some difficulty that we\r\ncan either pardon or suffer it. We call it pride or vanity; two words,\r\nof which the latter always, and the former for the most part, involve\r\nin their meaning a considerable degree of blame.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThose two vices, however, though resembling, in some respects, as\r\nbeing both modifications of excessive self-estimation, are yet, in\r\nmany respects, very different from one another.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe proud man is sincere, and, in the bottom of his heart, is\r\nconvinced of his own superiority; though it may sometimes be difficult\r\nto guess upon what that conviction is founded. He wishes you to view\r\nhim in no other light than that in which, when he places himself in\r\nyour situation, he really views himself. He demands no more of you\r\nthan, what he thinks, justice. If you appear not to respect him as he\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page227\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e227\u003c/span\u003e respects himself, he is more offended than mortified, and feels\r\nthe same indignant resentment as if he had suffered a real injury. He\r\ndoes not even then, however, deign to explain the grounds of his own\r\npretensions. He disdains to court your esteem. He affects even to\r\ndespise it, and endeavours to maintain his assumed station, not so\r\nmuch by making you sensible of his superiority, as of your own\r\nmeanness. He seems to wish not so much to excite your esteem for\r\n\u003ci\u003ehimself\u003c/i\u003e, as to mortify \u003ci\u003ethat\u003c/i\u003e for \u003ci\u003eyourself\u003c/i\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe vain man is not sincere, and, in the bottom of his heart, is\r\nvery seldom convinced of that superiority which he wishes you to\r\nascribe to him. He wishes you to view him in much more splendid\r\ncolours than those in which, when he places himself in your situation,\r\nand supposes you to know all that he knows, he can really view\r\nhimself. When you appear to view him, therefore, in different colours,\r\nperhaps in his proper colours, he is much more mortified than\r\noffended. The grounds of his claim to that character which he wishes\r\nyou to ascribe to him, he takes every opportunity of displaying, both\r\nby the most ostentatious and unnecessary exhibition of the good\r\nqualities and accomplishments which he possesses in some tolerable\r\ndegree, and sometimes even by false pretensions to those which he\r\neither possesses in no degree, or in so very slender a degree that he\r\nmay well enough be said to possess them in no degree. Far from\r\ndespising your esteem, he courts it with the most anxious assiduity.\r\nFar from wishing to mortify your self-estimation, he is happy to\r\ncherish it, in hopes that in return you will cherish his own. He\r\nflatters in order to be flattered. He studies to please, and\r\nendeavours to bribe you into a good opinion of him by politeness and\r\ncomplaisance, and sometimes even by real and essential good offices,\r\nthough often displayed, perhaps, with unnecessary ostentation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe vain man sees the respect which is paid to rank and fortune,\r\nand wishes to usurp this respect, as well as that for talents and\r\nvirtues. His dress, his equipage, his way of living, accordingly, all\r\nannounce both a higher rank and a greater fortune than really belong\r\nto him; and in order to support this foolish imposition for a few\r\nyears in the beginning of his life, he often reduces himself to\r\npoverty and distress long before the end of it. As long as he can\r\ncontinue his expense, however, his vanity is delighted with viewing\r\nhimself, not in the light in which you would view him if you knew all\r\nthat he knows; but in that in which, he imagines, he has, by his own\r\naddress, induced you actually to view him. Of all the illusions of\r\nvanity that is, perhaps, the most common. Obscure strangers who visit\r\nforeign countries, or who, from a remote province, come to visit, for\r\na short time, the capital of their own country, most frequently\r\nattempt to practise it. The folly of the attempt, though always very\r\ngreat and most unworthy of a man of sense, may not be altogether so\r\ngreat upon such as upon most other \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page228\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e228\u003c/span\u003e occasions. If their stay is\r\nshort, they may escape any disgraceful detection; and, after indulging\r\ntheir vanity for a few months or a few years, they may return to their\r\nown homes, and repair, by future parsimony, the waste of their past\r\nprofusion.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe proud man can very seldom be accused of this folly. His sense\r\nof his own dignity renders him careful to preserve his independency,\r\nand, when his fortune happens not to be large, though he wishes to be\r\ndecent, he studies to be frugal and attentive in all his expenses. The\r\nostentatious expense of the vain man is highly offensive to him. It\r\noutshines, perhaps, his own. It provokes his indignation as an\r\ninsolent assumption of a rank which is by no means due; and he never\r\ntalks of it without loading it with the harshest and severest\r\nreproaches.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe proud man does not always feel himself at his ease in the\r\ncompany of his equals, and still less in that of his superiors. He\r\ncannot lay down his lofty pretensions, and the countenance and\r\nconversation of such company overawe him so much that he dare not\r\ndisplay them. He has recourse to humbler company, for which he has\r\nlittle respect, which he would not willingly choose, and which is by\r\nno means agreeable to him; that of his inferiors, his flatterers, and\r\ndependants. He seldom visits his superiors, or, if he does, it is\r\nrather to show that he is entitled to live in such company, than for\r\nany real satisfaction that he enjoys in it. It is as Lord Clarendon\r\nsays of the Earl of Arundel, that he sometimes went to court, because\r\nhe could there only find a greater man than himself; but that he went\r\nvery seldom, because he found there a greater man than himself.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is quite otherwise with the vain man. He courts the company of\r\nhis superiors as much as the proud man shuns it. Their splendour, he\r\nseems to think, reflects a splendour upon those who are much about\r\nthem. He haunts the courts of kings and the levees of ministers, and\r\ngives himself the air of being a candidate for fortune and preferment,\r\nwhen in reality he possesses the much more precious happiness, if he\r\nknew how to enjoy it, of not being one. He is fond of being admitted\r\nto the tables of the great, and still more fond of magnifying to other\r\npeople the familiarity with which he is honoured there. He associates\r\nhimself, as much as he can, with fashionable people, with those who\r\nare supposed to direct the public opinion, with the witty, with the\r\nlearned, with the popular; and he shuns the company of his best\r\nfriends whenever the very uncertain current of public favour happens\r\nto run in any respect against them. With the people to whom he wishes\r\nto recommend himself, he is not always very delicate about the means\r\nwhich he employs for that purpose; unnecessary ostentation, groundless\r\npretensions, constant assentation, frequently flattery, though for the\r\nmost part a pleasant and sprightly flattery, and very seldom the gross\r\nand fulsome flattery of a parasite. The proud man, on the contrary,\r\nnever flatters, and is frequently scarce civil to any body.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page229\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e229\u003c/span\u003e Notwithstanding all its groundless pretensions, however,\r\nvanity is almost always a sprightly and a gay, and very often a\r\ngood-natured passion. Pride is always a grave, a sullen, and a severe\r\none. Even the falsehoods of the vain man are all innocent falsehoods,\r\nmeant to raise himself, not to lower other people. To do the proud man\r\njustice he very seldom stoops to the baseness of falsehood. When he\r\ndoes, however, his falsehoods are by no means so innocent. They are\r\nall mischievous, and meant to lower other people. He is full of\r\nindignation at the unjust superiority, as he thinks it, which is given\r\nto them. He views them with malignity and envy, and, in talking of\r\nthem, often endeavours, as much as he can, to extenuate and lessen\r\nwhatever are the grounds upon which their superiority is supposed to\r\nbe founded. Whatever tales are circulated to their disadvantage,\r\nthough he seldom forges them himself, yet he often takes pleasure in\r\nbelieving them, is by no means unwilling to repeat them, and even\r\nsometimes with some degree of exaggeration. The worst falsehoods of\r\nvanity are what we call white lies: those of pride, whenever it\r\ncondescends to falsehood, are all of the opposite complexion.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOur dislike to pride and vanity generally disposes us to rank the\r\npersons whom we accuse of those vices rather below than above the\r\ncommon level. In this judgment however, I think, we are most\r\nfrequently in the wrong, and that both the proud and the vain man are\r\noften (perhaps for the most part) a good deal above it; though not\r\nnear so much as either the one really thinks himself, or as the other\r\nwishes you to think him. If we compare them with their own\r\npretensions, they may appear the just objects of contempt. But when we\r\ncompare them with what the greater part of their rivals and\r\ncompetitors really are, they may appear quite otherwise, and very much\r\nabove the common level. Where there is this real superiority, pride is\r\nfrequently attended with many respectable virtues; with truth, with\r\nintegrity, with a high sense of honour, with cordial and steady\r\nfriendship, with the most inflexible firmness and resolution. Vanity,\r\nwith many amiable ones; with humanity, with politeness, with a desire\r\nto oblige in all little matters, and sometimes with a real generosity\r\nin great ones; a generosity, however, which it often wishes to display\r\nin the most splendid colours that it can. By their rivals and enemies,\r\nthe French, in the last century, were accused of vanity; the\r\nSpaniards, of pride; and foreign nations were disposed to consider the\r\none as the more amiable; the other, as the more respectable\r\npeople.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe words \u003ci\u003evain\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003evanity\u003c/i\u003e are never taken in a good\r\nsense. We sometimes say of a man, when we are talking of him in good\r\nhumour, that he is the better for his vanity, or that his vanity is\r\nmore diverting than offensive; but we still consider it as a foible\r\nand a ridiculous feature in his character.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe words \u003ci\u003eproud\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003epride\u003c/i\u003e, on the contrary, are\r\nsometimes taken in \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page230\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e230\u003c/span\u003e a good sense. We frequently say of a man,\r\nthat he is too proud, or that he has too much noble pride, ever to\r\nsuffer himself to do a mean thing. Pride is, in this case, confounded\r\nwith magnanimity. Aristotle, a philosopher who certainly knew the\r\nworld, in drawing the character of the magnanimous man, paints him\r\nwith many features which, in the two last centuries, were commonly\r\nascribed to the Spanish character: that he was deliberate in all his\r\nresolutions; slow, and even tardy, in all his actions; that his voice\r\nwas grave, his speech deliberate, his step and motion slow; that he\r\nappeared indolent and even slothful, not at all disposed to bustle\r\nabout little matters, but to act with the most determined and vigorous\r\nresolution upon all great and illustrious occasions: that he was not a\r\nlover of danger, or forward to expose himself to little dangers, but\r\nto great dangers; and that, when he exposed himself to danger, he was\r\naltogether regardless of his life.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe proud man is commonly too well contented with himself to think\r\nthat his character requires any amendment. The man who feels himself\r\nall-perfect, naturally enough despises all further improvement. His\r\nself-sufficiency and absurd conceit of his own superiority, commonly\r\nattend him from his youth to his most advanced age; and he dies, as\r\nHamlet says, ‘with all his sins upon his head, unanointed,\r\nunanealed.’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is frequently quite otherwise with the vain man. The desire of\r\nthe esteem and admiration of other people, when for qualities and\r\ntalents which are the natural and proper objects of esteem and\r\nadmiration, is the real love of true glory; a passion which, if not\r\nthe very best passion of human nature, is certainly one of the best.\r\nVanity is very frequently no more than an attempt prematurely to usurp\r\nthat glory before it is due. Though your son, under five-and-twenty\r\nyears of age, should be but a coxcomb; do not, upon that account,\r\ndespair of his becoming, before he is forty, a very wise and worthy\r\nman, and a real proficient in all those talents and virtues to which,\r\nat present, he may only be an ostentatious and empty pretender. The\r\ngreat secret of education is to direct vanity to proper objects. Never\r\nsuffer him to value himself upon trivial accomplishments. But do not\r\nalways discourage his pretensions to those that are of real\r\nimportance. He would not pretend to them if he did not earnestly\r\ndesire to possess them. Encourage this desire; afford him every means\r\nto facilitate the acquisition; and do not take too much offence,\r\nalthough he should sometimes assume the air of having attained it a\r\nlittle before the time.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch, I say, are the distinguishing characteristics of pride and\r\nvanity, when each of them acts according to its proper character. But\r\nthe proud man is often vain; and the vain man is often proud. Nothing\r\ncan be more natural than that the man, who thinks much more highly of\r\nhimself than he deserves, should wish that other people should think\r\nstill more highly of him: or that the man, who wishes that other\r\npeople \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page231\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e231\u003c/span\u003e should think more highly of him than he thinks of\r\nhimself, should, at the same time, think much more highly of himself\r\nthan he deserves. Those two vices being frequently blended in the same\r\ncharacter, the characteristics of both are necessarily confounded; and\r\nwe sometimes find the superficial and impertinent ostentation of\r\nvanity joined to the most malignant and derisive insolence of pride.\r\nWe are sometimes, upon that account, at a loss how to rank a\r\nparticular character, or whether to place it among the proud or among\r\nthe vain.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMen of merit considerably above the common level, sometimes\r\nunderrate as well as over-rate themselves. Such characters, though not\r\nvery dignified, are often, in private society, far from being\r\ndisagreeable. His companions all feel themselves much at their ease in\r\nthe society of a man so perfectly modest and unassuming. If those\r\ncompanions, however, have not both more discernment and more\r\ngenerosity than ordinary, though they may have some kindness for him,\r\nthey have seldom much respect; and the warmth of their kindness is\r\nvery seldom sufficient to compensate the coldness of their respect.\r\nMen of no more than ordinary discernment never rate any person higher\r\nthan he appears to rate himself. He seems doubtful himself, they say,\r\nwhether he is perfectly fit for such a situation or such an office;\r\nand immediately give the preference to some impudent blockhead who\r\nentertains no doubt about his own qualifications. Though they should\r\nhave discernment, yet, if they want generosity, they never fail to\r\ntake advantage of his simplicity, and to assume over him an\r\nimpertinent superiority which they are by no means entitled to. His\r\ngood nature may enable him to bear this for some time; but he grows\r\nweary at last, and frequently when it is too late, and when that rank,\r\nwhich he ought to have assumed, is lost irrecoverably, and usurped, in\r\nconsequence of his own backwardness, by some of his more forward,\r\nthough much less meritorious companions. A man of this character must\r\nhave been very fortunate in the early choice of his companions, if, in\r\ngoing through the world, he meets always with fair justice, even from\r\nthose whom, from his own past kindness, he might have some reason to\r\nconsider as his best friends; and a youth, who may be too unassuming\r\nand too unambitious, is frequently followed by an insignificant,\r\ncomplaining, and discontented old age.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThose unfortunate persons whom nature has formed a good deal below\r\nthe common level, seem oftentimes to rate themselves still more below\r\nit than they really are. This humility appears sometimes to sink them\r\ninto idiotism. Whoever has taken the trouble to examine idiots with\r\nattention, will find that, in many of them, the faculties of the\r\nunderstanding are by no means weaker than in several other people,\r\nwho, though acknowledged to be dull and stupid, are not, by any body,\r\naccounted idiots. Many idiots, with no more than ordinary education,\r\nhave been taught to read, write, and account tolerably well. Many\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page232\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e232\u003c/span\u003e persons, never accounted idiots, notwithstanding the most\r\ncareful education, and notwithstanding that, in their advanced age,\r\nthey have had spirit enough to attempt to learn what their early\r\neducation had not taught them, have never been able to acquire, in any\r\ntolerable degree, any one of those three accomplishments. By an\r\ninstinct of pride, however, they set themselves upon a level with\r\ntheir equals in age and situation; and, with courage and firmness,\r\nmaintain their proper station among their companions. By an opposite\r\ninstinct, the idiot feels himself below every company into which you\r\ncan introduce him. Ill-usage, to which he is extremely liable, is\r\ncapable of throwing him into the most violent fits of rage and fury.\r\nBut no good usage, no kindness or indulgence, can ever raise him to\r\nconverse with you as your equal. If you can bring him to converse with\r\nyou at all, however, you will frequently find his answers sufficiently\r\npertinent, and even sensible. But they are always stamped with a\r\ndistinct consciousness of his own great inferiority. He seems to\r\nshrink and, as it were, to retire from your look and conversation; and\r\nto feel, when he places himself in your situation, that,\r\nnotwithstanding your apparent condescension, you cannot help\r\nconsidering him as immensely below you. Some idiots, perhaps the\r\ngreater part, seem to be so, chiefly or altogether, from a certain\r\nnumbness or torpidity in the faculties of the understanding. But there\r\nare others, in whom those faculties do not appear more torpid or\r\nbenumbed than in many other people who are not accounted idiots. But\r\nthat instinct of pride, necessary to support them upon an equality\r\nwith their brethren, seems to be totally wanting in the former and not\r\nin the latter.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat degree of self-estimation, therefore, which contributes most\r\nto the happiness and contentment of the person himself, seems likewise\r\nmost agreeable to the impartial spectator.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe man who esteems himself as he ought, and no more than he ought,\r\nseldom fails to obtain from other people all the esteem that he\r\nhimself thinks due. He desires no more than is due to him, and he\r\nrests upon it with complete satisfaction.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe proud and the vain man, on the contrary, are constantly\r\ndissatisfied. The one is tormented with indignation at the unjust\r\nsuperiority, as he thinks it, of other people. The other is in\r\ncontinual dread of the shame, which, he foresees, would attend upon\r\nthe detection of his groundless pretensions. Even the extravagant\r\npretensions of the man of real magnanimity, though, when supported by\r\nsplendid abilities and virtues, and, above all, by good fortune, they\r\nimpose upon the multitude, whose applauses he little regards, do not\r\nimpose upon those wise men whose approbation he can only value, and\r\nwhose esteem he is most anxious to acquire. He feels that they see\r\nthrough, and suspects that they despise his excessive presumption; and\r\nhe often suffers the cruel misfortune of becoming, first the jealous\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e233\u003c/span\u003e and secret, and at last the open, furious, and vindictive enemy\r\nof those very persons, whose friendship it would have given him the\r\ngreatest happiness to enjoy with unsuspicious security.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThough our dislike to the proud and the vain often disposes us to\r\nrank them rather below than above their proper station, yet, unless we\r\nare provoked by some particular and personal impertinence, we very\r\nseldom venture to use them ill. In common cases, we endeavour, for our\r\nown ease, rather to acquiesce, and, as well as we can, to accommodate\r\nourselves to their folly. But, to the man who under-rates himself,\r\nunless we have both more discernment and more generosity than belong\r\nto the greater part of men, we seldom fail to do, at least, all the\r\ninjustice which he does to himself, and frequently a great deal more.\r\nHe is not only more unhappy in his own feelings than either the proud\r\nor the vain, but he is much more liable to every sort of ill-usage\r\nfrom other people. In almost all cases, it is better to be a little\r\ntoo proud, than, in any respect, too humble; and, in the sentiment of\r\nself-estimation, some degree of excess seems, both to the person\r\nhimself and to the impartial spectator, to be less disagreeable than\r\nany degree of defect of that feeling.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn this, therefore, as well as in every other emotion, passion, and\r\nhabit, the degree that is most agreeable to the impartial spectator is\r\nlikewise most agreeable to the person himself; and according as either\r\nthe excess or the defect is least offensive to the former, so, either\r\nthe one or the other is in proportion least disagreeable to the\r\nlatter.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page233\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eONCLUSION OF THE\u003c/span\u003e S\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eIXTH\u003c/span\u003e P\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eART\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eONCERN\u003c/span\u003e for our own happiness recommends to us the virtue of\r\nprudence: concern for that of other people, the virtues of justice and\r\nbeneficence; of which, the one restrains us from hurting, the other\r\nprompts us to promote that happiness. Independent of any regard either\r\nto what are, or to what ought to be, or to what upon a certain\r\ncondition would be, the sentiments of other people, the first of those\r\nthree virtues is originally recommended to us by our selfish, the\r\nother two by our benevolent affections. Regard to the sentiments of\r\nother people, however, comes afterwards both to enforce and to direct\r\nthe practice of all those virtues; and no man during, either the whole\r\ncourse of his life, or that of any considerable part of it, ever trod\r\nsteadily and uniformly in the paths of prudence, of justice, or of\r\nproper beneficence, whose conduct was not principally directed by a\r\nregard to the sentiments of the supposed impartial spectator, of the\r\ngreat inmate of the breast, the great judge and arbiter of conduct. If\r\nin the course of the day we have swerved in any respect from the rules\r\nwhich he prescribes to us; if we have either exceeded or relaxed in\r\nour frugality; \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page234\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e234\u003c/span\u003e if we have either exceeded or relaxed in our\r\nindustry; if through passion or inadvertency, we have hurt in any\r\nrespect the interest or happiness of our neighbour; if we have\r\nneglected a plain and proper opportunity of promoting that interest\r\nand happiness; it is this inmate who, in the evening, calls us to an\r\naccount for all those omissions and violations, and his reproaches\r\noften make us blush inwardly both for our folly and inattention to our\r\nown happiness, and for our still greater indifference and inattention,\r\nperhaps, to that of other people.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though the virtues of prudence, justice, and beneficence, may,\r\nupon different occasions, be recommended to us almost equally by two\r\ndifferent principles; those of self-command are, upon most occasions,\r\nprincipally and almost entirely recommended to us by one; by the sense\r\nof propriety, by regard to the sentiments of the supposed impartial\r\nspectator. Without the restraint which this principle imposes, every\r\npassion would, upon most occasions, rush headlong, if I may say so, to\r\nits own gratification. Anger would follow the suggestions of its own\r\nfury; fear those of its own violent agitations. Regard to no time or\r\nplace would induce vanity to refrain from the loudest and most\r\nimpertinent ostentation; or voluptuousness from the most open,\r\nindecent, and scandalous indulgence. Respect for what are, or for what\r\nought to be, or for what upon a certain condition would be, the\r\nsentiments of other people, is the sole principle which, upon most\r\noccasions, over-awes all those mutinous and turbulent passions into\r\nthat tone and temper which the impartial spectator can enter into and\r\ncordially sympathize with.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eUpon some occasions, indeed, those passions are restrained, not so\r\nmuch by a sense of their impropriety, as by prudential considerations\r\nof the bad consequences which might follow from their indulgence. In\r\nsuch cases, the passions, though restrained, are not always subdued,\r\nbut often remain lurking in the breast with all their original fury.\r\nThe man whose anger is restrained by fear, does not always lay aside\r\nhis anger, but only reserves its gratification for a more safe\r\nopportunity. But the man who, in relating to some other person the\r\ninjury which has been done to him, feels at once the fury of his\r\npassion cooled and becalmed by sympathy with the more moderate\r\nsentiments of his companion, who at once adopts those more moderate\r\nsentiments, and comes to view that injury, not in the black and\r\natrocious colours in which he had originally beheld it, but in the\r\nmuch milder and fairer light in which his companion naturally views\r\nit; not only restrains, but in some measure subdues, his anger. The\r\npassion becomes really less than it was before, and less capable of\r\nexciting him to the violent and bloody revenge which at first,\r\nperhaps, he might have thought of inflicting on his enemy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThose passions which are restrained by the sense of propriety, are\r\nall in some degree moderated and subdued by it. But those which are\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page235\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e235\u003c/span\u003e restrained only by prudential considerations of any kind, are,\r\non the contrary, frequently inflamed by the restraint, and sometimes\r\n(long after the provocation given, and when nobody is thinking about\r\nit) burst out absurdly and unexpectedly, and that with tenfold fury\r\nand violence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAnger, however, as well as every other passion, may, upon many\r\noccasions, be very properly restrained by prudential considerations.\r\nSome exertion of manhood and self-command is even necessary for this\r\nsort of restraint; and the impartial spectator may sometimes view it\r\nwith that sort of cold esteem due to that species of conduct which he\r\nconsiders as a mere matter of vulgar prudence; but never with that\r\naffectionate admiration with which he surveys the same passions, when,\r\nby the sense of propriety, they are moderated and subdued to what he\r\nhimself can readily enter into. In the former species of restraint, he\r\nmay frequently discern some degree of propriety, and, if you will,\r\neven of virtue; but it is a propriety and virtue of a much inferior\r\norder to those which he always feels with transport and admiration in\r\nthe latter.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe virtues of prudence, justice, and beneficence, have no tendency\r\nto produce any but the most agreeable effects. Regard to those\r\neffects, as it originally recommends them to the actor, so does it\r\nafterwards to the impartial spectator. In our approbation of the\r\ncharacter of the prudent man, we feel, with peculiar complacency, the\r\nsecurity which he must enjoy while he walks under the safeguard of\r\nthat sedate and deliberate virtue. In our approbation of the character\r\nof the just man, we feel, with equal complacency, the security which\r\nall those connected with him, whether in neighbourhood, society, or\r\nbusiness must derive from his scrupulous anxiety never either to hurt\r\nor offend. In our approbation of the character of the beneficent man,\r\nwe enter into the gratitude of all those who are within the sphere of\r\nhis good offices, and conceive with them the highest sense of his\r\nmerit. In our approbation of all those virtues, our sense of their\r\nagreeable effects, of their utility, either to the person who\r\nexercises them, or to some other persons, joins with our sense of\r\ntheir propriety, and constitutes always a considerable, frequently the\r\ngreater part of that approbation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut in our approbation of the virtues of self-command, complacency\r\nwith their effects sometimes constitutes no part, and frequently but a\r\nsmall part, of that approbation. Those effects may sometimes be\r\nagreeable, and sometimes disagreeable; and though our approbation is\r\nno doubt stronger in the former case, it is by no means altogether\r\ndestroyed in the latter. The most heroic valour may be employed\r\nindifferently in the cause either of justice or of injustice; and\r\nthough it is no doubt much more loved and admired in the former case,\r\nit still appears a great and respectable quality even in the latter.\r\nIn that, and in all the other Virtues of self-command, the splendid\r\nand dazzling \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e236\u003c/span\u003e quality seems always to be the greatness and\r\nsteadiness of the exertion, and the strong sense of propriety which is\r\nnecessary in order to make and to maintain that exertion. The effects\r\nare too often but too little regarded.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003e \u003ca id=\"page236\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ci\u003ePart Ⅶ.—Of Systems of Moral Philosophy.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—OF THE QUESTIONS WHICH OUGHT TO BE EXAMINED IN A THEORY OF\r\nMORAL SENTIMENTS.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eF\u003c/span\u003e we examine the most celebrated and remarkable of the different\r\ntheories which have been given concerning the nature and origin of our\r\nmoral sentiments, we shall find that almost all of them coincide with\r\nsome part or other of that which I have been endeavouring to give an\r\naccount of; and that if every thing which has already been said be\r\nfully considered, we shall be at no loss to explain what was the view\r\nor aspect of nature which led each particular author to form his\r\nparticular system. From some one or other of those principles which I\r\nhave been endeavouring to unfold, every system of morality that ever\r\nhad any reputation in the world has, perhaps, ultimately been derived.\r\nAs they are all of them, in this respect, founded upon natural\r\nprinciples, they are all of them in some measure in the right. But as\r\nmany of them are derived from a partial and imperfect view of nature,\r\nthere are many of them too in some respects in the wrong.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn treating of the principles of morals there are two questions to\r\nbe considered. First, wherein does virtue consist? Or what is the tone\r\nof temper, and tenor of conduct, which constitutes the excellent and\r\npraise-worthy character, the character which is the natural object of\r\nesteem, honour, and approbation? And, secondly, by what power or\r\nfaculty in the mind is it, that this character, whatever it be, is\r\nrecommended to us? Or in other words, how and by what means does it\r\ncome to pass, that the mind prefers one tenor of conduct to another,\r\ndenominates the one right and the other wrong; considers the one as\r\nthe object of approbation, honour, and reward, and the other of blame,\r\ncensure, and punishment?\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe examine the first question when we consider whether virtue\r\nconsists in benevolence, as Dr. Hutcheson imagines; or in acting\r\nsuitably to the different relations we stand in, as Dr. Clark\r\nsupposes; or in the wise and prudent pursuit of our own real and solid\r\nhappiness, as has been the opinion of others.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe examine the second question, when we consider, whether the\r\nvirtuous character, whatever it consists in, be recommended to us by\r\nself-love, which makes us perceive that this character, both in\r\nourselves and others, tends most to promote our own private interest;\r\nor by reason, which points out to us the difference between\r\none character and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e237\u003c/span\u003e another, in the same manner as it does that\r\nbetween truth and falsehood; or by a peculiar power of perception,\r\ncalled a moral sense, which this virtuous character gratifies and\r\npleases, as the contrary disgusts and displeases it; or last of all,\r\nby some other principle in human nature, such as a modification of\r\nsympathy, or the like.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eI shall begin with considering the systems which have been formed\r\nconcerning the first of these questions, and shall proceed afterwards\r\nto examine those concerning the second.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page237\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—OF THE DIFFERENT ACCOUNTS WHICH HAVE BEEN GIVEN OF THE\r\nNATURE OF VIRTUE.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNTRODUCTION\u003c/span\u003e. The different accounts which have been given of the\r\nnature of virtue, or of the temper of mind which constitutes the\r\nexcellent and praise-worthy character, may be reduced to three\r\ndifferent classes. According to some, the virtuous temper of mind does\r\nnot consist in any one species of affections, but in the proper\r\ngovernment and direction of all our affections, which may be either\r\nvirtuous or vicious according to the objects which they pursue, and\r\nthe degree of vehemence with which they pursue them. According to\r\nthese authors, therefore, virtue consists in propriety.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAccording to others, virtue consists in the judicious pursuit of\r\nour own private interest and happiness, or in the proper government\r\nand direction of those selfish affections which aim solely at this\r\nend. In the opinion of these, therefore, virtue consists in\r\nprudence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAnother set of authors make virtue consist in those affections only\r\nwhich aim at the happiness of others, not in those which aim at our\r\nown. According to them, therefore, disinterested benevolence is the\r\nonly motive which can stamp upon actions the character of virtue.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe character of virtue, it is evident, must either be ascribed\r\nindifferently to all our affections, when under proper government and\r\ndirection; or be confined to some one class or division of them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe great division of our affections is into the selfish and the\r\nbenevolent. If the character of virtue, therefore, cannot be ascribed\r\nindifferently to all our affections, when under proper government and\r\ndirection, it must be confined either to those which aim directly at\r\nour own private happiness, or to those which aim directly at that of\r\nothers. If virtue, therefore, does not consist in propriety, it must\r\nconsist either in prudence or in benevolence. Besides these three, it\r\nis scarce possible to imagine that any other account can be given of\r\nthe nature of virtue. I shall endeavour to show hereafter how all the\r\nother accounts, which are seemingly different from any of these,\r\ncoincide at bottom with some one or other of them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page238\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e238\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eOf those Systems which make Virtue consist in\r\nPropriety.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eA\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eCCORDING\u003c/span\u003e to Plato, to Aristotle, and to Zeno, virtue consists in\r\nthe propriety of conduct, or in the suitableness of the affection from\r\nwhich we act to the object which excites it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅠ. In the system of Plato (See Plato de Rep. lib. iv.) the soul is\r\nconsidered as something like a little state or republic, composed of\r\nthree different faculties or orders.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe first is the judging faculty, the faculty which determines not\r\nonly what are the proper means for attaining any end, but also what\r\nends are fit to be pursued, and what degree of relative value we ought\r\nto put upon each. This faculty Plato called, as it is very properly\r\ncalled, reason, and considered it as what had a right to be the\r\ngoverning principle of the whole. Under this appellation, it is\r\nevident, he comprehended not only that faculty by which we judge of\r\ntruth and falsehood, but that by which we judge of the propriety or\r\nthe impropriety of our desires and affections.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe different passions and appetites, the natural subjects of this\r\nruling principle, but which are so apt to rebel against their master,\r\nhe reduced to two different classes or orders. The first consisted of\r\nthose passions, which are founded in pride and resentment, or in what\r\nthe schoolmen called the irascible part of the soul; ambition,\r\nanimosity, the love of honour, and the dread of shame, the desire of\r\nvictory, superiority, and revenge; all those passions, in short, which\r\nare supposed either to rise from, or to denote what, by a metaphor in\r\nour language, we commonly call spirit or natural fire. The second\r\nconsisted of those passions which are founded in the love of pleasure,\r\nor in what the schoolmen called the concupiscible part of the soul. It\r\ncomprehended all the appetites of the body, the love of ease and of\r\nsecurity, and of all the sensual gratifications.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt rarely happens that we break in upon that plan of conduct, which\r\nthe governing principle prescribes, and which in all our cool hours we\r\nhad laid down to ourselves as what was most proper for us to pursue,\r\nbut when prompted by one or other of those two different sets of\r\npassions; either by ungovernable ambition and resentment, or by the\r\nimportunate solicitations of present ease and pleasure. But though\r\nthese two orders of passions are so apt to mislead us, they are still\r\nconsidered as necessary parts of human nature: the first having been\r\ngiven to defend us against injuries, to assert our rank and dignity in\r\nthe world, to make us aim at what is noble and honourable, and to make\r\nus distinguish those who act in the same manner; the second, to\r\nprovide for the support and necessities of the body.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the strength, acuteness, and perfection of the governing\r\nprinciple was placed the essential virtue of prudence, which,\r\naccording to Plato, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page239\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e239\u003c/span\u003e consisted in a just and clear discernment,\r\nfounded upon general and scientific ideas, of the ends which were\r\nproper to be pursued, and of the means which were proper for attaining\r\nthem.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen the first set of passions, those of the irascible part of the\r\nsoul, had that degree of strength and firmness, which enabled them,\r\nunder the direction of reason, to despise all dangers in the pursuit\r\nof what was honourable and noble; it constituted the virtue of\r\nfortitude and magnanimity. This order of passions, according to this\r\nsystem, was of a more generous and noble nature than the other. They\r\nwere considered upon many occasions as the auxiliaries of reason, to\r\ncheck and restrain the inferior and brutal appetites. We are often\r\nangry at ourselves, it was observed, we often become the objects of\r\nour own resentment and indignation, when the love of pleasure prompts\r\nto do what we disapprove of; and the irascible part of our nature is\r\nin this manner called in to assist the rational against the\r\nconcupiscible.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen all those three different parts of our nature were in perfect\r\nconcord with one another, when neither the irascible nor concupiscible\r\npassions ever aimed at any gratification which reason did not approve\r\nof, and when reason never commanded any thing, but what these of their\r\nown accord were willing to perform: this happy composure, this perfect\r\nand complete harmony of soul, constituted that virtue which in their\r\nlanguage is expressed by a word which we commonly translate\r\ntemperance, but which might more properly be translated good temper,\r\nor sobriety and moderation of mind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eJustice, the last and greatest of the four cardinal virtues, took\r\nplace, according to this system, when each of those three faculties of\r\nthe mind confined itself to its proper office, without attempting to\r\nencroach upon that of any other; when reason directed and passion\r\nobeyed, and when each passion performed its proper duty, and exerted\r\nitself towards its proper object easily and without reluctance, and\r\nwith that degree of force and energy, which was suitable to the value\r\nof what it pursued. In this consisted that complete virtue, that\r\nperfect propriety of conduct, which Plato, after some of the ancient\r\nPythagoreans, has well denominated Justice.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe word, it is to be observed, which expresses justice in the\r\nGreek language, has several different meanings; and as the\r\ncorrespondent word in all other languages, so far as I know, has the\r\nsame, there must be some natural affinity among those various\r\nsignifications. In one sense we are said to do justice to our\r\nneighbour when we abstain from doing him any positive harm, and do not\r\ndirectly hurt him, either in his person, or in his estate, or in his\r\nreputation. This is that justice which I have treated of above, the\r\nobservance of which may be extorted by force, and the violation of\r\nwhich exposes to punishment. In another sense we are said not to do\r\njustice to our neighbour unless we conceive for him all that love,\r\nrespect, and esteem, which his character, his \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page240\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e240\u003c/span\u003e situation, and his\r\nconnexion with ourselves, render suitable and proper for us to feel,\r\nand unless we act accordingly. It is in this sense that we are said to\r\ndo injustice to a man of merit who is connected with us, though we\r\nabstain from hurting him in every respect, if we do not exert\r\nourselves to serve him and to place him in that situation in which the\r\nimpartial spectator would be pleased to see him. The first sense of\r\nthe word coincides with what Aristotle and the Schoolmen call\r\ncommutative justice, and with what Grotius calls the \u003ci\u003ejustitia\r\nexpletrix\u003c/i\u003e, which consists in abstaining from what is another’s,\r\nand in doing voluntarily whatever we can with propriety be forced to\r\ndo. The second sense of the word coincides with what some have called\r\ndistributive justice,\u003ca href=\"#Footnote5\" id=\"FnAnchor5\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e5\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e and with the \u003ci\u003ejustitia attributrix\u003c/i\u003e of\r\nGrotius, which consists in proper beneficence, in the becoming use of\r\nwhat is our own, and in the applying it to those purposes, either of\r\ncharity or generosity, to which it is most suitable, in our situation,\r\nthat it should be applied. In this sense justice comprehends all the\r\nsocial virtues. There is yet another sense in which the word justice\r\nis sometimes taken, still more extensive than either of the former,\r\nthough very much akin to the last; and which runs too, so far as I\r\nknow, through all languages. It is in this last sense that we are said\r\nto be unjust, when we do not seem to value any particular object with\r\nthat degree of esteem, or to pursue it with that degree of ardour\r\nwhich to the impartial spectator it may appear to deserve or to be\r\nnaturally fitted for exciting. Thus we are said to do injustice to a\r\npoem or a picture, when we do not admire them enough, and we are said\r\nto do them more than justice when we admire them too much. In the same\r\nmanner we are said to do injustice to ourselves when we appear not to\r\ngive sufficient attention to any particular object of self-interest.\r\nIn this last sense, what is called justice means the same thing with\r\nexact and perfect propriety of conduct and behaviour, and comprehends\r\nin it, not only the offices of both commutative and distributive\r\njustice, but of every other virtue, of prudence, of fortitude, of\r\ntemperance. It is in this last sense that Plato evidently understands\r\nwhat he calls justice, and which, therefore, according to him,\r\ncomprehends in it the perfection of every sort of virtue.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"Footnote5\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchor5\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e5\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e The distributive justice of Aristotle is somewhat\r\ndifferent. It consists in the proper distribution of rewards from the\r\npublic stock of a community. See Aristotle Ethic. Nic. 1. 5. c.\r\n2.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch is the account given by Plato of the nature of virtue, or of\r\nthat temper of mind which is the proper object of praise and\r\napprobation. It consists, according to him, in that state of mind in\r\nwhich every faculty confines itself within its proper sphere without\r\nencroaching upon that of any other, and performs its proper office\r\nwith that precise degree of strength and vigour which belongs to it.\r\nHis account, it is evident, coincides in every respect with what we\r\nhave said above concerning the propriety of conduct.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅡ. Virtue, according to Aristotle (Ethic. Nic. 1. 2. c. 5. et seq.\r\net 1. 3. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page241\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e241\u003c/span\u003e c. 4. et seq.), consists in the habit of mediocrity\r\naccording to right reason. Every particular virtue, according to him,\r\nlies in a kind of middle between two opposite vices, of which the one\r\noffends from being too much, the other from being too little affected\r\nby a particular species of objects. Thus the virtue of fortitude or\r\ncourage lies in the middle between the opposite vices of cowardice and\r\nof presumptuous rashness, of which the one offends from being too\r\nmuch, and the other from being too little affected by the objects of\r\nfear. Thus too the virtue of frugality lies in a middle between\r\navarice and profusion, of which the one consists in an excess, the\r\nother in a defect of the proper attention to the objects of\r\nself-interest. Magnanimity, in the same manner, lies in a middle\r\nbetween the excess of arrogance and the defect of pusillanimity, of\r\nwhich the one consists in too extravagant, the other in too weak a\r\nsentiment of our own worth and dignity. It is unnecessary to observe\r\nthat this account of virtue corresponds, too, pretty exactly with what\r\nhas been said above concerning the propriety and impropriety of\r\nconduct.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAccording to Aristotle (Ethic. Nic. lib. ii. ch. 1, 2, 3, and 4.),\r\nindeed, virtue did not so much consist in those moderate and right\r\naffections, as in the habit of this moderation. In order to understand\r\nthis, it is to be observed, that virtue may be considered either as\r\nthe quality of an action, or the quality of a person. Considered as\r\nthe quality of an action, it consists, even according to Aristotle, in\r\nthe reasonable moderation of the affection from which the action\r\nproceeds, whether this disposition be habitual to the person or not.\r\nConsidered as the quality of a person, it consists in the habit of\r\nthis reasonable moderation, in its having become the customary and\r\nusual disposition of the mind. Thus the action which proceeds from an\r\noccasional fit of generosity is undoubtedly a generous action, but the\r\nman who performs it, is not necessarily a generous person, because it\r\nmay be the single action of the kind which he ever performed. The\r\nmotive and disposition of heart, from which this action was performed,\r\nmay have been quite just and proper: but as this happy mood seems to\r\nhave been the effect rather of accidental humour than of any thing\r\nsteady or permanent in the character, it can reflect no great honour\r\non the performer. When we denominate a character generous or\r\ncharitable, or virtuous in any respect, we mean to signify that the\r\ndisposition expressed by each of those appellations is the usual and\r\ncustomary disposition of the person. But single actions of any kind,\r\nhow proper and suitable soever, are of little consequence to show that\r\nthis is the case. If a single action was sufficient to stamp the\r\ncharacter of any virtue upon the person who performed it, the most\r\nworthless of mankind might lay claim to all the virtues; since there\r\nis no man who has not, upon some occasions, acted with prudence,\r\njustice, temperance, and fortitude. But though single actions, how\r\nlaudable soever, reflect very little praise upon the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page242\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e242\u003c/span\u003e person who\r\nperforms them, a single vicious action performed by one whose conduct\r\nis usually pretty regular, greatly diminishes and sometimes destroys\r\naltogether our opinion of his virtue. A single action of this kind\r\nsufficiently shows that his habits are not perfect, and that he is\r\nless to be depended upon, than, from the usual train of his behaviour,\r\nwe might have been apt to imagine.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAristotle too (Mag. Mor. lib. i. ch. \u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eⅠ\u003c/span\u003e.) when he made virtue to\r\nconsist in practical habits, had it probably in his view to oppose the\r\ndoctrine of Plato, who seems to have been of opinion that just\r\nsentiments and reasonable judgments concerning what was fit to be done\r\nor to be avoided, were alone sufficient to constitute the most perfect\r\nvirtue. Virtue, according to Plato, might be considered as a species\r\nof science, and no man, he thought, could see clearly and\r\ndemonstratively what was right and what was wrong, and not act\r\naccordingly. Passion might make us act contrary to doubtful and\r\nuncertain opinions, not to plain and evident judgments. Aristotle, on\r\nthe contrary, was of opinion that no conviction of the understanding\r\nwas capable of getting the better of inveterate habits, and that our\r\ngood morals arose not from knowledge but from action.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅢ. According to Zeno,\u003ca href=\"#Footnote6\" id=\"FnAnchor6\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e6\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e the founder of the Stoical doctrine,\r\nevery animal was by nature recommended to its own care, and was\r\nendowed with the principle of self-love, that it might endeavour to\r\npreserve, not only its existence, but all the different parts of its\r\nnature, in the best and most perfect state of which they were\r\ncapable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"Footnote6\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchor6\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e6\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e See Cicero de finibus, lib. iii.; also Diogenes\r\nLaertius in Zenone, lib. vii. segment 84.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe self-love of man embraced, if I may say so, his body and all\r\nits different members, his mind and all its different faculties and\r\npowers, and desired the preservation and maintenance of them all in\r\ntheir best and most perfect condition. Whatever tended to support this\r\nstate of existence was, therefore, by nature pointed out to him as fit\r\nto be chosen; and whatever tended to destroy it, as fit to be\r\nrejected. Thus health, strength, agility, and ease of body as well as\r\nthe external conveniences which could promote these; wealth, power,\r\nhonours, the respect and esteem of those we live with; were naturally\r\npointed out to us as things eligible, and of which the possession was\r\npreferable to the want. On the other hand, sickness, infirmity,\r\nunwieldiness, pain of body, as well as all the external\r\ninconveniences which tend to occasion or bring on any of them;\r\npoverty, the want of authority, the contempt or hatred of those we\r\nlive with; were, in the same manner, pointed out to us as things to be\r\nshunned and avoided. In each of those two opposite classes of objects,\r\nthere were some which appeared to be more the objects either of choice\r\nor rejection, than others in the same class. Thus, in the first class,\r\nhealth appeared evidently preferable to strength, and strength to\r\nagility; reputation to power, and power to riches. And thus too, in\r\nthe second class, sickness was more to be avoided than \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page243\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e243\u003c/span\u003e\r\nunwieldiness of body, ignominy than poverty, and poverty than the loss\r\nof power. Virtue and the propriety of conduct consisted in choosing\r\nand rejecting all different objects and circumstances according as\r\nthey were by nature rendered more or less the objects of choice or\r\nrejection; in selecting always from among the several objects of\r\nchoice presented to us, that which must be chosen, when we could not\r\nobtain them all; and in selecting, too, out of the several objects of\r\nrejection offered to us, that which was least to be avoided, when it\r\nwas not in our power to avoid them all. By choosing and rejecting with\r\nthis just and accurate discernment, by thus bestowing upon every\r\nobject the precise degree of attention it deserved, according to the\r\nplace which it held in this natural scale of things, we maintained,\r\n\u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from acccording\"\u003eaccording\u003c/span\u003e to the Stoics, that perfect rectitude of conduct which\r\nconstituted the essence of virtue. This was what they called to live\r\nconsistently, to live according to nature, and to obey those laws and\r\ndirections which nature, or the Author of nature, had prescribed for\r\nour conduct.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSo far the Stoical idea of propriety and virtue is not very\r\ndifferent from that of Aristotle and the ancient Peripatetics.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAmong those primary objects which nature had recommended to us as\r\neligible, was the prosperity of our family, of our relations, of our\r\nfriends, of our country, of mankind, and of the universe in general.\r\nNature too, had taught us, that as the prosperity of two was\r\npreferable to that of one, that of many, or of all, must be infinitely\r\nmore so. That we ourselves were but one, and that consequently\r\nwherever our prosperity was inconsistent with that, either of the\r\nwhole, or of any considerable part of the whole, it ought, even in our\r\nown choice, to yield to what was so vastly preferable. As all the\r\nevents in this world were conducted by the providence of a wise,\r\npowerful, and good God, we might be assured that whatever happened\r\ntended to the prosperity and perfection of the whole. If we ourselves,\r\ntherefore, were in poverty, in sickness, or in any other calamity, we\r\nought, first of all, to use our utmost endeavours, so far as justice\r\nand our duty to others will allow, to rescue ourselves from this\r\ndisagreeable circumstance. But if, after all we could do, we found\r\nthis impossible, we ought to rest satisfied that the order and\r\nperfection of the universe required that we should in the mean time\r\ncontinue in this situation. And as the prosperity of the whole should,\r\neven to us, appear preferable to so insignificant a part as ourselves,\r\nour situation, whatever it was, ought from that moment to become the\r\nobject of our liking, if we would maintain that complete propriety and\r\nrectitude of sentiment and conduct in which consisted the perfection\r\nof our nature. If, indeed, any opportunity of extricating ourselves\r\nshould offer, it became our duty to embrace it. The order of the\r\nuniverse, it was evident, no longer required our continuance in this\r\nsituation, and the great Director of the world plainly called upon us\r\nto leave it, by so clearly pointing out \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page244\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e244\u003c/span\u003e the road which we were\r\nto follow. It was the same case with the adversity of our relations,\r\nour friends, our country. If, without violating any more sacred\r\nobligation, it was in our power to prevent or put an end to their\r\ncalamity, it undoubtedly was our duty to do so. The propriety of\r\naction, the rule which Jupiter had given us for the direction of our\r\nconduct, evidently required this of us. But if it was altogether out\r\nof our power to do either, we ought then to consider this event as the\r\nmost fortunate which could possibly have happened: because we might be\r\nassured that it tended most to the prosperity and order of the whole,\r\nwhich was that we ourselves, if we were wise and equitable, ought most\r\nof all to desire. It was our own final interest considered as a part\r\nof that whole, of which the prosperity ought to be, not only the\r\nprincipal, but the sole object of our desire.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e‘In what sense,’ says Epictetus, ‘are some things said to be\r\naccording to our nature, and others contrary to it? It is in that\r\nsense in which we consider ourselves as separated and detached from\r\nall other things. For thus it may be said to be according to the\r\nnature of the foot to be always clean. But if you consider it as a\r\nfoot, and not as something detached from the rest of the body, it must\r\nbehove it some times to trample in the dirt, and sometimes to tread\r\nupon thorns, and sometimes, too, to be cut off for the sake of the\r\nwhole body; and if it refuses this, it is no longer a foot. Thus, too,\r\nought we to conceive with regard to ourselves. What are you? A man. If\r\nyou consider yourself as something separated and detached, it is\r\nagreeable to your nature to live to old age, to be rich, to be in\r\nhealth. But if you consider yourself as a man, and as a part of a\r\nwhole, upon account of that whole, it will behove you sometimes to be\r\nin sickness, sometimes to be exposed to the inconveniency of a sea\r\nvoyage, sometimes to be in want, and at last perhaps to die before\r\nyour time. Why then do you complain? Do not you know that by doing so,\r\nas the foot ceases to be a foot, so you cease to be man?’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA wise man never complains of the destiny of Providence, nor thinks\r\nthe universe in confusion when he is out of order. He does not look\r\nupon himself as a whole, separated and detached from every other part\r\nof nature, to be taken care of by itself and for itself. He regards\r\nhimself in the light in which he imagines the great genius of human\r\nnature, and of the world, regards him. He enters, if I may say so,\r\ninto the sentiments of that divine Being, and considers himself as an\r\natom, a particle, of an immense and infinite system, which must and\r\nought to be disposed of according to the conveniency of the whole.\r\nAssured of the wisdom which directs all the events of human life,\r\nwhatever lot befalls him, he accepts it with joy, satisfied that, if\r\nhe had known all the connections and dependencies of the different\r\nparts of the universe, it is the very lot which he himself would have\r\nwished for. If it is life, he is contented to live; and if it is\r\ndeath, as nature must have no further \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page245\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e245\u003c/span\u003e occasion for his presence\r\nhere, he willingly goes where he is appointed. I accept, said a\r\ncynical philosopher, whose doctrines were in this respect the same as\r\nthose of the Stoics, I accept, with equal joy and satisfaction,\r\nwhatever fortune can befall me. Riches or poverty, pleasure or pain,\r\nhealth or sickness, all is alike: nor would I desire that the gods\r\nshould in any respect change my destination. If I was to ask of them\r\nany thing beyond what their bounty has already bestowed, it should be\r\nthat they would inform me beforehand what it was their pleasure should\r\nbe done with me, that I might of my own accord place myself in this\r\nsituation, and demonstrate the cheerfulness with which I embraced\r\ntheir allotment. If I am going to sail, says Epictetus, I choose the\r\nbest ship and the best pilot, and I wait for the fairest weather that\r\nmy circumstances and duty will allow. Prudence and propriety, the\r\nprinciples which the gods have given me for the direction of my\r\nconduct, require this of me; but they require no more: and if,\r\nnotwithstanding, a storm arises, which neither the strength of the\r\nvessel nor the skill of the pilot are likely to withstand, I give\r\nmyself no trouble about the consequence. All that I had to do is done\r\nalready. The directors of my conduct never command me to be miserable,\r\nto be anxious, desponding, or afraid. Whether we are to be drowned, or\r\nto come to a harbour, is the business of Jupiter, not mine. I leave it\r\nentirely to his determination, nor ever break my rest with considering\r\nwhich way he is likely to decide it, but receive whatever may come\r\nwith equal indifference and security.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFrom this perfect confidence in that benevolent wisdom which\r\ngoverns the universe, and from this entire resignation to whatever\r\norder that wisdom might think proper to establish, it necessarily\r\nfollowed, that to the Stoical wise man, all the events of human life\r\nmust be in a great measure indifferent. His happiness consisted\r\naltogether, first, in the contemplation of the happiness and\r\nperfection of the great system of the universe, of the good government\r\nof the great republic of gods and men, of all rational and sensible\r\nbeings; and, secondly, in discharging his duty, in acting properly in\r\nthe affairs of this great republic whatever little part that wisdom\r\nhad assigned to him. The propriety or impropriety of his endeavours\r\nmight be of great consequence to him. Their success or disappointment\r\ncould be of none at all; could excite no passionate joy or sorrow, no\r\npassionate desire or aversion. If he preferred some events to others,\r\nif some situations were the objects of his choice and others of his\r\nrejection, it was not because he regarded the one as in themselves in\r\nany respect better than the other, or thought that his own happiness\r\nwould be more complete in what is called the fortunate than in what is\r\nregarded as the distressful situation; but because the propriety of\r\naction, the rule which the gods had given him for the direction of his\r\nconduct, required him to choose and reject in this manner. All his\r\naffections were absorbed and swallowed up in \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page246\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e246\u003c/span\u003e two great\r\naffections; in that for the discharge of his own duty, and in that for\r\nthe greatest possible happiness of all rational and sensible beings.\r\nFor the gratification of this latter affection, he rested with the\r\nmost perfect security upon the wisdom and power of the great\r\nSuperintendent of the universe. His sole anxiety was about the\r\ngratification of the former; not about the event, but about the\r\npropriety of his own endeavours. Whatever the event might be, he\r\ntrusted to a superior power and wisdom for turning it to promote that\r\ngreat end which he himself was most desirous of promoting.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis propriety of choosing and rejecting, though originally pointed\r\nout to us, and as it were recommended and introduced to our\r\nacquaintance by the things, and for the sake of the things, chosen and\r\nrejected; yet when we had once become thoroughly acquainted with it,\r\nthe order, the grace, the beauty which we discerned in this conduct,\r\nthe happiness which we felt resulted from it, necessarily appeared to\r\nus of much greater value than the actual obtaining of all the\r\ndifferent objects of choice, or the actual avoiding of all those of\r\nrejection. From the observation of this propriety arose the happiness\r\nand the glory; from the neglect of it, the misery and the disgrace of\r\nhuman nature.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut to a wise man, to one whose passions were brought under perfect\r\nsubjection to the ruling principles of his nature, the exact\r\nobservation of this propriety was equally easy upon all occasions. Was\r\nhe in prosperity, he returned thanks to Jupiter for having joined him\r\nwith circumstances which were easily mastered, and in which there was\r\nlittle temptation to do wrong. Was he in adversity, he equally\r\nreturned thanks to the director of this spectacle of human life, for\r\nhaving opposed to him a vigorous athlete, over whom, though the\r\ncontest was likely to be more violent, the victory was more glorious,\r\nand equally certain. Can there be any shame in that distress which is\r\nbrought upon us without any fault of our own, and in which we behave\r\nwith perfect propriety? There can, therefore, be no evil, but, on the\r\ncontrary, the greatest good and advantage. A brave man exults in those\r\ndangers in which, from no rashness of his own, his fortune has\r\ninvolved him. They afford an opportunity of exercising that heroic\r\nintrepidity, whose exertion gives the exalted delight which flows from\r\nthe consciousness of superior propriety and deserved admiration. One\r\nwho is master of all his exercises has no aversion to measure his\r\nstrength and activity with the strongest. And, in the same manner, one\r\nwho is master of all his passions, does not dread any circumstance in\r\nwhich the Superintendent of the universe may think proper to place\r\nhim. The bounty of that divine Being has provided him with virtues\r\nwhich render him superior to every situation. If it is pleasure, he\r\nhas temperance to refrain from it; if it is pain, he has constancy to\r\nbear it; if it is danger or death, he has magnanimity and fortitude to\r\ndespise it. The events of human life can never find him unprepared, or\r\nat a loss how to maintain that \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page247\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e247\u003c/span\u003e propriety of sentiment and\r\nconduct which, in his own apprehension, constitutes at once his glory\r\nand his happiness.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHuman life the Stoics appear to have considered as a game of great\r\nskill; in which, however, there was a mixture of chance, or of what is\r\nvulgarly understood to be chance. In such games the stake is commonly\r\na trifle, and the whole pleasure of the game arises from playing well,\r\nfrom playing fairly, and playing skilfully. If notwithstanding all his\r\nskill, however, the good player should, by the influence of chance,\r\nhappen to lose, the loss ought to be a matter, rather of merriment,\r\nthan of serious sorrow. He has made no false stroke; he has done\r\nnothing which he ought to be ashamed of; he has enjoyed completely the\r\nwhole pleasure of the game. If, on the contrary, the bad player\r\nnotwithstanding all his blunders, should, in the same manner, happen\r\nto win, his success can give him but little satisfaction. He is\r\nmortified by the remembrance of all the faults which he committed.\r\nEven during the play he can enjoy no part of the pleasure which it is\r\ncapable of affording. From ignorance of the rules of the game, fear\r\nand doubt and hesitation are the disagreeable sentiments that precede\r\nalmost every stroke which he plays; and when he has played it, the\r\nmortification of finding it a gross blunder, commonly completes the\r\nunpleasing circle of his sensations. Human life, with all the\r\nadvantages which can possibly attend it, ought, according to the\r\nStoics, to be regarded but as a mere twopenny stake; a matter by far\r\ntoo insignificant to merit any anxious concern. Our only anxious\r\nconcern ought to be, not about the stake, but about the proper method\r\nof playing. If we placed our happiness in winning the stake, we placed\r\nit in what depended upon causes beyond our power and out of our\r\ndirection. We necessarily exposed ourselves to perpetual fear and\r\nuneasiness, and frequently to grievous and mortifying disappointments.\r\nIf we placed it in playing well, in playing fairly, in playing wisely\r\nand skilfully; in the propriety of our own conduct in short; we placed\r\nit in what, by proper discipline, education, and attention, might be\r\naltogether in our own power, and under our own direction. Our\r\nhappiness was perfectly secure, and beyond the reach of fortune. The\r\nevent of our actions, if it was out of our power, was equally out of\r\nour concern, and we could never feel either fear or anxiety about it;\r\nnor ever suffer any grievous, or even any serious disappointment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHuman life itself, as well as every different advantage or\r\ndisadvantage which can attend it, might, they said, according to\r\ndifferent circumstances, be the proper object either of our choice or\r\nof our rejection. If, in our actual situation, there were more\r\ncircumstances agreeable to nature than contrary to it; more\r\ncircumstances which were the objects of choice than of rejection;\r\nlife, in this case, was, upon the whole, the proper object of choice,\r\nand the propriety of conduct required that we should remain in it. If,\r\non the other hand, there \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page248\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e248\u003c/span\u003e were, in our actual situation, without\r\nany probable hope of amendment, more circumstances contrary to nature\r\nthan agreeable to it; more circumstances which were the objects of\r\nrejection than of choice; life itself, in this case, became, to a wise\r\nman, the object of rejection, and he was not only at liberty to remove\r\nout of it, but the propriety of conduct, the rule which the gods had\r\ngiven him for the direction of his conduct, required him to do so. I\r\nam ordered, says Epictetus, not to dwell at Nicopolis. I do not dwell\r\nthere. I am ordered not to dwell at Athens. I do not dwell at Athens.\r\nI am ordered not to dwell in Rome. I do not dwell in Rome. I am\r\nordered to dwell in the little and rocky island of Gyaræ. I go and\r\ndwell there. But the house smokes in Gyaræ. If the smoke is moderate,\r\nI will bear it, and stay there. If it is excessive, I will go to a\r\nhouse from whence no tyrant can remove me. I keep in mind always that\r\nthe door is open, that I can walk out when I please, and retire to\r\nthat hospitable house which is at all times open to all the world; for\r\nbeyond my undermost garment, beyond my body, no man living has any\r\npower over me. If your situation is upon the whole disagreeable; if\r\nyour house smokes too much for you, said the Stoics, walk forth by all\r\nmeans. But walk forth without repining; without murmuring or\r\ncomplaining. Walk forth calm, contented, rejoicing, returning thanks\r\nto the gods, who, from their infinite bounty, have opened the safe and\r\nquiet harbour of death, at all times ready to receive us from the\r\nstormy ocean of human life; who have prepared this sacred, this\r\ninviolable, this great asylum, always open, always accessible;\r\naltogether beyond the reach of human rage and injustice; and large\r\nenough to contain both all those who wish, and all those who do not\r\nwish to retire to it: an asylum which takes away from every man every\r\npretence of complaining, or even of fancying that there can be any\r\nevil in human life, except such as he may suffer from his own folly\r\nand weakness.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Stoics, in the few fragments of their philosophy which have\r\ncome down to us, sometimes talk of leaving life with a gaiety, and\r\neven with a levity, which, were we to consider those passages by\r\nthemselves, might induce us to believe that they imagined we could\r\nwith propriety leave it whenever we had a mind, wantonly and\r\ncapriciously, upon the slightest disgust or uneasiness. ‘When you sup\r\nwith such a person,’ says Epictetus, ‘you complain of the long stories\r\nwhich he tells you about his Mysian wars. “Now my friend,” says he,\r\n“having told you how I took possession of an eminence at such a place,\r\nI will tell you how I was besieged in such another place.” But if you\r\nhave a mind not to be troubled with his long stories, do not accept of\r\nhis supper. If you accept of his supper, you have not the least\r\npretence to complain of his long stories. It is the same case with\r\nwhat you call the evils of human life. Never complain of that of which\r\nit is at all times in your power to rid yourself.’ Notwithstanding\r\nthis gaiety and even \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page249\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e249\u003c/span\u003e levity of expression, however, the\r\nalternative of leaving life, or of remaining in it, was, according to\r\nthe Stoics, a matter of the most serious and important deliberation.\r\nWe ought never to leave it till we were distinctly called upon to do\r\nso by that superintending Power which had originally placed us in it.\r\nBut we were to consider ourselves as called upon to do so, not merely\r\nat the appointed and unavoidable term of human life. Whenever the\r\nprovidence of that superintending Power had rendered our condition in\r\nlife upon the whole the proper object rather of rejection than of\r\nchoice; the great rule which he had given us for the direction of our\r\nconduct, then required us to leave it. We might then be said to hear\r\nthe awful and benevolent voice of that divine Being distinctly calling\r\nupon us to do so.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt was upon this account that, according to the Stoics, it might be\r\nthe duty of a wise man to remove out of life though he was perfectly\r\nhappy; while, on the contrary, it might be the duty of a weak man to\r\nremain in it, though he was necessarily miserable. If, in the\r\nsituation of the wise man, there were more circumstances which were\r\nthe natural objects of rejection than of choice, the whole situation\r\nbecame the object of rejection, and the rule which the gods had given\r\nhim for the direction of his conduct, required that he should remove\r\nout of it as speedily as particular circumstances might render\r\nconvenient. He was, however, perfectly happy even during the time that\r\nhe might think proper to remain in it. He had placed his happiness,\r\nnot in obtaining the objects of his choice, or in avoiding those of\r\nhis rejection; but in always choosing and rejecting with exact\r\npropriety; not in the success, but in the fitness of his endeavours\r\nand exertions. If, in the situation of the weak man, on the contrary,\r\nthere were more circumstances which were the natural objects of choice\r\nthan of rejection; his whole situation became the proper object of\r\nchoice, and it was his duty to remain in it. He was unhappy, however,\r\nfrom not knowing how to use those circumstances. Let his cards be ever\r\nso good, he did not know how to play them, and could enjoy no sort of\r\nreal satisfaction, either in the progress, or in the event of the\r\ngame, in whatever manner it might happen to turn out. (Cicero de\r\nfinibus, lib. 3. c. 13.)\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe propriety, upon some occasions, of voluntary death, though it\r\nwas, perhaps, more insisted upon by the Stoics, than by any other sect\r\nof ancient philosophers, was, however, a doctrine common to them all,\r\neven to the peaceable and indolent Epicureans. During the age in which\r\nflourished the founders of all the principal sects of ancient\r\nphilosophy; during the Peloponnesian war and for many years after its\r\nconclusion, all the different republics of Greece were, at home,\r\nalmost always distracted by the most furious factions; and abroad,\r\ninvolved in the most sanguinary wars, in which each fought, not merely\r\nfor superiority or dominion, but either completely to extirpate all\r\nits enemies, or, what was not less cruel, to reduce them into the\r\nvilest of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page250\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e250\u003c/span\u003e all states, that of domestic slavery, and to sell\r\nthem, man, woman, and child, like so many herds of cattle, to the\r\nhighest bidder in the market. The smallness of the greater part of\r\nthose states, too, rendered it, to each of them, no very improbable\r\nevent, that it might itself fall into that very calamity which it had\r\nso frequently, either, perhaps, actually inflicted, or at least\r\nattempted to inflict upon some of its neighbours. In this disorderly\r\nstate of things, the most perfect innocence, joined to both the\r\nhighest rank and the greatest public services, could give no security\r\nto any man that, even at home and among his own relations and\r\nfellow-citizens, he was not, at some time or another, from the\r\nprevalence of some hostile and furious faction, to be condemned to the\r\nmost cruel and ignominious punishment. If he was taken prisoner in\r\nwar, or if the city of which he was a member was conquered, he was\r\nexposed, if possible, to still greater injuries and insults. But every\r\nman naturally, or rather necessarily, familiarizes his imagination\r\nwith the distresses to which he foresees that his situation may\r\nfrequently expose him. It is impossible that a sailor should not\r\nfrequently think of storms and shipwrecks and foundering at sea, and\r\nof how he himself is likely both to feel and to act upon such\r\noccasions. It was impossible, in the same manner, that a Grecian\r\npatriot or hero should not familiarize his imagination with all the\r\ndifferent calamities to which he was sensible his situation must\r\nfrequently, or rather constantly, expose him. As an American savage\r\nprepares his death-song, and considers how he should act when he has\r\nfallen into the hands of his enemies, and is by them put to death in\r\nthe most lingering tortures, and amidst the insults and derision of\r\nall the spectators; so a Grecian patriot or hero could not avoid\r\nfrequently employing his thoughts in considering what he ought both to\r\nsuffer and to do in banishment, in captivity, when reduced to slavery,\r\nwhen put to the torture, when brought to the scaffold. But the\r\nphilosophers of all the different sects very justly represented\r\nvirtue; that is, wise, just, firm and temperate conduct; not only as\r\nthe most probable, but as the certain and infallible road to happiness\r\neven in this life. This conduct, however, could not always exempt, and\r\nmight even sometimes expose the person who followed it to all the\r\ncalamities which were incident to that unsettled situation of public\r\naffairs. They endeavoured, therefore, to show that happiness was\r\neither altogether, or at least in a great measure, independent of\r\nfortune; the Stoics, that it was so altogether; the Academic and\r\nPeripatetic philosophers, that it was so in a great measure. Wise,\r\nprudent, and good conduct was, in the first place, the conduct most\r\nlikely to ensure success in every species of undertaking; and\r\nsecondly, though it should fail of success, yet the mind was not left\r\nwithout consolation. The virtuous man might still enjoy the complete\r\napprobation of his own breast; and might still feel that, how untoward\r\nsoever things might be without, all was calm and peace and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page251\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e251\u003c/span\u003e\r\nconcord within. He might generally comfort himself, too, with the\r\nassurance that he possessed the love and esteem of every intelligent\r\nand impartial spectator, who could not fail both to admire his\r\nconduct, and to regret his misfortune.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThose philosophers endeavoured, at the same time, to show, that the\r\ngreatest misfortunes to which human life was liable, might be\r\nsupported more easily than was commonly imagined. They endeavoured to\r\npoint out the comforts which a man might still enjoy when reduced to\r\npoverty, when driven into banishment, when exposed to the injustice of\r\npopular clamour, when labouring under blindness, under deafness, in\r\nthe extremity of old age, upon the approach of death. They pointed\r\nout, too, the considerations which might contribute to support his\r\nconstancy under the agonies of pain and even of torture, in sickness,\r\nin sorrow for the loss of children, for the death of friends and\r\nrelations, etc. The few fragments which have come down to us of what\r\nthe ancient philosophers had written upon these subjects, form,\r\nperhaps, one of the most instructive, as well as one of the most\r\ninteresting remains of antiquity. The spirit and manhood of their\r\ndoctrines make a wonderful contrast with the desponding, plaintive,\r\nand whining tone of some modern systems.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut while those ancient philosophers endeavoured in this manner to\r\nsuggest every consideration which could, as Milton says, arm the\r\nobdured breast with stubborn patience, as with triple steel; they, at\r\nthe same time, laboured above all to convince their followers that\r\nthere neither was nor could be any evil in death; and that, if their\r\nsituation became at any time too hard for their constancy to support,\r\nthe remedy was at hand, the door was open, and they might, without\r\nfear, walk out when they pleased. If there was no world beyond the\r\npresent, death, they said, could be no evil; and if there was another\r\nworld, the gods must likewise be in that other, and a just man could\r\nfear no evil while under their protection. Those philosophers, in\r\nshort, prepared a death-song, if I may say so, which the Grecian\r\npatriots and heroes might make use of upon the proper occasions; and,\r\nof all the different sects, the Stoics, I think it must be\r\nacknowledged, had prepared by far the most animated and most spirited\r\nsong.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuicide, however, never seems to have been very common among the\r\nGreeks. Excepting Cleomenes, I cannot at present recollect any very\r\nillustrious either patriot or hero of Greece, who died by his own\r\nhand. The death of Aristomenes is as much beyond the period of true\r\nhistory as that of Ajax. The common story of the death of\r\nThemistocles, though within that period, bears upon its face all the\r\nmarks of a most romantic fable. Of all the Greek heroes whose lives\r\nhave been written by Plutarch, Cleomenes appears to have been the only\r\none who perished in this manner. Theramines, Socrates, and Phocion,\r\nwho certainly did not want courage, suffered themselves to be sent to\r\nprison, and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page252\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e252\u003c/span\u003e submitted patiently to that death to which the\r\ninjustice of their fellow-citizens had condemned them. The brave\r\nEumenes allowed himself to be delivered up, by his own mutinous\r\nsoldiers, to his enemy Antigonus, and was starved to death, without\r\nattempting any violence. The gallant Philopœmen suffered himself to\r\nbe taken prisoner by the Messenians, was thrown into a dungeon, and\r\nwas supposed to have been privately poisoned. Several of the\r\nphilosophers, indeed, are said to have died in this manner; but their\r\nlives have been so very foolishly written, that very little credit is\r\ndue to the greater part of the tales which are told of them. Three\r\ndifferent accounts have been given of the death of Zeno the Stoic. One\r\nis, that after enjoying, for ninety-eight years, the most perfect\r\nstate of health, he happened, in going out of his school, to fall; and\r\nthough he suffered no other damage than that of breaking or\r\ndislocating one of his fingers, he struck the ground with his hand,\r\nand, in the words of the Niobe of Euripides, said, \u003ci\u003eI come, why\r\ndoest thou call me?\u003c/i\u003e and immediately went home and hanged himself.\r\nAt that great age, one should think, he might have had a little more\r\npatience. Another account is, that, at the same age, and in\r\nconsequence of a like accident, he starved himself to death. The third\r\naccount is, that, at seventy-two years of age, he died in the natural\r\nway; by far the most probable account of the three, and supported too\r\nby the authority of a cotemporary, who must have had every opportunity\r\nof being well-informed; of Persæus, originally the slave, and\r\nafterwards the friend and disciple of Zeno. The first account is given\r\nby Apollonius of Tyre, who flourished about the time of Augustus\r\nCæsar, between two and three hundred years after the death of Zeno. I\r\nknow not who is the author of the second account. Apollonius, who was\r\nhimself a Stoic, had probably thought it would do honour to the\r\nfounder of a sect which talked so much about voluntary death, to die\r\nin this manner by his own hand. Men of letters, though, after their\r\ndeath, they are frequently more talked of than the greatest princes or\r\nstatesmen of their times, are generally, during their life, so obscure\r\nand insignificant that their adventures are seldom recorded by\r\ncotemporary historians. Those of after-ages, in order to satisfy the\r\npublic curiosity, and having no authentic documents either to support\r\nor to contradict their narratives, seem frequently to have fashioned\r\nthem according to their own fancy; and almost always with a great\r\nmixture of the marvellous. In this particular case the marvellous,\r\nthough supported by no authority, seems to have prevailed over the\r\nprobable, though supported by the best. Diogenes Laertius plainly\r\ngives the preference to the story of Apollonius. Lucian and Lactantius\r\nappear both to have given credit to that of the great age and of the\r\nviolent death.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis fashion of voluntary death appears to have been much more\r\nprevalent among the proud Romans, than it ever was among the lively,\r\ningenious, and accommodating Greeks. Even among the Romans, the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page253\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e253\u003c/span\u003e\r\nfashion seems not to have been established in the early and, what are\r\ncalled, the virtuous ages of the republic. The common story of the\r\ndeath of Regulus, though probably a fable, could never have been\r\ninvented, had it been supposed that any dishonour could fall upon that\r\nhero, from patiently submitting to the tortures which the\r\nCarthaginians are said to have inflicted upon him. In the later ages\r\nof the republic, some dishonour, I apprehend, would have attended this\r\nsubmission. In the different civil wars which preceded the fall of the\r\ncommonwealth, many of the eminent men of all the contending parties\r\nchose rather to perish by their own hands, than to fall into those of\r\ntheir enemies. The death of Cato, celebrated by Cicero, and censured\r\nby Cæsar, and become the subject of a very serious controversy\r\nbetween, perhaps, the two most illustrious advocates that the world\r\nhad ever beheld, stamped a character of splendour upon this method of\r\ndying which it seems to have retained for several ages after. The\r\neloquence of Cicero was superior to that of Cæsar. The admiring\r\nprevailed greatly over the censuring party, and the lovers of liberty,\r\nfor many ages afterwards, looked up to Cato as to the most venerable\r\nmartyr of the republican party. The head of a party, the Cardinal de\r\nRetz observes, may do what he pleases; as long as he retains the\r\nconfidence of his own friends, he can never do wrong; a maxim of which\r\nhis eminence had himself, upon several occasions, an opportunity of\r\nexperiencing the truth. Cato, it seems, joined to his other virtues\r\nthat of an excellent bottle companion. His enemies accused him of\r\ndrunkenness, but, says Seneca, whoever objected this vice to Cato,\r\nwill find it easier to prove that drunkenness is a virtue, than that\r\nCato could be addicted to any vice.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eUnder the Emperors this method of dying seems to have been, for a\r\nlong time, perfectly fashionable. In the epistles of Pliny we find an\r\naccount of several persons who chose to die in this manner, rather\r\nfrom vanity and ostentation, it would seem, than from what would\r\nappear, even to a sober and judicious Stoic, any proper or necessary\r\nreason. Even the ladies, who are seldom behind in following the\r\nfashion, seem frequently to have chosen, most unnecessarily, to die in\r\nthis manner; and, like the ladies in Bengal, to accompany, upon some\r\noccasions, their husbands to the tomb. The prevalence of this fashion\r\ncertainly occasioned many deaths which would not otherwise have\r\nhappened. All the havoc, however, which this, perhaps the highest\r\nexertion of human vanity and impertinence, could occasion, would,\r\nprobably, at no time, be very great.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe principle of suicide, the principle which would teach us, upon\r\nsome occasions, to consider that violent action as an object of\r\napplause and approbation, seems to be altogether a refinement of\r\nphilosophy. Nature, in her sound and healthful state, seems never to\r\nprompt us to suicide. There is, indeed, a species of melancholy (a\r\ndisease to which human nature, among its other calamities, is\r\nunhappily subject) which \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page254\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e254\u003c/span\u003e seems to be accompanied with, what one\r\nmay call, an irresistible appetite for self-destruction. In\r\ncircumstances often of the highest external prosperity, and sometimes\r\ntoo, in spite even of the most serious and deeply impressed sentiments\r\nof religion, this disease has frequently been known to drive its\r\nwretched victims to this fatal extremity. The unfortunate persons who\r\nperish in this miserable manner, are the proper objects, not of\r\ncensure, but of commiseration. To attempt to punish them, when they\r\nare beyond the reach of all human punishment, is not more absurd than\r\nit is unjust. That punishment can fall only on their surviving friends\r\nand relations, who are always perfectly innocent, and to whom the loss\r\nof their friend, in this disgraceful manner, must always be alone a\r\nvery heavy calamity. Nature, in her sound and healthful state, prompts\r\nus to avoid distress upon all occasions; upon many occasions to defend\r\nourselves against it, though at the hazard, or even with the certainty\r\nof perishing in that defence. But, when we have neither been able to\r\ndefend ourselves from it, nor have perished in that defence, no\r\nnatural principle, no regard to the approbation of the supposed\r\nimpartial spectator, to the judgment of the man within the breast,\r\nseems to call upon us to escape from it by destroying ourselves. It is\r\nonly the consciousness of our own weakness, of our own incapacity to\r\nsupport the calamity with proper manhood and firmness, which can drive\r\nus to this resolution. I do not remember to have either read or heard\r\nof any American savage, who, upon being taken prisoner by some hostile\r\ntribe, put himself to death, in order to avoid being afterwards put to\r\ndeath in torture, and amidst the insults and mockery of his enemies.\r\nHe places his glory in supporting those torments with manhood, and in\r\nretorting those insults with tenfold contempt and derision.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis contempt of life and death, however, and, at the same time,\r\nthe most entire submission to the order of Providence; the most\r\ncomplete contentment with every event which the current of human\r\naffairs could possibly cast up, may be considered as the two\r\nfundamental doctrines upon which rested the whole fabric of Stoical\r\nmorality. The independent and spirited, but often harsh Epictetus, may\r\nbe considered as the great apostle of the first of those doctrines:\r\nthe mild, the humane, the benevolent Antoninus, of the second.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe emancipated slave of Epaphroditus, who, in his youth, had been\r\nsubjected to the insolence of a brutal master, who, in his riper\r\nyears, was, by the jealousy and caprice of Domitian, banished from\r\nRome and Athens, and obliged to dwell at Nicopolis, and who, by the\r\nsame tyrant, might expect every moment to be sent to Gyaræ, or,\r\nperhaps, to be put to death; could preserve his own tranquillity only\r\nby fostering in his mind the most sovereign contempt of human life. He\r\nnever exults so much, accordingly; his eloquence is never so animated\r\nas when he represents the futility and nothingness of all its\r\npleasures and all its pains.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page255\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e255\u003c/span\u003e The good-natured emperor, the absolute sovereign of the whole\r\ncivilized part of the world, who certainly had no peculiar reason to\r\ncomplain of his own allotment, delights in expressing his contentment\r\nwith the ordinary course of things, and in pointing out beauties even\r\nin those parts of it where vulgar observers are not apt to see any.\r\nThere is a propriety and even an engaging grace, he observes, in old\r\nage as well as in youth; and the weakness and decrepitude of the one\r\nstate are as suitable to nature as the bloom and vigour of the other.\r\nDeath, too, is just as proper a termination of old age, as youth is of\r\nchildhood, or manhood of youth. ‘As we frequently say,’ he remarks\r\nupon another occasion, ‘that the physician has ordered to such a man\r\nto ride on horseback, or to use the cold bath, or to walk barefooted;\r\nso ought we to say, that Nature, the great conductor and physician of\r\nthe universe, has ordered to such a man a disease, or the amputation\r\nof a limb, or the loss of a child.’ By the prescriptions of ordinary\r\nphysicians the patient swallows many a bitter potion, undergoes many a\r\npainful operation. From the very uncertain hope, however, that health\r\nmay be the consequence, he gladly submits to all. The harshest\r\nprescriptions of the great Physician of nature, the patient may, in\r\nthe same manner, hope will contribute to his own health, to his own\r\nfinal prosperity and happiness: and he may be perfectly assured that\r\nthey not only contribute, but are indispensably necessary to the\r\nhealth, to the prosperity and happiness of the universe, to the\r\nfurtherance and advancement of the great plan of Jupiter. Had they not\r\nbeen so, the universe would never have produced them; its all-wise\r\nArchitect and Conductor would never have suffered them to happen. As\r\nall, even the smallest of the co-existent parts of the universe, are\r\nexactly fitted to one another, and all contribute to compose one\r\nimmense and connected system, so all, even apparently the most\r\ninsignificant of the successive events which follow one another, make\r\nparts, and necessary parts, of that great chain of causes and effects\r\nwhich had no beginning, and which will have no end; and which, as they\r\nall necessarily result from the original arrangement and contrivance\r\nof the whole; so they are all essentially necessary, not only to its\r\nprosperity, but to its continuance and preservation. Whoever does not\r\ncordially embrace whatever befalls him, whoever is sorry that it has\r\nbefallen him, whoever wishes that it had not befallen him, wishes, so\r\nfar as in him lies, to stop the motion of the universe, to break that\r\ngreat chain of succession, by the progress of which that system can\r\nalone be continued and preserved, and, for some little conveniency of\r\nhis own, to disorder and discompose the whole machine of the world. ‘O\r\nworld,’ says he, in another place, ‘all things are suitable to me\r\nwhich are suitable to thee. Nothing is too early or too late to me\r\nwhich is seasonable for thee. All is fruit to me which thy seasons\r\nbring forth. From thee are all things; in thee are all things; for\r\nthee are all things. One man \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page256\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e256\u003c/span\u003e says, O beloved city of Cecrops.\r\nWilt not thou say, O beloved city of God?’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFrom these very sublime doctrines the Stoics, or at least some of\r\nthe Stoics, attempted to deduce all their paradoxes.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Stoical wise man endeavoured to enter into the views of the\r\ngreat Superintendent of the universe, and to see things in the same\r\nlight in which that divine Being beheld them. But, to the great\r\nSuperintendent of the universe, all the different events which the\r\ncourse of his providence may bring forth, what to us appear the\r\nsmallest and the greatest, the bursting of a bubble, as Mr. Pope says,\r\nand that of a world, for example, were perfectly equal, were equally\r\nparts of that great chain which he had predestined from all eternity,\r\nwere equally the effects of the same unerring wisdom, of the same\r\nuniversal and boundless benevolence. To the Stoical wise man, in the\r\nsame manner, all those different events were perfectly equal. In the\r\ncourse of those events, indeed, a little department, in which he had\r\nhimself some little management and direction, had been assigned to\r\nhim. In this department he endeavoured to act as properly as he could,\r\nand to conduct himself according to those orders which, he understood,\r\nhad been prescribed to him. But he took no anxious or passionate\r\nconcern either in the success, or in the disappointment of his own\r\nmost faithful endeavours. The highest prosperity and the total\r\ndestruction of that little department, of that little system which had\r\nbeen in some measure committed to his charge, were perfectly\r\nindifferent to him. If those events had depended upon him, he would\r\nhave chosen the one, and he would have rejected the other. But as they\r\ndid not depend upon him, he trusted to a superior wisdom, and was\r\nperfectly satisfied that the event which happened, whatever it might\r\nbe, was the very event which he himself, had he known all the\r\nconnections and dependencies of things, would most earnestly and\r\ndevoutly have wished for. Whatever he did under the influence and\r\ndirection of those principles was equally perfect; and when he\r\nstretched out his finger, to give the example which they commonly made\r\nuse of, he performed an action in every respect as meritorious, as\r\nworthy of praise and admiration, as when he laid down his life for the\r\nservice of his country. As, to the great Superintendent of the\r\nuniverse, the greatest and the smallest exertions of his power, the\r\nformation and dissolution of a world, the formation and dissolution of\r\na bubble, were equally easy, were equally admirable, and equally the\r\neffects of the same divine wisdom and benevolence; so, to the Stoical\r\nwise man, what we would call the great action required no more\r\nexertion than the little one, was equally easy, proceeded from exactly\r\nthe same principles, was in no respect more meritorious, nor worthy of\r\nany higher degree of praise and admiration.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs all those who had arrived at this state of perfection were\r\nequally \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page257\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e257\u003c/span\u003e happy, so all those who fell in the smallest degree\r\nshort of it, how nearly soever they might approach to it, were equally\r\nmiserable. As the man, they said, who was but an inch below the\r\nsurface of the water, could no more breathe than he who was an hundred\r\nyards below it; so the man who had not completely subdued all his\r\nprivate, partial, and selfish passions, who had any other earnest\r\ndesire but that for the universal happiness, who had not completely\r\nemerged from that abyss of misery and disorder into which his anxiety\r\nfor the gratification of those private, partial, and selfish passions\r\nhad involved him, could no more breathe the free air of liberty and\r\nindependency, could no more enjoy the security and happiness of the\r\nwise man, than he who was most remote from that situation. As all the\r\nactions of the wise man were perfect and equally perfect; so all those\r\nof the man who had not arrived at this supreme wisdom were faulty,\r\nand, as some Stoics pretended, equally faulty. As one truth, they\r\nsaid, could not be more true, nor one falsehood more false than\r\nanother; so an honourable action could not be more honourable, nor a\r\nshameful one more shameful than another. As in shooting at a mark, the\r\nman who missed it by an inch had equally missed it with him who had\r\ndone so by a hundred yards; so the man who, in what to us appears the\r\nmost insignificant action, had acted improperly and without a\r\nsufficient reason, was equally faulty with him who had done so in,\r\nwhat to us appears, the most important; the man who has killed a cock,\r\nfor example, improperly and without a sufficient reason, was as\r\ncriminal as he who had murdered his father.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf the first of those two paradoxes should appear sufficiently\r\nviolent, the second is evidently too absurd to deserve any serious\r\nconsideration. It is, indeed, so very absurd that one can scarce help\r\nsuspecting that it must have been in some measure misunderstood or\r\nmisrepresented. At any rate, I cannot allow myself to believe that\r\nsuch men as Zeno or Cleanthes, men, it is said, of the most simple as\r\nwell as of the most sublime eloquence, could be the authors, either of\r\nthese, or of the greater part of the other Stoical paradoxes, which\r\nare in general mere impertinent quibbles, and do so little honour to\r\ntheir system that I shall give no further account of them. I am\r\ndisposed to impute them rather to Chrysippus, the disciple and\r\nfollower, indeed, of Zeno and Cleanthes, but who, from all that has\r\nbeen delivered down to us concerning him, seems to have been a mere\r\ndialectical pedant, without taste or elegance of any kind. He may have\r\nbeen the first who reduced their doctrines into a scholastic or\r\ntechnical system of artificial definitions, divisions, and\r\nsubdivisions; one of the most effectual expedients, perhaps, for\r\nextinguishing whatever degree of good sense there may be in any moral\r\nor metaphysical doctrine. Such a man may very easily be supposed to\r\nhave understood too literally some animated expressions of his masters\r\nin describing the happiness of the man of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page258\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e258\u003c/span\u003e perfect virtue, and\r\nthe unhappiness of whoever might fall short of that character.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Stoics in general seem to have admitted that there might be a\r\ndegree of proficiency in those who had not advanced to perfect virtue\r\nand happiness. They distributed those proficients into different\r\nclasses, according to the degree of their advancement; and they called\r\nthe imperfect virtues which they supposed them capable of exercising,\r\nnot rectitudes, but proprieties, fitnesses, decent and becoming\r\nactions, for which a plausible or probable reason could be assigned,\r\nwhat Cicero expresses by the Latin word \u003ci\u003eofficia\u003c/i\u003e, and Seneca, I\r\nthink more exactly, by that of \u003ci\u003econvenientia\u003c/i\u003e. The doctrine of\r\nthose imperfect, but attainable virtues, seems to have constituted\r\nwhat we may call the practical morality of the Stoics. It is the\r\nsubject of Cicero’s Offices; and is said to have been that of another\r\nbook written by Marcus Brutus, but which is now lost.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe plan and system which Nature has sketched out for our conduct,\r\nseems to us to be altogether different from that of the Stoical\r\nphilosophy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBy Nature the events which immediately affect that little\r\ndepartment in which we ourselves have some little management and\r\ndirection, which immediately affect ourselves, our friends, our\r\ncountry, are the events which interest us the most, and which chiefly\r\nexcite our desires and aversions, our hopes and fears, our joys and\r\nsorrows. Should those passions be, what they are very apt to be, too\r\nvehement, Nature has provided a proper remedy and correction. The real\r\nor even the imaginary presence of the impartial spectator, the\r\nauthority of the man within the breast, is always at hand to overawe\r\nthem into the proper tone and temper of moderation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf, notwithstanding our most faithful exertions, all the events\r\nwhich can affect this little department, should turn out the most\r\nunfortunate and disastrous, Nature has by no means left us without\r\nconsolation. That consolation may be drawn, not only from the complete\r\napprobation of the man within the breast, but, if possible, from a\r\nstill nobler and more generous principle, from a firm reliance upon,\r\nand a reverential submission to, that benevolent wisdom which directs\r\nall the events of human life, and which, we may be assured, would\r\nnever have suffered those misfortunes to happen, had they not been\r\nindispensably necessary for the good of the whole.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNature has not prescribed to us this sublime contemplation as the\r\ngreat business and occupation of our lives. She only points it out to\r\nus as the consolation of our misfortunes. The Stoical philosophy\r\nprescribes it as the great business and occupation of our lives. That\r\nphilosophy teaches us to interest ourselves earnestly and anxiously in\r\nno events, external to the good order of our own minds, to the\r\npropriety of our own choosing and rejecting, except in those which\r\nconcern a \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page259\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e259\u003c/span\u003e department where we neither have nor ought to have any\r\nsort of management or direction, the department of the great\r\nSuperintendent of the universe. By the perfect apathy which it\r\nprescribes to us, by endeavouring, not merely to moderate, but to\r\neradicate all our private, partial, and selfish affections, by\r\nsuffering us to feel for whatever can befall ourselves, our friends,\r\nour country, not even the sympathetic and reduced passions of the\r\nimpartial spectator, it endeavours to render us altogether indifferent\r\nand unconcerned in the success or miscarriage of every thing which\r\nNature has prescribed to us as the proper business and occupation of\r\nour lives.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe reasonings of philosophy, it may be said, though they may confound\r\nand perplex the understanding, can never break down the\r\nnecessary connection which Nature has established between causes and\r\ntheir effects. The causes which naturally excite our desires and\r\naversions, our hopes and fears, our joys and sorrows, would no doubt,\r\nnotwithstanding all the reasonings of Stoicism, produce upon each\r\nindividual, according to the degree of his actual sensibility, their\r\nproper and necessary effects. The judgments of the man within the\r\nbreast, however, might be a good deal affected by those reasonings,\r\nand that great inmate might be taught by them to attempt to overawe\r\nall our private, partial, and selfish affections into a more or less\r\nperfect tranquillity. To direct the judgments of this inmate is the\r\ngreat purpose of all systems of morality. That the Stoical philosophy\r\nhad very great influence upon the character and conduct of its\r\nfollowers, cannot be doubted; and that, though it might sometimes\r\nincite them to unnecessary violence, its general tendency was to\r\nanimate them to actions of the most heroic magnanimity and most\r\nextensive benevolence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅣ. Besides these ancient, there are some modern systems, according\r\nto which virtue consists in propriety; or in the suitableness of the\r\naffection from which we act, to the cause or object which excites it.\r\nThe system of Dr. Clark, which places virtue in acting according to\r\nthe relation of things, in regulating our conduct according to the\r\nfitness or incongruity which there may be in the application of\r\ncertain actions to certain things, or to certain relations: that of\r\nMr. Wollaston, which places it in acting according to the truth of\r\nthings, according to their proper nature and essence, or in treating\r\nthem as what they really are, and not as what they are not: that of my\r\nLord Shaftesbury, which places it in maintaining a proper balance of\r\nthe affections, and in allowing no passion to go beyond its proper\r\nsphere; are all of them more or less inaccurate descriptions of the\r\nsame fundamental idea.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNone of those systems either give, or even pretend to give, any\r\nprecise or distinct measure by which this fitness or propriety of\r\naffection can be ascertained or judged of. That precise and distinct\r\nmeasure can be found no where but in the sympathetic feelings of the\r\nimpartial and well-informed spectator.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e260\u003c/span\u003e The description of virtue, besides, which is either given, or\r\nat least meant and intended to be given in each of those systems, for\r\nsome of the modern authors are not very fortunate in their manner of\r\nexpressing themselves, is no doubt quite just, so far as it goes.\r\nThere is no virtue without propriety, and wherever there is propriety\r\nsome degree of approbation is due. But still this description is\r\nimperfect. For though propriety is an essential ingredient in every\r\nvirtuous action, it is not always the sole ingredient. Beneficent\r\nactions have in them another quality by which they appear not only to\r\ndeserve approbation but recompense. None of those systems account\r\neither easily or sufficiently for that superior degree of esteem which\r\nseems due to such actions, or for that diversity of sentiment which\r\nthey naturally excite. Neither is the description of vice more\r\ncomplete. For, in the same manner, though impropriety is a necessary\r\ningredient in every vicious action, it is not always the sole\r\ningredient; and there is often the highest degree of absurdity and\r\nimpropriety in very harmless and insignificant actions. Deliberate\r\nactions, of a pernicious tendency to those we live with, have, besides\r\ntheir impropriety, a peculiar quality of their own by which they\r\nappear to deserve, not only disapprobation, but punishment; and to be\r\nthe objects, not of dislike merely, but of resentment and revenge: and\r\nnone of those systems easily and sufficiently account for that\r\nsuperior degree of detestation which we feel for such actions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page260\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf those Systems which make Virtue consist in\r\nPrudence.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e most ancient of those systems which make virtue consist in\r\nprudence, and of which any considerable remains have come down to us,\r\nis that of Epicurus, who is said, however, to have borrowed all the\r\nleading principles of his philosophy from some of those who had gone\r\nbefore him, particularly from Aristippus; though it is very probable,\r\nnotwithstanding this allegation of his enemies, that at least his\r\nmanner of applying those principles was altogether his own.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAccording to Epicurus (Cicero de finibus, lib. i. Diogenes Laert.\r\n1. x.) bodily pleasure and pain were the sole ultimate objects of\r\nnatural desire and aversion. That they were always the natural objects\r\nof those passions, he thought required no proof. Pleasure might,\r\nindeed, appear sometimes to be avoided; not, however, because it was\r\npleasure, but because, by the enjoyment of it, we should either\r\nforfeit some greater pleasure, or expose ourselves to some pain that\r\nwas more to be avoided than this pleasure was to be desired. Pain, in\r\nthe same manner, might appear sometimes to be eligible; not, however,\r\nbecause it was pain, but because by enduring it we might either avoid\r\na still \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page261\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e261\u003c/span\u003e greater pain, or acquire some pleasure of much more\r\nimportance. That bodily pain and pleasure, therefore, were always the\r\nnatural objects of desire and aversion, was, he thought, abundantly\r\nevident. Nor was it less so, he imagined, that they were the sole\r\nultimate objects of those passions. Whatever else was either desired\r\nor avoided, was so, according to him, upon account of its tendency to\r\nproduce one or other of those sensations. The tendency to procure\r\npleasure rendered power and riches desirable, as the contrary tendency\r\nto produce pain made poverty and insignificancy the objects of\r\naversion. Honour and reputation were valued, because the esteem and\r\nlove of those we live with were of the greatest consequence both to\r\nprocure pleasure and to defend us from pain. Ignominy and bad fame, on\r\nthe contrary, were to be avoided, because the hatred, contempt, and\r\nresentment of those we lived with, destroyed all security, and\r\nnecessarily exposed us to the greatest bodily evils.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAll the pleasures and pains of the mind were, according to\r\nEpicurus, ultimately derived from those of the body. The mind was\r\nhappy when it thought of the past pleasures of the body, and hoped for\r\nothers to come: and it was miserable when it thought of the pains\r\nwhich the body had formerly endured, and dreaded the same or greater\r\nthereafter.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut the pleasures and pains of the mind, though ultimately derived\r\nfrom those of the body, were vastly greater than their originals. The\r\nbody felt only the sensation of the present instant, whereas the mind\r\nfelt also the past and the future, the one by remembrance, the other\r\nby anticipation, and consequently both suffered and enjoyed much more.\r\nWhen we are under the greatest bodily pain, he observed, we shall\r\nalways find, if we attend to it, that it is not the suffering of the\r\npresent instant which chiefly torments us, but either the agonizing\r\nremembrance of the past, or the yet more horrible dread of the future.\r\nThe pain of each instant, considered by itself, and cut off from all\r\nthat goes before and all that comes after it, is a trifle, not worth\r\nthe regarding. Yet this is all which the body can ever be said to\r\nsuffer. In the same manner, when we enjoy the greatest pleasure, we\r\nshall always find that the bodily sensation, the sensation of the\r\npresent instant, makes but a small part of our happiness, that our\r\nenjoyment chiefly arises either from the cheerful recollection of the\r\npast, or the still more joyous anticipation of the future, and that\r\nthe mind always contributes by much the largest share of the\r\nentertainment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSince our happiness and misery, therefore, depended chiefly on the\r\nmind, if this part of our nature was well disposed, if our thoughts\r\nand opinions were as they should be, it was of little importance in\r\nwhat manner our body was affected. Though under great bodily pain, we\r\nmight still enjoy a considerable share of happiness, if our reason and\r\njudgment maintained their superiority. We might entertain ourselves\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page262\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e262\u003c/span\u003e with the remembrance of past, and with the hopes of future\r\npleasure; we might soften the rigour of our pains, by recollecting\r\nwhat it was which, even in this situation, we were under any necessity\r\nof suffering. That this was merely the bodily sensation, the pain of\r\nthe present instant, which by itself could never be very great. That\r\nwhatever agony we suffered from the dread of its continuance, was the\r\neffect of an opinion of the mind, which might be corrected by juster\r\nsentiments; by considering that, if our pains were violent, they would\r\nprobably be of short duration; and that if they were of long\r\ncontinuance, they would probably be moderate, and admit of many\r\nintervals of ease; and that, at any rate, death was always at hand and\r\nwithin call to deliver us, which as, according to him, it put an end\r\nto all sensation, either of pain or pleasure, could not be regarded as\r\nan evil. When we are, said he, death is not; and when death is, we are\r\nnot; death therefore can be nothing to us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf the actual sensation of positive pain was in itself so little to\r\nbe feared, that of pleasure was still less to be desired. Naturally\r\nthe sensation of pleasure was much less pungent than that of pain. If,\r\ntherefore, this last could take so very little from the happiness of a\r\nwell-disposed mind, the other could add scarce any thing to it. When\r\nthe body was free from pain and the mind from fear and anxiety, the\r\nsuperadded sensation of bodily pleasure could be of very little\r\nimportance; and though it might diversify, could not properly be said\r\nto increase the happiness of this situation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn ease of body, therefore, and in security of tranquillity of\r\nmind, consisted, according to Epicurus, the most perfect state of\r\nhuman nature, the most complete happiness which man was capable of\r\nenjoying. To obtain this great end of natural desire was the sole\r\nobject of all the virtues, which, according to him, were not desirable\r\nupon their own account, but chiefly upon account of their tendency to\r\nbring about this situation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePrudence, for example, though, according to this philosophy, the\r\nsource and principle of all the virtues, was not desirable upon its\r\nown account. That careful and laborious and circumspect state of mind,\r\never watchful and ever attentive to the most distant consequences of\r\nevery action, could not be a thing pleasant or agreeable for its own\r\nsake, but upon account of its tendency to procure the greatest goods\r\nand to keep off the greatest evils.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo abstain from pleasure too, to curb and restrain our natural\r\npassions for enjoyment, which was the office of temperance, could\r\nnever be desirable for its own sake. The whole value of this virtue\r\narose from its utility, from its enabling us to postpone the present\r\nenjoyment for the sake of a greater to come, or to avoid a greater\r\npain that might ensue from it. Temperance, in short, was, according to\r\nthe Epicureans, nothing but prudence with regard to pleasure.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page263\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e263\u003c/span\u003e To support labour, to endure pain, to be exposed to danger or\r\nto death, the situations which fortitude would often lead us into,\r\nwere surely still less the objects of natural desire. They were chosen\r\nonly to avoid greater evils. We submitted to labour, in order to avoid\r\nthe greater shame and pain of poverty, and we exposed ourselves to\r\ndanger and to death in defence of our liberty and property, the means\r\nand instruments of pleasure and happiness; or in defence of our\r\ncountry, in the safety of which our own was necessarily comprehended.\r\nFortitude enabled us to do all this cheerfully, as the best which, in\r\nour present situation, could possibly be done, and was in reality no\r\nmore than prudence, good judgment, and presence of mind in properly\r\nappreciating pain, labour, and danger, always choosing the less in\r\norder to avoid the greater evil.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is the same case with justice. To abstain from what is another’s\r\nwas not desirable on its own account, and it could not surely be\r\nbetter for you, that I should possess what is my own, than that you\r\nshould possess it. You ought, however, to abstain from whatever\r\nbelongs to me, because by doing otherwise you will provoke the\r\nresentment and indignation of mankind. The security and tranquillity\r\nof your mind will be entirely destroyed. You will be filled with fear\r\nand consternation at the thought of that punishment which you will\r\nimagine that men are at all times ready to inflict upon you, and from\r\nwhich no power, no art, no concealment, will ever, in your own fancy,\r\nbe sufficient to protect you. The other species of justice which\r\nconsists in doing proper good offices to different persons, according\r\nto the various relations of neighbours, kinsmen, friends, benefactors,\r\nsuperiors, or equals, which they may stand in to us, is recommended by\r\nthe same reasons. To act properly in all these different relations\r\nprocures us the esteem and love of those we live with; as to do\r\notherwise excites their contempt and hatred. By the one we naturally\r\nsecure, by the other we necessarily endanger our own ease and\r\ntranquillity, the great and ultimate objects of all our desires. The\r\nwhole virtue of justice, therefore, the most important of all the\r\nvirtues, is no more than discreet and prudent conduct with regard to\r\nour neighbours.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch is the doctrine of Epicurus concerning the nature of virtue.\r\nIt may seem extraordinary that this philosopher, who is described as a\r\nperson of the most amiable manners, should never have observed, that,\r\nwhatever may be the tendency of those virtues, or of the contrary\r\nvices, with regard to our bodily ease and security, the sentiments\r\nwhich they naturally excite in others are the objects of a much more\r\npassionate desire or aversion than all their other consequences; that\r\nto be amiable, to be respectable, to be the proper object of esteem,\r\nis by every well-disposed mind more valued than all the ease and\r\nsecurity which love, respect, and esteem can procure us; that, on the\r\ncontrary, to be odious, to be contemptible, to be the proper object of\r\nindignation, is \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page264\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e264\u003c/span\u003e more dreadful than all that we can suffer in our\r\nbody from hatred, contempt, or indignation; and that consequently our\r\ndesire of the one character, and our aversion to the other, cannot\r\narise from any regard to the effects which either of them may produce\r\nupon the body.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis system is, no doubt, altogether inconsistent with that which I\r\nhave been endeavouring to establish. It is not difficult, however, to\r\ndiscover from what phasis, if I may say so, from what particular view\r\nor aspect of nature, this account of things derives its probability.\r\nBy the wise contrivance of the Author of nature, virtue is upon all\r\nordinary occasions, even with regard to this life, real wisdom, and\r\nthe surest and readiest means of obtaining both safety and advantage.\r\nOur success or disappointment in our undertakings must very much\r\ndepend upon the good or bad opinion which is commonly entertained of\r\nus, and upon the general disposition of those we live with, either to\r\nassist or to oppose us. But the best, the surest, the easiest, and the\r\nreadiest way of obtaining the advantageous, and of avoiding the\r\nunfavourable judgments of others, is undoubtedly to render ourselves\r\nthe proper objects of the former and not of the latter. ‘Do you\r\ndesire,’ said Socrates, ‘the reputation of a good musician? The only\r\nsure way of obtaining it, is to become a good musician. Would you\r\ndesire in the same manner to be thought capable of serving your\r\ncountry either as a general or as a statesman? The best way in this\r\ncase too is really to acquire the art and experience of war and\r\ngovernment, and to become really fit to be a general or a statesman.\r\nAnd in the same manner if you would be reckoned sober, temperate,\r\njust, and equitable, the best way of acquiring this reputation is to\r\nbecome sober, temperate, just, and equitable. If you can really render\r\nyourself amiable, respectable, and the proper object of esteem, there\r\nis no fear of your not soon acquiring the love, the respect, and\r\nesteem of those you live with.’ Since the practice of virtue,\r\ntherefore, is in general so advantageous, and that of vice so contrary\r\nto our interest, the consideration of those opposite tendencies\r\nundoubtedly stamps an additional beauty and propriety upon the one,\r\nand a new deformity and impropriety upon the other. Temperance,\r\nmagnanimity, justice, and beneficence, come thus to be approved of,\r\nnot only under their proper characters, but under the additional\r\ncharacter of the highest wisdom and most real prudence. And in the\r\nsame manner, the contrary vices of intemperance, pusillanimity,\r\ninjustice, and either malevolence or sordid selfishness, come to be\r\ndisapproved of, not only under their proper characters, but under the\r\nadditional character of the most short-sighted folly and weakness.\r\nEpicurus appears in every virtue to have attended to this species of\r\npropriety only. It is that which is most apt to occur to those who are\r\nendeavouring to persuade others to regularity of conduct. When men by\r\ntheir practice, and perhaps too by their maxims, manifestly show that\r\nthe natural beauty of virtue is not like to have much effect upon\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e265\u003c/span\u003e them, how is it possible to move them but by representing the\r\nfolly of their conduct, and how much they themselves are in the end\r\nlikely to suffer by it?\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBy running up all the different virtues too to this one species of\r\npropriety, Epicurus indulged a propensity, which is natural to all\r\nmen, but which philosophers in particular are apt to cultivate with a\r\npeculiar fondness, as the great means of displaying their ingenuity,\r\nthe propensity to account for all appearances from as few principles\r\nas possible. And he, no doubt, indulged this propensity still further,\r\nwhen he referred all the primary objects of natural desire and\r\naversion to the pleasures and pains of the body. The great patron of\r\nthe atomical philosophy, who took so much pleasure in deducing all the\r\npowers and qualities of bodies from the most obvious and familiar, the\r\nfigure, motion, and arrangement of the small parts of matter, felt no\r\ndoubt a similar satisfaction, when he accounted, in the same manner,\r\nfor all the sentiments and passions of the mind from those which are\r\nmost obvious and familiar.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe system of Epicurus agreed with those of Plato, Aristotle, and\r\nZeno, in making virtue consist in acting in the most suitable manner\r\nto obtain (Prima naturæ) primary objects of natural desire. It\r\ndiffered from all of them in two other respects; first, in the\r\naccount which it gave of those primary objects of natural desire; and\r\nsecondly, in the account which it gave of the excellence of virtue, or\r\nof the reason why that quality ought to be esteemed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe primary objects of natural desire consisted, according to\r\nEpicurus, in bodily pleasure and pain, and in nothing else: whereas,\r\naccording to the other three philosophers, there were many other\r\nobjects, such as knowledge, such as the happiness of our relations, of\r\nour friends, and of our country, which were ultimately desirable for\r\ntheir own sakes.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eVirtue too, according to Epicurus, did not deserve to be pursued\r\nfor its own sake, nor was itself one of the ultimate objects of\r\nnatural appetite, but was eligible only upon account of its tendency\r\nto prevent pain and to procure ease and pleasure. In the opinion of\r\nthe other three, on the contrary, it was desirable, not merely as the\r\nmeans of procuring the other primary objects of natural desire, but as\r\nsomething which was in itself more valuable than them all. Man, they\r\nthought, being born for action, his happiness must consist, not merely\r\nin the agreeableness of his passive sensations, but also in the\r\npropriety of his active exertions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page265\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—\u003ci\u003eOf those Systems which make Virtue consist in\r\nBenevolence.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e system which makes virtue consist in benevolence, though I\r\nthink \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page266\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e266\u003c/span\u003e not so ancient as all those which I have already given an\r\naccount of, is, however, of very great antiquity. It seems to have\r\nbeen the doctrine of the greater part of those philosophers who, about\r\nand after the age of Augustus, called themselves Eclectics, who\r\npretended to follow chiefly the opinions of Plato and Pythagoras, and\r\nwho upon that account are commonly known by the name of the later\r\nPlatonists.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the divine nature, according to these authors, benevolence or\r\nlove was the sole principle of action, and directed the exertion of\r\nall the other attributes. The wisdom of the Deity was employed in\r\nfinding out the means for bringing about those ends which his goodness\r\nsuggested, and his infinite power was exerted to execute them.\r\nBenevolence, however, was still the supreme and governing attribute,\r\nto which the others were subservient, and from which the whole\r\nexcellency, or the whole morality, if I may be allowed such an\r\nexpression, of the divine operations, was ultimately derived. The\r\nwhole perfection and virtue of the human mind consisted in some\r\nresemblance or participation of the divine perfections, and,\r\nconsequently, in being filled with the same principle of benevolence\r\nand love which influenced all the actions of the Deity. The actions of\r\nmen which flowed from this motive were alone truly praise-worthy, or\r\ncould claim any merit in the sight of the Deity. It was by actions of\r\ncharity and love only that we could imitate, as became us, the conduct\r\nof God, that we could express our humble and devout admiration of his\r\ninfinite perfections, that by fostering in our own minds the same\r\ndivine principle, we could bring our own affections to a greater\r\nresemblance with his holy attributes, and thereby become more proper\r\nobjects of his love and esteem; till we arrived at that immediate\r\nconverse and communication with the Deity to which it was the great\r\nobject of this philosophy to raise us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis system, as it was much esteemed by many ancient fathers of the\r\nChristian church, so after the Reformation it was adopted by several\r\ndivines of the most eminent piety and learning and of the most amiable\r\nmanners; particularly, by Dr. Ralph Cudworth, by Dr. Henry More, and\r\nby Mr. John Smith of Cambridge. But of all the patrons of this system,\r\nancient or modern, the late Dr. Hutcheson was undoubtedly, beyond all\r\ncomparison, the most acute, the most distinct, the most philosophical,\r\nand what is of the greatest consequence of all, the soberest and most\r\njudicious.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat virtue consists in benevolence is a notion supported by many\r\nappearances in human nature. It has been observed already, that proper\r\nbenevolence is the most graceful and agreeable of all the affections,\r\nthat it is recommended to us by a double sympathy, that as its\r\ntendency is necessarily beneficent, it is the proper object of\r\ngratitude and reward, and that upon all these accounts it appears to\r\nour natural sentiments to possess a merit superior to any other. It\r\nhas been observed, too, that even the weaknesses of benevolence are\r\nnot very \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page267\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e267\u003c/span\u003e disagreeable to us, whereas those of every other\r\npassion are always extremely disgusting. Who does not abhor excessive\r\nmalice, excessive selfishness, or excessive resentment? But the most\r\nexcessive indulgence even of partial friendship is not so offensive.\r\nIt is the benevolent passions only which can exert themselves without\r\nany regard or attention to propriety, and yet retain something about\r\nthem which is engaging. There is something pleasing even in mere\r\ninstinctive good-will, which goes on to do good offices without once\r\nreflecting whether by this conduct it is the proper object either of\r\nblame or approbation. It is not so with the other passions. The moment\r\nthey are deserted, the moment they are unaccompanied by the sense of\r\npropriety, they cease to be agreeable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs benevolence bestows upon those actions which proceed from it, a\r\nbeauty superior to all others, so the want of it, and much more the\r\ncontrary inclination, communicates a peculiar deformity to whatever\r\nevidences such a disposition. Pernicious actions are often punishable\r\nfor no other reason than because they show a want of sufficient\r\nattention to the happiness of our neighbour.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBesides all this, Dr. Hutcheson (Inquiry concerning Virtue, sect.\r\n1. and 2.) observed, that whenever in any action, supposed to proceed\r\nfrom benevolent affections, some other motive had been discovered, our\r\nsense of the merit of this action was just so far diminished as this\r\nmotive was believed to have influenced it. If an action, supposed to\r\nproceed from gratitude, should be discovered to have arisen from an\r\nexpectation of some new favour, or if what was apprehended to proceed\r\nfrom public spirit, should be found out to have taken its origin from\r\nthe hope of a pecuniary reward, such a discovery would entirely\r\ndestroy all notion of merit or praise-worthiness in either of these\r\nactions. Since, therefore, the mixture of any selfish motive, like\r\nthat of a baser alloy, diminished or took away altogether the merit\r\nwhich would otherwise have belonged to any action, it was evident, he\r\nimagined, that virtue must consist in pure and disinterested\r\nbenevolence alone.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen those actions, on the contrary, which are commonly supposed to\r\nproceed from a selfish motive, are discovered to have arisen from a\r\nbenevolent one, it greatly enhances our sense of their merit. If we\r\nbelieved of any person that he endeavoured to advance his fortune from\r\nno other view but that of doing friendly offices, and of making proper\r\nreturns to his benefactors, we should only love and esteem him the\r\nmore. And this observation seemed still more to confirm the\r\nconclusion, that it was benevolence only which could stamp upon any\r\naction the character of virtue.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eLast of all, what, he imagined, was an evident proof of the\r\njustness of this account of virtue, in all the disputes of casuists\r\nconcerning the rectitude of conduct, the public good, he observed, was\r\nthe standard to which they constantly referred; thereby universally\r\nacknowledging \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page268\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e268\u003c/span\u003e that whatever tended to promote the happiness of\r\nmankind was right and laudable and virtuous, and the contrary, wrong,\r\nblamable, and vicious. In the late debates about passive obedience and\r\nthe right of resistance, the sole point in controversy among men of\r\nsense was whether universal submission would probably be attended with\r\ngreater evils than temporary insurrections when privileges were\r\ninvaded. Whether what, upon the whole, tended most to the happiness of\r\nmankind, was not also morally good, was never once, he said, made a\r\nquestion by them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSince benevolence, therefore, was the only motive which could\r\nbestow upon any action the character of virtue, the greater the\r\nbenevolence which was evidenced by any action, the greater the praise\r\nwhich must belong to it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThose actions which aimed at the happiness of a great community, as\r\nthey demonstrated a more enlarged benevolence than those which aimed\r\nonly at that of a smaller system, so were they, likewise,\r\nproportionally the more virtuous. The most virtuous of all affections,\r\ntherefore, was that which embraced as its object the happiness of all\r\nintelligent beings. The least virtuous, on the contrary, of those to\r\nwhich the character of virtue could in any respect belong, was that\r\nwhich aimed no further than at the happiness of an individual, such as\r\na son, a brother, a friend.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn directing all our actions to promote the greatest possible good,\r\nin submitting all inferior affections to the desire of the general\r\nhappiness of mankind, in regarding one’s self but as one of the many,\r\nwhose prosperity was to be pursued no further than it was consistent\r\nwith, or conducive to that of the whole, consisted the perfection of\r\nvirtue.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSelf-love was a principle which could never be virtuous in any\r\ndegree of in any direction. It was vicious whenever it obstructed the\r\ngeneral good. When it had no other effect than to make the individual\r\ntake care of his own happiness, it was merely innocent, and though it\r\ndeserved no praise, neither ought it to incur any blame. Those\r\nbenevolent actions which were performed, notwithstanding some strong\r\nmotive from self-interest, were the more virtuous upon that account.\r\nThey demonstrated the strength and vigour of the benevolent\r\nprinciple.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDr. Hutcheson\u003ca href=\"#Footnote7\" id=\"FnAnchor7\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e7\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e was so far from allowing self-love to be in any\r\ncase a motive of virtuous actions, that even a regard to the pleasure\r\nof self-approbation, to the comfortable applause of our own\r\nconsciences, according to him, diminished the merit of a benevolent\r\naction. This was a selfish motive, he thought, which, so far as it\r\ncontributed to any action, demonstrated the weakness of that pure and\r\ndisinterested benevolence which could alone stamp upon the conduct of\r\nman the character of virtue. In the common judgments of mankind,\r\nhowever, this regard \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page269\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e269\u003c/span\u003e to the approbation of our own minds is so\r\nfar from being considered as what can in any respect diminish the\r\nvirtue of any action, that it is often rather looked upon as the sole\r\nmotive which deserves the appellation of virtuous.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"Footnote7\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchor7\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e7\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e Inquiry concerning Virtue, sect. 2. art. 4.; also\r\nIllustrations on the Moral Sense, sect. 5, last paragraph.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch is the account given of the nature of virtue in this amiable\r\nsystem, a system which has a peculiar tendency to nourish and support\r\nin the human heart the noblest and the most agreeable of all\r\naffections, and not only to check the injustice of self-love, but in\r\nsome measure to discourage that principle altogether, by representing\r\nit as what could never reflect any honour upon those who were\r\ninfluenced by it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs some of the other systems which I have already given an account\r\nof, do not sufficiently explain from whence arises the peculiar\r\nexcellency of the supreme virtue of beneficence, so this system seems\r\nto have the contrary defect, of not sufficiently explaining from\r\nwhence arises our approbation of the inferior virtues of prudence,\r\nvigilance, circumspection, temperance, constancy, firmness. The view\r\nand aim of our affections, the beneficent and hurtful effects which\r\nthey tend to produce, are the only qualities at all attended to in\r\nthis system. Their propriety and impropriety, their suitableness and\r\nunsuitableness, to the cause which excites them, are disregarded\r\naltogether.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eRegard to our own private happiness and interest, too, appear upon\r\nmany occasions very laudable principles of action. The habits of\r\nœconomy, industry, discretion, attention, and application of\r\nthought, are generally supposed to be cultivated from self-interested\r\nmotives, and at the same time are apprehended to be very praise-worthy\r\nqualities, which deserve the esteem and approbation of every body. The\r\nmixture of a selfish motive, it is true, seems often to sully the\r\nbeauty of those actions which ought to arise from a benevolent\r\naffection. The cause of this, however, is not that self-love can never\r\nbe the motive of a virtuous action, but that the benevolent principle\r\nappears in this particular case to want its due degree of strength,\r\nand to be altogether unsuitable to its object. The character,\r\ntherefore, seems evidently imperfect, and upon the whole to deserve\r\nblame rather than praise. The mixture of a benevolent motive in an\r\naction to which self-love alone ought to be sufficient to prompt us,\r\nis not so apt indeed to diminish our sense of its propriety, or of the\r\nvirtue of the person who performs it. We are not ready to suspect any\r\nperson of being defective in selfishness. This is by no means the weak\r\nside of human nature, or the failing of which we are apt to be\r\nsuspicious. If we could really believe, however, of any man, that, was\r\nit not from a regard to his family and friends, he would not take\r\nthat proper care of his health, his life, or his fortune, to which\r\nself-preservation alone ought to be sufficient to prompt him, it would\r\nundoubtedly be a failing, though one of those amiable failings which\r\nrender a person rather the object of pity than of contempt or hatred.\r\nIt would still, however, somewhat diminish the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page270\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e270\u003c/span\u003e dignity and\r\nrespectableness of his character. Carelessness and want of œconomy\r\nare universally disapproved of, not, however, as proceeding from a\r\nwant of benevolence, but from a want of proper attention to the\r\nobjects of self-interest.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThough the standard by which casuists frequently determine what is\r\nright or wrong in human conduct, be its tendency to the welfare or\r\ndisorder of society, it does not follow that a regard to the welfare\r\nof society should be the sole virtuous motive of action, but only\r\nthat, in competition, it ought to cast the balance against all other\r\nmotives.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBenevolence may, perhaps, be the sole principle of action in the\r\nDeity, and there are several not improbable arguments which tend to\r\npersuade us that it is so. It is not easy to conceive what other\r\nmotive an independent and all-perfect Being, who stands in need of\r\nnothing external, and whose happiness is complete in himself, can act\r\nfrom. But whatever may be the case with the Deity, so imperfect a\r\ncreature as man, the support of whose existence requires so many\r\nthings external to him, must often act from many other motives. The\r\ncondition of human nature were peculiarly hard, if those affections,\r\nwhich, by the very nature of our being, ought frequently to influence\r\nour conduct, could upon no occasion appear virtuous, or deserve esteem\r\nand commendation from any body.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThose three systems, that which places virtue in propriety, that\r\nwhich places it in prudence, and that which makes it consist in\r\nbenevolence, are the principal accounts which have been given of the\r\nnature of virtue. To one or other of them, all the other descriptions\r\nof virtue, how different soever they may appear, are easily\r\nreducible.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat system which places virtue in obedience to the will of the\r\nDeity, may be accounted either among those which make it consist in\r\nprudence, or among those which make it consist in propriety. When it\r\nis asked, why we ought to obey the will of the Deity, this question,\r\nwhich would be impious and absurd in the highest degree, if asked from\r\nany doubt that we ought to obey him, can admit but of two different\r\nanswers. It must either be said that we ought to obey the will of the\r\nDeity because he is a Being of infinite power, who will reward us\r\neternally if we do so, and punish us eternally if we do otherwise: or\r\nit must be said, that independent of any regard to our own happiness,\r\nor to rewards and punishments of any kind, there is a congruity and\r\nfitness that a creature should obey its creator, that a limited and\r\nimperfect being should submit to one of infinite and incomprehensible\r\nperfections. Besides one or other of these two, it is impossible to\r\nconceive that any other answer can be given to this question. If the\r\nfirst answer be the proper one, virtue consists in prudence, or in the\r\nproper pursuit of our own final interest and happiness; since it is\r\nupon this account that we are obliged to obey the will of the Deity.\r\nIf the second answer be the proper one, virtue must consist in\r\npropriety, since the ground of our \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e271\u003c/span\u003e obligation to obedience is\r\nthe suitableness or congruity of the sentiments of humility and\r\nsubmission to the superiority of the object which excites them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat system which places virtue in utility, coincides too with that\r\nwhich makes it consist in propriety. According to this system, all\r\nthose qualities of the mind which are agreeable or advantageous,\r\neither to the person himself or to others, are approved of as\r\nvirtuous, and the contrary are disapproved of as vicious. But the\r\nagreeableness or utility of any affection depends upon the degree\r\nwhich it is allowed to subsist in. Every affection is useful when it\r\nis confined to a certain degree of moderation; and every affection is\r\ndisadvantageous when it exceeds the proper bounds. According to this\r\nsystem therefore, virtue consists not in any one affection, but in the\r\nproper degree of all the affections. The only difference between it\r\nand that which I have been endeavouring to establish, is, that it\r\nmakes utility, and not sympathy, or the correspondent affection of the\r\nspectator, the natural and original measure of this proper degree.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page271\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ.—\u003ci\u003eOf Licentious Systems.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eA\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eLL\u003c/span\u003e those systems, which I have hitherto given an account of,\r\nsuppose that that there is a real and essential distinction between\r\nvice and virtue, whatever these qualities may consist in. There is a\r\nreal and essential difference between the propriety and impropriety of\r\nany affection, between benevolence and any other principle of action,\r\nbetween real prudence and short-sighted folly or precipitate rashness.\r\nIn the main, too, all of them contribute to encourage the\r\npraiseworthy, and to discourage the blameable disposition.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt may be true, perhaps, of some of them, that they tend, in some\r\nmeasure, to break the balance of the affections, and to give the mind\r\na particular bias to some principles of action, beyond the proportion\r\nthat is due to them. The ancient systems, which place virtue in\r\npropriety, seem chiefly to recommend the great, the awful, and the\r\nrespectable virtues, the virtues of self-government and self-command;\r\nfortitude, magnanimity, independency upon fortune, the contempt of all\r\noutward accidents, of pain, poverty, exile and death. It is in these\r\ngreat exertions that the noblest propriety of conduct is displayed.\r\nThe soft, the amiable, the gentle virtues, all the virtues of\r\nindulgent humanity are, in comparison, but little insisted upon, and\r\nseem, on the contrary, by the Stoics in particular, to have been often\r\nregarded as weaknesses, which it behoved a wise man not to harbour in\r\nhis breast.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe benevolent system, on the other hand, while it fosters and\r\nencourages all those milder virtues in the highest degree, seems\r\nentirely to neglect the more awful and respectable qualities of the\r\nmind. It \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page272\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e272\u003c/span\u003e even denies them the appellation of virtues. It calls\r\nthem moral abilities, and treats them as qualities which do not\r\ndeserve the same sort of esteem and approbation, that is due to what\r\nis properly denominated virtue. All those principles of action which\r\naim only at our own interest, it treats, if that be possible, still\r\nworse. So far from having any merit of their own, they diminish, it\r\npretends, the merit of benevolence, when they co-operate with it; and\r\nprudence, it is asserted, when employed only in promoting private\r\ninterest, can never even be imagined a virtue.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat system, again, which makes virtue consist in prudence only,\r\nwhile it gives the highest encouragement to the habits of caution,\r\nvigilance, sobriety, and judicious moderation, seems to degrade\r\nequally both the amiable and respectable virtues, and to strip the\r\nformer of all their beauty, and the latter of all their grandeur.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut notwithstanding these defects, the general tendency of each of\r\nthose three systems is to encourage the best and most laudable habits\r\nof the human mind, and it were well for society, if, either mankind in\r\ngeneral, or even those few who pretend to live according to any\r\nphilosophical rule, were to regulate their conduct by the precepts of\r\nany one of them. We may learn from each of them something that is both\r\nvaluable and peculiar. If it was possible, by precept and exhortation,\r\nto inspire the mind with fortitude and magnanimity, the ancient\r\nsystems of propriety would seem sufficient to do this. Or if it was\r\npossible, by the same means, to soften it into humanity, and to awaken\r\nthe affections of kindness and general love towards those we live\r\nwith, some of the pictures which the benevolent system presents us,\r\nmight seem capable of producing this effect. We may learn from the\r\nsystem of Epicurus, though undoubtedly the most imperfect of all the\r\nthree, how much the practice of both the amiable and respectable\r\nvirtues is conducive to our own interest, to our own ease and safety\r\nand quiet even in this life. As Epicurus placed happiness in the\r\nattainment of ease and security, he exerted himself in a particular\r\nmanner to show that virtue was, not merely the best and the surest,\r\nbut the only means of acquiring those invaluable possessions. The good\r\neffects of virtue upon our inward tranquillity and peace of mind, are\r\nwhat other philosophers have chiefly celebrated. Epicurus, without\r\nneglecting this topic, has chiefly insisted \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from unpon\"\u003eupon\u003c/span\u003e the influence of\r\nthat amiable quality on our outward prosperity and safety. It was upon\r\nthis account that his writings were so much studied in the ancient\r\nworld by men of all different philosophical parties. It is from him\r\nthat Cicero, the great enemy of the Epicurean system, borrows his most\r\nagreeable proofs that virtue alone is sufficient to secure happiness.\r\nSeneca, though a Stoic, the sect most opposite to that of Epicurus,\r\nyet quotes this philosopher more frequently than any other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere is, however, another system which seems to take away\r\naltogether the distinction between vice and virtue, and of which the\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page273\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e273\u003c/span\u003e tendency is, upon that account, wholly pernicious: I mean the\r\nsystem of Dr. Mandeville. Though the notions of this author are in\r\nalmost every respect erroneous, there are, however, some appearances\r\nin human nature, which, when viewed in a certain manner, seem at first\r\nsight to favour them. These described and exaggerated by the lively\r\nand humorous, though coarse and rustic eloquence of Dr. Mandeville,\r\nhave thrown upon his doctrines an air of truth and probability which\r\nis very apt to impose upon the unskilful.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDr. Mandeville considers whatever is done from a sense of\r\npropriety, from a regard to what is commendable and praiseworthy, as\r\nbeing done from a love of praise and commendation, or as he calls it\r\nfrom vanity. Man, he observes, is naturally much more interested in\r\nhis own happiness than in that of others, and it is impossible that in\r\nhis heart he can ever really prefer their prosperity to his own.\r\nWhenever he appears to do so, we may be assured that he imposes upon\r\nus, and that he is then acting from the same selfish motives as at all\r\nother times. Among his other selfish passions, vanity is one of the\r\nstrongest, and he is always easily flattered and greatly delighted\r\nwith the applauses of those about him. When he appears to sacrifice\r\nhis own interest to that of his companions, he knows that this conduct\r\nwill be highly agreeable to their self-love, and that they will not\r\nfail to express their satisfaction by bestowing upon him the most\r\nextravagant praises. The pleasure which he expects from this,\r\nover-balances, in his opinion, the interest which he abandons in order\r\nto procure it. His conduct, therefore, upon this occasion, is in\r\nreality just as selfish, and arises from just as mean a motive as upon\r\nany other. He is flattered, however, and he flatters himself with the\r\nbelief that it is entirely disinterested; since, unless this was\r\nsupposed, it would not seem to merit any commendation either in his\r\nown eyes or in those of others. All public spirit, therefore, all\r\npreference of public to private interest, is, according to him, a mere\r\ncheat and imposition upon mankind; and that human virtue which is so\r\nmuch boasted of, and which is the occasion of so much emulation among\r\nmen, is the mere offspring of flattery begot upon pride.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhether the most generous and public-spirited actions may not, in\r\nsome sense, be regarded as proceeding from self-love, I shall not at\r\npresent examine. The decision of this question is not, I apprehend, of\r\nany importance towards establishing the reality of virtue, since\r\nself-love may frequently be a virtuous motive of action. I shall only\r\nendeavour to show that the desire of doing what is honourable and\r\nnoble, of rendering ourselves the proper objects of esteem and\r\napprobation, cannot with any propriety be called vanity. Even the love\r\nof well-grounded fame and reputation, the desire of acquiring esteem\r\nby what is really estimable, does not deserve that name. The first is\r\nthe love of virtue, the noblest and the best passion of human nature.\r\nThe second \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page274\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e274\u003c/span\u003e is the love of true glory, a passion inferior no\r\ndoubt to the former, but which in dignity appears to come immediately\r\nafter it. He is guilty of vanity who desires praise for qualities\r\nwhich are either not praise-worthy in any degree, or not in that\r\ndegree in which he expects to be praised for them; who sets his\r\ncharacter upon the frivolous ornaments of dress and equipage, or upon\r\nthe equally frivolous accomplishments of ordinary behaviour. He is\r\nguilty of vanity who desires praise for what indeed very well deserves\r\nit, but what he perfectly knows does not belong to him. The empty\r\ncoxcomb who gives himself airs of importance which he has no title to,\r\nthe silly liar who assumes the merit of adventures which never\r\nhappened, the foolish plagiary who gives himself out for the author of\r\nwhat he has no pretensions to, are properly accused of this passion.\r\nHe too is said to be guilty of vanity who is not contented with the\r\nsilent sentiments of esteem and approbation, who seems to be fonder of\r\ntheir noisy expressions and acclamations than of the sentiments\r\nthemselves, who is never satisfied but when his own praises are\r\nringing in his ears, and who solicits with the most anxious\r\nimportunity all external marks of respect, is fond of titles, of\r\ncompliments, of being visited, of being attended, of being taken\r\nnotice of in public places with the appearance of deference and\r\nattention. This frivolous passion is altogether different from either\r\nof the two former, and is the passion of the lowest and the least of\r\nmankind, as they are of the noblest and the greatest.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though these three passions, the desire of rendering ourselves\r\nthe proper objects of honour and esteem, or of becoming what is\r\nhonourable and estimable; the desire of acquiring honour and esteem by\r\nreally deserving those sentiments; and the frivolous desire of praise\r\nat any rate, are widely different; though the two former are always\r\napproved of, while the latter never fails to be despised; there is,\r\nhowever, a certain remote affinity among them, which, exaggerated by\r\nthe humorous and diverting eloquence of this lively author, has\r\nenabled him to impose upon his readers. There is an affinity between\r\nvanity and the love of true glory, as both these passions aim at\r\nacquiring esteem and approbation. But they are different in this, that\r\nthe one is a just, reasonable, and equitable passion, while the other\r\nis unjust, absurd, and ridiculous. The man who desires esteem for what\r\nis really estimable, desires nothing but what he is justly entitled\r\nto, and what cannot be refused him without some sort of injury. He, on\r\nthe contrary, who desires it upon any other terms, demands what he has\r\nno just claim to. The first is easily satisfied, is not apt to be\r\njealous or suspicious that we do not esteem him enough, and is seldom\r\nsolicitous about receiving many external marks of our regard. The\r\nother, on the contrary, is never to be satisfied, is full of jealousy\r\nand suspicion that we do not esteem him so much as he desires, because\r\nhe has some secret consciousness that he desires more than he\r\ndeserves. The least \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page275\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e275\u003c/span\u003e neglect of ceremony, he considers as a\r\nmortal affront, and as an expression of the most determined contempt.\r\nHe is restless and impatient, and perpetually afraid that we have lost\r\nall respect for him, and is upon this account always anxious to obtain\r\nnew expressions of our esteem, and cannot be kept in temper but by\r\ncontinual attendance and adulation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere is an affinity, too, between the desire of becoming what is\r\nhonourable and estimable and the desire of honour and esteem, between\r\nthe love of virtue and the love of true glory. They resemble one\r\nanother not only in this respect, that both aim at really being what\r\nis honourable and noble, but even in that respect in which the love of\r\ntrue glory resembles what is properly called vanity, some reference to\r\nthe sentiments of others. The man of the greatest magnanimity, who\r\ndesires virtue for its own sake, and is most indifferent about what\r\nactually are the opinions of mankind with regard to him, is still,\r\nhowever, delighted with the thoughts of what they should be, with the\r\nconsciousness that though he may neither be honoured nor applauded, he\r\nis still the proper object of honour and applause, and that if mankind\r\nwere cool and candid and consistent with themselves, and properly\r\ninformed of the motives and circumstances of his conduct, they would\r\nnot fail to honour and applaud him. Though he despises the opinions\r\nwhich are actually entertained of him, he has the highest value for\r\nthose which ought to be entertained of him. That he might think\r\nhimself worthy of those honourable sentiments, and, whatever was the\r\nidea which other men might conceive of his character, that when he\r\nshould put himself in their situation, and consider, not what was, but\r\nwhat ought to be their opinion, he should always have the highest idea\r\nof it himself, was the great and exalted motive of his conduct. As\r\neven in the love of virtue, therefore, there is still some reference,\r\nthough not to what is, yet to what in reason and propriety ought to\r\nbe, the opinion of others, there is even in this respect some affinity\r\nbetween it and the love of true glory. There is, however, at the same\r\ntime, a very great difference between them. The man who acts solely\r\nfrom a regard to what is right and fit to be done, from a regard to\r\nwhat is the proper object of esteem and approbation, though these\r\nsentiments should never be bestowed upon him, acts from the most\r\nsublime and godlike motive which human nature is even capable of\r\nconceiving. The man, on the other hand, who while he desires to merit\r\napprobation, is at the same time anxious to obtain it, though he, too,\r\nis laudable in the main, yet his motives have a greater mixture of\r\nhuman infirmity. He is in danger of being mortified by the ignorance\r\nand injustice of mankind, and his happiness is exposed to the envy of\r\nhis rivals and the folly of the public. The happiness of the other, on\r\nthe contrary, is altogether secure and independent of fortune, and of\r\nthe caprice of those he lives with. The contempt and hatred which\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page276\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e276\u003c/span\u003e may be thrown upon him by the ignorance of mankind, he considers\r\nas not belonging to him, and is not at all mortified by it. Mankind\r\ndespise and hate him from a false notion of his character and conduct.\r\nIf they knew him better, they would esteem and love him. It is not him\r\nwhom, properly speaking, they hate and despise, but another person\r\nwhom they mistake him to be. Our friend, whom we should meet at a\r\nmasquerade in the garb of our enemy, would be more diverted than\r\nmortified, if under that disguise we should vent our indignation\r\nagainst him. Such are the sentiments of a man of real magnanimity,\r\nwhen exposed to unjust censure. It seldom happens, however, that human\r\nnature arrives at this degree of firmness. Though none but the weakest\r\nand most worthless of mankind are much delighted with false glory,\r\nyet, by a strange inconsistency, false ignominy is capable of\r\nmortifying those who appear the most resolute and determined.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDr. Mandeville is not satisfied with representing the frivolous\r\nmotive of vanity, as the source of all those actions which are\r\ncommonly accounted virtuous. He endeavours to point out the\r\nimperfection of human virtue in many other respects. In every case, he\r\npretends, it falls short of that complete self-denial which it\r\npretends to, and, instead of a conquest, is commonly no more than a\r\nconcealed indulgence of our passions. Wherever our reserve with regard\r\nto pleasure falls short of the most ascetic abstinence, he treats it\r\nas gross luxury and sensuality. Every thing, according to him, is\r\nluxury which exceeds what is absolutely necessary for the support of\r\nhuman nature, so that there is vice even in the use of a clean shirt\r\nor of a convenient habitation. The indulgence of the inclination to\r\nsex, in the most lawful union, he considers as the same sensuality\r\nwith the most hurtful gratification of that passion, and derides that\r\ntemperance and that chastity which can be practised at so cheap a\r\nrate. The ingenious sophistry of his reasoning, is here, as upon many\r\nother occasions, covered by the ambiguity of language. There are some\r\nof our passions which have no other names except those which mark the\r\ndisagreeable and offensive degree. The spectator is more apt to take\r\nnotice of them in this degree than in any other. When they shock his\r\nown sentiments, when they give him some sort of antipathy and\r\nuneasiness, he is necessarily obliged to attend to them, and is from\r\nthence naturally led to give them a name. When they fall in with the\r\nnatural state of his own mind, he is very apt to overlook them\r\naltogether, and either gives them no name at all, or, if he gives them\r\nany, it is one which marks rather the subjection and restraint of the\r\npassion, than the degree which it still is allowed to subsist in,\r\nafter it is so subjected and restrained. Thus the common names (luxury\r\nand lust) of the love of pleasure, and of the love of sex, denote a\r\nvicious and offensive degree of those passions. The words temperance\r\nand chastity, on the other hand, seem to mark rather the restraint and\r\nsubjection which they are kept under, than the degree \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page277\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e277\u003c/span\u003e which they\r\nare still allowed to subsist in. When he can show, therefore, that\r\nthey still subsist in some degree, he imagines, he has entirely\r\ndemolished the reality of the virtues of temperance and chastity, and\r\nshown them to be mere impositions upon the inattention and simplicity\r\nof mankind. Those virtues, however, do not require an entire\r\ninsensibility to the objects of the passions which they mean to\r\ngovern. They only aim at restraining the violence of those passions so\r\nfar as not to hurt the individual, and neither disturb nor offend\r\nsociety.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is the great fallacy of Dr. Mandeville’s book (Fable of the\r\nBees) to represent every passion as wholly vicious, which is so in any\r\ndegree and in any direction. It is thus that he treats every thing as\r\nvanity which has any reference, either to what are, or to what ought\r\nto be the sentiments of others; and it is by means of this sophistry,\r\nthat he establishes his favourite conclusion, that private vices are\r\npublic benefits. If the love of magnificence, a taste for the elegant\r\narts and improvements of human life, for whatever is agreeable in\r\ndress, furniture, or equipage, for architecture, statuary, painting,\r\nand music, is to be regarded as luxury, sensuality, and ostentation,\r\neven in those whose situation allows, without any inconveniency, the\r\nindulgence of those passions, it is certain that luxury, sensuality,\r\nand ostentation are public benefits: since without the qualities upon\r\nwhich he thinks proper to bestow such opprobrious names, the arts of\r\nrefinement could never find encouragement, and must languish for want\r\nof employment. Some popular ascetic doctrines which had been current\r\nbefore his time, and which placed virtue in the entire extirpation and\r\nannihilation of all our passions, were the real foundation of this\r\nlicentious system. It was easy for Dr. Mandeville to prove, first,\r\nthat this entire conquest never actually took place among men; and\r\nsecondly, that if it was to take place universally, it would be\r\npernicious to society, by putting an end to all industry and commerce,\r\nand in a manner to the whole business of human life. By the first of\r\nthese propositions, he seemed to prove that there was no real virtue,\r\nand that what pretended to be such, was a mere cheat and imposition\r\nupon mankind; and by the second, that our private vices were public\r\nbenefits, since without them no society could prosper or flourish.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch is the system of Dr. Mandeville, which once made so much noise\r\nin the world, and which, though, perhaps, it never gave occasion to\r\nmore vice than what would have been without it, at least taught that\r\nvice, which arose from other causes, to appear with more effrontery,\r\nand to avow the corruption of its motives with a profligate\r\naudaciousness which had never been heard of before.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut how destructive soever this system may appear, it could never\r\nhave imposed upon so great a number of persons, nor have occasioned so\r\ngeneral an alarm among those who are the friends of better principles,\r\nhad it not in some respects bordered upon the truth. A system of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page278\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e278\u003c/span\u003e\r\nnatural philosophy may appear very plausible, and be for a long time\r\nvery generally received in the world, and yet have no foundation in\r\nnature, nor any sort of resemblance to the truth. The vortices of Des\r\nCartes were regarded by a very ingenious nation, for near a century\r\ntogether, as a most satisfactory account of the revolutions of the\r\nheavenly bodies. Yet it has been demonstrated, to the conviction of\r\nall mankind, that these pretended causes of those wonderful effects,\r\nnot only do not actually exist, but are utterly impossible, and if\r\nthey did exist, could produce no such effects as are ascribed to them.\r\nBut it is otherwise with systems of moral philosophy, and an author\r\nwho pretends to account for the origin of our moral sentiments, cannot\r\ndeceive us so grossly, nor depart so very far from all resemblance to\r\nthe truth. When a traveller gives an account of some distant country,\r\nhe may impose upon our credulity, the most groundless and absurd\r\nfictions as the most certain matters of fact. But when a person\r\npretends to inform us of what passes in our neighbourhood, and of the\r\naffairs of the very parish which we live in, though here too, if we\r\nare so careless as not to examine things with our own eyes, he may\r\ndeceive us in many respects, yet the greatest falsehoods which he\r\nimposes upon us must bear some resemblance to the truth, and must even\r\nhave a considerable mixture of truth in them. An author who treats of\r\nnatural philosophy, and pretends to assign the causes of the great\r\nphenomena of the universe, pretends to give an account of the affairs\r\nof a very distant country, concerning which he may tell us what he\r\npleases, and as long as his narration keeps within the bounds of\r\nseeming possibility, he need not despair of gaining of belief. But\r\nwhen he proposes to explain the origin of our desires and affections,\r\nof our sentiments of approbation and disapprobation, he pretends to\r\ngive an account, not only of the affairs of the very parish that we\r\nlive in, but of our own domestic concerns. Though here too, like\r\nindolent masters who put their trust in a steward who deceives them,\r\nwe are very liable to be imposed upon, yet we are incapable of passing\r\nany account which does not preserve some little regard to the truth.\r\nSome of the articles, at least, must be just, and even those which are\r\nmost overcharged must have had some foundation, otherwise the fraud\r\nwould be detected even by that careless inspection which we are\r\ndisposed to give. The author who should assign, as the cause of any\r\nnatural sentiment, some principle which neither had any connection\r\nwith it, nor resembled any other principle which had some such\r\nconnection, would appear absurd and ridiculous to the most injudicious\r\nand unexperienced reader.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page279\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e279\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—OF THE DIFFERENT SYSTEMS WHICH HAVE BEEN FORMED\r\nCONCERNING THE PRINCIPLE OF APPROBATION.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eNTRODUCTION\u003c/span\u003e.—After the inquiry concerning the nature of virtue,\r\nthe next question of importance in Moral Philosophy, is concerning the\r\nprinciple of approbation, concerning the power or faculty of the mind\r\nwhich renders certain characters agreeable or disagreeable to us,\r\nmakes us prefer one tenor of conduct to another, denominate the one\r\nright and the other wrong, and consider the one as the object of\r\napprobation, honour, and reward, or the other as that of blame,\r\ncensure, and punishment.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThree different accounts have been given of this principle of\r\napprobation. According to some, we approve and disapprove both of our\r\nown actions and of those of others, from self-love only, or from some\r\nview of their tendency to our own happiness or disadvantage: according\r\nto others, reason, the same faculty by which we distinguish between\r\ntruth and falsehood, enables us to distinguish between what is fit and\r\nunfit both in actions and affections: according to others, this\r\ndistinction is altogether the effect of immediate sentiment and\r\nfeeling, and arises from the satisfaction or disgust with which the\r\nview of certain actions or affections inspires us. Self-love, reason\r\nand sentiment, therefore, are the three different sources which have\r\nbeen assigned for the principle of approbation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBefore I proceed to give an account of those different systems, I\r\nmust observe, that the determination of this second question, though\r\nof the greatest importance in speculation, is of none in practice. The\r\nquestion concerning the nature of virtue necessarily has some\r\ninfluence upon our notions of right and wrong in many particular\r\ncases. That concerning the principle of approbation can possibly have\r\nno such effect. To examine from what contrivance or mechanism within,\r\nthose different notions or sentiments arise, is a mere matter of\r\nphilosophical curiosity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eOf those Systems which deduce the Principle of\r\nApprobation from Self-love.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHOSE\u003c/span\u003e who account for the principle of approbation from self-love,\r\ndo not all account for it in the same manner, and there is a good deal\r\nof confusion and inaccuracy in all their different systems. According\r\nto Mr. Hobbes, and many of his followers (Puffendorff, Mandeville),\r\nman is driven to take refuge in society, not by any natural love which\r\nhe bears to his own kind, but because without the assistance of others\r\nhe is incapable of subsisting with ease or safety. Society, upon this\r\naccount, becomes necessary to him, and whatever tends to its support\r\nand welfare, he considers as having a remote tendency to his own \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page280\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e280\u003c/span\u003e\r\ninterest; and, on the contrary, whatever is likely to disturb or\r\ndestroy it, he regards as in some measure hurtful or pernicious to\r\nhimself. Virtue is the great support, and vice the great disturber of\r\nhuman society. The former, therefore, is agreeable, and the latter\r\noffensive to every man; as from the one he foresees the prosperity,\r\nand from the other the ruin and disorder of what is so necessary for\r\nthe comfort and the security of his existence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat the tendency of virtue to promote, and of vice to disturb the\r\norder of society, when we consider it coolly and philosophically,\r\nreflects a very great beauty upon the one, and a very great deformity\r\nupon the other, cannot, as I have observed upon a former occasion, be\r\ncalled in question. Human society, when we contemplate it in a certain\r\nabstract and philosophical light, appears like a great, an immense\r\nmachine, whose regular and harmonious movements produce a thousand\r\nagreeable effects. As in any other beautiful and noble machine that\r\nwas the production of human art, whatever tended to render its\r\nmovements more smooth and easy, would derive a beauty from this\r\neffect, and, on the contrary, whatever tended to obstruct them would\r\ndisplease upon that account: so virtue, which is, as it were, the fine\r\npolish to the wheels of society, necessarily pleases; while vice, like\r\nthe vile rust, which makes them jar and grate upon one another, is as\r\nnecessarily offensive. This account, therefore, of the origin of\r\napprobation and disapprobation, so far as it derives them from a\r\nregard to the order of society, runs into that principle which gives\r\nbeauty to utility, and which I have explained upon a former occasion;\r\nand it is from thence that this system derives all that appearance of\r\nprobability which it possesses. When those authors describe the\r\ninnumerable advantages of a cultivated and social, above a savage and\r\nsolitary life; when they expatiate upon the necessity of virtue and\r\ngood order for the maintenance of the one, and demonstrate how\r\ninfallibly the prevalence of vice and disobedience to the laws tend to\r\nbring back the other, the reader is charmed with the novelty and\r\ngrandeur of those views which they open to him: he sees plainly a new\r\nbeauty in virtue, and a new deformity in vice, which he had never\r\ntaken notice of before, and is commonly so delighted with the\r\ndiscovery, that he seldom takes time to reflect, that this political\r\nview having never occurred to him in his life before, cannot possibly\r\nbe the ground of that approbation and disapprobation with which he has\r\nbeen accustomed to consider those different qualities.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen those authors, on the other hand, deduce from self-love the\r\ninterest which we take in the welfare of society, and the esteem which\r\nupon that account we bestow upon virtue, they do not mean, that when\r\nwe in this age applaud the virtue of Cato, and detest the villany of\r\nCataline, our sentiments are influenced by the notion of any benefit\r\nwe receive from the one, or of any detriment we suffer from the other.\r\nIt was not because the prosperity or subversion of society, in those\r\nremote \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page281\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e281\u003c/span\u003e ages and nations, was apprehended to have any influence\r\nupon our happiness or misery in the present times; that according to\r\nthose philosophers, we esteemed the virtuous and blamed the disorderly\r\ncharacter. They never imagined that our sentiments were influenced by\r\nany benefit or damage which we \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from suppposed\"\u003esupposed\u003c/span\u003e actually to redound to us,\r\nfrom either; but by that which might have redounded to us, had we\r\nlived in those distant ages and countries; or by that which might\r\nstill redound to us, if in our own times we should meet with\r\ncharacters of the same kind. The idea, in short, which those authors\r\nwere groping about, but which they were never able to unfold\r\ndistinctly, was that indirect sympathy which we feel with the\r\ngratitude or resentment of those who received the benefit or suffered\r\nthe damage resulting from such opposite characters: and it was this\r\nwhich they were indistinctly pointing at, when they said, that it was\r\nnot the thought of what we had gained or suffered which prompted our\r\napplause or indignation, but the conception or imagination of what we\r\nmight gain or suffer if we were to act in society with such\r\nassociates.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSympathy, however, cannot, in any sense, be regarded as a selfish\r\nprinciple. When I sympathize with your sorrow or your indignation, it\r\nmay be pretended, indeed, that my emotion is founded in self-love,\r\nbecause it arises from bringing your case home to myself, from putting\r\nmyself in your situation, and thence conceiving what I should feel in\r\nthe like circumstances. But though sympathy is very properly said to\r\narise from an imaginary change of situations with the person\r\nprincipally concerned, yet this imaginary change is not supposed to\r\nhappen to me in my own person and character, but in that of the person\r\nwith whom I sympathize. When I condole with you for the loss of your\r\nonly son, in order to enter into your grief I do not consider what I,\r\na person of such a character and profession, should suffer, if I had a\r\nson, and if that son was unfortunately to die; but I consider what I\r\nshould suffer if I was really you, and I not only change circumstances\r\nwith you, but I change persons and characters. My grief, therefore, is\r\nentirely upon your account, and not in the least upon my own. It is\r\nnot, therefore in the least selfish. How can that be regarded as a\r\nselfish passion, which does not arise even from the imagination of any\r\nthing that has befallen, or that relates to myself, in my own proper\r\nperson and character, but which is entirely occupied about what\r\nrelates to you? A man may sympathize with a woman in child-bed; though\r\nit is impossible that he should conceive himself as suffering her\r\npains in his own proper person and character. That whole account of\r\nhuman nature, however, which deduces all sentiments and affections\r\nfrom self-love, which has made so much noise in the world, but which,\r\nas far as I know, has never yet been fully and distinctly explained,\r\nseems to me to have arisen from some confused misapprehension of the\r\nsystem of sympathy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page282\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e282\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf those Systems which make Reason the Principle of\r\nApprobation.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eT\u003c/span\u003e is well known to have been the doctrine of Mr. Hobbes, that a\r\nstate of nature is a state of war; and that antecedent to the\r\ninstitution of civil government, there could be no safe or peaceable\r\nsociety among men. To preserve society, therefore, according to him,\r\nwas to support civil government, and to destroy civil government was\r\nthe same thing as to put an end to society. But the existence of civil\r\ngovernment depends upon the obedience that is paid to the supreme\r\nmagistrate. The moment he loses his authority, all government is at an\r\nend. As self-preservation, therefore, teaches men to applaud whatever\r\ntends to promote the welfare of society, and to blame whatever is\r\nlikely to hurt it; so the same principle, if they would think and\r\nspeak consistently, ought to teach them to applaud upon all occasions\r\nobedience to the civil magistrate, and to blame all disobedience and\r\nrebellion. The very ideas of laudable and blamable, ought to be the\r\nsame with those of obedience and disobedience. The laws of the civil\r\nmagistrate, therefore, ought to be regarded as the sole ultimate\r\nstandards of what was just and unjust, of what was right and\r\nwrong.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt was the avowed intention of Mr. Hobbes, by propagating these\r\nnotions, to subject the consciences of men immediately to the civil,\r\nand not to the ecclesiastical powers, whose turbulence and ambition,\r\nhe had been taught, by the example of his own times, to regard as the\r\nprincipal source of the disorders of society. His doctrine, upon this\r\naccount, was peculiarly offensive to theologians, who accordingly did\r\nnot fail to vent their indignation against him with great asperity and\r\nbitterness. It was likewise offensive to all sound moralists, as it\r\nsupposed that there was no natural distinction between right and\r\nwrong, that these were mutable and changeable, and depended upon the\r\nmere arbitrary will of the civil magistrate. This account of things,\r\ntherefore, was attacked from all quarters, and by all sorts of\r\nweapons, by sober reason as well as by furious declamation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn order to confute so odious a doctrine, it was necessary to\r\nprove, that antecedent to all law or positive institution, the mind\r\nwas naturally endowed with a faculty, by which it distinguished in\r\ncertain actions and affections, the qualities of right, laudable, and\r\nvirtuous, and in others those of wrong, blamable, and vicious.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eLaw, it was justly observed by Dr. Cudworth (Immutable Morality,\r\n1. \u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eⅠ\u003c/span\u003e), could not be the original source of those distinctions; since\r\nupon the supposition of such a law, it must either be right to obey\r\nit, and wrong to disobey it, or indifferent whether we obeyed it or\r\ndisobeyed it. That law which it was indifferent whether we obeyed or\r\ndisobeyed, could not, it was evident, be the source of those\r\ndistinctions; neither \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page283\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e283\u003c/span\u003e could that which it was right to obey and\r\nwrong to disobey, since even this still supposed the antecedent\r\nnotions or ideas of right and wrong, and that obedience to the law was\r\nconformable to the idea of right, and disobedience to that of\r\nwrong.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSince the mind, therefore, had a notion of those distinctions\r\nantecedent to all law, it seemed necessarily to follow, that it\r\nderived this notion from reason, which pointed out the difference\r\nbetween right and wrong, in the same manner in which it did that\r\nbetween truth and falsehood: and this conclusion, which, though true\r\nin some respects, is rather hasty in others, was more easily received\r\nat a time when the abstract science of human nature was but in its\r\ninfancy, and before the distinct offices and powers of the different\r\nfaculties of the human mind had been carefully examined and\r\ndistinguished from one another. When this controversy with Mr. Hobbes\r\nwas carried on with the greatest warmth and keenness, no other faculty\r\nhad been thought of from which any such ideas could possibly be\r\nsupposed to arise. It became at this time, therefore, the popular\r\ndoctrine, that the essence of virtue and vice did not consist in the\r\nconformity or disagreement of human actions with the law of a\r\nsuperior, but in their conformity or disagreement with reason, which\r\nwas thus considered as the original source and principle of\r\napprobation and disapprobation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat virtue consists in conformity to reason, is true in some\r\nrespects, and this faculty may very justly be considered as, in some\r\nsense, the source and principle of approbation and disapprobation, and\r\nof all solid judgments concerning right and wrong. It is by reason\r\nthat we discover those general rules of justice by which we ought to\r\nregulate our actions: and it is by the same faculty that we form those\r\nmore vague and indeterminate ideas of what is prudent, of what is\r\ndecent, of what is generous or noble, which we carry constantly about\r\nwith us, and according to which we endeavour, as well as we can, to\r\nmodel the tenor of our conduct. The general maxims of morality are\r\nformed, like all other general maxims, from experience and induction.\r\nWe observe in a great variety of particular cases what pleases or\r\ndispleases our moral faculties, what these approve or disapprove of,\r\nand, by induction from this experience, we establish those general\r\nrules. But induction is always regarded as one of the operations of\r\nreason. From reason, therefore, we are very properly said to derive\r\nall those general maxims and ideas. It is by these, however, that we\r\nregulate the greater part of our moral judgments, which would be\r\nextremely uncertain and precarious if they depended altogether upon\r\nwhat is liable to so many variations as immediate sentiment and\r\nfeeling, which the different states of health and humour are capable\r\nof altering so essentially. As our most solid judgments, therefore,\r\nwith regard to right and wrong, are regulated by maxims and ideas\r\nderived from an induction of reason, virtue may very properly be said\r\nto consist in a conformity to \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page284\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e284\u003c/span\u003e reason, and so far this faculty\r\nmay be considered as the source and principle of approbation and\r\ndisapprobation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though reason is undoubtedly the source of the general rules of\r\nmorality, and of all the moral judgments which we form by means of\r\nthem; it is altogether absurd and unintelligible to suppose that the\r\nfirst perceptions of right and wrong can be derived from reason, even\r\nin those particular cases upon the experience of which the general\r\nrules are formed. These first perceptions, as well as all other\r\nexperiments upon which any general rules are founded, cannot be the\r\nobject of reason, but of immediate sense and feeling. It is by finding\r\nin a vast variety of instances that one tenor of conduct constantly\r\npleases in a certain manner, and that another as constantly displeases\r\nthe mind, that we form the general rules of morality. But reason\r\ncannot render any particular object either agreeable or disagreeable\r\nto the mind for its own sake. Reason may show that this object is the\r\nmeans of obtaining some other which is naturally either pleasing or\r\ndispleasing, and in this manner may render it either agreeable or\r\ndisagreeable for the sake of something else. But nothing can be\r\nagreeable or disagreeable for its own sake, which is not rendered\r\nsuch by immediate sense and feeling. If virtue, therefore, in every\r\nparticular instance, necessarily pleases for its own sake, and if vice\r\nas certainly displeases the mind, it cannot be reason, but immediate\r\nsense and feeling, which thus reconciles us to the one, and alienates\r\nus from the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePleasure and pain are the great objects of desire and aversion: but\r\nthese are distinguished, not by reason, but by immediate sense and\r\nfeeling. If virtue, therefore, be desirable for its own sake, and if\r\nvice be, in the same manner, the object of aversion, it cannot be\r\nreason which originally distinguishes those different qualities, but\r\nimmediate sense and feeling.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs reason, however, in a certain sense, may justly be considered as\r\nthe principle of approbation and disapprobation, these sentiments\r\nwere, through inattention, long regarded as originally flowing from\r\nthe operations of this faculty. Dr. Hutcheson had the merit of being\r\nthe first who distinguished with any degree of precision in what\r\nrespect all moral distinctions may be said to arise from reason, and\r\nin what respect they are founded upon immediate sense and feeling. In\r\nhis illustrations upon the moral sense he has explained this so fully,\r\nand, in my opinion, so unanswerably, that, if any controversy is still\r\nkept up about this subject, I can impute it to nothing, but either to\r\ninattention to what that gentleman has written, or to a superstitious\r\nattachment to certain forms of expression, a weakness not very\r\nuncommon among the learned, especially in subjects so deeply\r\ninteresting as the present, in which a man of virtue is often loath to\r\nabandon even the propriety of a single phrase which he has been\r\naccustomed to.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page285\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e285\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003eC\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHAP.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅲ.—\u003ci\u003eOf those Systems which make Sentiment the Principle\r\nof Approbation.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHOSE\u003c/span\u003e systems which make sentiment the principle of approbation may\r\nbe divided into two different classes.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅠ. According to some the principle of approbation is founded upon a\r\nsentiment of a peculiar nature, upon a particular power of perception\r\nexerted by the mind at the view of certain actions or affections; some\r\nof which affecting this faculty in an agreeable and others in a\r\ndisagreeable manner, the former are stamped with the characters of\r\nright, laudable, and virtuous; the latter with those of wrong,\r\nblamable, and vicious. This sentiment being of a peculiar nature\r\ndistinct from every other, and the effect of a particular power of\r\nperception, they give it a particular name, and call it a moral\r\nsense.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅡ. According to others, in order to account for the principle of\r\napprobation, there is no occasion for supposing any new power of\r\nperception which had never been heard of before: Nature, they imagine\r\nacts here, as in all other cases, with the strictest œconomy, and\r\nproduces a multitude of effects from one and the same cause; and\r\nsympathy, a power which has always been taken notice of, and with\r\nwhich the mind is manifestly endowed, is, they think, sufficient to\r\naccount for all the effects ascribed to this peculiar faculty.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅠ. Dr. Hutcheson (Inquiry concerning Virtue) had been at great\r\npains to prove that the principle of approbation was not founded on\r\nself-love. He had demonstrated, too, that it could not arise from any\r\noperation of reason. Nothing remained, he thought, but to suppose it a\r\nfaculty of a peculiar kind, with which Nature had endowed the human\r\nmind, in order to produce this one particular and important effect.\r\nWhen self-love and reason were both excluded, it did not occur to him\r\nthat there was any other known faculty of the mind which could in any\r\nrespect answer this purpose.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis new power of perception he called a moral sense, and supposed\r\nit to be somewhat analogous to the external senses. As the bodies\r\naround us, by affecting these in a certain manner, appear to possess\r\nthe different qualities of sound, taste, odour, colour; so the various\r\naffections of the human mind, by touching this particular faculty in a\r\ncertain manner, appear to possess the different qualities of amiable\r\nand odious, of virtuous and vicious, of right and wrong.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe various senses or powers of perception (Treatise of the\r\nPassions) from which the human mind derives all its simple ideas,\r\nwere, according to this system, of two different kinds, of which the\r\none were called the direct or antecedent, the other, the reflex or\r\nconsequent senses. The direct senses were those faculties from which\r\nthe mind derived the perception of such species of things as did not\r\npresuppose \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page286\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e286\u003c/span\u003e the antecedent perception of any other. Thus sounds\r\nand colours were objects of the direct senses. To hear a sound or to\r\nsee a colour does not presuppose the antecedent perception of any\r\nother quality or object. The reflex or consequent senses, on the other\r\nhand, were those faculties from which the mind derived the perception\r\nof such species of things as presupposed the antecedent perception of\r\nsome other. Thus harmony and beauty were objects of the reflex senses.\r\nIn order to perceive the harmony of a sound, or the beauty of a\r\ncolour, we must first perceive the sound or the colour. The moral\r\nsense was considered as a faculty of this kind. That faculty, which\r\nMr. Locke calls reflection, and from which he derived the simple ideas\r\nof the different passions and emotions of the human mind, was,\r\naccording to Dr. Hutcheson, a direct internal sense. That faculty\r\nagain by which we perceived the beauty or deformity, the virtue or\r\nvice, of those different passions and emotions, was a reflex, internal\r\nsense.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDr. Hutcheson endeavoured still further to support this doctrine,\r\nby showing that it was agreeable to the analogy of nature, and that\r\nthe mind was endowed with a variety of other reflex senses exactly\r\nsimilar to the moral sense; such as a sense of beauty and deformity in\r\nexternal objects; a public sense, by which we sympathize with the\r\nhappiness or misery of our fellow-creatures; a sense of shame and\r\nhonour, and a sense of ridicule.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut notwithstanding all the pains which this ingenious philosopher\r\nhas taken to prove that the principle of approbation is founded in a\r\npeculiar power of perception, somewhat analogous to the external\r\nsenses, there are some consequences, which he acknowledges to follow\r\nfrom this doctrine, that will, perhaps, be regarded by many as a\r\nsufficient confutation of it. The qualities, he allows,\u003ca href=\"#Footnote8\" id=\"FnAnchor8\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e8\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e which\r\nbelong to the objects of any sense, cannot, without the greatest\r\nabsurdity, be ascribed to the sense itself. Who ever thought of\r\ncalling the sense of seeing black or white, the sense of hearing loud\r\nor low, or the sense of tasting sweet or bitter? And, according to\r\nhim, it is equally absurd to call our moral faculties virtuous or\r\nvicious, morally good or evil. These qualities belong to the objects\r\nof those faculties, not to the faculties themselves. If any man,\r\ntherefore, was so absurdly constituted as to approve of cruelty and\r\ninjustice as the highest virtues, and to disapprove of equity and\r\nhumanity as the most pitiful vices, such a constitution of mind might\r\nindeed be regarded as inconvenient both to the individual and to the\r\nsociety, and likewise as strange, surprising, and unnatural in itself;\r\nbut it could not, without the greatest absurdity, be denominated\r\nvicious or morally evil.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"Footnote8\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchor8\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e8\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e Illustrations upon the Moral Sense, sect. i. p. 237,\r\net seq.; third edition.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eYet surely if we saw any man shouting with admiration and applause\r\nat a barbarous and unmerited execution, which some insolent tyrant had\r\nordered, we should not think we were guilty of any great absurdity\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page287\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e287\u003c/span\u003e in denominating this behaviour vicious and morally evil in the\r\nhighest degree, though it expressed nothing but depraved moral\r\nfaculties, or an absurd approbation of this horrid action, as of what\r\nwas noble, magnanimous, and great. Our heart, I imagine, at the sight\r\nof such a spectator, would forget for a while its sympathy with the\r\nsufferer, and feel nothing but horror and detestation, at the thought\r\nof so execrable a wretch. We should abominate him even more than the\r\ntyrant who might be goaded on by the strong passions of jealousy,\r\nfear, and resentment, and upon that account be more excusable. But the\r\nsentiments of the spectator would appear altogether without cause or\r\nmotive, and therefore most perfectly and completely detestable. There\r\nis no perversion of sentiment or affection which our heart would be\r\nmore averse to enter into, or which it would reject with greater\r\nhatred and indignation than one of this kind; and so far from\r\nregarding such a constitution of mind as being merely something\r\nstrange or inconvenient, and not in any respect vicious or morally\r\nevil, we should rather consider it as the very last and most dreadful\r\nstage of depravity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eCorrect moral sentiments, on the contrary, naturally appear in some\r\ndegree laudable and morally good. The man, whose censure and applause\r\nare upon all occasions suited with the greatest accuracy to the value\r\nor unworthiness of the object, seems to deserve a degree even of moral\r\napprobation. We admire the delicate precision of his moral sentiments:\r\nthey lead our own judgments, and, upon account of their uncommon and\r\nsurprising justness, they even excite our wonder and applause. We\r\ncannot indeed be always sure that the conduct of such a person would\r\nbe in any respect correspondent to the precision and accuracy of his\r\njudgment concerning the conduct of others. Virtue requires habit and\r\nresolution of mind, as well as delicacy of sentiment; and\r\nunfortunately the former qualities are sometimes wanting, where the\r\nlatter is in the greatest perfection. This disposition of mind,\r\nhowever, though it may sometimes be attended with imperfections, is\r\nincompatible with any thing that is grossly criminal, and is the\r\nhappiest foundation upon which the superstructure of perfect virtue\r\ncan be built. There are many men who mean very well, and seriously\r\npurpose to do what they think their duty, who notwithstanding are\r\ndisagreeable because of the coarseness of their moral sentiments.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt may be said, perhaps, that though the principle of approbation\r\nis not founded upon any perception that is in any respect analogous to\r\nthe external senses, it may still be founded upon a peculiar sentiment\r\nwhich answers this one particular purpose and no other. Approbation\r\nand disapprobation, it may be pretended, are certain feelings or\r\nemotions which arise in the mind upon the view of different characters\r\nand actions; and as resentment might be called a sense of injuries, or\r\ngratitude a sense of benefits, so these may very properly receive the\r\nname of a sense of right and wrong, or of a moral sense.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page288\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e288\u003c/span\u003e But this account of things, though it may not be liable to\r\nthe same objections with the foregoing, is exposed to others which may\r\nbe equally unanswerable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFirst of all, whatever variations any particular emotion may\r\nundergo, it still preserves the general features which distinguish it\r\nto be an emotion of such a kind, and these general features are always\r\nmore striking and remarkable than any variation which it may undergo\r\nin particular cases. Thus anger is an emotion of a particular kind:\r\nand accordingly its general features are always more distinguishable\r\nthan all the variations it undergoes in particular cases. Anger\r\nagainst a man is, no doubt, somewhat different from anger against a\r\nwoman, and that again from anger against a child. In each of those\r\nthree cases, the general passion of anger receives a different\r\nmodification from the particular character of its object, as may\r\neasily be observed by the attentive. But still the general features of\r\nthe passion predominate in all these cases. To distinguish these,\r\nrequires no nice observation: a very delicate attention, on the\r\ncontrary, is necessary to discover their variations: every body takes\r\nnotice of the former; scarce any body observes the latter. If\r\napprobation and disapprobation, therefore, were, like gratitude and\r\nresentment, emotions of a particular kind, distinct from every other,\r\nwe should expect that in all the variations which either of them might\r\nundergo, it would still retain the general features which mark it to\r\nbe an emotion of such a particular kind, clear, plain and easily\r\ndistinguishable. But in fact it happens quite otherwise. If we attend\r\nto what we really feel when upon different occasions we either approve\r\nor disapprove, we shall find that our emotion in one case is often\r\ntotally different from that in another, and that no common features\r\ncan possibly be discovered between them. Thus the approbation with\r\nwhich we view a tender, delicate, and humane sentiment, is quite\r\ndifferent from that with which we are struck by one that appears\r\ngreat, daring, and magnanimous. Our approbation of both may, upon\r\ndifferent occasions, be perfect and entire; but we are softened by the\r\none, and we are elevated by the other, and there is no sort of\r\nresemblance between the emotions which they excite in us. But,\r\naccording to that system which I have been endeavouring to establish,\r\nthis must necessarily be the case. As the emotions of the person whom\r\nwe approve of, are, in those two cases, quite opposite to one another,\r\nand as our approbation arises from sympathy with those opposite\r\nemotions, what we feel upon the one occasion, can have no sort of\r\nresemblance to what we feel upon the other. But this could not happen\r\nif approbation consisted in a peculiar emotion which had nothing in\r\ncommon with the sentiments we approved of, but which arose at the view\r\nof those sentiments, like any other passion at the view of its proper\r\nobject. The same thing holds true with regard to disapprobation. Our\r\nhorror for cruelty has no sort of resemblance to our contempt for\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page289\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e289\u003c/span\u003e mean-spiritedness. It is quite a different species of discord\r\nwhich we feel at the view of those two different vices, between our\r\nown minds and those of the person whose sentiments and behaviour we\r\nconsider.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSecondly, I have already observed, that not only the different\r\npassions or affections of the human mind which are approved or\r\ndisapproved of, appear morally good or evil, but that proper and\r\nimproper approbation appear, to our natural sentiments, to be stamped\r\nwith the same characters. I would ask, therefore, how it is, that,\r\naccording to this system, we approve or disapprove of proper or\r\nimproper approbation? To this question there is, I imagine, but one\r\nreasonable answer which can possibly be given. It must be said, that\r\nwhen the approbation with which our neighbour regards the conduct of a\r\nthird person coincides with our own, we approve of his approbation,\r\nand consider it as, in some measure, morally good; and that, on the\r\ncontrary, when it does not coincide with our own sentiments, we\r\ndisapprove of it, and consider it as, in some measure, morally evil.\r\nIt must be allowed, therefore, that, at least in this one case, the\r\ncoincidence or opposition of sentiment, between the observer and the\r\nperson observed, constitutes moral approbation or disapprobation. And\r\nif it does so in this one case, I would ask, why not in every other?\r\nto what purpose imagine a new power of perception in order to account\r\nfor those sentiments?\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAgainst every account of the principle of approbation, which makes\r\nit depend upon a peculiar sentiment, distinct from every other, I\r\nwould object that it is strange that this sentiment, which Providence\r\nundoubtedly intended to be the governing principle of human nature,\r\nshould hitherto have been so little taken notice of, as not to have\r\ngot a name in any language. The word Moral Sense is of very late\r\nformation, and cannot yet be considered as making part of the English\r\ntongue. The word Approbation has but within these few years been\r\nappropriated to denote peculiarly any thing of this kind. In propriety\r\nof language we approve of whatever is entirely to our satisfaction, of\r\nthe form of a building, of the contrivance of a machine, of the\r\nflavour of a dish of meat. The word Conscience does not immediately\r\ndenote any moral faculty by which we approve or disapprove. Conscience\r\nsupposes, indeed, the existence of some such faculty, and properly\r\nsignifies our consciousness of having acted agreeably or contrary to\r\nits directions. When love, hatred, joy, sorrow, gratitude, resentment,\r\nwith so many other passions which are all supposed to be the subjects\r\nof this principle, have made themselves considerable enough to get\r\ntitles to know them by, is it not surprising that the sovereign of\r\nthem all should hitherto have been so little heeded, that, a few\r\nphilosophers excepted, nobody has yet thought it worth while to bestow\r\na name upon that principle.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen we approve of any character or action, the sentiments which we\r\nfeel, are, according to the foregoing system, derived from four \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e290\u003c/span\u003e\r\nsources, which are in some respects different from one another. First,\r\nwe sympathize with the motives of the agent; secondly, we enter into\r\nthe gratitude of those who receive the benefit of his actions;\r\nthirdly, we observe that his conduct has been agreeable to the general\r\nrules by which those two sympathies generally act; and, last of all,\r\nwhen we consider such actions as making a part of a system of\r\nbehaviour which tends to promote the happiness either of the\r\nindividual or of the society, they appear to derive a beauty from this\r\nutility, not unlike that which we ascribe to any well-contrived\r\nmachine. After deducting, in any one particular case, all that must be\r\nacknowledged to proceed from some one or other of these four\r\nprinciples, I should be glad to know what remains, and I shall\r\nfreely allow this overplus to be ascribed to a moral sense, or to any\r\nother peculiar faculty, provided any body will ascertain precisely\r\nwhat this overplus is. It might be expected, perhaps, that if there\r\nwas any such peculiar principle, such as this moral sense is supposed\r\nto be, we should feel it, in some particular cases, separated and\r\ndetached from every other, as we often feel joy, sorrow, hope, and\r\nfear, pure and unmixed with any other emotion. This, however, I\r\nimagine, cannot even be pretended. I have never heard any instance\r\nalleged in which this principle could be said to exert itself alone\r\nand unmixed with sympathy or antipathy, with gratitude or resentment,\r\nwith the perception of the agreement or disagreement of any action to\r\nan established rule, or last of all, with that general taste for\r\nbeauty and order which is excited by inanimated as well as by animated\r\nobjects.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅡ. There is another system which attempts to account for the\r\norigin of our moral sentiments from sympathy, distinct from that which\r\nI have been endeavouring to establish. It is that which places virtue\r\nin utility, and accounts for the pleasure with which the spectator\r\nsurveys the utility of any quality from sympathy with the happiness of\r\nthose who are affected by it. This sympathy is different both from\r\nthat by which we enter into the motives of the agent, and from that by\r\nwhich we go along with the gratitude of the persons who are benefited\r\nby his actions. It is the same principle with that by which we approve\r\nof a well-contrived machine. But no machine can be the object of\r\neither of those two last-mentioned sympathies. I have already, in the\r\nfourth part of this discourse, given some account of this system.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 class=\"sec\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page290\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ.—OF THE MANNER IN WHICH DIFFERENT AUTHORS HAVE TREATED OF\r\nTHE PRACTICAL RULES OF MORALITY.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eT\u003c/span\u003e was observed in the third part of this discourse, that the rules\r\nof justice are the only rules of morality which are precise and\r\naccurate; that those of all the other virtues are loose, vague, and\r\nindeterminate; \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page291\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e291\u003c/span\u003e that the first may be compared to the rules of\r\ngrammar; the others to those which critics lay down for the attainment\r\nof what is sublime and elegant in composition, and which present us\r\nrather with a general idea of the perfection we ought to aim at, than\r\nafford us any certain and infallible directions for acquiring it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs the different rules of morality admit such different degrees of\r\naccuracy, those authors who have endeavoured to collect and digest\r\nthem into systems have done it in two different manners; and one set\r\nhas followed through the whole that loose method to which they were\r\nnaturally directed by the consideration of one species of virtues;\r\nwhile another has as universally endeavoured to introduce into their\r\nprecepts that sort of accuracy of which only some of them are\r\nsusceptible. The first have written like critics, the second like\r\ngrammarians.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅠ. The first, among whom we may count all the ancient moralists,\r\nhave contented themselves with describing in a general manner the\r\ndifferent vices and virtues, and with pointing out the deformity and\r\nmisery of the one disposition, as well as the propriety and happiness\r\nof the other, but have not affected to lay down many precise rules\r\nthat are to hold good unexceptionally in all particular cases. They\r\nhave only endeavoured to ascertain, as far as language is capable of\r\nascertaining, first, wherein consists the sentiment of the heart, upon\r\nwhich each particular virtue is founded, what sort of internal feeling\r\nor emotion it is which constitutes the essence of friendship, of\r\nhumanity, of generosity, of justice, of magnanimity, and of all the\r\nother virtues, as well as of the vices which are opposed to them: and,\r\nsecondly, what is the general way of acting, the ordinary tone and\r\ntenor of conduct to which each of those sentiments would direct us, or\r\nhow it is that a friendly, a generous, a brave, a just, and a humane\r\nman, would upon ordinary occasions, choose to act.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo characterize the sentiment of the heart, upon which each\r\nparticular virtue is founded, though it requires both a delicate and\r\nan accurate pencil, is a task, however, which may be executed with\r\nsome degree of exactness. It is impossible, indeed, to express all the\r\nvariations which each sentiment either does or ought to undergo,\r\naccording to every possible variation of circumstances. They are\r\nendless, and language wants names to mark them by. The sentiment of\r\nfriendship, for example, which we feel for an old man is different\r\nfrom that which we feel for a young: that which we entertain for an\r\naustere man different from that which we feel for one of softer and\r\ngentler manners: and that again from what we feel for one of gay\r\nvivacity and spirit. The friendship which we conceive for a man is\r\ndifferent from that with which a woman affects us, even where there is\r\nno mixture of any grosser passion. What author could enumerate and\r\nascertain these and all the other infinite varieties which this\r\nsentiment is capable of undergoing? But still the general sentiment of\r\nfriendship and familiar \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page292\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e292\u003c/span\u003e attachment which is common to them all,\r\nmay be ascertained with a sufficient degree of accuracy. The picture\r\nwhich is drawn of it, though it will always be in many respects\r\nincomplete, may, however, have such a resemblance as to make us know\r\nthe original when we meet with it, and even distinguish it from other\r\nsentiments to which it has a considerable resemblance, such as\r\ngood-will, respect, admiration.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo describe, in a general manner, what is the ordinary way of\r\nacting to which each virtue would prompt us, is still more easy. It\r\nis, indeed, scarce possible to describe the internal sentiment or\r\nemotion upon which it is founded, without doing something of this\r\nkind. It is impossible by language to express, if I may say so, the\r\ninvisible features of all the different modifications of passion as\r\nthey show themselves within. There is no other way of marking and\r\ndistinguishing them from one another, but by describing the effects\r\nwhich they produce without, the alterations which they occasion in the\r\ncountenance, in the air and external behaviour, the resolutions they\r\nsuggest, the actions they prompt to. It is thus that Cicero, in the\r\nfirst book of his Offices, endeavours to direct us to the practice of\r\nthe four cardinal virtues, and that Aristotle in the practical parts\r\nof his Ethics, points out to us the different habits by which he would\r\nhave us regulate our behaviour, such as liberality, magnificence,\r\nmagnanimity, and even jocularity and good humour, qualities which that\r\nindulgent philosopher has thought worthy of a place in the catalogue\r\nof the virtues, though the lightness of that approbation which we\r\nnaturally bestow upon them, should not seem to entitle them to so\r\nvenerable a name.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch works present us with agreeable and lively pictures of\r\nmanners. By the vivacity of their descriptions they inflame our\r\nnatural love of virtue, and increase our abhorrence of vice: by the\r\njustness as well as delicacy of their observations they may often help\r\nboth to correct and to ascertain our natural sentiments with regard to\r\nthe propriety of conduct, and suggesting many nice and delicate\r\nattentions, form us to a more exact justness of behaviour, than what,\r\nwithout such instruction, we should have been apt to think of. In\r\ntreating of the rules of morality, in this manner, consists the\r\nscience which is properly called Ethics, a science which, though like\r\ncriticism, it does not admit of the most accurate precision, is,\r\nhowever, both highly useful and agreeable. It is of all others the\r\nmost susceptible of the embellishments of eloquence, and by means of\r\nthem of bestowing, if that be possible, a new importance upon the\r\nsmallest rules of duty. Its precepts, when thus dressed and adorned,\r\nare capable of producing upon the flexibility of youth, the noblest\r\nand most lasting impressions, and as they fall in with the natural\r\nmagnanimity of that generous age, they are able to inspire, for a time\r\nat least, the most heroic resolutions, and thus tend both to establish\r\nand confirm the best and most useful habits of which the mind of man\r\nis susceptible. Whatever precept and exhortation can do to \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page293\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e293\u003c/span\u003e\r\nanimate us to the practice of virtue, is done by this science\r\ndelivered in this manner.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eⅡ. The second set of moralists, among whom we may count all the\r\ncasuists of the middle and latter ages of the Christian church, as\r\nwell as all those who in this and in the preceding century have\r\ntreated of what is called natural jurisprudence, do not content\r\nthemselves with characterizing in this general manner that tenor of\r\nconduct which they would recommend to us, but endeavour to lay down\r\nexact and precise rules for the direction of every circumstance of our\r\nbehaviour. As justice is the only virtue with regard to which such\r\nexact rules can properly be given; it is this virtue, that has chiefly\r\nfallen under the consideration of those two different sets of writers.\r\nThey treat of it, however, in a very different manner.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThose who write upon the principles of jurisprudence, consider only\r\nwhat the person to whom the obligation is due, ought to think himself\r\nentitled to exact by force; what every impartial spectator would\r\napprove of him for exacting, or what a judge or arbiter, to whom he\r\nhad submitted his case, and who had undertaken to do him justice,\r\nought to oblige the other person to suffer or to perform. The\r\ncasuists, on the other hand, do not so much examine what it is, that\r\nmight properly be exacted by force, as what it is, that the person who\r\nowes the obligation ought to think himself bound to perform from the\r\nmost sacred and scrupulous regard to the general rules of justice, and\r\nfrom the most conscientious dread, either of wronging his neighbour,\r\nor of violating the integrity of his own character. It is the end of\r\njurisprudence to prescribe rules for the decisions of judges and\r\narbiters. It is the end of casuistry to prescribe rules for the\r\nconduct of a good man. By observing all the rules of jurisprudence,\r\nsupposing them ever so perfect, we should deserve nothing but to be\r\nfree from external punishment. By observing those of casuistry,\r\nsupposing them such as they ought to be, we should be entitled to\r\nconsiderable praise by the exact and scrupulous delicacy of our\r\nbehaviour.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt may frequently happen that a good man ought to think himself\r\nbound, from a sacred and conscientious regard to the general rules of\r\njustice, to perform many things which it would be the highest\r\ninjustice to extort from him, or for any judge or arbiter to impose\r\nupon him by force. To give a trite example; a highwayman, by the fear\r\nof death, obliges a traveller to promise him a certain sum money.\r\nWhether such a promise, extorted in this manner by force, ought to be\r\nregarded as obligatory, is a question that has been much debated.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf we consider it merely as a question of jurisprudence, the\r\ndecision can admit of no doubt. It would be absurd to suppose that the\r\nhighwayman can be entitled to use force to constrain the other to\r\nperform. To extort the promise was a crime which deserved the highest\r\npunishment, and to extort the performance would only be adding a new\r\ncrime \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page294\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e294\u003c/span\u003e to the former. He can complain of no injury who has been\r\nonly deceived by the person by whom he might justly have been killed.\r\nTo suppose that a judge ought to enforce the obligation of such\r\npromises, or that the magistrate ought to allow them to sustain action\r\nat law, would be the most ridiculous of all absurdities. If we\r\nconsider this question, therefore, as a question of jurisprudence, we\r\ncan be at no loss about the decision.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut if we consider it as a question of casuistry, it will not be so\r\neasily determined. Whether a good man, from a conscientious regard to\r\nthat most sacred rule of justice, which commands the observance of all\r\nserious promises, would not think himself bound to perform, is at\r\nleast much more doubtful. That no regard is due to the disappointment\r\nof the wretch who brings him into this situation, that no injury is\r\ndone to the robber, and consequently that nothing can be extorted by\r\nforce, will admit of no sort of dispute. But whether some regard is\r\nnot, in this case, due to his own dignity and honour, to the\r\ninviolable sacredness of that part of his character which makes him\r\nreverence the law of truth and abhor every thing that approaches to\r\ntreachery and falsehood, may, perhaps, more reasonably be made a\r\nquestion. The casuists accordingly are greatly divided about it. One\r\nparty, with whom we may count Cicero among the ancients, among the\r\nmoderns, Puffendorf, Barbeyrac his commentator, and above all the late\r\nDr. Hutcheson, one who in most cases was by no means a loose casuist,\r\ndetermine, without any hesitation, that no sort of regard is due to\r\nany such promise, and that to think otherwise is mere weakness and\r\nsuperstition. Another party, among whom we may reckon (St. Augustine,\r\nLa Placette) some of the ancient fathers of the church, as well as\r\nsome very eminent modern casuists, have been of another opinion, and\r\nhave judged all such promises obligatory.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf we consider the matter according to the common sentiments of\r\nmankind, we shall find that some regard would be thought due even to a\r\npromise of this kind; but that it is impossible to determine how much,\r\nby any general rule that will apply to all cases without exception.\r\nThe man who was quite frank and easy in making promises of this kind,\r\nand who violated them with as little ceremony, we should not choose\r\nfor our friend and companion. A gentleman who should promise a\r\nhighwayman five pounds and not perform, would incur some blame. If the\r\nsum promised, however, was very great, it might be more doubtful what\r\nwas proper to be done. If it was such, for example, that the payment\r\nof it would entirely ruin the family of the promiser, if it was so\r\ngreat as to be sufficient for promoting the most useful purposes, it\r\nwould appear in some measure criminal, at least extremely improper, to\r\nthrow it for the sake of a punctilio into such worthless hands. The\r\nman who should beggar himself, or who should throw away an hundred\r\nthousand pounds, though he could afford that \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page295\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e295\u003c/span\u003e vast sum, for the\r\nsake of observing such a parole with a thief, would appear to the\r\ncommon sense of mankind, absurd and extravagant in the highest degree.\r\nSuch profusion would seem inconsistent with his duty, with what he\r\nowed both to himself and others, and what, therefore, regard to a\r\npromise extorted in this manner, could by no means authorise. To fix,\r\nhowever, by any precise rule, what degree of regard ought to be paid\r\nto it, or what might be the greatest sum which could be due from it,\r\nis evidently impossible. This would vary according to the characters\r\nof the persons, according to their circumstances, according to the\r\nsolemnity of the promise, and even according to the incidents of the\r\nrencounter: and if the promiser had been treated with a great deal of\r\nthat sort of gallantry, which is sometimes to be met with in persons\r\nof the most abandoned characters, more would seem due than upon other\r\noccasions. It may be said in general, that exact propriety requires\r\nthe observance of all such promises, wherever it is not inconsistent\r\nwith some other duties that are more sacred; such as regard to the\r\npublic interest, to those whom gratitude, whom natural affection, or\r\nwhom the laws of proper beneficence should prompt us to provide for.\r\nBut, as was formerly taken notice of, we have no precise rules to\r\ndetermine what external actions are due from a regard to such motives,\r\nnor, consequently, when it is that those virtues are inconsistent with\r\nthe observance of such promises.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is to be observed, however, that whenever such promises are\r\nviolated, though for the most necessary reasons, it is always with\r\nsome degree of dishonour to the person who made them. After they are\r\nmade, we may be convinced of the impropriety of observing them. But\r\nstill there is some fault in having made them. It is at least a\r\ndeparture from the highest and noblest maxims of magnanimity and\r\nhonour. A brave man ought to die, rather than make a promise which he\r\ncan neither keep without folly, nor violate without ignominy. For some\r\ndegree of ignominy always attends a situation of this kind. Treachery\r\nand falsehood are vices so dangerous, so dreadful, and, at the same\r\ntime, such as may so easily, and, upon many occasions, so safely be\r\nindulged, that we are more jealous of them than of almost any other.\r\nOur imagination therefore attaches the idea of shame to all violations\r\nof faith, in every circumstance and in every situation. They resemble,\r\nin this respect, the violations of chastity in the fair sex, a virtue\r\nof which, for the like reasons, we are excessively jealous; and our\r\nsentiments are not more delicate with regard to the one, than with\r\nregard to the other. Breach of chastity dishonours irretrievably. No\r\ncircumstances, no solicitation can excuse it; no sorrow, no repentance\r\natone for it. We are so nice in this respect that even a rape\r\ndishonours, and the innocence of the mind cannot, in our imagination,\r\nwash out the pollution of the body. It is the same case with the\r\nviolation of faith, when it has been solemnly pledged, even to the\r\nmost \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page296\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e296\u003c/span\u003e worthless of mankind. Fidelity is so necessary a virtue,\r\nthat we apprehend it in general to be due even to those to whom\r\nnothing else is due, and whom we think it lawful to kill and destroy.\r\nIt is to no purpose that the person who has been guilty of the breach\r\nof it, urges that he promised in order to save his life, and that he\r\nbroke his promise because it was inconsistent with some other\r\nrespectable duty to keep it. These circumstances may alleviate, but\r\ncannot entirely wipe out his dishonour. He appears to have been guilty\r\nof an action with which, in the imaginations of men, some degree of\r\nshame is inseparably connected. He has broken a promise which he had\r\nsolemnly averred he would maintain; and his character, if not\r\nirretrievably stained and polluted, has at least a ridicule affixed to\r\nit, which it will be very difficult entirely to efface; and no man, I\r\nimagine, who had gone through an adventure of this kind would be fond\r\nof telling the story.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis instance may serve to show wherein consists the difference\r\nbetween casuistry and jurisprudence, even when both of them consider\r\nthe obligations of the general rules of justice.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though this difference be real and essential, though those two\r\nsciences propose quite different ends, the sameness of the subject has\r\nmade such a similarity between them, that the greater part of authors\r\nwhose professed design was to treat of jurisprudence, have determined\r\nthe different questions they examine, sometimes according to the\r\nprinciples of that science, and sometimes according to those of\r\ncasuistry, without distinguishing, and, perhaps, without being\r\nthemselves aware, when they did the one, and when the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe doctrine of the casuists, however, is by no means confined to\r\nthe consideration of what a conscientious regard to the general rules\r\nof justice would demand of us. It embraces many other parts of\r\nChristian and moral duty. What seems principally to have given\r\noccasion to the cultivation of this species of science was the custom\r\nof auricular confession, introduced by the Roman Catholic\r\nsuperstition, in times of barbarism and ignorance. By that\r\ninstitution, the most secret actions, and even the thoughts of every\r\nperson, which could be suspected of receding in the smallest degree\r\nfrom the rules of Christian purity, were to be revealed to the\r\nconfessor. The confessor informed his penitents whether, and in what\r\nrespect, they had violated their duty, and what penance it behoved\r\nthem to undergo, before he could absolve them in the name of the\r\noffended Deity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe consciousness, or even the suspicion of having done wrong, is a\r\nload upon every mind, and is accompanied with anxiety and terror in\r\nall those who are not hardened by long habits of iniquity. Men, in\r\nthis, as in all other distresses, are naturally eager to disburthen\r\nthemselves of the oppression which they feel upon their thoughts, by\r\nunbosoming the agony of their mind to some person whose secrecy and\r\ndiscretion they can confide in. The shame, which they suffer from this\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page297\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e297\u003c/span\u003e acknowledgment, is fully compensated by that alleviation of\r\ntheir uneasiness which the sympathy of their confidence seldom fails\r\nto occasion. It relieves them to find that they are not altogether\r\nunworthy of regard, and that however their past conduct may be\r\ncensured, their present disposition is at least approved of, and is\r\nperhaps sufficient to compensate the other, at least to maintain them\r\nin some degree of esteem with their friend. A numerous and artful\r\nclergy had, in those times of superstition, insinuated themselves into\r\nthe confidence of almost every private family. They possessed all the\r\nlittle learning which the times could afford, and their manners,\r\nthough in many respects rude and disorderly, were polished and regular\r\ncompared with those of the age they lived in. They were regarded,\r\ntherefore, not only as the great directors of all religious, but of\r\nall moral duties. Their familiarity gave reputation to whoever was so\r\nhappy as to possess it, and every mark of their disapprobation stamped\r\nthe deepest ignominy upon all who had the misfortune to fall under it.\r\nBeing considered as the great judges of right and wrong, they were\r\nnaturally consulted about all scruples that occurred, and it was\r\nreputable for any person to have it known that he made those holy men\r\nthe confidants of all such secrets, and took no important or delicate\r\nstep in his conduct without their advice and approbation. It was not\r\ndifficult for the clergy, therefore, to get it established as a\r\ngeneral rule, that they should be entrusted with what it had already\r\nbecome fashionable to entrust them, and with what they generally would\r\nhave been entrusted, though no such rule had been established. To\r\nqualify themselves for confessors became thus a necessary part of the\r\nstudy of churchmen and divines, and they were thence led to collect\r\nwhat are called cases of conscience, nice and delicate situations in\r\nwhich it is hard to determine whereabouts the propriety of conduct may\r\nlie. Such works, they imagined, might be of use both to the directors\r\nof consciences and to those who were to be directed; and hence the\r\norigin of books of casuistry.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe moral duties which fell under the consideration of the casuists\r\nwere chiefly those which can, in some measure at least, be\r\ncircumscribed within general rules, and of which the violation is\r\nnaturally attended with some degree of remorse and some dread of\r\nsuffering punishment. The design of that institution which gave\r\noccasion to their works, was to appease those terrors of conscience\r\nwhich attend upon the infringement of such duties. But it is not every\r\nvirtue of which the defect is accompanied with any very severe\r\ncompunctions of this kind, and no man applies to his confessor for\r\nabsolution, because he did not perform the most generous, the most\r\nfriendly, or the most magnanimous action which, in his circumstances,\r\nit was possible to perform. In failures of this kind, the rule that is\r\nviolated is commonly not very determinate, and is generally of such a\r\nnature too, that though the observance of it might entitle to honour\r\nand reward, the violation \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page298\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e298\u003c/span\u003e seems to expose to no positive blame,\r\ncensure, or punishment. The exercise of such virtues the casuists seem\r\nto have regarded as a sort of works of supererogation, which could not\r\nbe very strictly exacted, and which it was therefore unnecessary for\r\nthem to treat of.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe breaches of moral duty, therefore, which came before the\r\ntribunal of the confessor, and upon that account fell under the\r\ncognisance of the casuists, were chiefly of three different kinds.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFirst and principally, breaches of the rules of justice. The rules\r\nhere are all express and positive, and the violation of them is\r\nnaturally attended with the consciousness of deserving, and the dread\r\nof suffering punishment both from God and man.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSecondly, breaches of the rules of chastity. These in all grosser\r\ninstances are real breaches of the rules of justice, and no person can\r\nbe guilty of them without doing the most unpardonable injury to some\r\nother. In smaller instances, when they amount only to a violation of\r\nthose exact decorums which ought to be observed in the conversation of\r\nthe two sexes, they cannot indeed justly be considered as violations\r\nof the rules of justice. They are generally, however, violations of a\r\npretty plain rule, and, at least in one of the sexes, tend to bring\r\nignominy upon the person who has been guilty of them, and consequently\r\nto be attended in the scrupulous with some degree of shame and\r\ncontrition of mind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThirdly, breaches of the rules of veracity. The violation of truth,\r\nit is to be observed, is not always a breach of justice, though it is\r\nso upon many occasions, and consequently cannot always expose to any\r\nexternal punishment. The vice of common lying, though a most miserable\r\nmeanness, may frequently do hurt to nobody, and in this case no claim\r\nof vengeance or satisfaction can be due either to the persons imposed\r\nupon, or to others. But though the violation of truth is not always a\r\nbreach of justice, it is always a breach of a very plain rule, and\r\nwhat does naturally tend to cover with shame the person who has been\r\nguilty of it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere seems to be in young children an instinctive disposition to\r\nbelieve whatever they are told. Nature seems to have judged it\r\nnecessary for their preservation that they should, for some time at\r\nleast, put implicit confidence in those to whom the care of their\r\nchildhood, and of the earliest and most necessary parts of their\r\neducation, is intrusted. Their credulity, accordingly, is excessive,\r\nand it requires long and much experience of the falsehood of mankind\r\nto reduce them to a reasonable degree of diffidence and distrust. In\r\ngrown-up people the degrees of credulity are, no doubt, very\r\ndifferent. The wisest and most experienced are generally the least\r\ncredulous. But the man scarce lives who is not more credulous than he\r\nought to be, and who does not, upon many occasions, give credit to\r\ntales, which not only turn out to be perfectly false, but which a very\r\nmoderate degree of reflection and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page299\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e299\u003c/span\u003e attention might have taught\r\nhim could not well be true. The natural disposition is always to\r\nbelieve. It is acquired wisdom and experience only that teach\r\nincredulity, and they very seldom teach it enough. The wisest and most\r\ncautious of us all frequently gives credit to stories which he himself\r\nis afterwards both ashamed and astonished that he could possibly think\r\nof believing.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe man whom we believe is necessarily, in the things concerning\r\nwhich we believe him, our leader and director, and we look up to him\r\nwith a certain degree of esteem and respect. But as from admiring\r\nother people we come to wish to be admired ourselves; so from being\r\nled and directed by other people we learn to wish to become ourselves\r\nleaders and directors. And as we cannot always be satisfied merely\r\nwith being admired, unless we can at the same time persuade ourselves\r\nthat we are in some degree really worthy of admiration; so we cannot\r\nalways be satisfied merely with being believed, unless we are at the\r\nsame time conscious that we are really worthy of belief. As the desire\r\nof praise and that of praise-worthiness, though very much akin, are\r\nyet distinct and separate desires; so the desire of being believed and\r\nthat of being worthy of belief, though very much akin too, are equally\r\ndistinct and separate desires.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe desire of being believed, the desire of persuading, of leading\r\nand directing other people, seems to be one of the strongest of all\r\nour natural desires. It is, perhaps, the instinct upon which is\r\nfounded the faculty of speech, the characteristical faculty of human\r\nnature. No other animal possesses this faculty, and we cannot discover\r\nin any other animal any desire to lead and direct the judgment and\r\nconduct of its fellows. Great ambition, the desire of real,\r\nsuperiority, of leading and directing, seems to be altogether peculiar\r\nto man, and speech is the great instrument of ambition, of real\r\nsuperiority, of leading and directing the judgments and conduct of\r\nother people.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is always mortifying not to be believed, and it is doubly so\r\nwhen we suspect that it is because we are supposed to be unworthy of\r\nbelief and capable of seriously and wilfully deceiving. To tell a man\r\nthat he lies, is of all affronts the most mortal. But whoever\r\nseriously and wilfully deceives is necessarily conscious to himself\r\nthat he merits this affront, that he does not deserve to be believed,\r\nand that he forfeits all title to that sort of credit from which alone\r\nhe can derive any sort of ease, comfort, or satisfaction in the\r\nsociety of his equals. The man who had the misfortune to imagine that\r\nnobody believed a single word he said, would feel himself the outcast\r\nof human society, would dread the very thought of going into it, or of\r\npresenting himself before it, and could scarce fail, I think, to die\r\nof despair. It is probable, however, that no man ever had just reason\r\nto entertain this humiliating opinion of himself. The most notorious\r\nliar, I am disposed to believe, tells the fair truth at least twenty\r\ntimes for once that he seriously and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page300\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e300\u003c/span\u003e deliberately lies; and, as\r\nin the most cautious the disposition to believe is apt to prevail over\r\nthat to doubt and distrust; so in those who are the most regardless of\r\ntruth, the natural disposition to tell it prevails upon most occasions\r\nover that to deceive, or in any respect to alter or to disguise\r\nit.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe are mortified when we happen to deceive other people, though\r\nunintentionally, and from having been ourselves deceived. Though this\r\ninvoluntary falsehood may frequently be no mark of any want of\r\nveracity, of any want of the most perfect love of truth, it is always\r\nin some degree a mark of want of judgment, of want of memory, of\r\nimproper credulity, of some degree of precipitancy and rashness. It\r\nalways diminishes our authority to persuade, and always brings some\r\ndegree of suspicion upon our fitness to lead and direct. The man who\r\nsometimes misleads from mistake, however, is widely different from him\r\nwho is capable of wilfully deceiving. The former may be trusted upon\r\nmany occasions; the latter very seldom upon any.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFrankness and openness conciliate confidence. We trust the man, who\r\nseems willing to trust us. We see clearly, we think, the road by which\r\nhe means to conduct us, and we abandon ourselves with pleasure to his\r\nguidance and direction. Reserve and concealment, on the contrary, call\r\nforth diffidence. We are afraid to follow the man who is going we do\r\nnot know where. The great pleasure of conversation and society,\r\nbesides, arises from a certain correspondence of sentiments and\r\nopinions, from a certain harmony of minds, which like so many musical\r\ninstruments coincide and keep time with one another. But this most\r\ndelightful harmony cannot be obtained unless there is a free\r\ncommunication of sentiments and opinions. We all desire, upon this\r\naccount, to feel how each other is affected, to penetrate into each\r\nother’s bosoms, and to observe the sentiments and affections which\r\nreally subsist there. The man who indulges us in this natural passion,\r\nwho invites us into his heart, who, as it were, sets open the gates of\r\nhis breast to us, seems to exercise a species of hospitality more\r\ndelightful than any other. No man, who is in ordinary good temper, can\r\nfail of pleasing, if he has the courage to utter his real sentiments\r\nas he feels them, and because he feels them. It is this unreserved\r\nsincerity which renders even the prattle of a child agreeable. How\r\nweak and imperfect soever the views of the open-hearted, we take\r\npleasure to enter into them, and endeavour, as much as we can, to\r\nbring down our own understanding to the level of their capacities, and\r\nto regard every subject in the particular light in which they appear\r\nto have considered it. This passion to discover the real sentiments of\r\nothers is naturally so strong, that it often degenerates into a\r\ntroublesome and impertinent curiosity to pry into those secrets of our\r\nneighbours which they have very justifiable reasons for concealing;\r\nand, upon many occasions, it requires prudence and a strong sense of\r\npropriety to govern this, as \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page301\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e301\u003c/span\u003e well as all the other passions of\r\nhuman nature, and to reduce it to that pitch which any impartial\r\nspectator can approve of. To disappoint this curiosity, however, when\r\nit is kept within proper bounds, and aims at nothing which there can\r\nbe any just reason for concealing, is equally disagreeable in its\r\nturn. The man who eludes our most innocent questions, who gives no\r\nsatisfaction to our most inoffensive inquiries, who plainly wraps\r\nhimself up in impenetrable obscurity, seems, as it were, to build a\r\nwall about his breast. We run forward to get within it, with all the\r\neagerness of harmless curiosity; and feel ourselves all at once pushed\r\nback with rude and offensive violence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe man of reserve and concealment, though seldom a very amiable\r\ncharacter, is not disrespected or despised. He seems to feel coldly\r\ntowards us, and we feel as coldly towards him. He is not much praised\r\nor beloved, but he is as little hated or blamed. He very seldom,\r\nhowever, has occasion to repent of his caution, and is generally\r\ndisposed rather to value himself upon the prudence of his reserve.\r\nThough his conduct, therefore, may have been very faulty, and\r\nsometimes even hurtful, he can very seldom be disposed to lay his case\r\nbefore the casuists, or to fancy that he has any occasion for their\r\nacquittal or for their approbation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is not always so with the man, who, from false information, from\r\ninadvertency, from precipitancy and rashness, has involuntarily\r\ndeceived. Though it should be in a matter of little consequence, in\r\ntelling a piece of common news, for example, if he is a real lover of\r\ntruth, he is ashamed of his own carelessness, and never fails to\r\nembrace the first opportunity of making the fullest acknowledgments.\r\nIf it is in a matter of some consequence, his contrition is still\r\ngreater; and if any unlucky or fatal consequence has followed from his\r\nmisinformation, he can scarce ever forgive himself. Though not guilty,\r\nhe feels himself to be in the highest degree, what the ancients\r\ncalled, piacular, and is anxious and eager to make every sort of\r\natonement in his power. Such a person might frequently be disposed to\r\nlay his case before the casuists, who have in general been very\r\nfavourable to him, and though they have sometimes justly condemned him\r\nfor rashness, they have universally acquitted him of the ignominy of\r\nfalsehood.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut the man who had the most frequent occasion to consult them, was\r\nthe man of equivocation and mental reservation, the man who seriously\r\nand deliberately meant to deceive, but who, at the same time, wished\r\nto flatter himself that he had really told the truth. With him they\r\nhave dealt variously. When they approved very much of the motives of\r\nhis deceit, they have sometimes acquitted him, though, to do the\r\ncasuists justice, they have in general and much more frequently\r\ncondemned him.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe chief subjects of the works of the casuists, therefore, were\r\nthe conscientious regard that is due to the rules of justice; how far\r\nwe \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page302\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e302\u003c/span\u003e ought to respect the life and property of our neighbour; the\r\nduty of restitution; the laws of chastity and modesty, and wherein\r\nconsisted what, in the language of the casuists, were called the sins\r\nof concupiscence; the rules of veracity, and the obligation of oaths,\r\npromises, and contracts of all kinds.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt may be said in general of the works of the casuists that they\r\nattempted, to no purpose, to direct by precise rules what it belongs\r\nto feeling and sentiment only to judge of. How is it possible to\r\nascertain by rules the exact point at which, in every case, a delicate\r\nsense of justice begins to run into a frivolous and weak scrupulosity\r\nof conscience? When is it that secrecy and reserve begin to grow into\r\ndissimulation? How far may an agreeable irony be carried, and at what\r\nprecise point it begins to degenerate into a detestable lie? What is\r\nthe highest pitch of freedom and ease of behaviour which can be\r\nregarded as graceful and becoming, and when is it that it first begins\r\nto run into a negligent and thoughtless licentiousness? With regard to\r\nall such matters, what would hold good in any one case would scarce do\r\nso exactly in any other, and what constitutes the propriety and\r\nhappiness of behaviour varies in every case with the smallest variety\r\nof situation. Books of casuistry, therefore, are generally as useless\r\nas they are commonly tiresome. They could be of little use to one who\r\nshould consult them upon occasion, even supposing their decisions to\r\nbe just; because, notwithstanding the multitude of cases collected in\r\nthem, yet upon account of the still greater variety of possible\r\ncircumstances, it is a chance, if among all those cases there be found\r\none exactly parallel to that under consideration. One, who is really\r\nanxious to do his duty, must be very weak, if he can imagine that he\r\nhas much occasion for them; and with regard to one who is negligent of\r\nit, the very style of those writings is not such as is likely to\r\nawaken him to more attention. None of them tend to animate us to what\r\nis generous and noble. None of them do tend to soften us to what is\r\ngentle and humane. Many of them, on the contrary, tend rather to teach\r\nus to chicane with our own consciences, and by their vain subtilties\r\nserve to authorise innumerable evasive refinements with regard to the\r\nmost essential articles of our duty. That frivolous accuracy which\r\nthey attempted to introduce into subjects which do not admit of it,\r\nalmost necessarily betrayed them into those dangerous errors, and at\r\nthe same time rendered their works dry and disagreeable, abounding in\r\nabstruse and metaphysical distinctions, but incapable of exciting in\r\nthe heart any of those emotions which it is the principal use of books\r\nof morality to excite in the readers.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe two useful parts of moral philosophy, therefore, are Ethics and\r\nJurisprudence: casuistry ought to be rejected altogether; and the\r\nancient moralists appear to have judged much better, who, in treating\r\nof the same subjects, did not affect any such nice exactness, but\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page303\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e303\u003c/span\u003e contented themselves with describing, in a general manner, what\r\nis the sentiment upon which justice, modesty, and veracity are\r\nfounded, and what is the ordinary way of acting to which those great\r\nvirtues would commonly prompt us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSomething indeed, not unlike the doctrine of the casuists, seems to\r\nhave been attempted by several philosophers. There is something of\r\nthis kind in the third book of Cicero’s Offices, where he endeavours\r\nlike a casuist, to give rules for our conduct in many nice cases, in\r\nwhich it is difficult to determine whereabouts the point of propriety\r\nmay lie. It appears too, from many passages in the same book, that\r\nseveral other philosophers had attempted something of the same kind\r\nbefore him. Neither he nor they, however, appear to have aimed at\r\ngiving a complete system of this sort, but only meant to show how\r\nsituations may occur, in which it is doubtful, whether the highest\r\npropriety of conduct consists in observing or in receding from what,\r\nin ordinary cases, are the rules of our duty.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEvery system of positive law may be regarded as a more or less\r\nimperfect attempt towards a system of natural jurisprudence, or\r\ntowards an enumeration of the particular rules of justice. As the\r\nviolation of justice is what men will never submit to from one\r\nanother, the public magistrate is under a necessity of employing the\r\npower of the commonwealth to enforce the practice of this virtue.\r\nWithout this precaution, civil society would become a scene of\r\nbloodshed and disorder, every man revenging himself at his own hand\r\nwhenever he fancied he was injured. To prevent the confusion which\r\nwould attend upon every man’s doing justice to himself, the\r\nmagistrate, in all governments that have acquired any considerable\r\nauthority, undertakes to do justice to all, and promises to hear and\r\nto redress every complaint of injury. In all well-governed states,\r\ntoo, not only judges are appointed for determining the controversies\r\nof individuals, but rules are prescribed for regulating the decisions\r\nof those judges; and these rules are, in general, intended to\r\ncoincide with those of natural justice. It does not, indeed, always\r\nhappen that they do so in every instance. Sometimes what is called the\r\nconstitution of the state, that is, the interest of the government;\r\nsometimes the interest of particular orders of men who tyrannize the\r\ngovernment, warp the positive laws of the country from what natural\r\njustice would prescribe. In some countries, the rudeness and barbarism\r\nof the people hinder the natural sentiments of justice from arriving\r\nat that accuracy and precision which, in more civilized nations, they\r\nnaturally attain to. Their laws are, like their manners, gross and\r\nrude and undistinguishing. In other countries the unfortunate\r\nconstitution of their courts of judicature hinders any regular system\r\nof jurisprudence from ever establishing itself among them, though the\r\nimproved manners of the people may be such as would admit of the most\r\naccurate. In no country do the decisions of positive \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page304\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e304\u003c/span\u003e law\r\ncoincide exactly, in every case, with the rules which the natural\r\nsense of justice would dictate. Systems of positive law, therefore,\r\nthough they deserve the greatest authority, as the records of the\r\nsentiments of mankind in different ages and nations, yet can never be\r\nregarded as accurate systems of the rules of natural justice.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt might have been expected that the reasonings of lawyers, upon\r\nthe different imperfections and improvements of the laws of different\r\ncountries, should have given occasion to an inquiry into what were the\r\nnatural rules of justice independent of all positive institution. It\r\nmight have been expected that these reasonings should have led them to\r\naim at establishing a system of what might properly be called natural\r\njurisprudence, or a theory of the general principles which ought to\r\nrun through and be the foundation of the laws of all nations. But\r\nthough the reasonings of lawyers did produce something of this kind,\r\nand though no man has treated systematically of the laws of any\r\nparticular country, without intermixing in his work many observations\r\nof this sort; it was very late in the world before any such general\r\nsystem was thought of, or before the philosophy of law was treated of\r\nby itself, and without regard to the particular institutions of any\r\none nation. In none of the ancient moralists, do we find any attempt\r\ntowards a particular enumeration of the rules of justice. Cicero in\r\nhis Offices, and Aristotle in his Ethics, treat of justice in the same\r\ngeneral manner in which they treat of all the other virtues. In the\r\nlaws of Cicero and Plato, where we might naturally have expected some\r\nattempts towards an enumeration of those rules of natural equity,\r\nwhich ought to be enforced by the positive laws of every country,\r\nthere is, however, nothing of this kind. Their laws are laws of\r\npolice, not of justice. Grotius seems to have been the first who\r\nattempted to give the world any thing like a system of those\r\nprinciples which ought to run through, and be the foundation of the\r\nlaws of all nations; and his treatise of the laws of war and peace,\r\nwith all its imperfections, is perhaps at this day the most complete\r\nwork that has yet been given upon this subject. I shall in another\r\ndiscourse endeavour to give an account of the general principles of\r\nlaw and government, and of the different revolutions they have\r\nundergone in the different ages and periods of society, not only in\r\nwhat concerns justice, but in what concerns police, revenue, and arms,\r\nand whatever else is the object of law. I shall not, therefore, at\r\npresent, enter into any further detail concerning the history of\r\njurisprudence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ca id=\"page305\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch2 id=\"B\"\u003eCONSIDERATIONS\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003ch5\u003eCONCERNING THE FIRST\u003c/h5\u003e\r\n\u003ch2\u003eFORMATION OF LANGUAGES, E\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eTC.\u003c/span\u003e, E\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eTC\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e assignation of particular names to denote particular objects,\r\nthat is, the institution of nouns substantive, would, probably, be one\r\nof the first steps towards the formation of language. Two savages, who\r\nhad never been taught to speak, but had been bred up remote from the\r\nsocieties of men, would naturally begin to form that language by which\r\nthey would endeavour to make their mutual wants intelligible to each\r\nother, by uttering certain sounds, whenever they meant to denote\r\ncertain objects. Those objects only which were most familiar to them,\r\nand which they had most frequent occasion to mention would have\r\nparticular names assigned to them. The particular cave whose covering\r\nsheltered them from the weather, the particular tree whose fruit\r\nrelieved their hunger, the particular fountain whose water allayed\r\ntheir thirst, would first be denominated by the words \u003ci\u003ecave\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003etree\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003efountain\u003c/i\u003e, or by whatever other appellations they\r\nmight think proper, in that primitive jargon, to mark them.\r\nAfterwards, when the more enlarged experience of these savages had led\r\nthem to observe, and their necessary occasions obliged them to make\r\nmention of other caves, and other trees, and other fountains, they\r\nwould naturally bestow, upon each of those new objects, the same name,\r\nby which they had been accustomed to express the similar objects they\r\nwere first acquainted with. The new objects had none of them any name\r\nof its own, but each of them exactly resembled another object, which\r\nhad such an appellation. It was impossible that those savages could\r\nbehold the new objects, without recollecting the old ones; and the\r\nname of the old ones, to which the new bore so close a resemblance.\r\nWhen they had occasion, therefore, to mention or to point out to each\r\nother, any of the new objects, they would naturally utter the name of\r\nthe correspondent old one, of which the idea could not fail, at that\r\ninstant, to present itself to their memory in the strongest and\r\nliveliest manner. And thus, those words, which were originally the\r\nproper names of individuals, would each of them insensibly become the\r\ncommon name of a multitude. A child that is just learning to speak,\r\ncalls every person who comes to the house its papa or its mamma; and\r\nthus bestows upon the whole species those names which it had been\r\ntaught to apply to two individuals. I have \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page306\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e306\u003c/span\u003e known a clown, who\r\ndid not know the proper name of the river which ran by his own door.\r\nIt was \u003ci\u003ethe river\u003c/i\u003e, he said, and he never heard any other name\r\nfor it. His experience, it seems, had not led him to observe any other\r\nriver. The general word \u003ci\u003eriver\u003c/i\u003e, therefore, was, it is evident,\r\nin his acceptance of it, a proper name, signifying an individual\r\nobject. If this person had been carried to another river, would he not\r\nreadily have called it a river? Could we suppose any person living on\r\nthe banks of the Thames so ignorant as not to know the general word\r\n\u003ci\u003eriver\u003c/i\u003e but to be acquainted only with the particular word\r\n\u003ci\u003eThames\u003c/i\u003e, if he was brought to any other river, would he not\r\nreadily call it \u003ci\u003ea Thames\u003c/i\u003e? This, in reality, is no more than\r\nwhat they, who are well acquainted with the general word, are very apt\r\nto do. An Englishman, describing any great river which he may have\r\nseen in some foreign country, naturally says, that it is another\r\nThames. The Spaniards, when they first arrived upon the coast of\r\nMexico, and observed the wealth, populousness, and habitations of that\r\nfine country, so much superior to the savage nations which they had\r\nbeen visiting for some time before, cried out, that it was another\r\nSpain. Hence it was called New Spain; and this name has stuck to that\r\nunfortunate country ever since. We say, in the same manner, of a hero,\r\nthat he is an Alexander; of an orator, that he is a Cicero; of a\r\nphilosopher, that he is a Newton. This way of speaking, which the\r\ngrammarians call an Antonomasia, and which is still extremely common,\r\nthough now not at all necessary, demonstrates how mankind are disposed\r\nto give to one object the name of any other, which nearly resembles\r\nit, and thus to denominate a multitude, by what originally was\r\nintended to express an individual.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is this application of the name of an individual to a great\r\nmultitude of objects, whose resemblance naturally recalls the idea of\r\nthat individual, and of the name which expresses it, that seems\r\noriginally to have given occasion to the formation of those classes\r\nand assortments, which, in the schools, are called genera and species,\r\nand of which the ingenious and eloquent M. Rousseau of Geneva finds\r\nhimself so much at a loss to account for the origin. What constitutes\r\na species is merely a number of objects, bearing a certain degree of\r\nresemblance to one another, and on that account denominated by a\r\nsingle appellation, which may be applied to express any one of\r\nthem.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen the greater part of objects had thus been arranged under their\r\nproper classes and assortments, distinguished by such general names,\r\nit was impossible that the greater part of that almost infinite number\r\nof individuals, comprehended under each particular assortment or\r\nspecies, could have any peculiar or proper names of their own,\r\ndistinct from the general name of the species. When there was\r\noccasion, therefore, to mention any particular object, it often became\r\nnecessary to distinguish it from the other objects comprehended under\r\nthe same general name, either, first, by its peculiar qualities; or,\r\nsecondly, by the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page307\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e307\u003c/span\u003e peculiar relation which it stood in to some\r\nother things. Hence the necessary origin of two other sets of words,\r\nof which the one should express quality; the other, relation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNouns adjective are the words which express quality considered as\r\nqualifying, or, as the schoolmen say, in concrete with, some\r\nparticular subject. Thus the word \u003ci\u003egreen\u003c/i\u003e expresses a certain\r\nquality considered as qualifying, or as in concrete with, the\r\nparticular subject to which it may be applied. Words of this kind, it\r\nis evident, may serve to distinguish particular objects from others\r\ncomprehended under the same general appellation. The words \u003ci\u003egreen\r\ntree\u003c/i\u003e, for example, might serve to distinguish a particular tree\r\nfrom others that were withered or that were blasted.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePrepositions are the words which express relation considered, in\r\nthe same manner, in concrete with the co-relative object. Thus the\r\nprepositions \u003ci\u003eof\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eto\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003efor\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ewith\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eby\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003eabove\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ebelow\u003c/i\u003e, \u0026amp;c., denote some relation subsisting\r\nbetween the objects expressed by the words between which the\r\nprepositions are placed; and they denote that this relation is\r\nconsidered in concrete with the co-relative object. Words of this kind\r\nserve to distinguish particular objects from others of the same\r\nspecies, when those particular objects cannot be so properly marked\r\nout by any peculiar qualities of their own. When we say, \u003ci\u003ethe green\r\ntree of the meadow\u003c/i\u003e, for example, we distinguish a particular tree,\r\nnot only by the quality which belongs to it, but by the relation which\r\nit stands in to another object.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs neither quality nor relation can exist in abstract, it is\r\nnatural to suppose that the words which denote them considered in\r\nconcrete, the way in which we always see them subsist, would be of\r\nmuch earlier invention than those which express them considered in\r\nabstract, the way in which we never see them subsist. The words\r\n\u003ci\u003egreen\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eblue\u003c/i\u003e would, in all probability, be sooner\r\ninvented than the words \u003ci\u003egreenness\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eblueness\u003c/i\u003e; the\r\nwords \u003ci\u003eabove\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003ebelow\u003c/i\u003e, than the words \u003ci\u003esuperiority\u003c/i\u003e\r\nand \u003ci\u003einferiority\u003c/i\u003e. To invent words of the latter kind requires a\r\nmuch greater effort of abstraction than to invent those of the former.\r\nIt is probable therefore, that such abstract terms would be of much\r\nlater institution. Accordingly, their etymologies generally show that\r\nthey are so, they being generally derived from others that are\r\nconcrete.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though the invention of nouns adjective be much more natural\r\nthan that of the abstract nouns substantive derived from them, it\r\nwould still, however, require a considerable degree of abstraction and\r\ngeneralization. Those, for example, who first invented the words\r\n\u003ci\u003egreen\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eblue\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ered\u003c/i\u003e, and the other names of colours,\r\nmust have observed and compared together a great number of objects,\r\nmust have remarked their resemblances and dissimilitudes in respect of\r\nthe quality of colour, and must have arranged them, in their own\r\nminds, into different classes and assortments, according to those\r\nresemblances and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page308\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e308\u003c/span\u003e dissimilitudes. An adjective is by nature a\r\ngeneral, and in some measure an abstract word, and necessarily\r\npre-supposes the idea of a certain species or assortment of things, to\r\nall of which it is equally applicable. The word \u003ci\u003egreen\u003c/i\u003e could\r\nnot, as we were supposing might be the case of the word \u003ci\u003ecave\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nhave been originally the name of an individual, and afterwards have\r\nbecome, by what grammarians call an Antonomasia, the name of a\r\nspecies. The word \u003ci\u003egreen\u003c/i\u003e denoting, not the name of a substance,\r\nbut the peculiar quality of a substance, must from the very first have\r\nbeen a general word, and considered as equally applicable to any other\r\nsubstance possessed of the same quality. The man who first\r\ndistinguished a particular object by the epithet of \u003ci\u003egreen\u003c/i\u003e, must\r\nhave observed other objects that were not \u003ci\u003egreen\u003c/i\u003e, from which he\r\nmeant to separate it by this appellation. The institution of this\r\nname, therefore, supposes comparison. It likewise supposes some degree\r\nof abstraction. The person who first invented this appellation must\r\nhave distinguished the quality from the object to which it belonged,\r\nand must have conceived the object as capable of subsisting without\r\nthe quality. The invention, therefore, even of the simplest nouns\r\nadjective must have required more metaphysics than we are apt to be\r\naware of. The different mental operations, of arrangement or classing,\r\nof comparison, and of abstraction, must all have been employed, before\r\neven the names of the different colours, the least metaphysical of all\r\nnouns adjective, could be instituted. From all which I infer, that\r\nwhen languages were beginning to be formed, nouns adjective would by\r\nno means be the words of the earliest invention.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere is nothing expedient for denoting the different qualities of\r\ndifferent substance, which as it requires no abstraction, nor any\r\nconceived separation of the quality from the subject, seems more\r\nnatural than the invention of nouns adjective, and which, upon this\r\naccount, could hardly fail, in the first formation of language, to be\r\nthought of before them. This expedient is to make some variation upon\r\nthe noun substantive itself, according to the different qualities\r\nwhich it is endowed with. Thus in many languages, the qualities both\r\nof sex and of the want of sex are expressed by different terminations\r\nin the nouns substantive, which denote objects so qualified. In Latin,\r\nfor example, \u003ci\u003elupus\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003elupa\u003c/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eequus\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eequa\u003c/i\u003e;\r\n\u003ci\u003ejuvencus\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ejuvenca\u003c/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eJulius\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eJulia\u003c/i\u003e;\r\n\u003ci\u003eLucretius\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eLucretia\u003c/i\u003e, \u0026amp;c., denote the qualities of male\r\nand female in the animals and persons to whom such appellations\r\nbelong, without needing the addition of any adjective for this\r\npurpose. On the other hand, the words, \u003ci\u003eforum\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003epratum\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003eplaustrum\u003c/i\u003e, denote by their peculiar termination the total\r\nabsence of sex in the different substances which they stand for. Both\r\nsex, and the want of all sex, being naturally considered as qualities\r\nmodifying and inseparable from the particular substances to which they\r\nbelong, it was natural to express them rather by a modification in the\r\nnoun substantive, than by any general and abstract word \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page309\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e309\u003c/span\u003e\r\nexpressive of this particular species of quality. The expression\r\nbears, it is evident, in this way, a much more exact analogy to the\r\nidea or object which it denotes than in the other. The quality\r\nappears, in nature, as a modification of the substance, and as it is\r\nthus expressed in language, by a modification of the noun substantive,\r\nwhich denotes that substance, the quality and the subject are, in this\r\ncase, blended together, if I may say so, in the expression, in the\r\nsame manner as they appear to be in the object and in the idea. Hence\r\nthe origin of the masculine, feminine, and neutral genders, in all the\r\nancient languages. By means of these, the most important of all\r\ndistinctions, that of substances into animated and inanimated, and\r\nthat of animals into male and female, seem to have been sufficiently\r\nmarked without the assistance of adjectives, or of any general names\r\ndenoting this most extensive species of qualifications.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere are no more than these three genders in any of the languages\r\nwith which I am acquainted; that is to say, the formation of nouns\r\nsubstantive can, by itself, and without the accompaniment of\r\nadjectives, express no other qualities but those three above\r\nmentioned, the qualities of male, of female, of neither male nor\r\nfemale. I should not, however, be surprised, if, in other languages\r\nwith which I am unacquainted, the different formations of nouns\r\nsubstantive should be capable of expressing many other different\r\nqualities. The different diminutives of the Italian, and of some other\r\nlanguages, do, in reality, sometimes express a great variety of\r\ndifferent modifications in the substances denoted by those nouns which\r\nundergo such variations.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt was impossible, however, that nouns substantive could, without\r\nlosing altogether their original form, undergo so great a number of\r\nvariations, as would be sufficient to express that almost infinite\r\nvariety of qualities, by which it might, upon different occasions, be\r\nnecessary to specify and distinguish them. Though the different\r\nformation of nouns substantive, therefore, might, for some time,\r\nforestall the necessity of inventing nouns adjective, it was\r\nimpossible that this necessity could be forestalled altogether. When\r\nnouns adjective came to be invented, it was natural that they should\r\nbe formed with some similarity to the substantives to which they were\r\nto serve as epithets or qualifications. Men would naturally give them\r\nthe same terminations with the substantives to which they were first\r\napplied, and from that love of similarity of sound, from that delight\r\nin the returns of the same syllables, which is the foundation of\r\nanalogy in all languages, they would be apt to vary the termination of\r\nthe same adjective, according as they had occasion to apply it to a\r\nmasculine, to a feminine, or to a neutral substantive. They would say,\r\n\u003ci\u003emagnus lupus\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003emagna lupa\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003emagnum pratum\u003c/i\u003e, when\r\nthey meant to express a great \u003ci\u003ehe wolf\u003c/i\u003e, a great \u003ci\u003eshe wolf\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nor a great \u003ci\u003emeadow\u003c/i\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis variation, in the termination of the noun adjective, according\r\nto \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page310\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e310\u003c/span\u003e the gender of the substantive, which takes place in all the\r\nancient languages, seems to have been introduced chiefly for the sake\r\nof a certain similarity of sound, of a certain species of rhyme, which\r\nis naturally so very agreeable to the human ear. Gender, it is to\r\nobserved, cannot properly belong to a noun adjective, the\r\nsignification of which is always precisely the same, to whatever\r\nspecies of substantives it is applied. When we say, \u003ci\u003ea great\r\nman\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ea great woman\u003c/i\u003e, the word \u003ci\u003egreat\u003c/i\u003e has precisely the\r\nsame meaning in both cases, and the difference of the sex in the\r\nsubjects to which it may be applied, makes no sort of difference in\r\nits signification. \u003ci\u003eMagnus\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003emagna\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003emagnum\u003c/i\u003e, in the\r\nsame manner, are words which express precisely the same quality, and\r\nthe change of the termination is accompanied with no sort of variation\r\nin the meaning. Sex and gender are qualities which belong to\r\nsubstances, but cannot belong to the qualities of substances. In\r\ngeneral, no quality, when considered in concrete, or as qualifying\r\nsome particular subject, can itself be conceived as the subject of any\r\nother quality; though when considered in abstract it may. No adjective\r\ntherefore can qualify any other adjective. A \u003ci\u003egreat good man\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nmeans a man who is both \u003ci\u003egreat\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003egood\u003c/i\u003e. Both the\r\nadjectives qualify the substantive; they do not qualify one another.\r\nOn the other hand, when we say, the \u003ci\u003egreat goodness\u003c/i\u003e of the man,\r\nthe word \u003ci\u003egoodness\u003c/i\u003e denoting a quality considered in abstract,\r\nwhich may itself be the subject of other qualities, is upon that\r\naccount capable of being qualified by the word \u003ci\u003egreat\u003c/i\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf the original invention of nouns adjective would be attended with\r\nso much difficulty, that of prepositions would be accompanied with yet\r\nmore. Every preposition, as I have already observed, denotes some\r\nrelation considered in concrete with the co-relative object. The\r\npreposition \u003ci\u003eabove\u003c/i\u003e, for example, denotes the relation of\r\nsuperiority, not in abstract, as it is expressed by the word\r\n\u003ci\u003esuperiority\u003c/i\u003e, but in concrete with some co-relative object. In\r\nthis phrase, for example, \u003ci\u003ethe tree above the cave\u003c/i\u003e, the word\r\n\u003ci\u003eabove\u003c/i\u003e expresses a certain relation between the \u003ci\u003etree\u003c/i\u003e and\r\nthe \u003ci\u003ecave\u003c/i\u003e, and it expresses this relation in concrete with the\r\nco-relative object, \u003ci\u003ethe cave\u003c/i\u003e. A preposition always requires, in\r\norder to complete the sense, some other word to come after it; as may\r\nbe observed in this particular instance. Now, I say, the original\r\ninvention of such words would require a yet greater effort of\r\nabstraction and generalization, than that of nouns adjective. First of\r\nall, the relation is, in itself, a more metaphysical object than a\r\nquality. Nobody can be at a loss to explain what is meant by a\r\nquality; but few people will find themselves able to express, very\r\ndistinctly, what is understood by a relation. Qualities are almost\r\nalways the objects of our external senses; relations never are. No\r\nwonder therefore, that the one set of objects should be so much more\r\ncomprehensible than the other. Secondly, though prepositions always\r\nexpress the relation which they stand for, in concrete with the\r\nco-relative object, they could not have \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page311\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e311\u003c/span\u003e originally been formed\r\nwithout a considerable effort of abstraction. A preposition denotes\r\na relation, and nothing but a relation. But before men could institute\r\na word, which signified a relation, and nothing but a relation, they\r\nmust have been able, in some measure, to consider this relation\r\nabstractedly from the related objects; since the idea of those objects\r\ndoes not, in any respect, enter into the signification of the\r\npreposition. The invention of such a word, therefore, must have\r\nrequired a considerable degree of abstraction. Thirdly, a preposition\r\nis from its nature a general word, which, from its very first\r\ninstitution, must have been considered as equally applicable to denote\r\nany other similar relation. The man who first invented the word\r\n\u003ci\u003eabove\u003c/i\u003e, must not only have distinguished, in some measure, the\r\nrelation of \u003ci\u003esuperiority\u003c/i\u003e from the objects which were so related,\r\nbut he must also have distinguished this relation from other\r\nrelations, such as, from the relation of \u003ci\u003einferiority\u003c/i\u003e denoted by\r\nthe word \u003ci\u003ebelow\u003c/i\u003e, from the relation of \u003ci\u003ejuxta-position\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nexpressed by the word \u003ci\u003ebeside\u003c/i\u003e, and the like. He must have\r\nconceived this word, therefore, as expressive of a particular sort or\r\nspecies of relation distinct from every other, which could not be done\r\nwithout a considerable effort of comparison and generalization.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhatever were the difficulties, therefore, which embarrassed the\r\nfirst invention of nouns adjective, the same, and many more, must have\r\nembarrassed that of prepositions. If mankind, therefore, in the first\r\nformation of languages, seem to have, for some time, evaded the\r\nnecessity of nouns adjective, by varying the termination of the names\r\nof substances, according as these varied in some of their most\r\nimportant qualities, they would much more find themselves under the\r\nnecessity of evading, by some similar contrivance, the yet more\r\ndifficult invention of prepositions. The different cases in the\r\nancient languages is a contrivance of precisely the same kind. The\r\ngenitive and dative cases, in Greek and Latin, evidently supply the\r\nplace of the prepositions; and by a variation in the noun substantive,\r\nwhich stands for the co-relative term, express the relation which\r\nsubsists between what is denoted by that noun substantive, and what is\r\nexpressed by some other word in the sentence. In these expressions,\r\nfor example, \u003ci\u003efructus arboris\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ethe fruit of the tree\u003c/i\u003e;\r\n\u003ci\u003esacer Herculi\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003esacred to Hercules\u003c/i\u003e; the variations made\r\nin the co-relative words, arbor and Hercules, express the same\r\nrelations which are expressed in English by the prepositions \u003ci\u003eof\u003c/i\u003e\r\nand \u003ci\u003eto\u003c/i\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo express a relation in this manner, did not require any effort of\r\nabstraction. It was not here expressed by a peculiar word denoting\r\nrelation and nothing but relation, but by a variation upon the\r\nco-relative term. It was expressed here, as it appears in nature, not\r\nas something separated and detached, but as thoroughly mixed and\r\nblended with the co-relative object.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo express relation in this manner, did not require any effort of\r\ngeneralization. The words \u003ci\u003earboris\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHerculi\u003c/i\u003e, while\r\nthey involve in \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page312\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e312\u003c/span\u003e their signification the same relation expressed\r\nby the English prepositions \u003ci\u003eof\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eto\u003c/i\u003e, are not, like\r\nthose prepositions, general words, which can be applied to express the\r\nsame relation between whatever other objects it might be observed to\r\nsubsist.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo express relation in this manner did not require any effort of\r\ncomparison. The words \u003ci\u003earboris\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHerculi\u003c/i\u003e are not\r\ngeneral words intended to denote a particular species of relations\r\nwhich the inventors of those expressions meant, in consequence of some\r\nsort of comparison, to separate and distinguish from every other sort\r\nof relation. The example, indeed, of this contrivance would soon\r\nprobably be followed, and whoever had occasion to express a similar\r\nrelation between any other objects would be very apt to do it by\r\nmaking a similar variation on the name of the co-relative object.\r\nThis, I say, would probably, or rather certainly happen; but it would\r\nhappen without any intention or foresight in those who first set the\r\nexample, and who never meant to establish any general rule. The\r\ngeneral rule would establish itself insensibly, and by slow degrees,\r\nin consequence of that love of analogy and similarity of sound, which\r\nis the foundation of by far the greater part of the rules of\r\ngrammar.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo express relation, therefore, by a variation in the name of the\r\nco-relative object, requiring neither abstraction, nor generalization,\r\nnor comparison of any kind, would, at first, be much more natural and\r\neasy, than to express it by those general words called prepositions,\r\nof of which the first invention must have demanded some degree of all\r\nthose operations.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe number of cases is different in different languages. There are\r\nfive in the Greek, six in the Latin, and there are said to be ten in\r\nthe Armenian language. It must have naturally happened that there\r\nshould be a greater or a smaller number of cases, according as in the\r\nterminations of nouns substantive the first formers of any language\r\nhappened to have established a greater or a smaller number of\r\nvariations, in order to express the different relations they had\r\noccasion to take notice of, before the invention of those more general\r\nand abstract prepositions which could supply their place.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is, perhaps, worth while to observe that those prepositions,\r\nwhich in modern languages hold the place of the ancient cases, are, of\r\nall others, the most general, and abstract, and metaphysical; and of\r\nconsequence, would probably be the last invented. Ask any man of\r\ncommon acuteness, What relation is expressed by the preposition\r\n\u003ci\u003eabove\u003c/i\u003e? He will readily answer, that of \u003ci\u003esuperiority\u003c/i\u003e. By\r\nthe preposition \u003ci\u003ebelow\u003c/i\u003e? He will as quickly reply that of\r\n\u003ci\u003einferiority\u003c/i\u003e. But ask him, what relation is expressed by the\r\npreposition \u003ci\u003eof\u003c/i\u003e, and, if he has not beforehand employed his\r\nthoughts a good deal upon these subjects, you may safely allow him a\r\nweek to consider of his answer. The prepositions \u003ci\u003eabove\u003c/i\u003e and\r\n\u003ci\u003ebelow\u003c/i\u003e do not denote any of the relations expressed by the cases\r\nin the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page313\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e313\u003c/span\u003e ancient languages. But the preposition \u003ci\u003eof\u003c/i\u003e, denotes the\r\nsame relation, which is in them expressed by the genitive case; and\r\nwhich, it is easy to observe, is of a very metaphysical nature. The\r\npreposition \u003ci\u003eof\u003c/i\u003e, denotes relation in general, considered in\r\nconcrete with the co-relative object. It marks that the noun\r\nsubstantive which goes before it, is somehow or other related to that\r\nwhich comes after it, but without in any respect ascertaining, as is\r\ndone by the preposition \u003ci\u003eabove\u003c/i\u003e, what is the peculiar nature of\r\nthat relation. We often apply it, therefore, to express the most\r\nopposite relations; because, the most opposite relations agree so far\r\nthat each of them comprehends in it the general idea or nature of a\r\nrelation. We say, \u003ci\u003ethe father of the son\u003c/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003ethe son of the\r\nfather\u003c/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003ethe fir-trees of the forest\u003c/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003ethe forest of\r\nthe fir-trees\u003c/i\u003e. The relation in which the father stands to the son\r\nis, it is evident, a quite opposite relation to that in which the son\r\nstands to the father; that in which the parts stand to the whole, is\r\nquite opposite to that in which the whole stands to the parts. The\r\nword \u003ci\u003eof\u003c/i\u003e, however, serves very well to denote all those\r\nrelations, because in itself it denotes no particular relation, but\r\nonly relation in general; and so far as any particular relation is\r\ncollected from such expressions, it is inferred by the mind, not from\r\nthe preposition itself, but from the nature and arrangement of the\r\nsubstantives, between which the preposition is placed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat I have said concerning the preposition \u003ci\u003eof\u003c/i\u003e, may in some\r\nmeasure be applied to the prepositions \u003ci\u003eto\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003efor\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003ewith\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eby\u003c/i\u003e, and to whatever other prepositions are made\r\nuse of in modern languages, to supply the place of the ancient cases.\r\nThey all of them express very abstract and metaphysical relations,\r\nwhich any man, who takes the trouble to try it, will find it extremely\r\ndifficult to express by nouns substantive, in the same manner as we\r\nmay express the relation denoted by the preposition \u003ci\u003eabove\u003c/i\u003e, by\r\nthe noun substantive \u003ci\u003esuperiority\u003c/i\u003e. They all of them, however,\r\nexpress some specific relation, and are, consequently, none of them so\r\nabstract as the preposition \u003ci\u003eof\u003c/i\u003e, which may be regarded as by far\r\nthe most metaphysical of all prepositions. The prepositions,\r\ntherefore, which are capable of supplying the place of the ancient\r\ncases, being more abstract than the other prepositions, would\r\nnaturally be of more difficult invention. The relations at the same\r\ntime which those prepositions express, are, of all others, those which\r\nwe have most frequent occasion to mention. The prepositions\r\n\u003ci\u003eabove\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ebelow\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003enear\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ewithin\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003ewithout\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eagainst\u003c/i\u003e, \u0026amp;c., are much more rarely made use of,\r\nin modern languages, than the prepositions \u003ci\u003eof\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eto\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003efor\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ewith\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003efrom\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eby\u003c/i\u003e. A preposition of the\r\nformer kind will not occur twice in a page; we can scarce compose a\r\nsingle sentence without the assistance of one or two of the latter. If\r\nthese latter prepositions, therefore, which supply the place of the\r\ncases, would be of such difficult invention on account of their\r\nabstractedness, some expedient to supply their place must have been of\r\nindispensable necessity, on account of the frequent occasion \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page314\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e314\u003c/span\u003e\r\nwhich men have to take notice of the relations which they denote. But\r\nthere is no expedient so obvious, as that of varying the termination\r\nof one of the principal words.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is, perhaps, unnecessary to observe, that there are some of the\r\ncases in the ancient languages, which, for particular reasons, cannot\r\nbe represented by any prepositions. These are the nominative,\r\naccusative, and vocative cases. In those modern languages, which do\r\nnot admit of any such variety in the terminations of their nouns\r\nsubstantive, the correspondent relations are expressed by the place of\r\nthe words, and by the order and construction of the sentence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs men have frequently occasion to make mention of multitudes as\r\nwell as of single objects, it became necessary that they should have\r\nsome method of expressing number. Number may be expressed either by a\r\nparticular word, expressing number in general, such as the words\r\n\u003ci\u003emany\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003emore\u003c/i\u003e, \u0026amp;c., or by some variation upon the words\r\nwhich express the things numbered. It is this last expedient which\r\nmankind would probably have recourse to, in the infancy of language.\r\nNumber, considered in general, without relation to any particular set\r\nof objects numbered, is one of the most abstract and metaphysical\r\nideas, which the mind of man is capable of forming; and, consequently,\r\nis not an idea, which would readily occur to rude mortals, who were\r\njust beginning to form a language. They would naturally, therefore,\r\ndistinguish when they talked of a single, and when they talked of a\r\nmultitude of objects, not by any metaphysical adjectives, such as the\r\nEnglish \u003ci\u003ea\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ean\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003emany\u003c/i\u003e, but by a variation upon the\r\ntermination of the word which signified the objects numbered. Hence\r\nthe origin of the singular and plural numbers, in all the ancient\r\nlanguages; and the same distinction has likewise been retained in all\r\nthe modern languages, at least, in the greater part of the words.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAll primitive and uncompounded languages seem to have a dual, as\r\nwell as a plural number. This is the case of the Greek, and I am told\r\nof the Hebrew, of the Gothic, and of many other languages. In the rude\r\nbeginnings of society, \u003ci\u003eone\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003etwo\u003c/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003emore\u003c/i\u003e, might\r\npossibly be all the numeral distinctions which mankind would have any\r\noccasion to take notice of. These they would find it more natural to\r\nexpress, by a variation upon every particular noun substantive, than\r\nby such general and abstract words as \u003ci\u003eone\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003etwo\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003ethree\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003efour\u003c/i\u003e, \u0026amp;c. These words, though custom has rendered\r\nthem familiar to us, express, perhaps, the most subtile and refined\r\nabstractions, which the mind of man is capable of forming. Let any one\r\nconsider within himself, for example, what he means by the word\r\n\u003ci\u003ethree\u003c/i\u003e, which signifies neither three shillings, nor three\r\npence, nor three men, nor three horses, but three in general; and he\r\nwill easily satisfy himself that a word, which denotes so very\r\nmetaphysical an abstraction, could not be either a very obvious or a\r\nvery early invention. I have read of some savage nations, whose\r\nlanguage \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page315\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e315\u003c/span\u003e was capable of expressing no more than the three first\r\nnumeral distinctions. But whether it expressed those distinctions by\r\nthree general words, or by variations upon the nouns substantive,\r\ndenoting the things numbered, I do not remember to have met with any\r\nthing which could clearly determine.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs all the same relations which subsist between single, may\r\nlikewise subsist between numerous objects, it is evident there would\r\nbe occasion for the same number of cases in the dual and in the\r\nplural, as in the singular number. Hence the intricacy and complexness\r\nof the declensions in all the ancient languages. In the Greek there\r\nare five cases in each of the three numbers, consequently fifteen in\r\nall.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs nouns adjective, in the ancient languages, varied their\r\nterminations according to the gender of the substantive to which they\r\nwere applied, so did they likewise according to the case and the\r\nnumber. Every noun adjective in the Greek language, therefore, having\r\nthree genders, and three numbers, and five cases in each number, may\r\nbe considered as having five and forty different variations. The first\r\nformers of language seem to have varied the termination of the\r\nadjective, according to the case and the number of the substantive,\r\nfor the same reason which made them vary it according to the gender;\r\nthe love of analogy, and of a certain regularity of sound. In the\r\nsignification of adjectives there is neither case nor number, and the\r\nmeaning of such words is always precisely the same, notwithstanding\r\nall the variety of termination under which they appear. \u003ci\u003eMagnus\r\nvir\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003emagni viri\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003emagnorum virorum\u003c/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003ea great\r\nman\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eof a great man\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eof great men\u003c/i\u003e; in all these\r\nexpressions the words, \u003ci\u003emagnus\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003emagni\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003emagnorum\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nas well as the word \u003ci\u003egreat\u003c/i\u003e, have precisely one and the same\r\nsignification, though the substantives to which they are applied have\r\nnot. The difference of termination in the noun adjective is\r\naccompanied with no sort of difference in the meaning. An adjective\r\ndenotes the qualification of a noun substantive. But the different\r\nrelations in which that noun substantive may occasionally stand, can\r\nmake no sort of difference upon its qualification. If the declensions\r\nof the ancient languages are so very complex, their conjugations are\r\ninfinitely more so. And the complexness of the one is founded upon the\r\nsame principle with that of the other, the difficulty of forming, in\r\nthe beginnings of language, abstract and general terms.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eVerbs must necessarily have been coëval with the very first\r\nattempts towards the formation of language. No affirmation can be\r\nexpressed without the assistance of some verb. We never speak but in\r\norder to express our opinion that something either is or is not. But\r\nthe word denoting this event, or this matter of fact, which is the\r\nsubject of our affirmation, must always be a verb.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eImpersonal verbs, which express in one word a complete event, which\r\npreserve in the expression that perfect simplicity and unity, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page316\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e316\u003c/span\u003e\r\nwhich there always is in the object and in the idea, and which suppose\r\nno abstraction, or metaphysical division of the event into its several\r\nconstituent members of subject and attribute, would, in all\r\nprobability, be the species of verbs first invented. The verbs\r\n\u003ci\u003epluit\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eit rains\u003c/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eningit\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eit snows\u003c/i\u003e;\r\n\u003ci\u003etonat\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eit thunders\u003c/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003elucet\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eit is day\u003c/i\u003e;\r\n\u003ci\u003eturbatur\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ethere is a confusion\u003c/i\u003e, \u0026amp;c., each of them\r\nexpress a complete affirmation, the whole of an event, with that\r\nperfect simplicity and unity with which the mind conceives it in\r\nnature. On the contrary, the phrases, \u003ci\u003eAlexander ambulat\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003eAlexander walks\u003c/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003ePetrus sedet\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ePeter sits\u003c/i\u003e, divide\r\nthe event, as it were, into two parts, the person or subject, and the\r\nattribute, or matter of fact, affirmed of that subject. But in nature,\r\nthe idea or conception of Alexander walking, is as perfectly and\r\ncompletely one simple conception, as that of Alexander not walking.\r\nThe division of this event, therefore, into two parts, is altogether\r\nartificial, and is the effect of the imperfection of language, which,\r\nupon this, as upon many other occasions, supplies, by a number of\r\nwords, the want of one, which could express at once the whole matter\r\nof fact that was meant to be affirmed. Every body must observe how\r\nmuch more simplicity there is in the natural expression, \u003ci\u003epluit\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nthan in the more artificial expressions, \u003ci\u003eimber decidit\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ethe\r\nrain falls\u003c/i\u003e; or \u003ci\u003etempestas est pluvia\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ethe weather is\r\nrainy\u003c/i\u003e. In these two last expressions, the simple event, or matter\r\nof fact, is artificially split and divided in the one, into two; in\r\nthe other, into three parts. In each of them it is expressed by a sort\r\nof grammatical circumlocution, of which the significancy is founded\r\nupon a certain metaphysical analysis of the component parts of the\r\nidea expressed by the word \u003ci\u003epluit\u003c/i\u003e. The first verbs, therefore,\r\nperhaps even the first words, made use of in the beginnings of\r\nlanguage, would in all probability be such impersonal verbs. It is\r\nobserved accordingly, I am told, by the Hebrew grammarians, that the\r\nradical words of their language, from which all the others are\r\nderived, are all of them verbs, and impersonal verbs.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is easy to conceive how, in the progress of language, those\r\nimpersonal verbs should become personal. Let us suppose, for example,\r\nthat the word \u003ci\u003evenit\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eit comes\u003c/i\u003e, was originally an\r\nimpersonal verb, and that it denoted, not the coming of something in\r\ngeneral, as at present, but the coming of a particular object, such as\r\n\u003ci\u003ethe lion\u003c/i\u003e. The first savage inventors of language, we shall\r\nsuppose, when they observed the approach of this terrible animal, were\r\naccustomed to cry out to one another, \u003ci\u003evenit\u003c/i\u003e, that is, \u003ci\u003ethe\r\nlion comes\u003c/i\u003e; and that this word thus expressed a complete event,\r\nwithout the assistance of any other. Afterwards, when, on the further\r\nprogress of language, they had begun to give names to particular\r\nsubstances, whenever they observed the approach of any other terrible\r\nobject, they would naturally join the name of that object to the word\r\n\u003ci\u003evenit\u003c/i\u003e, and cry out, \u003ci\u003evenit ursus\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003evenit lupus\u003c/i\u003e. By\r\ndegrees the word venit would thus come to signify the coming of any\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page317\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e317\u003c/span\u003e terrible object, and not merely the coming of the lion. It\r\nwould, now, therefore, express, not the coming of a particular object,\r\nbut the coming of an object of a particular kind. Having become more\r\ngeneral in its signification, it could no longer represent any\r\nparticular distinct event by itself, and without the assistance of a\r\nnoun substantive, which might serve to ascertain and determine its\r\nsignification. It would now, therefore, have become a personal,\r\ninstead of an impersonal verb. We may easily conceive how, in the\r\nfurther progress of society, it might still grow more general in its\r\nsignification, and come to signify, as at present, the approach of any\r\nthing whatever, whether it were good, bad, or indifferent.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is probably in some such manner as this, that almost all verbs\r\nhave become personal, and that mankind have learned by degrees to\r\nsplit and divide almost every event into a great number of\r\nmetaphysical parts, expressed by the different parts of speech,\r\nvariously combined in the different members of every phrase and\r\nsentence.\u003ca href=\"#FootnoteB1\" id=\"FnAnchorB1\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e1\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e The same sort of progress seems to have been made in the\r\nart of speaking as in the art of writing. When mankind first began to\r\nattempt to express their ideas by writing, every character represented\r\na whole word. But the number of words being almost infinite, the\r\nmemory found itself quite loaded and oppressed by the multitude of\r\ncharacters which it was obliged to retain. Necessity taught them,\r\ntherefore, to divide words into their elements, and to invent\r\ncharacters which should represent, not the words themselves, but the\r\nelements of which they were composed. In consequence of this\r\ninvention, every particular word came to be represented, not by one\r\ncharacter, but by a multitude of characters; and the expression of it\r\nin writing became much more intricate and complex than before. But\r\nthough particular words were thus represented by a greater number of\r\ncharacters, the whole language was expressed by a much smaller, and\r\nabout four and twenty letters were found capable of supplying the\r\nplace of that immense multitude of characters, which were requisite\r\nbefore. In the same manner, in the beginnings of language, men seem to\r\nhave attempted to express every particular event, which they had\r\noccasion to take notice of, by a particular word, which expressed at\r\nonce the whole of that event. But as the number of words must, in this\r\ncase, have become really infinite in consequence of the really\r\ninfinite variety of events, men found themselves partly compelled by\r\nnecessity, and partly conducted by nature, to divide \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page318\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e318\u003c/span\u003e every event\r\ninto what may be called its metaphysical elements, and to institute\r\nwords, which should denote not so much the events, as the elements of\r\nwhich they were composed. The expression of every particular event,\r\nbecame in this manner more intricate and complex, but the whole system\r\nof the language became more coherent, more connected, more easily\r\nretained and comprehended.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"FootnoteB1\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchorB1\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e1\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e As the far greater part of verbs express, at present,\r\nnot an event, but the attribute of an event, and, consequently,\r\nrequire a subject, or nominative case, to complete their\r\nsignification, some grammarians, not having attended to this progress\r\nof nature, and being desirous to make their common rules quite\r\nuniversal, and without any exception, have insisted that all verbs\r\nrequired a nominative, either expressed or understood; and have,\r\naccordingly, put themselves to the torture to find some awkward\r\nnominatives to those few verbs which still expressing a complete\r\nevent, plainly admit of none. \u003ci\u003ePluit\u003c/i\u003e, for example, according to\r\n\u003ci\u003eSanctius\u003c/i\u003e, means \u003ci\u003epluvia pluit\u003c/i\u003e, in English, \u003ci\u003ethe rain\r\nrains\u003c/i\u003e. See Sanctii Minerva, 1. 3. c. \u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eⅠ\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen verbs, from being originally impersonal, had thus, by the\r\ndivision of the event into its metaphysical elements, become personal\r\nit is natural to suppose that they would first be made use of in the\r\nthird person singular. No verb is ever used impersonally in our\r\nlanguage nor, so far as I know, in any other modern tongue. But in the\r\nancient languages, whenever any verb is used impersonally, it is\r\nalways in the third person singular. The termination of those verbs,\r\nwhich are still always impersonal, is constantly the same with that of\r\nthe third person singular of personal verbs. The consideration of\r\nthese circumstances, joined to the naturalness of the thing itself,\r\nmay therefore serve to convince us that verbs first became personal in\r\nwhat is now called the third person singular.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut as the event, or matter of fact, which is expressed by a verb,\r\nmay be affirmed either of the person who speaks, or of the person who\r\nis spoken to, as well as of, some third person or object, it becomes\r\nnecessary to fall upon some method of expressing these two peculiar\r\nrelations of the event. In the English language this is commonly done,\r\nby prefixing, what are called the personal pronouns, to the general\r\nword which expresses the event affirmed. \u003ci\u003eI came\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eyou\r\ncame\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003eit came\u003c/i\u003e; in these phrases the event of\r\nhaving come is, in the first, affirmed of the speaker; in the second,\r\nof the person spoken to; in the third, of some other person or object.\r\nThe first formers of language, it may be imagined, might have done the\r\nsame thing, and prefixing in the same manner the two first personal\r\npronouns, to the same termination of the verb, which expressed the\r\nthird person singular, might have said \u003ci\u003eego venit\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003etu\r\nvenit\u003c/i\u003e, as well as \u003ci\u003eille\u003c/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003eillud venit\u003c/i\u003e. And I make no\r\ndoubt but they would have done so, if at the time when they had first\r\noccasion to express these relations of the verb there had been any\r\nsuch words as either \u003ci\u003eego\u003c/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003etu\u003c/i\u003e in their language. But in\r\nthis early period of the language, which we are now endeavouring to\r\ndescribe, it is extremely improbable that any such words would be\r\nknown. Though custom has now rendered them familiar to us, they, both\r\nof them, express ideas extremely metaphysical and abstract. The word\r\n\u003ci\u003eI\u003c/i\u003e, for example, is a word of a very particular species.\r\nWhatever speaks may denote itself by this personal pronoun. The word\r\n\u003ci\u003eI\u003c/i\u003e, therefore, is a general word, capable of being predicated,\r\nas the logicians say, of an infinite variety of objects. It differs,\r\nhowever, from all other general words in this respect; that the \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from object\"\u003eobjects\u003c/span\u003e\r\nof which it may be predicated, do not form any particular species of\r\nobjects distinguished from all others. The \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page319\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e319\u003c/span\u003e word \u003ci\u003eI\u003c/i\u003e, does\r\nnot, like the word \u003ci\u003eman\u003c/i\u003e, denote a particular class of objects\r\nseparated from all others by peculiar qualities of their own. It is\r\nfar from being the name of a species, but, on the contrary, whenever\r\nit is made use of, it always denotes a precise individual, the\r\nparticular person who then speaks. It may be said to be, at once, both\r\nwhat the logicians call, a singular, and what they call, a common\r\nterm; and to join, in its signification the seemingly opposite\r\nqualities of the most precise individuality and the most extensive\r\ngeneralization. This word, therefore, expressing so very abstract and\r\nmetaphysical an idea, would not easily or readily occur to the first\r\nformers of language. What are called the personal pronouns, it may be\r\nobserved, are among the last words of which children learn to make\r\nuse. A child, speaking of itself, says, \u003ci\u003eBilly walks\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBilly\r\nsits\u003c/i\u003e, \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from insteads\"\u003einstead\u003c/span\u003e of \u003ci\u003eI walk\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eI sit\u003c/i\u003e. As in the\r\nbeginnings of language, therefore, mankind seem to have evaded the\r\ninvention of at least the more abstract prepositions, and to have\r\nexpressed the same relations which these now stand for, by varying the\r\ntermination of the co-relative term, so they likewise would naturally\r\nattempt to evade the necessity of inventing those more abstract\r\npronouns by varying the termination of the verb, according as the\r\nevent which it expressed was intended to be affirmed of the first,\r\nsecond, or third person. This seems, accordingly, to be the universal\r\npractice of all the ancient languages. In Latin, \u003ci\u003eveni\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003evenisti\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003evenit\u003c/i\u003e, sufficiently denote, without any other\r\naddition, the different events expressed by the English phrases, \u003ci\u003eI\r\ncame\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eyou came\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003eit came\u003c/i\u003e. The verb\r\nwould, for the same reason, vary its termination, according as the\r\nevent was intended to be affirmed of the first, second, or third\r\npersons plural; and what is expressed by the English phrases, \u003ci\u003ewe\r\ncame\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eye came\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ethey came\u003c/i\u003e, would be denoted by the\r\nLatin words, \u003ci\u003evenimus\u003c/i\u003e, \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from venisitis\"\u003e\u003ci\u003evenistis\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/span\u003e, \u003ci\u003eveneunt\u003c/i\u003e. Those\r\nprimitive languages, too, which upon account of the difficulty of\r\ninventing numeral names, had introduced a dual, as well as a plural\r\nnumber, into the declension of their nouns substantive, would\r\nprobably, from analogy, do the same thing in the conjugations of\r\ntheir verbs. And thus in all original languages, we might expect to\r\nfind, at least six, if not eight or nine variations, in the\r\ntermination of every verb, according as the event which it denoted was\r\nmeant to be affirmed of the first, second, or third persons singular,\r\ndual, or plural. These variations again being repeated, along with\r\nothers, through all its different tenses, through all its different\r\nmodes, and through all its different voices, must necessarily have\r\nrendered their conjugations still more intricate and complex than\r\ntheir declensions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eLanguage would probably have continued upon this footing in all\r\ncountries, nor would ever have grown more simple in its declensions\r\nand conjugations, had it not become more complex in its composition,\r\nin consequence of the mixture of several languages with one another,\r\noccasioned by the mixture of different nations. As long as any \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page320\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e320\u003c/span\u003e\r\nlanguage was spoke by those only who learned it in their infancy, the\r\nintricacy of its declensions and conjugations could occasion no great\r\nembarrassment. The far greater part of those who had occasion to speak\r\nit, had acquired it at so very early a period of their lives, so\r\ninsensibly and by such slow degrees, that they were scarce ever\r\nsensible of the difficulty. But when two nations came to be mixed with\r\none another, either by conquest or migration, the case would be very\r\ndifferent. Each nation, in order to make itself intelligible to those\r\nwith whom it was under the necessity of conversing, would be obliged\r\nto learn the language of the other. The greater part of individuals\r\ntoo, learning the new language, not by art, or by remounting to its\r\nrudiments and first principle, but by rote, and by what they commonly\r\nheard in conversation, would be extremely perplexed by the intricacy\r\nof its declensions and conjugations. They would endeavour, therefore,\r\nto supply their ignorance of these, by whatever shift the language\r\ncould afford them. Their ignorance of the declensions they would\r\nnaturally supply by the use of prepositions; and a Lombard, who was\r\nattempting to speak Latin, and wanted to express that such a person\r\nwas a citizen of Rome, or a benefactor to Rome, if he happened not to\r\nbe acquainted with the genitive and dative cases of the word\r\n\u003ci\u003eRoma\u003c/i\u003e, would naturally express himself by prefixing the\r\nprepositions \u003ci\u003ead\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003ede\u003c/i\u003e to the nominative; and instead of\r\n\u003ci\u003eRomæ\u003c/i\u003e, would say, \u003ci\u003ead Roma\u003c/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003ede Roma\u003c/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eAl\r\nRoma\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003edi Roma\u003c/i\u003e, accordingly, is the manner in which the\r\npresent Italians, the descendants of the ancient Lombards and Romans,\r\nexpress this and all other similar relations. And in this manner\r\nprepositions seem to have been introduced, in the room of the ancient\r\ndeclensions. The same alteration has, I am informed, been produced\r\nupon the Greek language, since the taking of Constantinople by the\r\nTurks. The words are, in a great measure, the same as before; but the\r\ngrammar is entirely lost, prepositions having come in the place of the\r\nold declensions. This change is undoubtedly a simplification of the\r\nlanguage, in point of rudiments and principle. It introduces, instead\r\nof a great variety of declensions, one universal declension, which is\r\nthe same in every word, of whatever gender, number, or\r\ntermination.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA similar expedient enables men, in the situation above mentioned,\r\nto get rid of almost the whole intricacy of their conjugations. There\r\nis in every language a verb, known by the name of the substantive\r\nverb; in Latin, \u003ci\u003esum\u003c/i\u003e; in English, \u003ci\u003eI am\u003c/i\u003e. This verb denotes\r\nnot the existence of any particular event, but existence in general.\r\nIt is, upon that account, the most abstract and metaphysical of all\r\nverbs; and, consequently, could by no means be a word of early\r\ninvention. When it came to be invented, however, as it had all the\r\ntenses and modes of any other verb, by being joined with the passive\r\nparticiple, it was capable of supplying the place of the whole passive\r\nvoice, and of rendering this part of their conjugations as simple and\r\nuniform as the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page321\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e321\u003c/span\u003e use of prepositions had rendered their\r\ndeclensions. A Lombard, who wanted to say, \u003ci\u003eI am loved\u003c/i\u003e, but\r\ncould not recollect the word \u003ci\u003eamor\u003c/i\u003e, naturally endeavoured to\r\nsupply his ignorance, by saying \u003ci\u003eego sum amatus\u003c/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eIo sono\r\namato\u003c/i\u003e, is at this day the Italian expression, which corresponds to\r\nthe English phrase above mentioned.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere is another verb, which, in the same manner, runs through all\r\nlanguages, and which is distinguished by the name of the possessive\r\nverb; in Latin, \u003ci\u003ehabeo\u003c/i\u003e; in English, \u003ci\u003eI have\u003c/i\u003e. This verb,\r\nlikewise, denotes an event of an extremely abstract and metaphysical\r\nnature, and, consequently, cannot be supposed to have been a word of\r\nthe earliest invention. When it came to be invented, however, by being\r\napplied to the passive participle, it was capable of supplying a great\r\npart of the active voice, as the substantive verb had supplied the\r\nwhole of the passive. A Lombard, who wanted to say, \u003ci\u003eI had\r\nloved\u003c/i\u003e, but could not recollect the word \u003ci\u003eamaveram\u003c/i\u003e, would\r\nendeavour to supply the place of it, by saying either \u003ci\u003eego habebam\r\namatum\u003c/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003eego habui amatum\u003c/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eIo avevá amato\u003c/i\u003e, or \u003ci\u003eIo\r\nebbi amato\u003c/i\u003e, are the correspondent Italian expressions at this day.\r\nAnd thus upon the intermixture of different nations with one another,\r\nthe conjugations, by means of different auxiliary verbs, were made to\r\napproach the simplicity and uniformity of the declensions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn general it may be laid down for a maxim, that the more simple\r\nany language is in its composition, the more complex it must be in its\r\ndeclensions and its conjugations; and on the contrary, the more simple\r\nit is in its declensions and its conjugations, the more complex it\r\nmust be in its composition.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Greek seems to be, in a great measure, a simple, uncompounded\r\nlanguage, formed from the primitive jargon of those wandering savages,\r\nthe ancient Hellenians and Pelasgians, from whom the Greek nation is\r\nsaid to have been descended. All the words in the Greek language are\r\nderived from about three hundred primitives, a plain evidence that the\r\nGreeks formed their language almost entirely among themselves, and\r\nthat when they had occasion for a new word, they were not accustomed,\r\nas we are, to borrow it from some foreign language, but to form it,\r\neither by composition or derivation, from some other word or words, in\r\ntheir own. The declensions and conjugations, therefore, of the Greek\r\nare much more complex than those of any other European language with\r\nwhich I am acquainted.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Latin is a composition of the Greek and of the ancient Tuscan\r\nlanguages. Its declensions and conjugations accordingly are much less\r\ncomplex than those of the Greek; it has dropped the dual number in\r\nboth. Its verbs have no optative mood distinguished by any peculiar\r\ntermination. They have but one future. They have no aorist distinct\r\nfrom the preterit-perfect; they have no middle voice; and even many of\r\ntheir tenses in the passive voice are eked out, in the same manner as\r\nin the modern languages, by the help of the substantive verb joined to\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page322\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e322\u003c/span\u003e the passive participle. In both the voices, the number of\r\ninfinitives and participles is much smaller in the Latin than in the\r\nGreek.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe French and Italian languages are each of them compounded, the\r\none of the Latin and the language of the ancient Franks, the other of\r\nthe same Latin and the language of the ancient Lombards. As they are\r\nboth of them, therefore, more complex in their composition than the\r\nLatin, so are they likewise more simple in their declensions and\r\nconjugations. With regard to their declensions, they have both of them\r\nlost their cases altogether; and with regard to their conjugations,\r\nthey have both of them lost the whole of the passive, and some part of\r\nthe active voices of their verbs. The want of the passive voice they\r\nsupply entirely by the substantive verb joined to the passive\r\nparticiple; and they make out part of the active, in the same manner,\r\nby the help of the possessive verb and the same passive\r\nparticiple.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe English is compounded of the French and the ancient Saxon\r\nlanguages. The French was introduced into Britain by the Norman\r\nconquest, and continued, till the time of Edward Ⅲ. to be the sole\r\nlanguage of the law as well as the principal language of the court.\r\nThe English, which came to be spoken afterwards, and which continues\r\nto be spoken now, is a mixture of the ancient Saxon and this Norman\r\nFrench. As the English language, therefore, is more complex in its\r\ncomposition than either the French or the Italian, so is it likewise\r\nmore simple in its declensions and conjugations. Those two languages\r\nretain, at least, a part of the distinction of genders, and their\r\nadjectives vary their termination according as they are applied to a\r\nmasculine or to a feminine substantive. But there is no such\r\ndistinction in the English language, whose adjectives admit of no\r\nvariety of termination. The French and Italian languages have, both of\r\nthem, the remains of a conjugation; and all those tenses of the active\r\nvoice, which cannot be expressed by the possessive verb joined to the\r\npassive participle, as well as many of those which can, are, in those\r\nlanguages, marked by varying the termination of the principal verb.\r\nBut almost all those other tenses are in the English eked out by other\r\nauxiliary verbs, so that there is in this language scarce even the\r\nremains of a conjugation. \u003ci\u003eI love\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eI loved\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003eloving\u003c/i\u003e, are all the varieties of termination which the greater\r\npart of the English verbs admit of. All the different modifications of\r\nmeaning, which cannot be expressed by any of those three terminations,\r\nmust be made out by different auxiliary verbs joined to some one or\r\nother of them. Two auxiliary verbs supply all the deficiencies of the\r\nFrench and Italian conjugations; it requires more than half a dozen to\r\nsupply those of the English, which, besides the substantive and\r\npossessive verbs, makes use of \u003ci\u003edo\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003edid\u003c/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003ewill\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003ewould\u003c/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eshall\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eshould\u003c/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003ecan\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ecould\u003c/i\u003e;\r\n\u003ci\u003emay\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003emight\u003c/i\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is in this manner that language becomes more simple in its\r\nrudiments and principles, just in proportion as it grows more complex\r\nin \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page323\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e323\u003c/span\u003e its composition, and the same thing has happened in it, which\r\ncommonly happens with regard to mechanical engines. All machines are\r\ngenerally, when first invented, extremely complex in their principles,\r\nand there is often a particular principle of motion for every\r\nparticular movement which it is intended they should perform.\r\nSucceeding improvers observe, that one principle may be so applied as\r\nto produce several of those movements; and thus the machine becomes\r\ngradually more and more simple, and produces its effects with fewer\r\nwheels, and fewer principles of motion. In language, in the same\r\nmanner, every case of every noun, and every tense of every verb, was\r\noriginally expressed by a particular distinct word, which served for\r\nthis purpose and for no other. But succeeding observations discovered,\r\nthat one set of words was capable of supplying the place of all that\r\ninfinite number, and that four or five prepositions, and half a dozen\r\nauxiliary verbs, were capable of answering the end of all the\r\ndeclensions, and of all the conjugations in the ancient languages.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut this simplification of languages, though it arises, perhaps,\r\nfrom similar causes, has by no means similar effects with the\r\ncorrespondent simplification of machines. The simplification of\r\nmachines renders them more and more perfect, but this simplification\r\nof the rudiments of languages renders them more and more imperfect,\r\nand less proper for many of the purposes of language; and this for the\r\nfollowing reasons.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFirst of all, languages are by this simplification rendered more\r\nprolix, several words having become necessary to express what could\r\nhave been expressed by a single word before. Thus the words,\r\n\u003ci\u003eDei\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eDeo\u003c/i\u003e, in the Latin, sufficiently show, without\r\nany addition, what relation the object signified is understood to\r\nstand in to the objects expressed by the other words in the sentence.\r\nBut to express the same relation in English, and in all other modern\r\nlanguages, we must make use of, at least, two words, and say, \u003ci\u003eof\r\nGod\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eto God\u003c/i\u003e. So far as the declensions are concerned,\r\ntherefore, the modern languages are much more prolix than the ancient.\r\nThe difference is still greater with regard to the conjugations. What\r\na Roman expressed by the single word \u003ci\u003eamavissem\u003c/i\u003e, an Englishman\r\nis obliged to express by four different words, \u003ci\u003eI should have\r\nloved\u003c/i\u003e. It is unnecessary to take any pains to show how much this\r\nprolixness must enervate the eloquence of all modern languages. How\r\nmuch the beauty of any expression depends upon its conciseness, is\r\nwell known to those who have any experience in composition.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSecondly, this simplification of the principles of languages\r\nrenders them less agreeable to the ear. The variety of termination in\r\nthe Greek and Latin, occasioned by their declensions and conjugations,\r\ngives a sweetness to their language altogether unknown to ours, and a\r\nvariety unknown to any other modern language. In point of sweetness,\r\nthe Italian, perhaps, may surpass the Latin, and almost equal the\r\nGreek; but in point of variety, it is greatly inferior to both.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page324\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e324\u003c/span\u003e Thirdly, this simplification, not only renders the sounds of\r\nour language less agreeable to the ear, but it also restrains us from\r\ndisposing such sounds as we have, in the manner that might be most\r\nagreeable. It ties down many words to a particular situation, though\r\nthey might often be placed in another with much more beauty. In the\r\nGreek and Latin, though the adjective and substantive were separated\r\nfrom one another, the correspondence of their terminations still\r\nshowed their mutual reference, and the separation did not necessarily\r\noccasion any sort of confusion. Thus in the first line of Virgil,\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003e\r\nTityre tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi;\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003ewe easily see that \u003ci\u003etu\u003c/i\u003e refers to \u003ci\u003erecubans\u003c/i\u003e, and\r\n\u003ci\u003epatulæ\u003c/i\u003e to \u003ci\u003efagi\u003c/i\u003e; though the related words are separated\r\nfrom one another by the intervention of several others; because the\r\nterminations, showing the correspondence of their cases, determine\r\ntheir mutual reference. But if we were to translate this line\r\nliterally into English, and say, \u003ci\u003eTityrus, thou of spreading\r\nreclining under the shade beech\u003c/i\u003e, Œdipus himself could not make\r\nsense of it; because there is here no difference of termination, to\r\ndetermine which substantive each adjective belongs to. It is the same\r\ncase with regard to verbs. In Latin the verb may often be placed,\r\nwithout any inconveniency or ambiguity, in any part of the sentence.\r\nBut in English its place is almost always precisely determined. It\r\nmust follow the subjective and precede the objective member of the\r\nphrase in almost all cases. Thus in Latin whether you say, \u003ci\u003eJoannem\r\nverberavit Robertas\u003c/i\u003e, or \u003ci\u003eRobertas verberavit Joannem\u003c/i\u003e, the\r\nmeaning is precisely the same, and the termination fixes John to be\r\nthe sufferer in both cases. But in English \u003ci\u003eJohn beat Robert\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nand \u003ci\u003eRobert beat John\u003c/i\u003e, have by no means the same signification.\r\nThe place therefore of the three principal members of the phrase is in\r\nthe English, and for the same reason in the French and Italian\r\nlanguages, almost always precisely determined; whereas in the ancient\r\nlanguages a greater latitude is allowed, and the place of those\r\nmembers is often, in a great measure, indifferent. We must have\r\nrecourse to Horace, in order to interpret some parts of Milton’s\r\nliteral translation;\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eWho now enjoys thee credulous all gold,\u003cbr\u003e Who always vacant, always\r\namiable\u003cbr\u003e Hopes thee; of flattering gales\u003cbr\u003e Unmindful\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eare verses which it is impossible to interpret by any rules of our\r\nlanguage. There are no rules in our language, by which any man could\r\ndiscover, that, in the first line, \u003ci\u003ecredulous\u003c/i\u003e referred to\r\n\u003ci\u003ewho\u003c/i\u003e, and not to \u003ci\u003ethee\u003c/i\u003e; or that \u003ci\u003eall gold\u003c/i\u003e referred\r\nto any thing; or, that in the fourth line, \u003ci\u003eunmindful\u003c/i\u003e, referred\r\nto \u003ci\u003ewho\u003c/i\u003e, in the second, and not to \u003ci\u003ethee\u003c/i\u003e in the third; or,\r\non the contrary, that, in the second line, \u003ci\u003ealways vacant\u003c/i\u003e,\r\n\u003ci\u003ealways amiable\u003c/i\u003e, referred to \u003ci\u003ethee\u003c/i\u003e in the third, and not\r\nto \u003ci\u003ewho\u003c/i\u003e in the same line with it. In the Latin, indeed, all this\r\nis abundantly plain. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e325\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003e Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aureâ,\u003cbr\u003e Qui semper vacuam, semper\r\namabilem\u003cbr\u003e Sperat te; nescius auræ fallacis.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eBecause the terminations in the Latin determine the reference of\r\neach adjective to its proper substantive, which it is impossible for\r\nany thing in the English to do. How much this power of transposing the\r\norder of their words must have facilitated the compositions of the\r\nancients, both in verse and prose, can hardly be imagined. That it\r\nmust greatly have facilitated their versification it is needless to\r\nobserve; and in prose, whatever beauty depends upon the arrangement\r\nand construction of the several members of the period, must to them\r\nhave been acquirable with much more ease, and to much greater\r\nperfection than it can be to those whose expression is constantly\r\nconfined by the prolixness, constraint, and monotony of modern\r\nlanguages.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr class=\"thirty\"\u003e\r\n\u003ch3 id=\"C\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page325\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eTHE PRINCIPLES\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eWHICH LEAD AND DIRECT\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch2\u003ePHILOSOPHICAL ENQUIRIES;\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eAS ILLUSTRATED BY\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003eTHE HISTORY OF ASTRONOMY.\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eW\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eONDER\u003c/span\u003e, surprise, and admiration, are words which, though often\r\nconfounded, denote, in our language, sentiments that are indeed\r\nallied, but that are in some respects different also, and distinct\r\nfrom one another. What is new and singular, excites that sentiment\r\nwhich, in strict propriety, is called Wonder; what is unexpected,\r\nSurprise; and what is great or beautiful, Admiration.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe wonder at all extraordinary and uncommon objects, at all the\r\nrarer phenomena of nature, at meteors, comets, eclipses, at singular\r\nplants and animals, and at every thing, in short, with which we have\r\nbefore been either little or not at all acquainted; and we still\r\nwonder, though forewarned of what we are to see.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe are surprised at those things which we have seen often, but\r\nwhich we least of all expected to meet with in the place where we find\r\nthem; we are surprised at the sudden appearance of a friend, whom we\r\nhave seen a thousand times, but whom we did not at all imagine we were\r\nto see then.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe admire the beauty of a plain or the greatness of a mountain,\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e326\u003c/span\u003e though we have seen both often before, and though nothing\r\nappears to us in either, but what we had expected with certainty to\r\nsee.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhether this criticism upon the precise meaning of these words be\r\njust, is of little importance. I imagine it is just, though I\r\nacknowledge, that the best writers in our language have not always\r\nmade use of them according to it. Milton, upon the appearance of\r\nDeath to Satan, says, that\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eThe Fiend what this might be admir’d,\u003cbr\u003e Admir’d, not\r\nfear’d.———\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eBut if this criticism be just, the proper expression should have\r\nbeen \u003ci\u003ewonder’d\u003c/i\u003e. Dryden, upon the discovery of Iphigenia\r\nsleeping, says that\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eThe fool of nature stood with stupid eyes,\u003cbr\u003e And gaping mouth, that\r\ntestified surprise.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eBut what Cimon must have felt upon this occasion could not so much\r\nbe Surprise, as Wonder and Admiration. All that I contend for is, that\r\nthe sentiments excited by what is new, by what is unexpected, and by\r\nwhat is great and beautiful are really different, however the words\r\nmade use of to express them may sometimes be confounded. Even the\r\nadmiration which is excited by beauty, is quite different (as will\r\nappear more fully hereafter) from that which is inspired by greatness,\r\nthough we have but one word to denote them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThese sentiments, like all others when inspired by one and the same\r\nobject, mutually support and enliven one another: an object with which\r\nwe are quite familiar, and which we see every day, produces, though\r\nboth great and beautiful, but a small effect upon us; because our\r\nadmiration is not supported either by Wonder or by Surprise: and if we\r\nhave heard a very accurate description of a monster, our Wonder will\r\nbe the less when we see it; because our previous knowledge of it will\r\nin a great measure prevent our Surprise.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is the design of this essay to consider particularly the nature\r\nand causes of each of these sentiments, whose influence is of far\r\nwider extent than we should be apt upon a careless view to imagine. I\r\nshall begin with Surprise.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page326\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅰ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Effect of Unexpectedness, or of\r\nSurprise.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eW\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHEN\u003c/span\u003e an object of any kind, which has been for some time expected\r\nand foreseen, presents itself, whatever be the emotion which it is by\r\nnature fitted to excite, the mind must have been prepared for it, and\r\nmust even in some measure have conceived it before-hand; because the\r\nidea of the object having been so long present to it, must have\r\nbefore-hand excited some degree of the same emotion which the object\r\nitself would excite: the change, therefore, which its presence\r\nproduces comes thus to be less considerable, and the emotion or\r\npassion which it excites glides gradually and easily into the heart,\r\nwithout violence, pain or difficulty.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page327\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e327\u003c/span\u003e But the contrary of all this happens when the object is\r\nunexpected; the passion is then poured in all at once upon the heart,\r\nwhich is thrown, if it is a strong passion, into the most violent and\r\nconvulsive emotions, such as sometimes cause immediate death;\r\nsometimes, by the suddenness of the ecstacy, so entirely disjoint the\r\nwhole frame of the imagination, that it never after returns to its\r\nformer tone and composure, but falls either into a frenzy or habitual\r\nlunacy; and such as almost always occasion a momentary loss of reason,\r\nor of that attention to other things which our situation or our duty\r\nrequires.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHow much we dread the effects of the more violent passions, when\r\nthey come suddenly upon the mind, appears from those preparations\r\nwhich all men think necessary when going to inform any one of what is\r\ncapable of exciting them. Who would choose all at once to inform his\r\nfriend of an extraordinary calamity that had befallen him, without\r\ntaking care before-hand, by alarming him with an uncertain fear, to\r\nannounce, if one may say so, his misfortune, and thereby prepare and\r\ndispose him for receiving the tidings?\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThose panic terrors which sometimes seize armies in the field, or\r\ngreat cities, when an enemy is in the neighbourhood, and which deprive\r\nfor a time the most determined of all deliberate judgments, are never\r\nexcited but by the sudden apprehension of unexpected danger. Such\r\nviolent consternations, which at once confound whole multitudes,\r\nbenumb their understandings, and agitate their hearts, with all the\r\nagony of extravagant fear, can never be produced by any foreseen\r\ndanger, how great soever. Fear, though naturally a very strong\r\npassion, never rises to such excesses, unless exasperated both by\r\nwonder, from the uncertain nature of the danger, and by surprise, from\r\nthe suddenness of the apprehension.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSurprise, therefore, is not to be regarded as an original emotion\r\nof a species distinct from all others. The violent and sudden change\r\nproduced upon the mind, when an emotion of any kind is brought\r\nsuddenly upon it, constitutes the whole nature of Surprise.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut when not only a passion and a great passion comes all at once\r\nupon the mind, but when it comes upon it while the mind is in the mood\r\nmost unfit for conceiving it, the Surprise is then the greatest.\r\nSurprises of joy when the mind is sunk into grief, or of grief when it\r\nis elated with joy, are therefore the most unsupportable. The change\r\nis in this case the greatest possible. Not only a strong passion is\r\nconceived all at once, but a strong passion the direct opposite of\r\nthat which was before in possession of the soul. When a load of sorrow\r\ncomes down upon the heart that is expanded and elated with gaiety and\r\njoy, it seems not only to damp and oppress it, but almost to crush and\r\nbruise it, as a real weight would crush and bruise the body. On the\r\ncontrary, when from an unexpected change of fortune, a tide of\r\ngladness seems, if I may say so, to spring up all at once within it,\r\nwhen \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page328\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e328\u003c/span\u003e depressed and contracted with grief and sorrow, it feels as\r\nif suddenly extended and heaved up with violent and irresistible\r\nforce, and is torn with pangs of all others most exquisite, and which\r\nalmost always occasion faintings, deliriums, and sometimes instant\r\ndeath. For it may be worth while to observe, that though grief be a\r\nmore violent passion than joy, as indeed all uneasy sensations seem\r\nnaturally more pungent than the opposite agreeable ones, yet of the\r\ntwo, Surprises of joy are still more insupportable than Surprises of\r\ngrief. We are told that after the battle of Thrasimenus, while a Roman\r\nlady, who had been informed that her son was slain in the action, was\r\nsitting alone bemoaning her misfortunes, the young man who escaped\r\ncame suddenly into the room to her, and that she cried out and expired\r\ninstantly in a transport of joy. Let us suppose the contrary of this\r\nto have happened, and that in the midst of domestic festivity and\r\nmirth, he had suddenly fallen down dead at her feet, is it likely that\r\nthe effects would have been equally violent? I imagine not. The heart\r\nsprings to joy with a sort of natural elasticity, it abandons itself\r\nto so agreeable an emotion, as soon as the object is presented; it\r\nseems to pant and leap forward to meet it, and the passion in its full\r\nforce takes at once entire and complete possession of the soul. But it\r\nis otherwise with grief; the heart recoils from, and resists the first\r\napproaches of that disagreeable passion, and it requires some time\r\nbefore the melancholy object can produce its full effect. Grief comes\r\non slowly and gradually, nor ever rises at once to that height of\r\nagony to which it is increased after a little time. But joy comes\r\nrushing upon us all at once like a torrent. The change produced,\r\ntherefore, by a surprise of joy is more sudden, and upon that account\r\nmore violent and apt to have more fatal effects, than that which is\r\noccasioned by a surprise of grief; there seems, too, to be something\r\nin the nature of surprise, which makes it unite more easily with the\r\nbrisk and quick motion of joy, than with the slower and heavier\r\nmovement of grief. Most men who can take the trouble to recollect,\r\nwill find that they have heard of more people who died or became\r\ndistracted with sudden joy, than with sudden grief. Yet from the\r\nnature of human affairs, the latter must be much more frequent than\r\nthe former. A man may break his leg, or lose his son, though he has\r\nhad no warning of either of these events, but he can hardly meet with\r\nan extraordinary piece of good fortune, without having had some\r\nforesight of what was to happen.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNot only grief and joy, but all the other passions, are more\r\nviolent, when opposite extremes succeed each other. Is any resentment\r\nso keen as what follows the quarrels of lovers, or any love so\r\npassionate as what attends their reconcilement?\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEven the objects of the external senses affect us in a more lively\r\nmanner, when opposite extremes succeed to or are placed beside each\r\nother. Moderate warmth seems intolerable heat if felt after extreme\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e329\u003c/span\u003e cold. What is bitter will seem more so when tasted after what is\r\nvery sweet; a dirty white will seem bright and pure when placed by a\r\njet black. The vivacity in short of every sensation, as well as of\r\nevery sentiment, seems to be greater or less in proportion to the\r\nchange made by the impression of either upon the situation of the mind\r\nor organ; but this change must necessarily be the greatest when\r\nopposite sentiments and sensations are contrasted, or succeed\r\nimmediately to one another. Both sentiments and sensations are then\r\nthe liveliest; and this superior vivacity proceeds from nothing but\r\ntheir being brought upon the mind or organ when in a state most unfit\r\nfor conceiving them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs the opposition of contrasted sentiments heightens their\r\nvivacity, so the resemblance of those which immediately succeed each\r\nother renders them more faint and languid. A parent who has lost\r\nseveral children immediately after one another, will be less affected\r\nwith the death of the last than with that of the first, though the\r\nloss in itself be, in this case, undoubtedly greater; but his mind\r\nbeing already sunk into sorrow, the new misfortune seems to produce no\r\nother effect than a continuance of the same melancholy, and is by no\r\nmeans apt to occasion such transports of grief as are ordinarily\r\nexcited by the first calamity of the kind; he receives it, though with\r\ngreat dejection, yet with some degree of calmness and composure, and\r\nwithout anything of that anguish and agitation of mind which the\r\nnovelty of the misfortune is apt to occasion. Those who have been\r\nunfortunate through the whole course of their lives are often indeed\r\nhabitually melancholy, and sometimes peevish and splenetic, yet upon\r\nany fresh disappointment, though they are vexed and complain a little,\r\nthey seldom fly out into any more violent passion, and never fall into\r\nthose transports of rage or grief which often, upon like occasions,\r\ndistract the fortunate and successful.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eUpon this are founded, in a great measure, some of the effects of\r\nhabit and custom. It is well known that custom deadens the vivacity of\r\nboth pain and pleasure, abates the grief we should feel for the one,\r\nand weakens the joy we should derive from the other. The pain is\r\nsupported without agony, and the pleasure enjoyed without rapture:\r\nbecause custom and the frequent repetition of any object comes at last\r\nto form and bend the mind or organ to that habitual mood and\r\ndisposition which fits them to receive its impression, without\r\nundergoing any very violent change.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page329\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅱ.—\u003ci\u003eOf Wonder, or of the Effects of Novelty.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eT\u003c/span\u003e is evident that the mind takes pleasure in observing the\r\nresemblances that are discoverable betwixt different objects. It is by\r\nmeans of such observations that it endeavours to arrange and methodise\r\nall its ideas, and to reduce them into proper classes and assortments.\r\nWhere it can observe but one single quality that is common to a great\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page330\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e330\u003c/span\u003e variety of otherwise widely different objects, that single\r\ncircumstance will be sufficient for it to connect them all together,\r\nto reduce them to one common class, and to call them by one general\r\nname. It is thus that all things endowed with a power of self-motion,\r\nbeasts, birds, fishes, insects, are classed under the general name of\r\nAnimal; and that these again, along with those which want that power,\r\nare arranged under the still more general word, Substance: and this is\r\nthe origin of those assortments of objects and ideas which in the\r\nschools are called Genera and Species, and of those abstract and\r\ngeneral names, which in all languages are made use of to express\r\nthem.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe further we advance in knowledge and experience, the greater\r\nnumber of divisions and subdivisions of those Genera and Species we\r\nare both inclined and obliged to make. We observe a greater variety of\r\nparticularities amongst those things which have a gross resemblance;\r\nand having made new divisions of them, according to those\r\nnewly-observed particularities, we are then no longer to be satisfied\r\nwith being able to refer an object to a remote genus, or very general\r\nclass of things, to many of which it has but a loose and imperfect\r\nresemblance. A person, indeed, unacquainted with botany may expect to\r\nsatisfy your curiosity, by telling you, that such a vegetable is a\r\nweed, or, perhaps in still more general terms, that it is a plant. But\r\na botanist will neither give nor accept of such an answer. He has\r\nbroke and divided that great class of objects into a number of\r\ninferior assortments, accord to those varieties which his experience\r\nhas discovered among them; and he wants to refer each individual plant\r\nto some tribe of vegetables, with all of which it may have a more\r\nexact resemblance, than with many things comprehended under the\r\nextensive genus of plants. A child imagines that it gives a\r\nsatisfactory answer when it tells you, that an object whose name it\r\nknows not is a thing, and fancies that it informs you of something,\r\nwhen it thus ascertains to which of the two most obvious and\r\ncomprehensive classes of objects a particular impression ought to be\r\nreferred; to the class of realities or solid substances which it calls\r\n\u003ci\u003ethings\u003c/i\u003e, or to that of appearances which it calls\r\n\u003ci\u003enothings\u003c/i\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhatever, in short, occurs to us we are fond of referring to some\r\nspecies or class of things, with all of which it has a nearly exact\r\nresemblance: and though we often know no more about them than about\r\nit, yet we are apt to fancy that by being able to do so, we show\r\nourselves to be better acquainted with it, and to have a more thorough\r\ninsight into its nature. But when something quite new and singular is\r\npresented, we feel ourselves incapable of doing this. The memory\r\ncannot, from all its stores, cast up any image that nearly resembles\r\nthis strange appearance. If by some of its qualities it seems to\r\nresemble, and to be connected with a species which we have before been\r\nacquainted with, it is by others separated and detached from that, and\r\nfrom all the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page331\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e331\u003c/span\u003e other assortments of things we have hitherto been\r\nable to make. It stands alone and by itself in the imagination, and\r\nrefuses to be grouped or confounded with any set of objects whatever.\r\nThe imagination and memory exert themselves to no purpose, and in vain\r\nlook around all their classes of ideas in order to find one under\r\nwhich it may be arranged. They fluctuate to no purpose from thought to\r\nthought, and we remain still uncertain and undetermined where to place\r\nit, or what to think of it. It is this fluctuation and vain\r\nrecollection, together with the emotion or movement of the spirits\r\nthat they excite, which constitute the sentiment properly called\r\n\u003ci\u003eWonder\u003c/i\u003e, and which occasion that staring, and sometimes that\r\nrolling of the eyes, that suspension of the breath, and that swelling\r\nof the heart, which we may all observe, both in ourselves and others,\r\nwhen wondering at some new object, and which are the natural symptoms\r\nof uncertain and undetermined thought. What sort of a thing can that\r\nbe? What is that like? are the questions which, upon such an occasion,\r\nwe are all naturally disposed to ask. If we can recollect many such\r\nobjects which exactly resemble this new appearance, and which present\r\nthemselves to the imagination naturally, and as it were of their own\r\naccord, our Wonder is entirely at an end. If we can recollect but a\r\nfew, and which it requires too some trouble to be able to call up, our\r\nWonder is indeed diminished, but not quite destroyed. If we can\r\nrecollect none, but are quite at a loss, it is the greatest\r\npossible.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWith what curious attention does a naturalist examine a singular\r\nplant, or a singular fossil, that is presented to him? He is at no\r\nloss to refer it to the general genus of plants or fossils; but this\r\ndoes not satisfy him, and when he considers all the different tribes\r\nor species of either with which he has hitherto been acquainted, they\r\nall, he thinks, refuse to admit the new object among them. It stands\r\nalone in his imagination, and as it were detached from all the other\r\nspecies of that genus to which it belongs. He labours, however, to\r\nconnect it with some one or other of them. Sometimes he thinks it may\r\nbe placed in this, and sometimes in that other assortment; nor is he\r\never satisfied, till he has fallen upon one which, in most of its\r\nqualities, it resembles. When he cannot do this, rather than it should\r\nstand quite by itself, he will enlarge the precincts, if I may say so,\r\nof some species, in order to make room for it; or he will create a new\r\nspecies on purpose to receive it, and call it a Play of Nature, or\r\ngive it some other appellation, under which he arranges all the\r\noddities that he knows not what else to do with. But to some class or\r\nother of known objects he must refer it, and betwixt it and them he\r\nmust find out some resemblance or ether, before he can get rid of that\r\nWonder, that uncertainty and anxious curiosity excited by its singular\r\nappearance, and by its dissimilitude with all the objects he had\r\nhitherto observed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs single and individual objects thus excite our Wonder when, by\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page332\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e332\u003c/span\u003e their uncommon qualities and singular appearance, they make us\r\nuncertain to what species of things we ought to refer them; so a\r\nsuccession of objects which follow one another in an uncommon train or\r\norder, will produce the same effect, though there be nothing\r\nparticular in any one of them taken by itself.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen one accustomed object appears after another, which it does not\r\nusually follow, it first excites, by its unexpectedness, the sentiment\r\nproperly called Surprise, and afterwards, by the singularity of the\r\nsuccession, or order of its appearance, the sentiment properly called\r\nWonder. We start and are surprised at seeing it there, and then wonder\r\nhow it came there. The motion of a small piece of iron along a plain\r\ntable is in itself no extraordinary object, yet the person who first\r\nsaw it begin, without any visible impulse, in consequence of the\r\nmotion of a loadstone at some little distance from it, could not\r\nbehold it without the most extreme Surprise; and when that momentary\r\nemotion was over, he would still wonder how it came to be conjoined to\r\nan event with which, according to the ordinary train of things, he\r\ncould have so little suspected it to have any connection.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen two objects, however unlike, have often been observed to\r\nfollow each other, and have constantly presented themselves to the\r\nsenses in that order, they come to be connected together in the fancy,\r\nthat the idea of the one seems, of its own accord, to call up and\r\nintroduce that of the other. If the objects are still observed to\r\nsucceed each other as before, this connection, or, as it has been\r\ncalled, this association of their ideas, becomes stricter and\r\nstricter, and the habit of the imagination to pass from the conception\r\nof the one to that of the other, grows more and more rivetted and\r\nconfirmed. As its ideas move more rapidly than external objects, it is\r\ncontinually running before them, and therefore anticipates, before it\r\nhappens, every event which falls out according to this ordinary course\r\nof things. When objects succeed each other in the same train in which\r\nthe ideas of the imagination have thus been accustomed to move, and in\r\nwhich, though not conducted by that chain of events presented to the\r\nsenses, they have acquired a tendency to go on of their own accord,\r\nsuch objects appear all closely connected with one another, and the\r\nthought glides easily along them, without effort and without\r\ninterruption. They fall in with the natural career of the imagination;\r\nand as the ideas which represented such a train of things would seem\r\nall mutually to introduce each other, every last thought to be called\r\nup by the foregoing, and to call up the succeeding; so when the\r\nobjects themselves occur, every last event seems, in the same manner,\r\nto be introduced by the foregoing, and to introduce the succeeding.\r\nThere is no break, no stop, no gap, no interval. The ideas excited by\r\nso coherent a chain of things seem, as it were, to float through the\r\nmind of their own accord, without obliging it to exert itself, or to\r\nmake any effort in order to pass from one of them to another.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page333\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e333\u003c/span\u003e But if this customary connection be interrupted, if one or\r\nmore objects appear in an order quite different from that to which the\r\nimagination has been accustomed, and for which it is prepared, the\r\ncontrary of all this happens. We are at first surprised by the\r\nunexpectedness of the new appearance, and when that momentary emotion\r\nis over, we still wonder how it came to occur in that place. The\r\nimagination no longer feels the usual facility of passing from the\r\nevent which goes before to that which comes after. It is an order or\r\nlaw of succession to which it has not been accustomed, and which it\r\ntherefore finds some difficulty in following, or in attending to. The\r\nfancy is stopped and interrupted in that natural movement or career,\r\naccording to which it was proceeding. Those two events seem to stand\r\nat a distance from each other; it endeavours to bring them together,\r\nbut they refuse to unite; and it feels, or imagines it feels,\r\nsomething like a gap or interval betwixt them. It naturally hesitates,\r\nand, as it were, pauses upon the brink of this interval; it endeavours\r\nto find out something which may fill up the gap, which, like a bridge,\r\nmay so far at least unite those seemingly distant objects, as to\r\nrender the passage of the thought betwixt them smooth, and natural,\r\nand easy. The supposition of a chain of intermediate, though\r\ninvisible, events, which succeed each other in a train similar to that\r\nin which the imagination has been accustomed to move, and which links\r\ntogether those two disjointed appearances, is the only means by which\r\nthe imagination can fill up this interval, is the only bridge which,\r\nif one may say so, can smooth its passage from the one object to the\r\nother. Thus, when we observe the motion of the iron, in consequence of\r\nthat of the loadstone, we gaze and hesitate, and feel a want of\r\nconnection betwixt two events which follow one another in so unusual a\r\ntrain. But when, with Des Cartes, we imagine certain invisible\r\neffluvia to circulate round one of them, and by their repeated\r\nimpulses to impel the other, both to move towards it, and to follow\r\nits motion, we fill up the interval betwixt them, we join them\r\ntogether by a sort of bridge, and thus take off that hesitation and\r\ndifficulty which the imagination felt in passing from the one to the\r\nother. That the iron should move after the loadstone seems, upon this\r\nhypothesis, in some measure according to the ordinary course of\r\nthings. Motion after impulse is an order of succession with which of\r\nall things we are the most familiar. Two objects which are so\r\nconnected seem, to our mind, no longer to be disjointed, and the\r\nimagination flows smoothly and easily along them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch is the nature of this second species of Wonder, which arises\r\nfrom an unusual succession of things. The stop which is thereby given\r\nto the career of the imagination, the difficulty which it finds in\r\npassing along such disjointed objects, and the feeling of something\r\nlike a gap or interval betwixt them, constitute the whole essence of\r\nthis emotion. Upon the clear discovery of a connecting chain of\r\nintermediate events, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page334\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e334\u003c/span\u003e it vanishes altogether. What obstructed the\r\nmovement of the imagination is then removed. Who wonders at the\r\nmachinery of the opera-house who has once been admitted behind the\r\nscenes? In the wonders of nature, however, it rarely happens that we\r\ncan discover so clearly this connecting chain. With regard to a few\r\neven of them, indeed, we seem to have been really admitted behind the\r\nscenes, and our wonder accordingly is entirely at an end. Thus the\r\neclipses of the sun and moon, which once, more than all the other\r\nappearances in the heavens, excited the terror and amazement of\r\nmankind, seem now no longer to be wonderful, since the connecting\r\nchain has been found out which joins them to the ordinary course of\r\nthings. Nay, in those cases in which we have been less successful,\r\neven the vague hypothesis of Des Cartes, and the yet more indetermined\r\nnotions of Aristotle, have, with their followers, contributed to give\r\nsome coherence to the appearances of nature, and might diminish,\r\nthough they could not destroy, their wonder. If they did not\r\ncompletely fill up the interval betwixt the two disjointed objects,\r\nthey bestowed upon them, however, some sort of loose connection which\r\nthey wanted before.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat the imagination feels a real difficulty in passing along two\r\nevents which follow one another in an uncommon order, may be confirmed\r\nby many obvious observations. If it attempts to attend beyond a\r\ncertain time to a long series of this kind, the continual efforts it\r\nis obliged to make, in order to pass from one object to another, and\r\nthus follow the progress of the succession, soon fatigue it, and if\r\nrepeated too often, disorder and disjoint its whole frame. It is thus\r\nthat too severe an application to study sometimes brings on lunacy and\r\nfrenzy, in those especially who are somewhat advanced in life, but\r\nwhose imaginations, from being too late in applying, have not got\r\nthose habits which dispose them to follow easily the reasonings in the\r\nabstract sciences. Every step of a demonstration, which to an old\r\npractitioner is quite natural and easy, requires from them the most\r\nintense application of thought.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSpurred on, however, either by ambition or by admiration for the\r\nsubject, they still continue till they become, first confused, then\r\ngiddy, and at last distracted. Could we conceive a person of the\r\nsoundest judgment, who had grown up to maturity, and whose imagination\r\nhad acquired those habits, and that mould, which the constitution of\r\nthings in this world necessarily impresses upon it, to be all at once\r\ntransported alive to some other planet, where nature was governed by\r\nlaws quite different from those which take place here; as he would be\r\ncontinually obliged to attend to events, which must to him appear in\r\nthe highest degree jarring, irregular, and discordant, he would soon\r\nfeel the same confusion and giddiness begin to come upon him, which\r\nwould at last end in the same manner, in lunacy and distraction.\r\nNeither, to produce this effect, is it necessary that the objects\r\nshould be either \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page335\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e335\u003c/span\u003e great or interesting, or even uncommon, in\r\nthemselves. It is sufficient that they follow one another in an\r\nuncommon order. Let any one attempt to look over even a game of cards,\r\nand to attend particularly to every single stroke, and if he is\r\nunacquainted with the nature and rules of the games; that is, with the\r\nlaws which regulate the succession of the cards; he will soon feel the\r\nsame confusion and giddiness begin to come upon him, which, were it to\r\nbe continued for days and months, would end in the same manner, in\r\nlunacy and distraction. But if the mind be thus thrown into the most\r\nviolent disorder, when it attends to a long series of events which\r\nfollow one another in an uncommon train, it must feel some degree of\r\nthe same disorder, when it observes even a single event fall out in\r\nthis unusual manner: for the violent disorder can arise from nothing\r\nbut the too frequent repetition of this smaller uneasiness.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat it is the unusualness alone of the succession which occasions\r\nthis stop and interruption in the progress of the imagination as well\r\nas the notion of an interval betwixt the two immediately succeeding\r\nobjects, to be filled up by some chain of intermediate events, is not\r\nless evident. The same orders of succession, which to one set of men\r\nseem quite according to the natural course of things, and such as\r\nrequire no intermediate events to join them, shall to another appear\r\naltogether incoherent and disjointed, unless some such events be\r\nsupposed: and this for no other reason, but because such orders of\r\nsuccession are familiar to the one, and strange to the other. When we\r\nenter the work-houses of the most common artizans; such as dyers,\r\nbrewers, distillers; we observe a number of appearances, which present\r\nthemselves in an order that seems to us very strange and wonderful.\r\nOur thought cannot easily follow it, we feel an interval betwixt every\r\ntwo of them, and require some chain of intermediate events, to fill it\r\nup, and link them together. But the artizan himself, who has been for\r\nmany years familiar with the consequences of all the operations of his\r\nart, feels no such interval. They fall in with what custom has made\r\nthe natural movement of his imagination: they no longer excite his\r\nWonder, and if he is not a genius superior to his profession, so as to\r\nbe capable of making the very easy reflection, that those things,\r\nthough familiar to him, may be strange to us, he will be \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from dis-disposed\"\u003edisposed\u003c/span\u003e\r\nrather to laugh at, than sympathize with our Wonder. He cannot\r\nconceive what occasion there is for any connecting events to unite\r\nthose appearances, which seem to him to succeed each other very\r\nnaturally. It is their nature, he tells us, to follow one another in\r\nthis order, and that accordingly they always do so. In the same manner\r\nbread has, since the world begun been the common nourishment of the\r\nhuman body, and men have so long seen it, every day, converted into\r\nflesh and bones, substances in all respects so unlike it, that they\r\nhave seldom had the curiosity to inquire by what process of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page336\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e336\u003c/span\u003e\r\nintermediate events this change is brought about. Because the passage\r\nof the thought from the one object to the other is by custom become\r\nquite smooth and easy, almost without the supposition of any such\r\nprocess. Philosophers, indeed, who often look for a chain of invisible\r\nobjects to join together two events that occur in an order familiar to\r\nall the world, have endeavoured to find out a chain of this kind\r\nbetwixt the two events I have just now mentioned; in the same manner\r\nas they have endeavoured, by a like intermediate chain, to connect the\r\ngravity, the elasticity, and even the cohesion of natural bodies, with\r\nsome of their other qualities. These, however, are all of them such\r\ncombinations of events as give no stop to the imaginations of the bulk\r\nof mankind, as excite no Wonder, nor any apprehension that there is\r\nwanting the strictest connection between them. But as in those sounds,\r\nwhich to the greater part of men seem perfectly agreeable to measure\r\nand harmony, the nicer ear of a musician will discover a want, both of\r\nthe most exact time, and of the most perfect coincidence; so the more\r\npractised thought of a philosopher, who has spent his whole life in\r\nthe study of the connecting principles of nature, will often feel an\r\ninterval betwixt two objects, which, to more careless observers, seem\r\nvery strictly conjoined. By long attention to all the connections\r\nwhich have ever been presented to his observation, by having often\r\ncompared them with one another, he has, like the musician, acquired,\r\nif one may so, a nicer ear, and a more delicate feeling with regard to\r\nthings of this nature. And as to the one, that music seems dissonance\r\nwhich falls short of the most perfect harmony; so to the other, those\r\nevents seem altogether separated and disjoined, which may fall short\r\nof the strictest and most perfect connection.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePhilosophy is the science of the connecting principles of nature.\r\nNature, after the largest experience that common observation can\r\nacquire, seems to abound with events which appear solitary and\r\nincoherent with all that go before them, which therefore disturb the\r\neasy movement of the imagination; which makes its ideas succeed each\r\nother, if one may say so, by irregular starts and sallies; and which\r\nthus tend, in some measure, to introduce those confusions and\r\ndistractions we formerly mentioned. Philosophy, by representing the\r\ninvisible chains which bind together all these disjointed objects,\r\nendeavours to introduce order into this chaos of jarring and\r\ndiscordant appearances, to allay this tumult of the imagination, and\r\nto restore it, when it surveys the great revolutions of the universe,\r\nto that tone of tranquillity and composure, which is both most\r\nagreeable in itself, and most suitable to its nature. Philosophy,\r\ntherefore, may be regarded as one of those arts which address\r\nthemselves to the imagination; and whose theory and history, upon that\r\naccount, fall properly within the circumference of our subject. Let us\r\nendeavour to trace it, from its first origin, up to that summit of\r\nperfection to which it is at present \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page337\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e337\u003c/span\u003e supposed to have arrived,\r\nand to which, indeed, it has equally been supposed to have arrived in\r\nalmost all former times. It is the most sublime of all the agreeable\r\narts, and its revolutions have been the greatest, the most frequent,\r\nand the most distinguished of all those that have happened in the\r\nliterary world. Its history, therefore, must, upon all accounts, be\r\nthe most entertaining and the most instructive. Let us examine,\r\ntherefore, all the different systems of nature, which, in these\r\nwestern parts of the world, the only parts of whose history we know\r\nanything, have successively been adopted by the learned and ingenious;\r\nand, without regarding their absurdity or probability, their agreement\r\nor inconsistency with truth and reality, let us consider them only in\r\nthat particular point of view which belongs to our subject; and\r\ncontent ourselves with inquiring how far each of them was fitted to\r\nsoothe the imagination, and to render the theatre of nature a more\r\ncoherent, and therefore a more magnificent spectacle, than otherwise\r\nit would have appeared to be. According as they have failed or\r\nsucceeded in this, they have constantly failed or succeeded in gaining\r\nreputation and renown to their authors; and this will be found to be\r\nthe clue that is most capable of conducting us through all the\r\nlabyrinths of philosophical history: for in the mean time, it will\r\nserve to confirm what has gone before, and to throw light upon what is\r\nto come after, that we observe, in general, that no system, how well\r\nsoever in other respects supported, has ever been able to gain any\r\ngeneral credit on the world, whose connecting principles were not such\r\nas were familiar to all mankind. Why has the chemical philosophy in\r\nall ages crept along in obscurity, and been so disregarded by the\r\ngenerality of mankind, while other systems, less useful, and not more\r\nagreeable to experience, have possessed universal admiration for whole\r\ncenturies together? The connecting principles of the chemical\r\nphilosophy are such as the generality of mankind know nothing about,\r\nhave rarely seen, and have never been acquainted with; and which to\r\nthem, therefore, are incapable of smoothing the passage of the\r\nimagination betwixt any two seemingly disjointed objects. Salts,\r\nsulphurs, and mercuries, acids and alkalis, are principles which can\r\nsmooth things to those only who live about the furnace; but whose most\r\ncommon operations seem, to the bulk of mankind, as disjointed as any\r\ntwo events which the chemists would connect together by them. Those\r\nartists, however, naturally explained things to themselves by\r\nprinciples that were familiar to themselves. As Aristotle observes,\r\nthat the early Pythagoreans, who first studied arithmetic, explained\r\nall things by the properties of numbers; and Cicero tells us, that\r\nAristoxenus, the musician, found the nature of the soul to consist in\r\nharmony. In the same manner, a learned physician lately gave a system\r\nof moral philosophy upon the principles of his own art, in which\r\nwisdom and virtue were the healthful state of the soul; the different\r\nvices and follies, the different diseases \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e338\u003c/span\u003e to which it was\r\nsubject; in which the causes and symptoms of those diseases were\r\nascertained; and, in the same medical strain, a proper method of cure\r\nprescribed. In the same manner also, others have written parallels of\r\npainting and poetry, of poetry and music, of music and architecture,\r\nof beauty and virtue, of all the fine arts; systems which have\r\nuniversally owed their origin to the lucubrations of those who were\r\nacquainted with the one art, but ignorant of the other; who therefore\r\nexplained to themselves the phenomena, in that which was strange to\r\nthem, by those in that which was familiar; and with whom, upon that\r\naccount, the analogy, which in other writers gives occasion to a few\r\ningenious similitudes, became the great hinge upon which every thing\r\nturned.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page338\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eSECT. Ⅲ.—\u003ci\u003eOf the Origin of Philosophy.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eM\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eANKIND\u003c/span\u003e, in the first ages of society, before the establishment of\r\nlaw, order, and security, have little curiosity to find out those\r\nhidden chains of events which bind together the seemingly disjointed\r\nappearances of nature. A savage, whose subsistence is precarious,\r\nwhose life is every day exposed to the rudest dangers, has no\r\ninclination to amuse himself with searching out what, when discovered,\r\nseems to serve no other purpose than to render the theatre of nature a\r\nmore connected spectacle to his imagination. Many of these smaller\r\nincoherences, which in the course of things perplex philosophers,\r\nentirely escape his attention. Those more magnificent irregularities,\r\nwhose grandeur he cannot overlook, call forth his amazement. Comets,\r\neclipses, thunder, lightning, and other meteors, by their greatness,\r\nnaturally overawe him, and he views them with a reverence that\r\napproaches to fear. His inexperience and uncertainty with regard to\r\nevery thing about them, how they came, how they are to go, what went\r\nbefore, what is to come after them, exasperate his sentiment into\r\nterror and consternation. But our passions, as Father Malbranche\r\nobserves, all justify themselves; that is, suggest to us opinions\r\nwhich justify them. As those appearances terrify him, therefore, he is\r\ndisposed to believe every thing about them which can render them still\r\nmore the objects of his terror. That they proceed from some\r\nintelligent, though invisible causes, of whose vengeance and\r\ndispleasure they are either the signs or the effects, is the notion of\r\nall others most capable of enhancing this passion, and is that,\r\ntherefore, which he is most apt to entertain. To this, too, that\r\ncowardice and pusillanimity, so natural to man in his uncivilized\r\nstate, still more disposes him; unprotected by the laws of society,\r\nexposed, defenceless, he feels his weakness upon all occasions; his\r\nstrength and security upon none.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut all the irregularities of nature are not of this awful or\r\nterrible kind. Some of them are perfectly beautiful and agreeable.\r\nThese, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page339\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e339\u003c/span\u003e therefore, from the same impotence of mind, would be\r\nbeheld with love and complacency, and even with transports of\r\ngratitude; for whatever is the cause of pleasure naturally excites our\r\ngratitude. A child caresses the fruit that is agreeable to it, as it\r\nbeats the stone that hurts it. The notions of a savage are not very\r\ndifferent. The ancient Athenians, who solemnly punished the axe which\r\nhad accidentally been the cause of the death of a man, erected altars,\r\nand offered sacrifices to the rainbow. Sentiments not unlike these,\r\nmay sometimes, upon such occasions, begin to be felt even in the\r\nbreasts of the most civilized, but are presently checked by the\r\nreflection, that the things are not their proper objects. But a\r\nsavage, whose notions are guided altogether by wild nature and\r\npassion, waits for no other proof that a thing is the proper object of\r\nany sentiment, than that it excites it. The reverence and gratitude,\r\nwith which some of the appearances of nature inspire him, convince him\r\nthat they are the proper objects of reverence and gratitude, and\r\ntherefore proceed from some intelligent beings, who take pleasure in\r\nthe expressions of those sentiments. With him, therefore, every object\r\nof nature, which by its beauty or greatness, its utility or\r\nhurtfulness, is considerable enough to attract his attention, and\r\nwhose operations are not perfectly regular, is supposed to act by the\r\ndirection of some invisible and designing power. The sea is spread out\r\ninto a calm, or heaved into a storm, according to the good pleasure of\r\nNeptune. Does the earth pour forth an exuberant harvest? It is owing\r\nto the indulgence of Ceres. Does the vine yield a plentiful vintage?\r\nIt flows from the bounty of Bacchus. Do either refuse their presents?\r\nIt is ascribed to the displeasure of those offended deities. The tree\r\nwhich now flourishes and now decays, is inhabited by a Dryad, upon\r\nwhose health or sickness its various appearances depend. The fountain,\r\nwhich sometimes flows in a copious, and sometimes in a scanty stream,\r\nwhich appears sometimes clear and limpid, and at other times muddy and\r\ndisturbed, is affected in all its changes by the Naiad who dwells\r\nwithin it. Hence the origin of Polytheism, and of that vulgar\r\nsuperstition which ascribes all the irregular events of nature to the\r\nfavour or displeasure of intelligent, though invisible beings, to\r\ngods, demons, witches, genii, fairies. For it may be observed, that in\r\nall polytheistic religions, among savages, as well as in the early\r\nages of heathen antiquity, it is the irregular events of nature only\r\nthat are ascribed to the agency and power of their gods. Fire burns,\r\nand water refreshes; heavy bodies descend, and lighter substances fly\r\nupwards, by the necessity of their own nature; nor was the invisible\r\nhand of Jupiter ever apprehended to be employed in those matters. But\r\nthunder and lightning, storms and sunshine, those more irregular\r\nevents, were ascribed to his favour, or his anger. Man, the only\r\ndesigning power with which they were acquainted, never acts but either\r\nto stop or to alter the course which natural events would take, if\r\nleft to themselves. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page340\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e340\u003c/span\u003e Those other intelligent beings, whom they\r\nimagined, but knew not, were naturally supposed to act in the same\r\nmanner; not to employ themselves in supporting the ordinary course of\r\nthings, which went on of its own accord, but to stop, to thwart, and\r\nto disturb it. And thus, in the first ages of the world, the lowest\r\nand most pusillanimous superstition supplied the place of\r\nphilosophy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut when law has established order and security, and subsistence\r\nceases to be precarious, the curiosity of mankind is increased, and\r\ntheir fears are diminished. The leisure which they then enjoy renders\r\nthem more attentive to the appearances of nature, more observant of\r\nher smallest irregularities, and more desirous to know what is the\r\nchain which links them together. That some such chain subsists betwixt\r\nall her seemingly disjointed phenomena, they are necessarily led to\r\nconceive; and that magnanimity and cheerfulness which all generous\r\nnatures acquire who are bred in civilized societies, where they have\r\nso few occasions to feel their weakness, and so many to be conscious\r\nof their strength and security, renders them less disposed to employ,\r\nfor this connecting chain, those invisible beings whom the fear and\r\nignorance of their rude forefathers had engendered. Those of liberal\r\nfortunes, whose attention is not much occupied either with business or\r\nwith pleasure, can fill up the void of their imagination, which is\r\nthus disengaged from the ordinary affairs of life, no other way than\r\nby attending to that train of events which passes around them. While\r\nthe great objects of nature thus pass in review before them, many\r\nthings occur in an order to which they have not been accustomed. Their\r\nimagination, which accompanies with ease and delight the regular\r\nprogress of nature, is stopped and embarrassed by those seeming\r\nincoherences; they excite their wonder, and seem to require some chain\r\nof intermediate events, which, by connecting them with something that\r\nhas gone before, may thus render the whole course of the universe\r\nconsistent and of a piece. Wonder, therefore, and not any expectation\r\nof advantage from its discoveries, is the first principle which\r\nprompts mankind to the study of Philosophy, of that science which\r\npretends to lay open the concealed connections that unite the various\r\nappearances of nature; and they pursue this study for its own sake, as\r\nan original pleasure or good in itself, without regarding its tendency\r\nto procure them the means of many other pleasures.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eGreece, and the Greek colonies in Sicily, Italy, and the Lesser\r\nAsia, were the first countries which, in these western parts of the\r\nworld, arrived at a state of civilized society. It was in them,\r\ntherefore, that the first philosophers, of whose doctrine we have any\r\ndistinct account, appeared. Law and order seem indeed to have been\r\nestablished in the great monarchies of Asia and Egypt, long before\r\nthey had any footing in Greece: yet, after all that has been said\r\nconcerning the learning of the Chaldeans and Egyptians, whether there\r\never was in those nations \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page341\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e341\u003c/span\u003e any thing which deserved the name of\r\nscience, or whether that despotism which is more destructive of\r\nsecurity and leisure than anarchy itself, and which prevailed over all\r\nthe East, prevented the growth of Philosophy, is a question which, for\r\nwant of monuments, cannot be determined with any degree of\r\nprecision.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Greek colonies having been settled amid nations either\r\naltogether barbarous, or altogether unwarlike, over whom, therefore,\r\nthey soon acquired a very great authority, seem, upon that account, to\r\nhave arrived at a considerable degree of empire and opulence before\r\nany state in the parent country had surmounted that extreme poverty,\r\nwhich, by leaving no room for any evident distinction of ranks, is\r\nnecessarily attended with the confusion and misrule which flows from a\r\nwant of all regular subordination. The Greek islands being secure from\r\nthe invasion of land armies, or from naval forces, which were in those\r\ndays but little known, seem, upon that account too, to have got before\r\nthe continent in all sorts of civility and improvement. The first\r\nphilosophers, therefore, as well as the first poets, seem all to have\r\nbeen natives, either of their colonies, or of their islands. It was\r\nfrom thence that Homer, Archilochus, Stesichorus, Simonides, Sappho,\r\nAnacreon, derived their birth. Thales and Pythagoras, the founders of\r\nthe two earliest sects of philosophy, arose, the one in an Asiatic\r\ncolony, the other in an island; and neither of them established his\r\nschool in the mother country.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat was the particular system of either of those two philosophers,\r\nor whether their doctrine was so methodized as to deserve the name of\r\na system, the imperfection, as well as the uncertainty of all the\r\ntraditions that have come down to us concerning them, make it\r\nimpossible to determine. The school of Pythagoras, however, seems to\r\nhave advanced further in the study of the connecting principles of\r\nnature, than that of the Ionian philosopher. The accounts which are\r\ngiven of Anaximander, Anaximenes, Anaxagoras, Archelaus, the\r\nsuccessors of Thales, represent the doctrines of those sages as full\r\nof the most inextricable confusion. Something, however, that\r\napproaches to a composed and orderly system, may be traced in what is\r\ndelivered down to us concerning the doctrine of Empedocles, of\r\nArchytas, of Timæus, and of Ocellus the Lucanian, the most renowned\r\nphilosophers of the Italian school. The opinions of the two last\r\ncoincide pretty much; the one, with those of Plato; the other, with\r\nthose of Aristotle; nor do those of the two first seem to have been\r\nvery different, of whom the one was the author of the doctrine of the\r\nFour Elements, the other the inventor of the Categories; who,\r\ntherefore, may be regarded as the founders, the one, of the ancient\r\nPhysics; the other, of the ancient Dialectic; and, how closely these\r\nwere connected will appear hereafter. It was in the school of\r\nSocrates, however, from Plato and Aristotle, that Philosophy first\r\nreceived that form, which introduced her, if one \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e342\u003c/span\u003e may say so, to\r\nthe general acquaintance of the world. It is from them, therefore,\r\nthat we shall begin to give her history in any detail. Whatever was\r\nvaluable in the former systems, which was at all consistent with their\r\ngeneral principles, they seem to have consolidated into their own.\r\nFrom the Ionian philosophy, I have not been able to discover that they\r\nderived anything. From the Pythagorean school, both Plato and\r\nAristotle seem to have derived the fundamental principles of almost\r\nall their doctrines. Plato, too, appears to have borrowed something\r\nfrom two other sects of philosophers, whose extreme obscurity seems to\r\nhave prevented them from acquiring themselves any extensive\r\nreputation; the one was that of Cratylus and Heraclitus; the other was\r\nXenophanes, Parmenides, Melissus, and Zeno. To pretend to rescue the\r\nsystem of any of those ante-Socratic sages, from that oblivion which\r\nat present covers them all, would be a vain and useless attempt. What\r\nseems, however, to have been borrowed from them, shall sometimes be\r\nmarked as we go along.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere was still another school of philosophy, earlier than Plato,\r\nfrom which, however, he was so far from borrowing any thing, that he\r\nseems to have bent the whole force of his reason to discredit and\r\nexpose its principles. This was the philosophy of Leucippus,\r\n\u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from Democratus\"\u003eDemocritus\u003c/span\u003e, and Protagoras, which accordingly seems to have\r\nsubmitted to his eloquence, to have lain dormant, and to have been\r\nalmost forgotten for some generations, till it was afterwards more\r\nsuccessfully revived by Epicurus.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page342\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eS\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEC.\u003c/span\u003e Ⅳ.—\u003ci\u003eThe History of Astronomy.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eO\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eF\u003c/span\u003e all the phenomena of nature, the celestial appearances are, by\r\ntheir greatness and beauty, the most universal objects of the\r\ncuriosity of mankind. Those who surveyed the heavens with the most\r\ncareless attention, necessarily distinguished in them three different\r\nsorts of objects; the Sun, the Moon, and the Stars. These last,\r\nappearing always in the same situation, and at the same distance with\r\nregard to one another, and seeming to revolve every day round the\r\nearth in parallel circles, which widened gradually from the poles to\r\nthe equator, were naturally thought to have all the marks of being\r\nfixed, like so many gems, in the concave side of the firmament, and of\r\nbeing carried round by the diurnal revolutions of that solid body: for\r\nthe azure sky, in which the stars seem to float, was readily\r\napprehended, upon account of the uniformity of their apparent motions,\r\nto be a solid body, the roof or outer wall of the universe, to whose\r\ninside all those little sparkling objects were attached.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Sun and Moon, often changing their distance and situation, in\r\nregard to the other heavenly bodies, could not be apprehended to be\r\nattached to the same sphere with them. They assigned, therefore, to\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page343\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e343\u003c/span\u003e each of them, a sphere of its own; that is, supposed each of\r\nthem to be attached to the concave side of a solid and transparent\r\nbody, by whose revolutions they were carried round the earth. There\r\nwas not, indeed, in this case, the same ground for the supposition of\r\nsuch \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"omitted in error\"\u003ea\u003c/span\u003e sphere as in that of the Fixed Stars; for neither the Sun nor the\r\nMoon appear to keep always at the same distance with regard to any one\r\nof the other heavenly bodies. But as the motion of the Stars had been\r\naccounted for by an hypothesis of this kind, it rendered the theory of\r\nthe heavens more uniform, to account for that of the Sun and Moon in\r\nthe same manner. The sphere of the sun they placed above that of the\r\nMoon; as the Moon was evidently seen in eclipses to pass betwixt the\r\nSun and the Earth. Each of them was supposed to revolve by a motion of\r\nits own, and at the same time to be affected by the motion of the\r\nFixed Stars. Thus, the Sun was carried round from east to west by the\r\ncommunicated movement of this outer sphere, which produced his diurnal\r\nrevolutions, and the vicissitudes of day and night; but at the same\r\ntime he had a motion of his own, contrary to this, from west to east,\r\nwhich occasioned his annual revolution, and the continual shifting of\r\nhis place with regard to the Fixed Stars. This motion was more easy,\r\nthey thought, when carried on edgeways, and not in direct opposition\r\nto the motion of the outer sphere, which occasioned the inclination of\r\nthe axis of the sphere of the Sun, to that of the sphere of the Fixed\r\nStars; this again produced the obliquity of the ecliptic, and the\r\nconsequent changes of the seasons. The moon, being placed below the\r\nsphere of the Sun, had both a shorter course to finish, and was less\r\nobstructed by the contrary movement of the sphere of the Fixed Stars,\r\nfrom which she was farther removed. She finished her period,\r\ntherefore, in a shorter time, and required but a month, instead of a\r\nyear, to complete it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Stars, when more attentively surveyed, were some of them\r\nobserved to be less constant and uniform in their motions than the\r\nrest, and to change their situations with regard to the other heavenly\r\nbodies; moving generally eastward, yet appearing sometimes to stand\r\nstill, and sometimes even, to move westwards. These, to the number of\r\nfive, were distinguished by the name of Planets, or Wandering Stars,\r\nand marked with the particular appellations of Saturn, Jupiter, Mars,\r\nVenus, and Mercury. As, like the Sun and Moon, they seem to accompany\r\nthe motion of the Fixed Stars from east to west, but at the same time\r\nto have a motion of their own, which is generally from west to east;\r\nthey were each of them, as well as those two great lamps of heaven,\r\napprehended to be attached to the inside of a solid concave and\r\ntransparent sphere, which had a revolution of its own, that was almost\r\ndirectly contrary to the revolution of the outer heaven, but which, at\r\nthe same time, was hurried along by the superior violence and greater\r\nrapidity of this last.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis is the system of concentric Spheres, the first regular system\r\nof \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page344\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e344\u003c/span\u003e Astronomy, which the world beheld, as it was taught in the\r\nItalian school before Aristotle, and his two contemporary\r\nphilosophers, Eudoxus and Callippus, had given it all the perfection\r\nwhich it is capable of receiving. Though rude and inartificial, it is\r\ncapable of connecting together, in the imagination, the grandest and\r\nthe most seemingly disjointed appearances in the heavens. The motions\r\nof the most remarkable objects in the celestial regions, the Sun, the\r\nMoon, the Fixed Stars, are sufficiently connected with one another by\r\nthis hypothesis. The eclipses of these two great luminaries are,\r\nthough not so easily calculated, as easily explained, upon this\r\nancient, as upon the modern system. When these early philosophers\r\nexplained to their disciples the very simple causes of those dreadful\r\nphenomena, it was under the seal of the most sacred secrecy, that they\r\nmight avoid the fury of the people, and not incur the imputation of\r\nimpiety, when they thus took from the gods the direction of those\r\nevents, which were apprehended to be the most terrible tokens of their\r\nimpending vengeance. The obliquity of the ecliptic, the consequent\r\nchanges of the seasons, the vicissitudes of day and night, and the\r\ndifferent lengths of both days and nights in the different seasons,\r\ncorrespond too, pretty exactly, with this ancient doctrine. And if\r\nthere had been no other bodies discoverable in the heavens, besides\r\nthe Sun, the Moon, and the Fixed Stars, this hypothesis might have\r\nstood the examinations of all ages and gone down triumphant to the\r\nremotest posterity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf it gained the belief of mankind by its plausibility, it\r\nattracted their wonder and admiration; sentiments that still more\r\nconfirmed their belief, by the novelty and beauty of that view of\r\nnature which it presented to the imagination. Before this system was\r\ntaught in the world, the earth was regarded as, what it appears to the\r\neye, a vast, rough, and irregular plain, the basis and foundation of\r\nthe universe, surrounded on all sides by the ocean, and whose roots\r\nextended themselves through the whole of that infinite depth which is\r\nbelow it. The sky was considered as a solid hemisphere, which covered\r\nthe earth, and united with the ocean at the extremity of the horizon.\r\nThe Sun, the Moon, and all the heavenly bodies rose out of the\r\neastern, climbed up the convex side of the heavens, and descended\r\nagain into the western ocean, and from thence, by some subterraneous\r\npassages, returned to their first chambers in the east. Nor was this\r\nnotion confined to the people, or to the poets who painted the\r\nopinions of the people; it was held by Xenophanes, founder of the\r\nEleatic philosophy, after that of the Ionian and Italian schools, the\r\nearliest that appeared in Greece. Thales of Miletus too, who,\r\naccording to Aristotle, represented the Earth as floating upon an\r\nimmense ocean of water, may have been nearly of the same opinion;\r\nnotwithstanding what we are told by Plutarch and Apuleius concerning\r\nhis astronomical discoveries, all of which must plainly have been of a\r\nmuch later date. To those \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page345\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e345\u003c/span\u003e who had no other idea of nature,\r\nbesides what they derived from so confused an account of things, how\r\nagreeable must that system have appeared, which represented the Earth\r\nas distinguished into land and water, self-balanced and suspended in\r\nthe centre of the universe, surrounded by the elements of Air and\r\nEther, and covered by eight polished and crystalline Spheres, each of\r\nwhich was distinguished by one or more beautiful and luminous bodies,\r\nand all of which revolved round their common centre, by varied, but by\r\nequable and proportionable motions. It seems to have been the beauty\r\nof this system that gave Plato the notion of something like an\r\nharmonic proportion, to be discovered in the motions and distances of\r\nthe heavenly bodies; and which suggested to the earlier Pythagoreans,\r\nthe celebrated fancy of the Music of the Spheres; a wild and romantic\r\nidea, yet such as does not ill correspond with that admiration, which\r\nso beautiful a system, recommended too by the graces of novelty, is\r\napt to inspire.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhatever are the defects which this account of things labours\r\nunder, they are such, as to the first observers of the heavens could\r\nnot readily occur. If all the motions of the Five Planets cannot, the\r\ngreater part of them may, be easily connected by it; they and all\r\ntheir motions are the least remarkable objects in the heavens; the\r\ngreater part of mankind take no notice of them at all; and a system,\r\nwhose only defect lies in the account which it gives of them, cannot\r\nthereby be much disgraced in their opinion. If some of the appearances\r\ntoo of the Sun and Moon, the sometimes accelerated and again retarded\r\nmotions of those luminaries but ill correspond with it; these, too,\r\nare such as cannot be discovered but by the most attentive\r\nobservation, and such as we cannot wonder that the imaginations of the\r\nfirst enquirers should slur over, if one may say so, and take little\r\nnotice of.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt was, however, to remedy those defects, that Eudoxus, the friend\r\nand auditor of Plato, found it necessary to increase the number of the\r\nCelestial Spheres. Each Planet is sometimes observed to advance\r\nforward in that eastern course which is peculiar to itself, sometimes\r\nto retire backwards, and sometimes again to stand still. To suppose\r\nthat the sphere of the planet should by its own motion, if one may say\r\nso, sometimes roll forwards, sometimes roll backwards, and sometimes\r\ndo neither the one nor the other, is contrary to all the natural\r\npropensities of the imagination, which accompanies with ease and\r\ndelight any regular and orderly motion, but feels itself perpetually\r\nstopped and interrupted, when it endeavours to attend to one so\r\ndesultory and uncertain. It would pursue, naturally and of its own\r\naccord, the direct or progressive movement of the Sphere, but is every\r\nnow and then shocked, if one may say so, and turned violently out of\r\nits natural career by the retrograde and stationary appearances of the\r\nPlanet, betwixt which and its more usual motion, the fancy feels a\r\nwant of connection, a gap or interval, which it cannot fill up, but by\r\nsupposing \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page346\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e346\u003c/span\u003e some chain of intermediate events to join them. The\r\nhypothesis of a number of other spheres revolving in the heavens,\r\nbesides those in which the luminous bodies themselves were infixed,\r\nwas the chain with which Eudoxus endeavoured to supply it. He bestowed\r\nfour of these Spheres upon each of the five Planets; one in which the\r\nluminous body itself revolved, and three others above it. Each of\r\nthese had a regular and constant, but a peculiar movement of its own,\r\nwhich it communicated to what was properly the Sphere of the Planet,\r\nand thus occasioned that diversity of motions observable in those\r\nbodies. One of these Spheres, for example, had an oscillatory motion,\r\nlike the circular pendulum of a watch. As when you turn round a watch,\r\nlike a Sphere upon its axis, the pendulum will, while turned round\r\nalong with it, still continue to oscillate, and communicate to\r\nwhatever body is comprehended within it, both its own oscillations and\r\nthe circular motion of the watch; so this oscillating Sphere, being\r\nitself turned round by the motion of the Sphere above it, communicated\r\nto the Sphere below it, that circular, as well as its own oscillatory\r\nmotions; produced by the one, the daily revolutions: by the other, the\r\ndirect, stationary, and retrograde appearances of the Planet, which\r\nderived from a third Sphere that revolution by which it performed its\r\nannual period. The motions of all these Spheres were in themselves\r\nconstant and equable, such as the imagination could easily attend to\r\nand pursue, and which connected together that otherwise incoherent\r\ndiversity of movements observable in the Sphere of the Planet. The\r\nmotions of the Sun and Moon being more regular than those of the Five\r\nPlanets, by assigning three Spheres to each of them, Eudoxus imagined\r\nhe could connect together all the diversity of movements discoverable\r\nin either. The motion of the Fixed Stars being perfectly regular, one\r\nSphere he judged sufficient for them all. So that, according to this\r\naccount, the whole number of Celestial Spheres amounted to\r\ntwenty-seven. Callippus, though somewhat younger, the contemporary of\r\nEudoxus, found that even this number was not enough to connect\r\ntogether the vast variety of movements which he discovered in those\r\nbodies, and therefore increased it to thirty-four. Aristotle, upon a\r\nyet more attentive observation, found that even all these Spheres\r\nwould not be sufficient, and therefore added twenty-two more, which\r\nincreased their number to fifty-six. Later observers discovered still\r\nnew motions, and new inequalities, in the heavens. New Spheres were\r\ntherefore still to be added to the system, and some of them to be\r\nplaced even above that of the Fixed Stars. So that in the sixteenth\r\ncentury, when Fracostorio, smit with the eloquence of Plato and\r\nAristotle, and with the regularity and harmony of their system, in\r\nitself perfectly beautiful, though it corresponds but inaccurately\r\nwith the phenomena, endeavoured to revive this ancient Astronomy,\r\nwhich had long given place to that of Ptolemy and Hipparchus, he found\r\nit necessary to multiply \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page347\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e347\u003c/span\u003e the number of Celestial Spheres to\r\nseventy-two; neither were all these found to be enough.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis system had now become as intricate and complex as those\r\nappearances themselves, which it had been invented to render uniform\r\nand coherent. The imagination, therefore, found itself but little\r\nrelieved from that embarrassment, into which those appearances had\r\nthrown it, by so perplexed an account of things. Another system, for\r\nthis reason, not long after the days of Aristotle, was invented by\r\nApollonius, which was afterwards perfected by Hipparchus, and has\r\nsince been delivered down to us by Ptolemy, the more artificial system\r\nof Eccentric Spheres and Epicycles.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn this system, they first distinguished between the real and\r\napparent motion of the heavenly bodies. These, they observed, upon\r\naccount of their immense distance, must necessarily appear to revolve\r\nin circles concentric with the globe of the Earth, and with one\r\nanother: but that we cannot, therefore, be certain that they really\r\nrevolve in such circles, since, though they did not, they would still\r\nhave the same appearance. By supposing, therefore, that the Sun and\r\nthe other Planets revolved in circles, whose centres were very distant\r\nfrom the centre of the Earth; that consequently, in the progress of\r\ntheir revolution, they must sometimes approach nearer, and sometimes\r\nrecede further from it, and must to its inhabitants appear to move\r\nfaster in the one case, and slower in the other, those philosophers\r\nimagined they could account for the apparently unequal velocities of\r\nall those bodies.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBy supposing, that in the solidity of the Sphere of each of the\r\nFive Planets there was formed another little Sphere, called an\r\nEpicycle, which revolved round its own centre, at the same time that\r\nit was carried round the centre of the Earth by the revolution of the\r\ngreat Sphere, betwixt whose concave and convex sides it was inclosed;\r\nin the same manner as we might suppose a little wheel inclosed within\r\nthe outer circle of a great wheel, and which whirled about several\r\ntimes upon its own axis, while its centre was carried round the axis\r\nof the great wheel, they imagined they could account for the\r\nretrograde and stationary appearances of those most irregular objects\r\nin the heavens. The Planet, they supposed, was attached to the\r\ncircumference, and whirled round the centre of this little Sphere, at\r\nthe same time that it was carried round the earth by the movement of\r\nthe great Sphere. The revolution of this little Sphere, or Epicycle,\r\nwas such, that the Planet, when in the upper part of it; that is, when\r\nfurthest off and least sensible to the eye; was carried round in the\r\nsame direction with the centre of the Epicycle, or with the Sphere in\r\nwhich the Epicycle was inclosed: but when in the lower part, that is,\r\nwhen nearest and most sensible to the eye; it was carried round a\r\ndirection contrary to that of the centre of the Epicycle: in the same\r\nmanner as every point in the upper part of the outer circle of a\r\ncoach-wheel revolves forward in the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page348\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e348\u003c/span\u003e same direction with the\r\naxis, while every point, in the lower part, revolves backwards in a\r\ncontrary direction to the axis. The motions of the Planet, therefore,\r\nsurveyed from the Earth, appeared direct, when in the upper part of\r\nthe Epicycle, and retrograde, when in the lower. When again it either\r\ndescended from the upper part to the lower, or ascended from the lower\r\nto the upper, it appeared stationary.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut, though, by the eccentricity of the great Sphere, they were\r\nthus able, in some measure, to connect together the unequal velocities\r\nof the heavenly bodies, and by the revolutions of the little Sphere,\r\nthe direct, stationary, and retrograde appearances of the Planets,\r\nthere was another difficulty that still remained. Neither the Moon,\r\nnor the three superior Planets, appear always in the same part of the\r\nheavens, when at their periods of most retarded motion, or when they\r\nare supposed to be at the greatest distance from the Earth. The\r\napogeum therefore, or the point of greatest distance from the Earth,\r\nin the Spheres of each of those bodies, must have a movement of its\r\nown, which may carry it successively through all the different points\r\nof the Ecliptic. They supposed, therefore, that while the great\r\neccentric Sphere revolved eastwards round its centre, that its centre\r\ntoo revolved westwards in a circle of its own, round the centre of the\r\nEarth, and thus carried its apogeum through all the different points\r\nof the Ecliptic.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut with all those combined and perplexed circles; though the\r\npatrons of this system were able to give some degree of uniformity to\r\nthe real directions of the Planets, they found it impossible so to\r\nadjust the velocities of those supposed Spheres to the phenomena, as\r\nthat the revolution of any one of them, when surveyed from its own\r\ncentre, should appear perfectly equable and uniform. From that point,\r\nthe only point in which the velocity of what moves in a circle can be\r\ntruly judged of, they would still appear irregular and inconstant, and\r\nsuch as tended to embarrass and confound the imagination. They\r\ninvented, therefore, for each of them, a new Circle, called the\r\nEqualizing Circle, from whose centre they should all appear perfectly\r\nequable: that is, they so adjusted the velocities of these Spheres, as\r\nthat, though the revolution of each of them would appear irregular\r\nwhen surveyed from its own centre, there should, however, be a point\r\ncomprehended within its circumference, from whence its motions should\r\nappear to cut off, in equal times, equal portions of the Circle, of\r\nwhich that point was supposed to be the centre.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNothing can more evidently show how much the repose and\r\ntranquillity of the imagination is the ultimate end of philosophy,\r\nthan the invention of this Equalizing Circle. The motions of the\r\nheavenly bodies had appeared inconstant and irregular, both in their\r\nvelocities and in their directions. They were such, therefore, as\r\ntended to embarrass and confound the imagination, whenever it\r\nattempted to trace them. The invention of Eccentric Spheres, of\r\nEpicycles, and of the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page349\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e349\u003c/span\u003e revolution of the centres of the Eccentric\r\nSpheres, tended to allay this confusion, to connect together those\r\ndisjointed appearances, and to introduce harmony and order into the\r\nmind’s conception of the movements of those bodies. It did this,\r\nhowever, but imperfectly; it introduced uniformity and coherence into\r\ntheir real directions. But their velocities, when surveyed from the\r\nonly point in which the velocity of what moves in a Circle can be\r\ntruly judged of, the centre of that Circle, still remained, in some\r\nmeasure, inconstant as before; and still, therefore, embarrassed the\r\nimagination. The mind found itself somewhat relieved from this\r\nembarrassment, when it conceived, that how irregular soever the\r\nmotions of each of those Circles might appear, when surveyed from its\r\nown centre, there was, however, in each of them, a point, from whence\r\nits revolution would appear perfectly equable and uniform, and such as\r\nthe imagination could easily follow. Those philosophers transported\r\nthemselves, in fancy, to the centres of these imaginary Circles, and\r\ntook pleasure in surveying from thence, all those fantastical motions,\r\narranged, according to that harmony and order, which it had been the\r\nend of all their researches to bestow upon them. Here, at last, they\r\nenjoyed that tranquillity and repose which they had pursued through\r\nall the mazes of this intricate hypothesis; and here they beheld this,\r\nthe most beautiful and magnificent part of the great theatre of\r\nnature, so disposed and constructed, that they could attend, with\r\ndelight, to all the revolutions and changes that occurred in it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThese, the System of Concentric, and that of Eccentric Spheres,\r\nseem to have been the two Systems of Astronomy, that had most credit\r\nand reputation with that part of the ancient world, who applied\r\nthemselves particularly to the study of the heavens. Cleanthes,\r\nhowever, and the other philosophers of the Stoical sect who came after\r\nhim, appear to have had a system of their own, quite different from\r\neither. But though justly renowned for their skill in dialectic, and\r\nfor the security and sublimity of their moral doctrines, those sages\r\nseem never to have had any high reputation for their knowledge of the\r\nheavens; neither is the name of any one of them ever counted in the\r\ncatalogue of the great astronomers, and studious observers of the\r\nStars among the ancients. They rejected the doctrine of the Solid\r\nSpheres; and maintained, that the celestial regions were filled with a\r\nfluid ether, of too yielding a nature to carry along with it, by any\r\nmotion of its own, bodies so immensely great as the Sun, Moon, and\r\nFive Planets. These, therefore, as well as the Fixed Stars, did not\r\nderive their motion from the circumambient body, but had each of them,\r\nin itself, and peculiar to itself, a vital principle of motion, which\r\ndirected it to move with its own peculiar velocity, and its own\r\npeculiar direction. It was by this internal principle that the Fixed\r\nStars revolved directly from east to west in circles parallel to the\r\nEquator, greater or less, according to their distance or nearness to\r\nthe Poles, and with velocities so proportioned, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page350\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e350\u003c/span\u003e that each of\r\nthem finished its diurnal period in the same time, in something less\r\nthan twenty-three hours and fifty-six minutes. It was, by a principle\r\nof the same kind, that the Sun moved westward, for they allowed of no\r\neastward motion in the heavens, but with less velocity than the Fixed\r\nStars, so as to finish his diurnal period in twenty-four hours, and,\r\nconsequently, to fall every day behind them, by a space of the heavens\r\nnearly equal to that which he passes over in four minutes; that is,\r\nnearly equal to a degree. This revolution of the Sun, too, was neither\r\ndirectly westwards, nor exactly circular; but after the Summer\r\nSolstice, his motion began gradually to decline a little southwards,\r\nappearing in his meridian to-day, further south than yesterday; and\r\nto-morrow still further south than to-day; and thus continuing every\r\nday to describe a spiral line round the Earth, which carried him\r\ngradually further and further southwards, till he arrived at the\r\nWinter Solstice. Here this spiral line began to change its direction,\r\nand to bring him gradually, every day, further and further northwards,\r\ntill it again restored him to the Summer Solstice. In the same manner\r\nthey accounted for the motion of the Moon, and that of the Five\r\nPlanets, by supposing that each of them revolved westwards, but with\r\ndirections and velocities, that were both different from one another,\r\nand continually varying; generally, however, in spherical lines, and\r\nsomewhat inclined to the Equator.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis system seems never to have had the vogue. The system of\r\nConcentric as well as that of Eccentric Spheres gives some sort of\r\nreason, both for the constancy and equability of the motion of the\r\nFixed Stars, and for the variety and uncertainty of that of the\r\nPlanets. Each of them bestows some sort of coherence upon those\r\napparently disjointed phenomena. But this other system seems to leave\r\nthem pretty much as it found them. Ask a Stoic, why all the Fixed\r\nStars perform their daily revolutions in circles parallel to each\r\nother, though of very different diameters, and with velocities so\r\nproportioned that they all finish their period at the same time, and\r\nthrough the whole course of it preserve the same distance and\r\nsituation with regard to one another? He can give no other answer, but\r\nthat the peculiar nature, or if one may say so, the caprice of each\r\nStar directs it to move in that peculiar manner. His system affords\r\nhim no principle of connection, by which he can join together, in his\r\nimagination, so great a number of harmonious revolutions. But either\r\nof the other two systems, by the supposition of the solid firmament,\r\naffords this easily. He is equally at a loss to connect together the\r\npeculiarities that are observed in the motions of the other heavenly\r\nbodies; the spiral motion of them all; their alternate progression\r\nfrom north to south, and from south to north; the sometimes\r\naccelerated, and again retarded motions of the Sun and Moon; the\r\ndirect retrograde and stationary appearances of the Planets. All these\r\nhave, in his system, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page351\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e351\u003c/span\u003e no bond of union, but remain as loose and\r\nincoherent in the fancy, as they at first appeared to the senses,\r\nbefore philosophy had attempted, by giving them a new arrangement, by\r\nplacing them at different distances, by assigning to each some\r\npeculiar but regular principle of motion, to methodize and dispose\r\nthem into an order that should enable the imagination to pass as\r\nsmoothly, and with as little embarrassment, along them, as along the\r\nmost regular, most familiar, and most coherent appearances of\r\nnature.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch were the systems of Astronomy that, in the ancient world,\r\nappear to have been adopted by any considerable party. Of all of them,\r\nthe system of Eccentric Spheres was that which corresponded most\r\nexactly with the appearances of the heavens. It was not invented till\r\nafter those appearances had been observed, with some accuracy, for\r\nmore than a century together; and it was not completely digested by\r\nPtolemy till the reign of Antoninus, after a much longer course of\r\nobservations. We cannot wonder, therefore, that it was adapted to a\r\nmuch greater number of the phenomena, than either of the other two\r\nsystems, which had been formed before those phenomena were observed\r\nwith any degree of attention, which, therefore, could connect them\r\ntogether only while they were thus regarded in the gross, but which,\r\nit could not be expected, should apply to them when they came to be\r\nconsidered in the detail. From the time of Hipparchus, therefore, this\r\nsystem seems to have been pretty generally received by all those who\r\nattended particularly to the study of the heavens. That astronomer\r\nfirst made a catalogue of the Fixed Stars; calculated, for six hundred\r\nyears, the revolutions of the Sun, Moon, and Five Planets; marked the\r\nplaces in the heavens, in which, during all that period, each of those\r\nbodies should appear; ascertained the times of the eclipses of the Sun\r\nand Moon, and the particular places of the Earth in which they should\r\nbe visible. His calculations were founded upon this system, and as the\r\nevents corresponded to his predictions, with a degree of accuracy\r\nwhich, though inferior to what Astronomy has since arrived at, was\r\ngreatly superior to any thing which the world had then known, they\r\nascertained, to all astronomers and mathematicians, the preference of\r\nhis system, above all those which had been current before.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt was, however, to astronomers and mathematicians, only, that they\r\nascertained this; for, notwithstanding the evident superiority of this\r\nsystem, to all those with which the world was then acquainted, it was\r\nnever adopted by one sect of philosophers.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePhilosophers, long before the days of Hipparchus, seem to have\r\nabandoned the study of nature, to employ themselves chiefly in\r\nethical, rhetorical, and dialectical questions. Each party of them\r\ntoo, had by this time completed their peculiar system or theory of the\r\nuniverse, and no human consideration could then have induced them to\r\ngive up any part of it. That supercilious and ignorant contempt too,\r\nwith \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page352\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e352\u003c/span\u003e which at this time they regarded all mathematicians, among\r\nwhom they counted astronomers, seems even to have hindered them from\r\nenquiring so far into their doctrines as to know what opinions they\r\nheld. Neither Cicero nor Seneca, who have so often occasion to mention\r\nthe ancient systems of Astronomy, takes any notice of that of\r\nHipparchus. His name is not to be found in the writings of Seneca. It\r\nis mentioned but once in those of Cicero, in a letter to Atticus, but\r\nwithout any note of approbation, as a geographer, and not as an\r\nastronomer. Plutarch, when he counts up, in his second book,\r\nconcerning the opinions of philosophers, all the ancient systems of\r\nAstronomy, never mentions this, the only tolerable one which was known\r\nin his time. Those three authors, it seems, conversed only with the\r\nwritings of philosophers. The elder Pliny, indeed, a man whose\r\ncuriosity extended itself equally to every part of learning, describes\r\nthe system of Hipparchus, and never mentions its author, which he has\r\noccasion to do often, without some note of that high admiration which\r\nhe had so justly conceived for his merit. Such profound ignorance in\r\nthose professed instructors of mankind, with regard to so important a\r\npart of the learning of their own times, is so very remarkable, that I\r\nthought it deserved to be taken notice of, even in this short account\r\nof the revolutions of the philosophy of the ancients.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSystems in many respects resemble machines. A machine is a little\r\nsystem, created to perform, as well as to connect together, in\r\nreality, those different movements and effects which the artist has\r\noccasion for. A system is an imaginary machine invented to connect\r\ntogether in the fancy those different movements and effects which are\r\nalready in reality performed. The machines that are first invented to\r\nperform any particular movement are always the most complex, and\r\nsucceeding artists generally discover that, with fewer wheels, with\r\nfewer principles of motion, than had originally been employed, the\r\nsame effects may be more easily produced. The first systems, in the\r\nsame manner, are always the most complex, and a particular connecting\r\nchain, or principle, is generally thought necessary to unite every two\r\nseemingly disjointed appearances: but it often happens, that one great\r\nconnecting principle is afterwards found to be sufficient to bind\r\ntogether all the discordant phenomena that occur in a whole species of\r\nthings. How many wheels are necessary to carry on the movements of\r\nthis imaginary machine, the system of Eccentric Spheres! The westward\r\ndiurnal revolution of the Firmament, whose rapidity carries all the\r\nother heavenly bodies along with it, requires one. The periodical\r\neastward revolutions of the Sun, Moon, and Five Planets, require, for\r\neach of those bodies, another. Their differently accelerated and\r\nretarded motions require, that those wheels, or circles, should\r\nneither be concentric with the Firmament, nor with one another; which,\r\nmore than any thing, seems to disturb the harmony of the universe. The\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page353\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e353\u003c/span\u003e retrograde and stationary appearance of the Five Planets, as\r\nwell as the extreme inconstancy of the Moon’s motion, require, for\r\neach of them, an Epicycle, another little wheel attached to the\r\ncircumference of the great wheel, which still more interrupts the\r\nuniformity of the system. The motion of the apogeum of each of those\r\nbodies requires, in each of them, still another wheel, to carry the\r\ncentres of their Eccentric Spheres round the centre of the Earth. And\r\nthus, this imaginary machine, though, perhaps, more simple, and\r\ncertainly better adapted to the phenomena than the Fifty-six Planetary\r\nSpheres of Aristotle, was still too intricate and complex for the\r\nimagination to rest in it with complete tranquillity and\r\nsatisfaction.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt maintained its authority, however, without any diminution of\r\nreputation, as long as science was at all regarded in the ancient\r\nworld. After the reign of Antoninus, and, indeed, after the age of\r\nHipparchus, who lived almost three hundred years before Antoninus, the\r\ngreat reputation which the earlier philosophers had acquired, so\r\nimposed upon the imaginations of mankind, that they seem to have\r\ndespaired of ever equalling their renown. All human wisdom, they\r\nsupposed, was comprehended in the writings of those elder sages. To\r\nabridge, to explain, and to comment upon them, and thus show\r\nthemselves, at least, capable of understanding some of their sublime\r\nmysteries, became now the only road to reputation. Proclus and Theon\r\nwrote commentaries upon the system of Ptolemy; but, to have attempted\r\nto invent a new one, would then have been regarded, not only as\r\npresumption, but as impiety to the memory of their so much revered\r\npredecessors.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe ruin of the empire of the Romans, and, along with it, the\r\nsubversion of all law and order, which happened a few centuries\r\nafterwards, produced the entire neglect of that study of the\r\nconnecting principles of nature, to which leisure and security can\r\nalone give occasion. After the fall of those great conquerors and\r\ncivilizers of mankind, the empire of the Caliphs seems to have been\r\nthe first state under which the world enjoyed that degree of\r\ntranquillity which the cultivation of the sciences requires. It was\r\nunder the protection of those generous and magnificent princes, that\r\nthe ancient philosophy and astronomy of the Greeks were restored and\r\nestablished in the East; that tranquillity, which their mild, just,\r\nand religious government diffused over their vast empire, revived the\r\ncuriosity of mankind, to inquire into the connecting principles of\r\nnature. The \u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from same\"\u003efame\u003c/span\u003e of the Greek and Roman learning, which was then\r\nrecent in the memories of men, made them desire to know, concerning\r\nthese abstruse subjects, what were the doctrines of the so much\r\nrenowned sages of those two nations.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThey translated, therefore, into the Arabian language, and studied,\r\nwith great eagerness, the works of many Greek philosophers,\r\nparticularly of Aristotle, Ptolemy, Hippocrates, and Galen. The\r\nsuperiority which they easily discovered in them, above the rude\r\nessays which \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page354\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e354\u003c/span\u003e their own nation had yet had time to produce, and\r\nwhich were such, we may suppose, as arise every where in the first\r\ninfancy of science, necessarily determined them to embrace their\r\nsystems, particularly that of Astronomy: neither were they ever\r\nafterwards able to throw off their authority. For, though the\r\nmunificence of the Abassides, the second race of the Caliphs, is said\r\nto have supplied the Arabian astronomers with larger and better\r\ninstruments than any that were known to Ptolemy and Hipparchus, the\r\nstudy of the sciences seems, in that mighty empire, to have been\r\neither of too short, or too interrupted a continuance, to allow them\r\nto make any considerable correction in the doctrines of those old\r\nmathematicians. The imaginations of mankind had not yet got time to\r\ngrow so familiar with the ancient systems, as to regard them without\r\nsome degree of that astonishment which their grandeur and novelty\r\nexcited; a novelty of a peculiar kind, which had at once the grace of\r\nwhat was new, and the authority of what was ancient. They were still,\r\ntherefore, too much enslaved to those systems, to dare to depart from\r\nthem, when those confusions which shook, and at last overturned the\r\npeaceful throne of the Caliphs, banished the study of the sciences\r\nfrom that empire. They had, however, before this, made some\r\nconsiderable improvements: they had measured the obliquity of the\r\nEcliptic, with more accuracy than had been done before. The tables of\r\nPtolemy had, by the length of time, and by the inaccuracy of the\r\nobservations upon which they were founded, become altogether wide of\r\nwhat was the real situation of the heavenly bodies, as he himself\r\nindeed had foretold they would do. It became necessary, therefore, to\r\nform new ones, which was accordingly executed by the orders of the\r\nCaliph Almamon, under whom, too, was made the first mensuration of the\r\nEarth that we know off, after the commencement of the Christian era,\r\nby two Arabian astronomers, who, in the plain of Sennaar, measured two\r\ndegrees of its circumference.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe victorious arms of the Saracens carried into Spain the\r\nlearning, as well as the gallantry, of the East; and along with it,\r\nthe tables of Almamon, and the Arabian translations of Ptolemy and\r\nAristotle; and thus Europe received a second time, from Babylon, the\r\nrudiments of the science of the heavens. The writings of Ptolemy were\r\ntranslated from Arabic into Latin; and the Peripatetic philosophy was\r\nstudied in Averroes and Avicenna with as much eagerness and as much\r\nsubmission to its doctrines in the West, as it had been in the\r\nEast.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe doctrine of the Solid Spheres had, originally, been invented,\r\nin order to give a physical account of the revolutions of the heavenly\r\nbodies, according to the system of Concentric Circles, to which that\r\ndoctrine was very easily accommodated. Those mathematicians who\r\ninvented the doctrine of Eccentric Circles and Epicycles, contented\r\nthemselves with showing, how, by supposing the heavenly bodies to\r\nrevolve in such orbits, the phenomena might be connected together,\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page355\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e355\u003c/span\u003e and some sort of uniformity and coherence be bestowed upon their\r\nreal motions. The physical causes of those motions they left to the\r\nconsideration of the philosophers; though, as appears from some\r\npassages of Ptolemy, they had some general apprehension, that they\r\nwere to be explained by a like hypothesis. But, though the system of\r\nHipparchus was adopted by all astronomers and mathematicians, it never\r\nwas received, as we have already observed, by any one sect of\r\nphilosophers among the ancients. No attempt, therefore, seems to have\r\nbeen made amongst them, to accommodate to it any such hypothesis.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe schoolmen, who received, at once, from the Arabians, the\r\nphilosophy of Aristotle, and the astronomy of Hipparchus, were\r\nnecessarily obliged to reconcile them to one another, and to connect\r\ntogether the revolutions of the Eccentric Circles and Epicycles of the\r\none, by the solid Spheres of the other. Many different attempts of\r\nthis kind were made by many different philosophers: but, of them all,\r\nthat of Purbach, in the fifteenth century, was the happiest and the\r\nmost esteemed. Though his hypothesis is the simplest of any of them,\r\nit would be in vain to describe it without a scheme; neither is it\r\neasily intelligible with one; for, if the system of Eccentric Circles\r\nand Epicycles was before too perplexed and intricate for the\r\nimagination to rest in it with complete tranquillity and satisfaction,\r\nit became much more so, when this addition had been made to it. The\r\nworld, justly indeed, applauded the ingenuity of that philosopher, who\r\ncould unite, so happily, two such seemingly inconsistent systems. His\r\nlabours, however, seem rather to have increased than to have\r\ndiminished the causes of that dissatisfaction, which the learned soon\r\nbegan to feel with the system of Ptolemy. He, as well as all those who\r\nhad worked upon the same plan before, by rendering this account of\r\nthings more complex, rendered it more embarrassing than it had been\r\nbefore.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNeither was the complexness of this system the sole cause of the\r\ndissatisfaction, which the world in general began, soon after the days\r\nof Purbach, to express for it. The tables of Ptolemy having, upon\r\naccount of the inaccuracy of the observations on which they were\r\nfounded, become altogether wide of the real situation of the heavenly\r\nbodies, those of Almamon, in the ninth century, were, upon the same\r\nhypothesis, composed to correct their deviations. These again, a few\r\nages afterwards, became, for the same reason, equally useless. In the\r\nthirteenth century, Alphonsus, the philosophical King of Castile,\r\nfound it necessary to give orders for the composition of those tables,\r\nwhich bear his name. It is he, who is so well known for the whimsical\r\nimpiety of using to say, that, had he been consulted at the creation\r\nof the universe, he could have given good advice; an apophthegm which\r\nis supposed to have proceeded from his dislike to the intricate system\r\nof Ptolemy. In the fifteenth century, the deviation of the Alphonsine\r\ntables began to be as sensible, as those of Ptolemy and \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page356\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e356\u003c/span\u003e Almamon\r\nhad been before. It appeared evident, therefore, that, though the\r\nsystem of Ptolemy might, in the main, be true, certain corrections\r\nwere necessary to be made in it before it could be brought to\r\ncorrespond with exact precision to the phenomena. For the revolution\r\nof his Eccentric Circles and Epicycles, supposing them to exist, could\r\nnot, it was evident, be precisely such as he represented them; since\r\nthe revolutions of the heavenly bodies deviated, in a short time, so\r\nwidely from what the most exact calculations, that were founded upon\r\nhis hypothesis, represented them. It had plainly, therefore, become\r\nnecessary to correct, by more accurate observations, both the\r\nvelocities and directions of all the wheels and circles of which his\r\nhypothesis is composed. This, accordingly, was begun by Purbach, and\r\ncarried on by Regiomontanus, the disciple, the continuator, and the\r\n\u003cspan class=\"correction\" title=\"amended from perfector\"\u003eperfecter\u003c/span\u003e of the system of Purbach; and one, whose untimely death,\r\namidst innumerable projects for the recovery of old, and the invention\r\nand advancement of new sciences, is, even at this day, to be\r\nregretted.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen you have convinced the world, that an established system ought\r\nto be corrected, it is not very difficult to persuade them that it\r\nshould be destroyed. Not long, therefore, after the death of\r\nRegiomontanus, Copernicus began to meditate a new system, which should\r\nconnect together the new appearances, in a more simple as well as a\r\nmore accurate manner, than that of Ptolemy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe confusion, in which the old hypothesis represented the motions\r\nof the heavenly bodies, was, he tells us, what first suggested to him\r\nthe design of forming a new system, that these, the noblest works of\r\nnature, might no longer appear devoid of that harmony and proportion\r\nwhich discover themselves in her meanest productions. What most of all\r\ndissatisfied him, was the notion of the Equalizing Circle, which, by\r\nrepresenting the revolutions of the Celestial Spheres, as equable\r\nonly, when surveyed from a point that was different from their\r\ncentres, introduced a real inequality into their motions; contrary to\r\nthat most natural, and indeed fundamental idea, with which all the\r\nauthors of astronomical systems, Plato, Eudoxus, Aristotle, even\r\nHipparchus and Ptolemy themselves, had hitherto set out, that the real\r\nmotions of such beautiful and divine objects must necessarily be\r\nperfectly regular, and go on, in a manner, as agreeable to the\r\nimagination, as the objects themselves are to the senses. He began to\r\nconsider, therefore, whether, by supposing the heavenly bodies to be\r\narranged in a different order from that in which Aristotle and\r\nHipparchus has placed them, this so much sought for uniformity might\r\nnot be bestowed upon their motions. To discover this arrangement, he\r\nexamined all the obscure traditions delivered down to us, concerning\r\nevery other hypothesis which the ancients had invented, for the same\r\npurpose. He found, in Plutarch, that some old Pythagoreans had\r\nrepresented the Earth as revolving in the centre of the universe, like\r\na wheel round its own axis; and that \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page357\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e357\u003c/span\u003e others, of the same sect,\r\nhad removed it from the centre, and represented it as revolving in the\r\nEcliptic like a star round the central fire. By this central fire, he\r\nsupposed they meant the Sun; and though in this he was very widely\r\nmistaken, it was, it seems, upon this interpretation, that he began to\r\nconsider how such an hypothesis might be made to correspond to the\r\nappearances. The supposed authority of these old philosophers, if it\r\ndid not originally suggest to him his system, seems, at least, to have\r\nconfirmed him in an opinion, which, it is not improbable, that he had\r\nbeforehand other reasons for embracing, notwithstanding what he\r\nhimself would affirm to the contrary.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt then occurred to him, that, if the Earth was supposed to revolve\r\nevery day round its axis, from west to east, all the heavenly bodies\r\nwould appear to revolve, in a contrary direction, from east to west.\r\nThe diurnal revolution of the heavens, upon this hypothesis, might be\r\nonly apparent; the firmament, which has no other sensible motion,\r\nmight be perfectly at rest; while the Sun, the Moon, and the Five\r\nPlanets, might have no other movement beside that eastward revolution,\r\nwhich is peculiar to themselves. That, by supposing the Earth to\r\nrevolve with the Planets, round the Sun, in an orbit, which\r\ncomprehended within it the orbits of Venus and Mercury, but was\r\ncomprehended within those of Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, he could,\r\nwithout the embarrassment of Epicycles, connect together the apparent\r\nannual revolutions of the Sun, and the direct, retrograde, and\r\nstationary appearances of the Planets: that while the Earth really\r\nrevolved round the Sun on one side of the heavens, the Sun would\r\nappear to revolve round the Earth on the other; that while she really\r\nadvanced in her annual course, he would appear to advance eastward in\r\nthat movement which is peculiar to himself. That, by supposing the\r\naxis of the Earth to be always parallel to itself, not to be quite\r\nperpendicular, but somewhat inclined to the plane of her orbit, and\r\nconsequently to present to the Sun, the one pole when on the one side\r\nof him, and the other when on the other, he would account for the\r\nobliquity of the Ecliptic; the Sun’s seemingly alternate progression\r\nfrom north to south, and from south to north, the consequent change of\r\nthe seasons, and different lengths of the days and nights in the\r\ndifferent seasons.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf this new hypothesis thus connected together all these\r\nappearances as happily as that of Ptolemy, there were others which it\r\nconnected together much better. The three superior Planets, when\r\nnearly in conjunction with the Sun, appear always at the greatest\r\ndistance from the Earth, are smallest, and least sensible to the eye,\r\nand seem to revolve forward in their direct motion with the greatest\r\nrapidity. On the contrary, when in opposition to the Sun, that is,\r\nwhen in their meridian about midnight, they appear nearest the Earth,\r\nare largest, and most sensible to the eye, and seem to revolve\r\nbackwards in their retrograde motion. To explain these appearances,\r\nthe system of Ptolemy supposed \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page358\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e358\u003c/span\u003e each of these Planets to be at\r\nthe upper part of their several Epicycles, in the one case; and at the\r\nlower, in the other. But it afforded no satisfactory principle of\r\nconnection, which could lead the mind easily to conceive how the\r\nEpicycles of those Planets, whose spheres were so distant from the\r\nsphere of the Sun, should thus, if one may say so, keep time to his\r\nmotion. The system of Copernicus afforded this easily, and like a more\r\nsimple machine, without the assistance of Epicycles, connected\r\ntogether, by fewer movements, the complex appearances of the heavens.\r\nWhen the superior Planets appear nearly in conjunction with the Sun,\r\nthey are then in the side of their orbits, which is almost opposite\r\nto, and most distant from the Earth, and therefore appear smallest,\r\nand least sensible to the eye. But, as they then revolve in a\r\ndirection which is almost contrary to that of the Earth, they appear\r\nto advance forward with double velocity; as a ship, that sails in a\r\ncontrary direction to another, appears from that other, to sail both\r\nwith its own velocity, and the velocity of that from which it is seen.\r\nOn the contrary, when those Planets are in opposition to the Sun, they\r\nare on the same side of the Sun with the Earth, are nearest it, most\r\nsensible to the eye, and revolve in the same direction with it; but,\r\nas their revolutions round the Sun are slower than that of the Earth,\r\nthey are necessarily left behind by it, and therefore seem to revolve\r\nbackwards; as a ship which sails slower than another, though it sails\r\nin the same direction, appears from that other to sail backwards.\r\nAfter the same manner, by the same annual revolution of the Earth, he\r\nconnected together the direct and retrograde motions of the two\r\ninferior Planets, as well as the stationary appearances of all the\r\nFive.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThere are some other particular phenomena of the two inferior\r\nPlanets, which correspond still better to this system, and still worse\r\nto that of Ptolemy. Venus and Mercury seem to attend constantly upon\r\nthe motion of the Sun, appearing, sometimes on the one side, and\r\nsometimes on the other, of that great luminary; Mercury being almost\r\nalways buried in his rays, and Venus never receding above forty-eight\r\ndegrees from him, contrary to what is observed in the other three\r\nPlanets, which are often seen in the opposite side of the heavens, at\r\nthe greatest possible distance from the Sun. The system of Ptolemy\r\naccounted for this, by supposing that the centres of the Epicycles of\r\nthese two Planets were always in the same line with those of the Sun\r\nand the Earth; that they appeared therefore in conjunction with the\r\nSun, when either in the upper or lower part of their Epicycles, and at\r\nthe greatest distance from him, when in the sides of them. It\r\nassigned, however, no reason why the Epicycles of these two Planets\r\nshould observe so different a rule from that which takes place in\r\nthose of the other three, nor for the enormous Epicycle of Venus,\r\nwhose sides must have been forty-eight degrees distant from the Sun,\r\nwhile its centre was in conjunction with him, and whose diameter must\r\nhave covered \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page359\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e359\u003c/span\u003e more than a quadrant of the Great Circle. But how\r\neasily all these appearances coincide with the hypothesis, which\r\nrepresents those two inferior Planets revolving round the Sun in\r\norbits comprehended within the orbit of the Earth, is too obvious to\r\nrequire an explanation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThus far did this new account of things render the appearances of\r\nthe heavens more completely coherent than had been done by any of the\r\nformer systems. It did this, too, by a more simple and intelligible,\r\nas well as more beautiful machinery. It represented the Sun, the great\r\nenlightener of the universe, whose body was alone larger than all the\r\nPlanets taken together, as established immovable in the centre,\r\nshedding light and heat on all the worlds that circulated around him\r\nin one uniform direction, but in longer or shorter periods, according\r\nto their different distances. It took away the diurnal revolution of\r\nthe firmament, whose rapidity, upon the old hypothesis, was beyond\r\nwhat even thought could conceive. It not only delivered the\r\nimagination from the embarrassment of Epicycles, but from the\r\ndifficulty of conceiving these two opposite motions going on at the\r\nsame time, which the system of Ptolemy and Aristotle bestowed upon all\r\nthe Planets; I mean, their diurnal westward, and periodical eastward\r\nrevolutions. The Earth’s revolution round its own axis took away the\r\nnecessity for supposing the first, and the second was easily conceived\r\nwhen by itself. The Five Planets, which seem, upon all other systems,\r\nto be objects of a species by themselves, unlike to every thing to\r\nwhich the imagination has been accustomed, when supposed to revolve\r\nalong with the Earth round the Sun, were naturally apprehended to be\r\nobjects of the same kind with the Earth, habitable, opaque, and\r\nenlightened only by the rays of the Sun. And thus this hypothesis, by\r\nclassing them in the same species of things, with an object that is of\r\nall others the most familiar to us, took off that wonder and that\r\nuncertainty which the strangeness and singularity of their appearance\r\nhad excited; and thus far, too, better answered the great end of\r\nPhilosophy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNeither did the beauty and simplicity of this system alone\r\nrecommend it to the imagination; the novelty and unexpectedness of\r\nthat view of nature, which it opened to the fancy, excited more wonder\r\nand surprise than the strangest of those appearances, which it had\r\nbeen invented to render natural and familiar, and these sentiments\r\nstill more endeared it. For, though it is the end of Philosophy, to\r\nallay that wonder, which either the unusual or seemingly disjointed\r\nappearances of nature excite, yet she never triumphs so much, as when,\r\nin order to connect together a few, in themselves, perhaps,\r\ninconsiderable objects, she has, if I may say so, created another\r\nconstitution of things, more natural, indeed, and such as the\r\nimagination can more easily attend to, but more new, more contrary to\r\ncommon opinion and expectation, than any of those appearances\r\nthemselves. As, in the instance before us, in order to connect\r\ntogether some seeming irregularities in the motions of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page360\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e360\u003c/span\u003e the\r\nPlanets, the most inconsiderable objects in the heavens, and of which\r\nthe greater part of mankind have no occasion to take any notice during\r\nthe whole course of their lives, she has, to talk in the hyperbolical\r\nlanguage of Tycho Brahe, moved the Earth from its foundations, stopped\r\nthe revolution of the Firmament, made the Sun stand still, and\r\nsubverted the whole order of the Universe.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch were the advantages of this new hypothesis, as they appeared\r\nto its author, when he first invented it. But, though that love of\r\nparadox, so natural to the learned, and that pleasure, which they are\r\nso apt to take in exciting, by the novelties of their supposed\r\ndiscoveries, the amazement of mankind, may, notwithstanding what one\r\nof his disciples tells us to the contrary, have had its weight in\r\nprompting Copernicus to adopt this system; yet, when he had completed\r\nhis Treatise of Revolutions, and began coolly to consider what a\r\nstrange doctrine he was about to offer to the world, he so much\r\ndreaded the prejudice of mankind against it, that, by a species of\r\ncontinence, of all others the most difficult to a philosopher, he\r\ndetained it in his closet for thirty years together. At last, in the\r\nextremity of old age, he allowed it to be extorted from him, but he\r\ndied as soon as it was printed, and before it was published to the\r\nworld.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen it appeared in the world, it was almost universally\r\ndisapproved of, by the learned as well as by the ignorant. The natural\r\nprejudices of sense, confirmed by education, prevailed too much with\r\nboth, to allow them to give it a fair examination. A few disciples\r\nonly, whom he himself had instructed in his doctrine, received it with\r\nesteem and admiration. One of them, Reinholdus, formed, upon this\r\nhypothesis, larger and more accurate astronomical tables, than what\r\naccompanied the Treatise of Revolutions, in which Copernicus had been\r\nguilty of some errors in calculation. It soon appeared, that these\r\nPrutenic Tables, as they were called, corresponded more exactly with\r\nthe heavens, than the Tables of Alphonsus. This ought naturally to\r\nhave formed a prejudice in favour of the diligence and accuracy of\r\nCopernicus in observing the heavens. But it ought to have formed none\r\nin favour of his hypothesis; since the same observations, and the\r\nresult of the same calculations, might have been accommodated to the\r\nsystem of Ptolemy, without making any greater alteration in that\r\nsystem than what Ptolemy had foreseen, and had even foretold should be\r\nmade. It formed, however, a prejudice in favour of both, and the\r\nlearned began to examine, with some attention, an hypothesis which\r\nafforded the easiest methods of calculation, and upon which the most\r\nexact predictions had been made. The superior degree of coherence,\r\nwhich it bestowed upon the celestial appearances, the simplicity and\r\nuniformity which it introduced into the real directions and velocities\r\nof the Planets, soon disposed many astronomers, first to favour, and\r\nat last to embrace a system, which thus connected together so happily,\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page361\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e361\u003c/span\u003e the most disjointed of those objects that chiefly occupied their\r\nthoughts. Nor can any thing more evidently demonstrate, how easily the\r\nlearned give up the evidence of their senses to preserve the coherence\r\nof the ideas of their imagination, than the readiness with which this,\r\nthe most violent paradox in all philosophy, was adopted by many\r\ningenious astronomers, notwithstanding its inconsistency with every\r\nsystem of physics then known in the world, and notwithstanding the\r\ngreat number of other more real objections, to which, as Copernicus\r\nleft it, this account of things was most justly exposed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt was adopted, however, nor can this be wondered at, by\r\nastronomers only. The learned in all other sciences, continued to\r\nregard it with the same contempt as the vulgar. Even astronomers were\r\ndivided about its merit; and many of them rejected a doctrine, which\r\nnot only contradicted the established system of Natural Philosophy,\r\nbut which, considered astronomically only, seemed, to them, to labour\r\nunder several difficulties.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSome of the objections against the motion of the Earth, that were\r\ndrawn from the prejudices of sense, the patrons of this system,\r\nindeed, easily enough got over. They represented, that the Earth might\r\nreally be in motion, though, to its inhabitants, it seemed to be at\r\nrest; and that the Sun and Fixed Stars might really be at rest, though\r\nfrom the Earth they seemed to be in motion; in the same manner as a\r\nship, which sails through a smooth sea, seems to those who are in it,\r\nto be at rest, though really in motion; while the objects which she\r\npasses along, seem to be in motion, though really at rest.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut there were some other objections, which, though grounded upon\r\nthe same natural prejudices, they found it more difficult to get over.\r\nThe earth had always presented itself to the senses, not only as at\r\nrest, but as inert, ponderous, and even averse to motion. The\r\nimagination had always been accustomed to conceive it as such, and\r\nsuffered the greatest violence, when obliged to pursue, and attend it,\r\nin that rapid motion which the system of Copernicus bestowed upon it.\r\nTo enforce their objection, the adversaries of this hypothesis were at\r\npains to calculate the extreme rapidity of this motion. They\r\nrepresented, that the circumference of the Earth had been computed to\r\nbe above twenty-thousand miles: if the Earth, therefore, was supposed\r\nto revolve every day round its axis, every point of it near the\r\nequator would pass over above twenty-three thousand miles in a day;\r\nand consequently, near a thousand miles in an hour, and about sixteen\r\nmiles in a minute; a motion more rapid than that of a cannon ball, or\r\neven than the swifter progress of sound. The rapidity of its\r\nperiodical revolution was yet more violent than that of its diurnal\r\nrotation. How, therefore, could the imagination ever conceive so\r\nponderous a body to be naturally endowed with so dreadful a movement?\r\nThe Peripatetic Philosophy, the only philosophy then known in the\r\nworld, still further confirmed \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page362\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e362\u003c/span\u003e this prejudice. That philosophy,\r\nby a very natural, though, perhaps, groundless distinction, divided\r\nall motion into Natural and Violent. Natural motion was that which\r\nflowed from an innate tendency in the body, as when a stone fell\r\ndownwards: Violent motion, that which arose from external force, and\r\nwhich was, in some measure, contrary to the natural tendency of the\r\nbody, as when a stone was thrown upwards, or horizontally. No violent\r\nmotion could be lasting; for, being constantly weakened by the natural\r\ntendency of the body, it would soon be destroyed. The natural motion\r\nof the Earth, as was evident in all its parts, was downwards, in a\r\nstraight line to the centre; as that of fire and air was upwards, in a\r\nstraight line from the centre. It was the heavens only that revolved\r\nnaturally in a circle. Neither, therefore, the supposed revolution of\r\nthe Earth round its own centre, nor that round the Sun, could be\r\nnatural motions; they must therefore be violent, and consequently\r\ncould be of no long continuance. It was in vain that Copernicus\r\nreplied, that gravity was, probably, nothing else besides a tendency\r\nin the different parts of the same Planet, to unite themselves to one\r\nanother; that this tendency took place, probably, in the parts of the\r\nother Planets, as well as in those of the Earth; that it could very\r\nwell be united with a circular motion; that it might be equally\r\nnatural to the whole body of the Planet, and to every part of it; that\r\nhis adversaries themselves allowed, that a circular motion was natural\r\nto the heavens, whose diurnal revolution was infinitely more rapid\r\nthan even that motion which he had bestowed upon the Earth; that\r\nthough a like motion was natural to the Earth, it would still appear\r\nto be at rest to its inhabitants, and all the parts of it to tend in a\r\nstraight line to the centre, in the same manner as at present. But\r\nthis answer, how satisfactory soever it may appear to be now, neither\r\ndid nor could appear to be satisfactory then. By admitting the\r\ndistinction betwixt natural and violent motions, it was founded upon\r\nthe same ignorance of mechanical principles with the objection. The\r\nsystems of Aristotle and Hipparchus supposed, indeed, the diurnal\r\nmotion of the heavenly bodies to be infinitely more rapid than even\r\nthat dreadful movement which Copernicus bestowed upon the Earth. But\r\nthey supposed, at the same time, that those bodies were objects of a\r\nquite different species, from any we are acquainted with, near the\r\nsurface of the Earth, and to which, therefore, it was less difficult\r\nto conceive that any sort of motion might be natural. Those objects,\r\nbesides, had never presented themselves to the senses, as moving\r\notherwise, or with less rapidity, than these systems represented them.\r\nThe imagination, therefore, could feel no difficulty in following a\r\nrepresentation which the senses had rendered quite familiar to it. But\r\nwhen the Planets came to be regarded as so many Earths, the case was\r\nquite altered. The imagination had been accustomed to conceive such\r\nobjects as tending rather to rest than motion; and this idea of their\r\nnatural \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page363\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e363\u003c/span\u003e inertness, encumbered, if one may say so, and clogged\r\nits flight whenever it endeavoured to pursue them in their periodical\r\ncourses, and to conceive them as continually rushing through the\r\ncelestial spaces, with such violent and unremitting rapidity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNor were the first followers of Copernicus more fortunate in their\r\nanswers to some other objections, which were founded indeed in the\r\nsame ignorance of the laws of motion, but which, at the same time,\r\nwere necessarily connected with that way of conceiving things, which\r\nthen prevailed universally in the learned world.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf the earth, it was said, revolved so rapidly from west to east, a\r\nperpetual wind would set in from east to west, more violent than what\r\nblows in the greatest hurricanes; a stone, thrown westwards would fly\r\nto a much greater distance than one thrown with the same force\r\neastwards; as what moved in a direction, contrary to the motion of the\r\nEarth, would necessarily pass over a greater portion of its surface,\r\nthan what, with the same velocity, moved along with it. A ball, it was\r\nsaid, dropped from the mast of a ship under sail, does not fall\r\nprecisely at the foot of the mast, but behind it; and in the same\r\nmanner, a stone dropped from a high tower would not, upon the\r\nsupposition of the Earth’s motion, fall precisely at the bottom of the\r\ntower, but west of it, the Earth being, in the mean time, carried away\r\neastward from below it. It is amusing to observe, by what, subtile and\r\nmetaphysical evasions the followers of Copernicus endeavoured to elude\r\nthis objection, which before the doctrine of the Composition of Motion\r\nhad been explained by Galileo, was altogether unanswerable. They\r\nallowed, that a ball dropped from the mast of a ship under sail would\r\nnot fall at the foot of the mast, but behind it; because the ball,\r\nthey said, was no part of the ship, and because the motion of the ship\r\nwas natural neither to itself nor to the ball. But the stone was a\r\npart of the earth, and the diurnal and annual revolutions of the Earth\r\nwere natural to the whole, and to every part of it, and therefore to\r\nthe stone. The stone, therefore, having naturally the same motion with\r\nthe Earth, fell precisely at the bottom of the tower. But this answer\r\ncould not satisfy the imagination, which still found it difficult to\r\nconceive how these motions could be natural to the earth; or how a\r\nbody, which had always presented itself to the senses as inert,\r\nponderous, and averse to motion, should naturally be continually\r\nwheeling about both its own axis and the Sun, with such violent\r\nrapidity. It was, besides, argued by Tycho Brahe, upon the principles\r\nof the same philosophy which had afforded both the objection and the\r\nanswer, that even upon the supposition, that any such motion was\r\nnatural to the whole body of the Earth, yet the stone, which was\r\nseparated from it, could no longer be actuated by that motion. The\r\nlimb, which is cut off from an animal, loses those animal motions\r\nwhich were natural to the whole. The branch, which is cut off from the\r\ntrunk, loses that vegetative \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page364\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e364\u003c/span\u003e motion which is natural to the\r\nwhole tree. Even the metals, minerals, and stones, which were dug out\r\nfrom the bosom of the Earth, lose those motions which occasioned their\r\nproduction and increase, and which were natural to them in their\r\noriginal state. Though the diurnal and annual motion of the Earth,\r\ntherefore, had been natural to them while they were contained in its\r\nbosom, it could no longer be so when they were separated from it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTycho Brahe, the great restorer of the science of the heavens, who\r\nhad spent his life, and wasted his fortune upon the advancement of\r\nAstronomy, whose observations were both more numerous and more\r\naccurate than those of all the astronomers who had gone before him,\r\nwas himself so much affected by the force of this objection, that,\r\nthough he had never mentioned the system of Copernicus without some\r\nnote of high admiration he had conceived for its author, he could\r\nnever himself be induced to embrace it; yet all his astronomical\r\nobservations tended to confirm it. They demonstrated, that Venus and\r\nMercury were sometimes above, and sometimes below the Sun; and that,\r\nconsequently, the Sun, and not the Earth, was the centre of their\r\nperiodical revolutions. They showed, that Mars, when in his meridian\r\nat midnight, was nearer to the Earth than the Earth is to the Sun;\r\nthough, when in conjunction with the Sun, he was much more remote from\r\nthe Earth than that luminary; a discovery which was absolutely\r\ninconsistent with the system of Ptolemy, which proved, that the Sun,\r\nand not the Earth, was the centre of the periodical revolutions of\r\nMars, as well as of Venus and Mercury; and which demonstrated that the\r\nEarth was placed betwixt the orbits of Mars and Venus. They made the\r\nsame thing probable with regard to Jupiter and Saturn; that they, too,\r\nrevolved round the Sun; and that, therefore, the Sun, if not the\r\ncentre of the universe, was at least, that of the planetary system.\r\nThey proved that Comets were superior to the Moon, and moved through\r\nthe heavens in all possible directions; an observation incompatible\r\nwith the Solid Spheres of Aristotle and Purbach, and which, therefore,\r\noverturned the physical part, at least, of the established systems of\r\nAstronomy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAll these observations, joined to his aversion to the system, and\r\nperhaps, notwithstanding the generosity of his character, some little\r\njealousy for the fame of Copernicus, suggested to Tycho the idea of a\r\nnew hypothesis, in which the Earth continued to be, as in the old\r\naccount, the immovable centre of the universe, round which the\r\nfirmament revolved every day from east to west, and, by some secret\r\nvirtue, carried the Sun, the Moon, and the Five Planets along with it,\r\nnotwithstanding their immense distance, and notwithstanding that there\r\nwas nothing betwixt it and them but the most fluid ether. But,\r\nalthough all these seven bodies thus obeyed the diurnal revolution of\r\nthe Firmament, they had each of them, as in the old system, too, a\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page365\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e365\u003c/span\u003e contrary periodical eastward revolution of their own, which made\r\nthem appear to be every day, more or less, left behind by the\r\nFirmament. The Sun was the centre of the periodical revolutions of the\r\nFive Planets; the Earth, that of the Sun and Moon. The Five Planets\r\nfollowed the Sun in his periodical revolution round the Earth, as they\r\ndid the Firmament in its diurnal rotation. The three superior Planets\r\ncomprehended the Earth within the orbit in which they revolved round\r\nthe Sun, and had each of them an Epicycle to connect together, in the\r\nsame manner as in the system of Ptolemy, their direct, retrograde, and\r\nstationary appearances. As, notwithstanding their immense distance,\r\nthey followed the Sun in his periodical revolution round the Earth,\r\nkeeping always at an equal distance from him, they were necessarily\r\nbrought much nearer to the Earth when in opposition to the Sun, than\r\nthan when in conjunction with him. Mars, the nearest of them, when in\r\nhis meridian at midnight, came within the orbit which the Sun\r\ndescribed round the Earth, and consequently was then nearer to the\r\nEarth than the Earth was to the Sun. The appearances of the two\r\ninferior Planets were explained, in the same manner, as in the system\r\nof Copernicus, and consequently required no Epicycle to connect them.\r\nThe circles in which the Five Planets performed their periodical\r\nrevolutions round the Sun, as well as those in which the Sun and Moon\r\nperformed theirs round the Earth, were, as both in the old and new\r\nhypothesis, Eccentric Circles, to connect together their differently\r\naccelerated and retarded motions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch was the system of Tycho Brahe, compounded, as is evident, out\r\nof these of Ptolemy and Copernicus; happier than that of Ptolemy, in\r\nthe account which it gives of the motions of the two inferior Planets;\r\nmore complex, by supposing the different revolutions of all the Five\r\nto be performed round two different centres; the diurnal round the\r\nEarth, the periodical round the Sun, but, in every respect, more\r\ncomplex and more incoherent than that of Copernicus. Such, however,\r\nwas the difficulty that mankind felt in conceiving the motion of the\r\nEarth, that it long balanced the reputation of that otherwise more\r\nbeautiful system. It may be said, that those who considered the\r\nheavens only, favoured the system of Copernicus, which connected so\r\nhappily all the appearances which presented themselves there; but that\r\nthose who looked upon the Earth, adopted the account of Tycho Brahe,\r\nwhich, leaving it at rest in the centre of the universe, did less\r\nviolence to the usual habits of the imagination. The learned were,\r\nindeed, sensible of the intricacy, and of the many incoherences of\r\nthat system; that it gave no account why the Sun, Moon, and Five\r\nPlanets, should follow the revolution of the Firmament; or why the\r\nFive Planets, notwithstanding the immense distance of the three\r\nsuperior ones, should obey the periodical motion of the Sun; or why\r\nthe Earth, though placed between the orbits of Mars and Venus, should\r\nremain immovable in the centre \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page366\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e366\u003c/span\u003e of the Firmament, and constantly\r\nresist the influence of whatever it was, which carried bodies that\r\nwere so much larger than itself, and that were placed on all sides of\r\nit, periodically round the Sun. Tycho Brahe died before he had fully\r\nexplained his system. His great and merited renown disposed many of\r\nthe learned to believe, that, had his life been longer, he would have\r\nconnected together many of these incoherences, and knew methods of\r\nadapting his system to some other appearances, with which none of his\r\nfollowers could connect it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe objection to the system of Copernicus, which was drawn from the\r\nnature of motion, and that was most insisted on by Tycho Brahe, was at\r\nlast fully answered by Galileo; not, however, till about thirty years\r\nafter the death of Tycho, and about a hundred after that of\r\nCopernicus. It was then that Galileo, by explaining the nature of the\r\ncomposition of motion, by showing, both from reason and experience,\r\nthat a ball dropped from the mast of a ship under sail would fall\r\nprecisely at the foot of the mast, and by rendering this doctrine,\r\nfrom a great number of other instances, quite familiar to the\r\nimagination, took off, perhaps, the principal objection which had been\r\nmade to this hypothesis of the astronomers.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSeveral other astronomical difficulties, which encumbered this\r\naccount of things, were removed by the same philosopher. Copernicus,\r\nafter altering the centre of the world, and making the Earth, and all\r\nthe Planets revolve round the Sun, was obliged to leave the Moon to\r\nrevolve round the Earth as before. But no example of any such\r\nsecondary Planet having then been discovered in the heavens, there\r\nseemed still to be this irregularity remaining in the system. Galileo,\r\nwho first applied telescopes to Astronomy, discovered, by their\r\nassistance, the Satellites of Jupiter, which, revolving round that\r\nPlanet, at the same time that they were carried along with it in its\r\nrevolution, round either the Earth, or the Sun, made it seem less\r\ncontrary to the analogy of nature, that the Moon should both revolve\r\nround the Earth, and accompany her in her revolution round the\r\nSun.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt had been objected to Copernicus, that, if Venus and Mercury\r\nrevolved round the Sun in an orbit comprehended within the orbit of\r\nthe Earth, they would show all the same phases with the Moon; present,\r\nsometimes their darkened, and sometimes their enlightened sides to the\r\nEarth, and sometimes part of the one, and part of the other. He\r\nanswered, that they undoubtedly did all this; but that their smallness\r\nand distance hindered us from perceiving it. This very bold assertion\r\nof Copernicus was confirmed by Galileo. His telescopes rendered the\r\nphases of Venus quite sensible, and thus demonstrated, more evidently\r\nthan had been done, even by the observations of Tycho Brahe, the\r\nrevolutions of these two Planets round the Sun, as well as so far\r\ndestroyed the system of Ptolemy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe mountains and seas, which, by the help of the same instrument,\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page367\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e367\u003c/span\u003e he discovered, or imagined he had discovered in the Moon,\r\nrendering that Planet, in every respect, similar to the Earth, made it\r\nseem less contrary to the analogy of nature, that, as the Moon\r\nrevolved round the Earth, the Earth should revolve round the Sun.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe spots which, in the same manner, he discovered in the Sun,\r\ndemonstrating, by their motion, the revolution of the Sun round his\r\naxis, made it seem less improbable that the Earth, a body so much\r\nsmaller than the Sun, should likewise revolve round her axis in the\r\nsame manner.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSucceeding telescopical observations, discovered, in each of the\r\nFive Planets, spots not unlike those which Galileo had observed in the\r\nMoon, and thereby seemed to demonstrate what Copernicus had only\r\nconjectured, that the Planets were naturally opaque, enlightened only\r\nby the rays of the Sun, habitable, diversified by seas and mountains,\r\nand, in every respect, bodies of the same kind with the earth; and\r\nthus added one other probability to this system. By discovering, too,\r\nthat each of the Planets revolved round its own axis, at the same\r\ntime that it was carried round either the Earth or the Sun, they made\r\nit seem quite agreeable to the analogy of nature, that the Earth,\r\nwhich, in every other respect, resembled the Planets, should, like\r\nthem too, revolve round its own axis, and at the same time perform its\r\nperiodical motion round the Sun.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhile, in Italy, the unfortunate Galileo was adding so many\r\nprobabilities to the system of Copernicus, there was another\r\nphilosopher employing himself in Germany, to ascertain, correct, and\r\nimprove it; Kepler, with great genius, but without the taste, or the\r\norder and method of Galileo, possessed, like all his other countrymen,\r\nthe most laborious industry, joined to that passion for discovering\r\nproportions and resemblances betwixt the different parts of nature,\r\nwhich, though common to all philosophers, seems, in him, to have been\r\nexcessive. He had been instructed, by Mæstlinus, in the system of\r\nCopernicus; and his first curiosity was, as he tells us, to find out,\r\nwhy the Planets, the Earth being counted for one, were Six in number;\r\nwhy they were placed at such irregular distances from the Sun; and\r\nwhether there was any uniform proportion betwixt their several\r\ndistances, and the times employed in their periodical revolutions.\r\nTill some reason, or proportion of this kind, could be discovered, the\r\nsystem did not appear to him to be completely coherent. He\r\nendeavoured, first, to find it in the proportions of numbers, and\r\nplain figures; afterwards, in those of the regular solids; and, last\r\nof all, in those of the musical divisions of the Octave. Whatever was\r\nthe science which Kepler was studying, he seems constantly to have\r\npleased himself with finding some analogy betwixt it and the system of\r\nthe universe; and thus, arithmetic and music, plane and solid\r\ngeometry, came all of them by turns to illustrate the doctrine of the\r\nSphere, in the explaining of which he was, by his \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page368\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e368\u003c/span\u003e profession,\r\nprincipally employed. Tycho Brahe, to whom he had presented one of his\r\nbooks, though he could not but disapprove of his system, was pleased,\r\nhowever, with his genius, and with his indefatigable diligence in\r\nmaking the most laborious calculations. That generous and magnificent\r\nDane invited the obscure and indigent Kepler to come and live with\r\nhim, and communicated to him, as soon as he arrived, his observations\r\nupon Mars, in the arranging and methodizing of which his disciples\r\nwere at that time employed. Kepler, upon comparing them with one\r\nanother, found, that the orbit of Mars was not a perfect circle; that\r\none of its diameters was somewhat longer than the other; and that it\r\napproached to an oval, or an ellipse, which had the Sun placed in one\r\nof its foci. He found, too, that the motion of the Planet was not\r\nequable; that it was swiftest when nearest the Sun, and slowest when\r\nfurthest from him; and that its velocity gradually increased, or\r\ndiminished, according as it approached or receded from him. The\r\nobservations of the same astronomer discovered to him, though not so\r\nevidently, that the same things were true of all the other Planets;\r\nthat their orbits were elliptical, and that their motions were\r\nswiftest when nearest the Sun, and slowest when furthest from him.\r\nThey showed the same things, too, of the Sun, if supposed to revolve\r\nround the Earth; and consequently of the Earth, if it also was\r\nsupposed to revolve round the Sun.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat the motions of all the heavenly bodies were perfectly\r\ncircular, had been the fundamental idea upon which every astronomical\r\nhypothesis, except the irregular one of the Stoics, had been built. A\r\ncircle, as the degree of its curvature is every where the same, is of\r\nall curve lines the simplest and the most easily conceived. Since it\r\nwas evident, therefore, that the heavenly bodies did not move in\r\nstraight lines, the indolent imagination found, that it could most\r\neasily attend to their motions if they were supposed to revolve in\r\nperfect circles. It had, upon this account, determined that a circular\r\nmotion was the most perfect of all motions, and that none but the most\r\nperfect motion could be worthy of such beautiful and divine objects;\r\nand it had upon this account, so often, in vain, endeavoured to adjust\r\nto the appearances, so many different systems, which all supposed them\r\nto revolve in this perfect manner.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe equality of their motions was another fundamental idea, which,\r\nin the same manner, and for the same reason, was supposed by all the\r\nfounders of astronomical systems. For an equal motion can be more\r\neasily attended to, than one that is continually either accelerated or\r\nretarded. All inconsistency, therefore, was declared to be unworthy\r\nthose bodies which revolved in the celestial regions, and to be fit\r\nonly for inferior and sublunary things. The calculations of Kepler\r\noverturned, with regard to the Planets, both these natural prejudices\r\nof the imagination; destroyed their circular orbits; and introduced\r\ninto their \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page369\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e369\u003c/span\u003e real motions, such an equality as no equalizing\r\ncircle would remedy. It was, however, to render their motion perfectly\r\nequable, without even the assistance of a equalizing circle, that\r\nCopernicus, as he himself assures us, had originally invented his\r\nsystem. Since the calculations of Kepler, therefore, overturned what\r\nCopernicus had principally in view in establishing his system, we\r\ncannot wonder that they should at first seem rather to embarrass than\r\nimprove it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is true, by these elliptical orbits and unequal motions, Kepler\r\ndisengaged the system from the embarrassment of those small Epicycles,\r\nwhich Copernicus, in order to connect the seemingly accelerated and\r\nretarded movements of the Planets, with their supposed real equality,\r\nhad been obliged to leave in it. For it is remarkable, that though\r\nCopernicus had delivered the orbits of the Planets from the enormous\r\nEpicycles of Hipparchus, that though in this consisted the great\r\nsuperiority of his system above that of the ancient astronomers, he\r\nwas yet obliged, himself, to abandon, in some measure, this advantage,\r\nand to make use of some small Epicycles, to join together those\r\nseeming irregularities. His Epicycles indeed, like the irregularities\r\nfor whose sake they were introduced, were but small ones, and the\r\nimaginations of his first followers seem, accordingly, either to have\r\nslurred them over altogether, or scarcely to have observed them.\r\nNeither Galileo, nor Gassendi, the two most eloquent of his defenders,\r\ntake any notice of them. Nor does it seem to have been generally\r\nattended to, that there was any such thing as Epicycles in the system\r\nof Copernicus, till Kepler, in order to vindicate his own elliptical\r\norbits, insisted, that even, according to Copernicus, the body of the\r\nPlanet was to be found but at two different places in the\r\ncircumference of that circle which the centre of its Epicycle\r\ndescribed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is true, too, that an ellipse is, of all curve lines after a\r\ncircle, the simplest and most easily conceived; and it is true,\r\nbesides all this, that, while Kepler took from the motion of the\r\nPlanets the easiest of all proportions, that of equality, he did not\r\nleave them absolutely without one, but ascertained the rule by which\r\ntheir velocities continually varied; for a genius so fond of\r\nanalogies, when he had taken away one, would be sure to substitute\r\nanother in its room. Notwithstanding all this, notwithstanding that\r\nhis system was better supported by observations than any system had\r\never been before, yet, such was the attachment to the equal motions\r\nand circular orbits of the Planets, that it seems, for some time, to\r\nhave been in general but little attended to by the learned, to have\r\nbeen altogether neglected by philosophers, and not much regarded even\r\nby astronomers.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eGassendi, who began to figure in the world about the latter days of\r\nKepler, and who was himself no mean astronomer, seems indeed to have\r\nconceived a good deal of esteem for his diligence and accuracy in\r\naccommodating the observations of Tycho Brahe to the system of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page370\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e370\u003c/span\u003e\r\nCopernicus. But Gassendi appears to have had no comprehension of the\r\nimportance of those alterations which Kepler had made in that system,\r\nas is evident from his scarcely ever mentioning them in the whole\r\ncourse of his voluminous writings upon Astronomy. Des Cartes, the\r\ncontemporary and rival of Gassendi, seems to have paid no attention to\r\nthem at all, but to have built his Theory of the Heavens, without any\r\nregard to them. Even those astronomers, whom a serious attention had\r\nconvinced of the justness of his corrections, were still so enamoured\r\nwith the circular orbits and equal motion, that they endeavoured to\r\ncompound his system with those ancient but natural prejudices. Thus,\r\nWard endeavoured to show that, though the Planets moved in elliptical\r\norbits, which had the Sun in one of their foci, and though their\r\nvelocities in the elliptical line were continually varying, yet, if a\r\nray was supposed to be extended from the centre of any one of them to\r\nthe other focus, and to be carried along by the periodical motion of\r\nthe Planet, it would make equal angles in equal times, and\r\nconsequently cut off equal portions of the circle of which that other\r\nfocus was the centre. To one, therefore, placed in that focus, the\r\nmotion of the Planet would appear to be perfectly circular and\r\nperfectly equable, in the same manner as in the Equalizing Circles of\r\nPtolemy and Hipparchus. Thus Bouillaud, who censured this hypothesis\r\nof Ward, invented another of the same kind, infinitely more whimsical\r\nand capricious. The Planets, according to that astronomer, always\r\nrevolve in circles; for that being the most perfect figure, it is\r\nimpossible they should revolve in any other. No one of them, however,\r\ncontinues to move in any one circle, but is perpetually passing from\r\none to another, through an infinite number of circles, in the course\r\nof each revolution; for an ellipse, said he, is an oblique section of\r\na cone, and in a cone, betwixt the two vortices of the ellipse there\r\nis an infinite number of circles, out of the infinitely small portions\r\nof which the elliptical line is compounded. The Planet, therefore\r\nwhich moves in this line, is, in every point of it, moving in an\r\ninfinitely small portion of a certain circle. The motion of each\r\nPlanet, too, according to him, was necessarily, for the same reason,\r\nperfectly equable. An equable motion being the most perfect of all\r\nmotions. It was not, however, in the elliptical line, that it was\r\nequable, but in any one of the circles that were parallel to the base\r\nof that cone, by whose section this elliptical line had been formed:\r\nfor, if a ray was extended from the Planet to any one of those\r\ncircles, and carried along by its periodical motion, it would cut off\r\nequal portions of that circle in equal times; another most fantastical\r\nequalising circle, supported by no other foundation besides the\r\nfrivolous connection between a cone and an ellipse, and recommended by\r\nnothing but the natural passion for circular orbits and equable\r\nmotions. It may be regarded as the last effort of this passion, and\r\nmay serve to show the force of that principle which could \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page371\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e371\u003c/span\u003e thus\r\noblige this accurate observer, and great improver of the Theory of the\r\nHeavens, to adopt so strange an hypothesis. Such was the difficulty\r\nand hesitation with which the followers of Copernicus adopted the\r\ncorrections of Kepler.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe rule, indeed, which Kepler ascertained for determining the\r\ngradual acceleration or retardation in the movement of the Planets,\r\nwas intricate, and difficult to be comprehended; it could therefore\r\nbut little facilitate the progress of the imagination in tracing those\r\nrevolutions which were supposed to be conducted by it. According to\r\nthat astronomer, if a straight line was drawn from the centre of each\r\nPlanet to the Sun, and carried along by the periodical motion of the\r\nPlanet, it would describe equal areas in equal times, though the\r\nPlanet did not pass over equal spaces; and the same rule he found,\r\ntook place nearly with regard to the Moon. The imagination, when\r\nacquainted with the law by which any motion is accelerated or\r\nretarded, can follow and attend to it more easily, than when at a\r\nloss, and, as it were, wandering in uncertainty with regard to the\r\nproportion which regulates its varieties; the discovery of this\r\nanalogy therefore, no doubt, rendered the system of Kepler more\r\nagreeable to the natural taste of mankind: it, was, however, an\r\nanalogy too difficult to be followed, or comprehended, to render it\r\ncompletely so.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eKepler, besides this, introduced another new analogy into the\r\nsystem, and first discovered, that there was one uniform relation\r\nobserved betwixt the distances of the Planets from the Sun, and the\r\ntimes employed in their periodical motions. He found, that their\r\nperiodical times were greater than in proportion to their distances,\r\nand less than in proportion to the squares of those distances; but,\r\nthat they were nearly as the mean proportionals betwixt their\r\ndistances and the squares of their distances; or, in other words, that\r\nthe squares of their periodical times were nearly as the cubes of\r\ntheir distances; an analogy, which, though, like all others, it no\r\ndoubt rendered the system somewhat more distinct and comprehensible,\r\nwas, however, as well as the former, of too intricate a nature to\r\nfacilitate very much the effort of the imagination in conceiving\r\nit.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe truth of both these analogies, intricate as they were, was at\r\nlast fully established by the observations of Cassini. That astronomer\r\nfirst discovered, that the secondary Planets of Jupiter and Saturn\r\nrevolved round their primary ones, according to the same laws which\r\nKepler had observed in the revolutions of the primary ones round the\r\nSun, and that of the Moon round the earth; that each of them described\r\nequal areas in equal times, and that the squares of their periodic\r\ntimes were as the cubes of their distances. When these two last\r\nabstruse analogies, which, when Kepler at first observed them, were\r\nbut little regarded, had been thus found to take place in the\r\nrevolutions of the Four Satellites of Jupiter, and in those of the\r\nFive of Saturn, they were \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page372\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e372\u003c/span\u003e now thought not only to confirm the\r\ndoctrine of Kepler, but to add a new probability to the Copernican\r\nhypothesis. The observations of Cassini seem to establish it as a law\r\nof the system, that, when one body revolved round another, it\r\ndescribed equal areas in equal times; and that, when several revolved\r\nround the same body, the squares of their periodic times were as the\r\ncubes of their distances. If the Earth and the Five Planets were\r\nsupposed to revolve round the Sun, these laws, it was said, would take\r\nplace universally. But if, according to the system of Ptolemy, the\r\nSun, Moon, and Five Planets were supposed to revolve round the Earth,\r\nthe periodical motions of the Sun and Moon, would, indeed, observe the\r\nfirst of these laws, would each of them describe equal areas in equal\r\ntimes; but they would not observe the second, the squares of their\r\nperiodic times would not be as the cubes of their distances: and the\r\nrevolutions of the Five Planets would observe neither the one law nor\r\nthe other. Or if, according to the system of Tycho Brahe, the Five\r\nPlanets were supposed to revolve round the Sun, while the Sun and Moon\r\nrevolved round the Earth, the revolutions of the Five Planets round\r\nthe Sun, would, indeed, observe both these laws; but those of the\r\nSun and Moon round the Earth would observe only the first of them. The\r\nanalogy of nature, therefore, could be preserved completely, according\r\nto no other system but that of Copernicus, which, upon that account,\r\nmust be the true one. This argument is regarded by Voltaire, and the\r\nCardinal of Polignac, as an irrefragable demonstration; even M‘Laurin,\r\nwho was more capable of judging, nay, Newton himself, seems to mention\r\nit as one of the principal evidences for the truth of that hypothesis.\r\nYet, an analogy of this kind, it would seem, far from a demonstration,\r\ncould afford, at most, but the shadow of a probability.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is true, that though Cassini supposed the Planets to revolve in\r\nan oblong curve, it was in a curve somewhat different from that of\r\nKepler. In the ellipse, the sum of the two lines which are drawn from\r\nany one point in the circumference to the two foci, is always equal to\r\nthat of those which are drawn from any other point in the\r\ncircumference to the same foci. In the curve of Cassini, it is not the\r\nsum of the lines, but the rectangles which are contained under the\r\nlines, that are always equal. As this, however, was a proportion more\r\ndifficult to be comprehended by astronomers than the other, the curve\r\nof Cassini has never had the vogue.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNothing now embarrassed the system of Copernicus, but the\r\ndifficulty which the imagination felt in conceiving bodies so\r\nimmensely ponderous as the Earth and the other Planets revolving round\r\nthe Sun with such incredible rapidity. It was in vain that Copernicus\r\npretended, that, notwithstanding the prejudices of sense, this\r\ncircular motion might be as natural to the Planets, as it is to a\r\nstone to fall to the ground. The imagination had been accustomed to\r\nconceive such \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page373\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e373\u003c/span\u003e objects as tending rather to rest than motion.\r\nThis habitual idea of their natural inertness was incompatible with\r\nthat of their natural motion. It was in vain that Kepler, in order to\r\nassist the fancy in connecting together this natural inertness with\r\ntheir astonishing velocities, talked of some vital and immaterial\r\nvirtue, which was shed by the Sun into the surrounding spaces, which\r\nwas whirled about with his revolution round his own axis, and which,\r\ntaking hold of the Planets, forced them, in spite of their\r\nponderousness and strong propensity to rest, thus to whirl about the\r\ncentre of the system. The imagination had no hold of this immaterial\r\nvirtue, and could form no determinate idea of what it consisted in.\r\nThe imagination, indeed, felt a gap, or interval, betwixt the constant\r\nmotion and the supposed inertness of the Planets, and had in this, as\r\nin all other cases, some general idea or apprehension that there must\r\nbe a connecting chain of intermediate objects to link together these\r\ndiscordant qualities. Wherein this connecting chain consisted, it was,\r\nindeed, at a loss to conceive; nor did the doctrine of Kepler lend it\r\nany assistance in this respect. That doctrine, like almost all those\r\nof the philosophy in fashion during his time, bestowed a name upon\r\nthis invisible chain, called it an immaterial virtue, but afforded no\r\ndeterminate idea of what was its nature.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDes Cartes was the first who attempted to ascertain, precisely,\r\nwherein this invisible chain consisted, and to afford the imagination\r\na train of intermediate events, which, succeeding each other in an\r\norder that was of all others the most familiar to it, should unite\r\nthose incoherent qualities, the rapid motion, and the natural\r\ninertness of the Planets. Des Cartes was the first who explained\r\nwherein consisted the real inertness of matter; that it was not in an\r\naversion to motion, or in a propensity to rest, but in a power of\r\ncontinuing indifferently either at rest of in motion, and of\r\nresisting, with a certain force, whatever endeavoured to change its\r\nstate from the one to the other. According to that ingenious and\r\nfanciful philosopher, the whole of infinite space was full of matter,\r\nfor with him matter and extension were the same, and consequently\r\nthere could be no void. This immensity of matter, he supposed to be\r\ndivided into an infinite number of very small cubes; all of which,\r\nbeing whirled about upon their own centres, necessarily gave occasion\r\nto the production of two different elements. The first consisted of\r\nthose angular parts, which, having been necessarily rubbed off, and\r\ngrinded yet smaller by their mutual friction, constituted the most\r\nsubtle and movable part of matter. The second consisted of those\r\nlittle globules that were formed by the rubbing off of the first. The\r\ninterstices betwixt these globules of the second element was filled up\r\nby the particles of the first. But in the infinite collisions, which\r\nmust occur in an infinite space filled with matter, and all in motion,\r\nit must necessarily happen that many of the globules of the second\r\nelement should be broken and grinded down into the first. The quantity\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page374\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e374\u003c/span\u003e of the first element having been thus increased beyond what was\r\nsufficient to fill up the interstices of the second, it must, in many\r\nplaces, have been heaped up together, without any mixture of the\r\nsecond along with it. Such, according to Des Cartes, was the original\r\ndivision of matter. Upon this infinitude of matter thus divided, a\r\ncertain quantity of motion was originally impressed by the Creator of\r\nall things, and the laws of motion were so adjusted as always to\r\npreserve the same quantity in it, without increase, and without\r\ndiminution. Whatever motion was lost by one part of matter, was\r\ncommunicated to some other; and whatever was acquired by one part of\r\nmatter, was derived from some other: and thus, through an eternal\r\nrevolution, from rest to motion, and from motion to rest, in every\r\npart of the universe, the quantity of motion in the whole was always\r\nthe same.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut, as there was no void, no one part of matter could be moved\r\nwithout thrusting some other out of its place, nor that without\r\nthrusting some other, and so on. To avoid, therefore, an infinite\r\nprogress, he supposed that the matter which any body pushed before it,\r\nrolled immediately backwards, to supply the place of that matter which\r\nflowed in behind it; and as we may observe in the swimming of a fish,\r\nthat the water which it pushes before it, immediately rolls backward,\r\nto supply the place of what flows in behind it, and thus forms a small\r\ncircle or vortex round the body of the fish. It was, in the same\r\nmanner, that the motion originally impressed by the Creator upon the\r\ninfinitude of matter, necessarily produced in it an infinity of\r\ngreater and smaller vortices, or circular streams: and the law of\r\nmotion being so adjusted as always to preserve the same quantity of\r\nmotion in the universe, those vortices either continued for ever, or\r\nby their dissolution gave birth to others of the same kind. There was,\r\nthus, at all times, an infinite number of greater and smaller\r\nvortices, or circular streams, revolving in the universe.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut, whatever moves in a circle, is constantly endeavouring to fly\r\noff from the centre of its revolution. For the natural motion of all\r\nbodies is in a straight line. All the particles of matter, therefore,\r\nin each of those greater vortices, were continually pressing from the\r\ncentre to the circumference, with more or less force, according to the\r\ndifferent degrees of their bulk and solidity. The larger and more\r\nsolid globules of the second element forced themselves upwards to the\r\ncircumference, while the smaller, more yielding, and more active\r\nparticles of the first, which could flow, even through the interstices\r\nof the second, were forced downwards to the centre. They were forced\r\ndownwards to the centre, notwithstanding their natural tendency was\r\nupwards to the circumference; for the same reason that a piece of\r\nwood, when plunged in water, is forced upwards to the surface,\r\nnotwithstanding its natural tendency is downwards to the bottom;\r\nbecause its tendency downwards is less strong than that of the\r\nparticles of water, which, therefore, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page375\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e375\u003c/span\u003e if one may say so, press\r\nin before it, and thus force it upwards. But there being a greater\r\nquantity of the first element than what was necessary to fill up the\r\ninterstices of the second, it was necessarily accumulated in the\r\ncentre of each of these great circular streams, and formed there the\r\nfiery and active substance of the Sun. For, according to that\r\nphilosopher, the Solar Systems were infinite in number, each Fixed\r\nStar being the centre of one: and he is among the first of the\r\nmoderns, who thus took away the boundaries of the Universe; even\r\nCopernicus and Kepler, themselves, having confined it within, what\r\nthey supposed, to be the vault of the Firmament.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe centre of each vortex being thus occupied by the most active\r\nand movable parts of matter, there was necessarily among them, a more\r\nviolent agitation than in any other part of the vortex, and this\r\nviolent agitation of the centre cherished and supported the movement\r\nof the whole. But, among the particles of the first element, which\r\nfill up the interstices of the second, there are many, which, from the\r\npressure of the globules on all sides of them, necessarily receive an\r\nangular form, and thus constitute a third element of particles less\r\nfit for motion than those of the other two. As the particles, however,\r\nof this third element were formed in the interstices of the second,\r\nthey are necessarily smaller than those of the second, and are,\r\ntherefore, along with those of the first, urged down towards the\r\ncentre, where, when a number of them happen to take hold of one\r\nanother, they form such spots upon the surface of the accumulated\r\nparticles of the first element, as are often discovered by telescopes\r\nupon the face of that Sun which enlightens and animates our particular\r\nsystem. Those spots are often broken and dispelled, by the violent\r\nagitation of the particles of the first element, as has hitherto\r\nhappily been the case with those which have successively been formed\r\nupon the face of our Sun. Sometimes, however, they encrust the whole\r\nsurface of that fire which is accumulated in the centre; and the\r\ncommunication betwixt the most active and the most inert parts of the\r\nvortex being thus interrupted, the rapidity of its motion immediately\r\nbegins to languish, and can no longer defend it from being swallowed\r\nup and carried away by the superior violence of some other like\r\ncircular stream; and in this manner, what was once a Sun, becomes a\r\nPlanet. Thus, the time was, according to this system, when the Moon\r\nwas a body of the same kind with the Sun, the fiery centre of a\r\ncircular stream of ether, which flowed continually round her; but her\r\nface having been crusted over by a congeries of angular particles, the\r\nmotion of this circular stream began to languish, and could no longer\r\ndefend itself from being absorbed by the more violent vortex of the\r\nEarth, which was then, too, a Sun, and which chanced to be placed in\r\nits neighbourhood. The Moon, therefore, became a Planet, and revolved\r\nround the Earth. In process of time, the same fortune, which had thus\r\nbefallen the Moon, befell also \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page376\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e376\u003c/span\u003e the Earth; its face was encrusted\r\nby a gross and inactive substance; the motion of its vortex began to\r\nlanguish, and it was absorbed by the greater vortex of the Sun: but\r\nthough the vortex of the Earth had thus become languid, it still had\r\nforce enough to occasion both the diurnal revolution of the Earth, and\r\nthe monthly motion of the Moon. For a small circular stream may easily\r\nbe conceived as flowing round the body of the Earth, at the same time\r\nthat it is carried along by that great ocean of ether which is\r\ncontinually revolving round the Sun; in the same manner, as in a great\r\nwhirlpool of water, one may often see several small whirlpools, which\r\nrevolve round centres of their own, and at the same time are carried\r\nround the centre of the great one. Such was the cause of the original\r\nformation and consequent motions of the Planetary System. When a solid\r\nbody is turned round its centre, those parts of it, which are nearest,\r\nand those which are remotest from the centre, complete their\r\nrevolutions in one and the same time. But it is otherwise with the\r\nrevolutions of a fluid; the parts of it which are nearest the centre\r\ncomplete their revolutions in a shorter time, than those which are\r\nremoter. The Planets, therefore, all floating, in that immense tide of\r\nether which is continually setting in from west to east round the body\r\nof the Sun, complete their revolutions in a longer or a shorter time,\r\naccording to their nearness or distance from him. There was, however,\r\naccording to Des Cartes, no very exact proportion observed betwixt the\r\ntimes of their revolutions and their distances from the centre. For\r\nthat nice analogy, which Kepler had discovered betwixt them, having\r\nnot yet been confirmed by the observations of Cassini, was, as I\r\nbefore took notice, entirely disregarded by Des Cartes. According to\r\nhim, too, their orbits might not be perfectly circular, but be longer\r\nthe one way than the other, and thus approach to an Ellipse. Nor yet\r\nwas it necessary to suppose, that they described this figure with\r\ngeometrical accuracy, or even that they described always precisely the\r\nsame figure. It rarely happens, that nature can be mathematically\r\nexact with regard to the figure of the objects she produces, upon\r\naccount of the infinite combinations of impulses, which must conspire\r\nto the production of each of her effects. No two Planets, no two\r\nanimals of the same kind, have exactly the same figure, nor is that of\r\nany one of them perfectly regular. It was in vain, therefore, that\r\nastronomers laboured to find that perfect constancy and regularity in\r\nthe motions of the heavenly bodies, which is to be found in no other\r\nparts of nature. These motions, like all others, must either languish\r\nor be accelerated, according as the cause which produces them, the\r\nrevolution of the vortex of the Sun, either languishes, or is\r\naccelerated; and there are innumerable events which may occasion\r\neither the one or the other of those changes.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt was thus, that Des Cartes endeavoured to render familiar to the\r\nimagination, the greatest difficulty in the Copernican system, the\r\nrapid \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page377\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e377\u003c/span\u003e motion of the enormous bodies of the Planets. When the\r\nfancy had thus been taught to conceive them as floating in an immense\r\nocean of ether, it was quite agreeable to its usual habits to\r\nconceive, that they should follow the stream of this ocean, how rapid\r\nsoever. This was an order of succession to which it had been long\r\naccustomed, and with which it was, therefore, quite familiar. This\r\naccount, too, of the motions of the Heavens, was connected with a vast,\r\nan immense system, which joined together a greater number of the most\r\ndiscordant phenomena of nature, than had been united by any other\r\nhypothesis; a system in which the principles of connection, though\r\nperhaps equally imaginary, were, however, more distinct and\r\ndeterminate, than any that had been known before; and which attempted\r\nto trace to the imagination, not only the order of succession by which\r\nthe heavenly bodies were moved, but that by which they, and almost all\r\nother natural objects, had originally been produced.—The Cartesian\r\nphilosophy begins now to be almost universally rejected, whilst the\r\nCopernican system continues to be universally received. Yet it is not\r\neasy to imagine, how much probability and coherence this admired\r\nsystem was long supposed to derive from that exploded hypothesis. Till\r\nDes Cartes had published his principles, the disjointed and incoherent\r\nsystem of Tycho Brahe, though it was embraced heartily and completely\r\nby scarce any body, was yet constantly talked of by all the learned,\r\nas, in point of probability, upon a level with Copernicus. They took\r\nnotice, indeed, of its inferiority with regard to coherence and\r\nconnection, expressing hopes, however, that these defects might be\r\nremedied by some future improvements. But when the world beheld that\r\ncomplete, and almost perfect coherence, which the philosophy of Des\r\nCartes bestowed upon the system of Copernicus, the imaginations of\r\nmankind could no longer refuse themselves the pleasure of going along\r\nwith so harmonious an account of things. The system of Tycho Brahe was\r\nevery day less and less talked of, till at last it was forgotten\r\naltogether.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe system of Des Cartes, however, though it connected together the\r\nreal motions of the heavenly bodies according to the system of\r\nCopernicus, more happily than had been done before, did so only when\r\nthey were considered in the gross; but did not apply to them, when\r\nthey were regarded in the detail. Des Cartes, as was said before, had\r\nnever himself observed the Heavens with any particular application.\r\nThough he was not ignorant, therefore, of any of the observations\r\nwhich had been made before his time, he seems to have paid them no\r\ngreat degree of attention; which, probably, proceeded from his own\r\ninexperience in the study of Astronomy. So far, therefore, from\r\naccommodating his system to all the minute irregularities, which\r\nKepler had ascertained in the movements of the Planets; or from\r\nshowing, particularly, how these irregularities, and no other, should\r\narise from it, he contented himself with observing, that perfect\r\nuniformity could not \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page378\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e378\u003c/span\u003e be expected in their motions, from the\r\nnature of the causes which produced them; that certain irregularities\r\nmight take place in them, for a great number of successive\r\nrevolutions, and afterwards gave way to others of a different kind: a\r\nremark which, happily, relieved him from the necessity of applying his\r\nsystem to the observations of Kepler, and the other Astronomers.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut when the observations of Cassini had established the authority\r\nof those laws, which Kepler had first discovered in the system, the\r\nphilosophy of Des Cartes, which could afford no reason why such\r\nparticular laws should be observed, might continue to amuse the\r\nlearned in other sciences, but could no longer satisfy those that were\r\nskilled in Astronomy. Sir Isaac Newton first attempted to give a\r\nphysical account of the motions of the Planets, which should\r\naccommodate itself to all the constant irregularities which\r\nastronomers had ever observed in their motions. The physical\r\nconnection, by which Des Cartes had endeavoured to bind together the\r\nmovements of the Planets, was the laws of impulse; of all the orders\r\nof succession, those which are most familiar to the imagination; as\r\nthey all flow from the inertness of matter. After this quality, there\r\nis no other with which we are so well acquainted as that of gravity.\r\nWe never act upon matter, but we have occasion to observe it. The\r\nsuperior genius and sagacity of Sir Isaac Newton, therefore, made the\r\nmost happy, and, we may now say, the greatest and most admirable\r\nimprovement that was ever made in philosophy, when he discovered, that\r\nhe could join together the movements of the Planets by so familiar a\r\nprinciple of connection, which completely removed all the difficulties\r\nthe imagination had hitherto felt in attending to them. He\r\ndemonstrated, that, if the Planets were supposed to gravitate towards\r\nthe Sun, and to one another, and at the same time to have had a\r\nprojecting force originally impressed upon them, the primary ones\r\nmight all describe ellipses in one of the foci of which that great\r\nluminary was placed; and the secondary ones might describe figures of\r\nthe same kind round their respective primaries, without being\r\ndisturbed by the continual motion of the centres of their revolutions.\r\nThat if the force, which retained each of them in their orbits, was\r\nlike that of gravity, and directed towards the Sun, they would, each\r\nof them, describe equal areas in equal times. That if this attractive\r\npower of the Sun, like all other qualities which are diffused in rays\r\nfrom a centre, diminished in the same proportion as the squares of the\r\ndistances increased, their motions would be swiftest when nearest the\r\nSun, and slowest when farthest off from him, in the same proportion in\r\nwhich, by observation, they are discovered to be; and that upon the\r\nsame supposition, of this gradual diminution of their respective\r\ngravities, their periodic times would bear the same proportion to\r\ntheir distances, which Kepler and Cassini had established betwixt\r\nthem. Having thus shown, that gravity might be the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page379\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e379\u003c/span\u003e connecting\r\nprinciple which joined together the movements of the Planets, he\r\nendeavoured next to prove that it really was so. Experience shows us,\r\nwhat is the power of gravity near the surface of the Earth. That it is\r\nsuch as to make a body fall, in the first second of its descent,\r\nthrough about fifteen Parisian feet. The Moon is about sixty\r\nsemidiameters of the Earth distant from its surface. If gravity,\r\ntherefore, was supposed to diminish, as the squares of the distance\r\nincrease, a body, at the Moon, would fall towards the Earth in a\r\nminute; that is, in sixty seconds, through the same space, which it\r\nfalls near its surface in one second. But the arch which the Moon\r\ndescribes in a minute, falls, by observation, about fifteen Parisian\r\nfeet below the tangent drawn at the beginning of it. So far,\r\ntherefore, the Moon may be conceived as constantly falling towards the\r\nEarth.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe system of Sir Isaac Newton corresponded to many other\r\nirregularities which Astronomers had observed in the Heavens. It\r\nassigned a reason, why the centres of the revolutions of the Planets\r\nwere not precisely in the centre of the Sun, but in the common centre\r\nof gravity of the Sun and the Planets. From the mutual attraction of\r\nthe Planets, it gave a reason for some other irregularities in their\r\nmotions; irregularities, which are quite sensible in those of Jupiter\r\nand Saturn, when those Planets are nearly in conjunction with one\r\nanother. But of all the irregularities in the Heavens, those of the\r\nMoon had hitherto given the greatest perplexity to Astronomers; and\r\nthe system of Sir Isaac Newton corresponded, if possible, yet more\r\naccurately with them than with any of the other Planets. The Moon,\r\nwhen either in conjunction, or in opposition to the Sun, appears\r\nfurthest from the Earth, and nearest to it when in her quarters.\r\nAccording to the system of that philosopher, when she is in\r\nconjunction with the Sun, she is nearer the Sun than the Earth is;\r\nconsequently, more attracted to him, and, therefore, more separated\r\nfrom the Earth. On the contrary, when in opposition to the Sun, she is\r\nfurther from the Sun than the Earth. The Earth, therefore, is more\r\nattracted to the Sun: and consequently, in this case, too, further\r\nseparated from the Moon. But, on the other hand, when the Moon is in\r\nher quarters, the Earth and the Moon, being both at equal distance\r\nfrom the Sun, are equally attracted to him. They would not, upon this\r\naccount alone, therefore, be brought nearer to one another. As it is\r\nnot in parallel lines however that they are attracted towards the Sun,\r\nbut in lines which meet in his centre, they are, thereby, still\r\nfurther approached to one another. Sir Isaac Newton computed the\r\ndifference of the forces with which the Moon and the Earth ought, in\r\nall those different situations, according to his theory, to be\r\nimpelled towards one another; and found, that the different degrees of\r\ntheir approaches, as they had been observed by Astronomers,\r\ncorresponded exactly to his computations. As the attraction of the\r\nSun, in the conjunctions and oppositions, diminishes the gravity of\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page380\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e380\u003c/span\u003e the Moon towards the Earth, and, consequently, makes her\r\nnecessarily extend her orbit, and, therefore, require a longer\r\nperiodical time to finish it. But, when the Moon and the Earth are in\r\nthat part of the orbit which is nearest the Sun, this attraction of\r\nthe Sun will be the greatest; consequently, the gravity of the Moon\r\ntowards the Earth will there be most diminished; her orbit be most\r\nextended; and her periodic time be, therefore, the longest. This is,\r\nalso, agreeable to experience, and in the very same proportion, in\r\nwhich, by computation, from these principles, it might be\r\nexpected.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe orbit of the Moon is not precisely in the same Plane with that\r\nof the Earth; but makes a very small angle with it. The points of\r\nintersection with those two Planes, are called, the Nodes of the Moon.\r\nThese Nodes of the Moon are in continual motion, and in eighteen or\r\nnineteen years, revolve backwards, from east to west, through all the\r\ndifferent points of the Ecliptic. For the Moon, after having finished\r\nher periodical revolution, generally intersects the orbit of the Earth\r\nsomewhat behind the point where she had intersected it before. But,\r\nthough the motion of the Nodes is thus generally retrograde, it is not\r\nalways so, but is sometimes direct, and sometimes they appear even\r\nstationary; the Moon generally intersects the Plane of the Earth’s\r\norbit behind the point where she had intersected it in her former\r\nrevolution; but she sometimes intersects it before that point, and\r\nsometimes in the very same point. It is the situation of those Nodes\r\nwhich determines the times of Eclipses, and their motions had, upon\r\nthis account, at all times, been particularly attended to by\r\nAstronomers. Nothing, however, had perplexed them more, than to\r\naccount for these so inconsistent motions, and, at the same time,\r\npreserve their so much sought-for regularity in the revolutions of the\r\nMoon. For they had no other means of connecting the appearances\r\ntogether than by supposing the motions which produced them, to be, in\r\nreality, perfectly regular and equable. The history of Astronomy,\r\ntherefore, gives an account of a greater number of theories invented\r\nfor connecting together the motions of the Moon, than for connecting\r\ntogether those of all the other heavenly bodies taken together. The\r\ntheory of gravity, connected together, in the most accurate manner, by\r\nthe different actions of the Sun and the Earth, all those irregular\r\nmotions; and it appears, by calculation, that the time, the quantity,\r\nand the duration of those direct and retrograde motions of the Nodes,\r\nas well as of their stationary appearances, might be expected to be\r\nexactly such, as the observations of Astronomers have determined\r\nthem.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe same principle, the attraction of the Sun, which thus accounts\r\nfor the motions of the Nodes, connects, too, another very perplexing\r\nirregularity in the appearances of the Moon; the perpetual variation\r\nin the inclination of her orbit to that of the Earth.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs the Moon revolves in an ellipse, which has the centre of the\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page381\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e381\u003c/span\u003e Earth in one of its foci, the longer axis of its orbit is called\r\nthe Line of its Apsides. This line is found, by observation, not to be\r\nalways directed towards the same points of the Firmament, but to\r\nrevolve forwards from west to east, so as to pass through all the\r\npoints of the Ecliptic, and to complete its period in about nine\r\nyears; another irregularity, which had very much perplexed\r\nAstronomers, but which the theory of gravity sufficiently accounted\r\nfor.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Earth had hitherto been regarded as perfectly globular,\r\nprobably for the same reason which had made men imagine, that the\r\norbits of the Planets must necessarily be perfectly circular. But Sir\r\nIsaac Newton, from mechanical principles, concluded, that, as the\r\nparts of the Earth must be more agitated by her diurnal revolution at\r\nthe Equator, than at the Poles, they must necessarily be somewhat\r\nelevated at the first, and flattened at the second. The observation,\r\nthat the oscillations of pendulums were slower at the Equator than at\r\nthe Poles, seeming to demonstrate, that gravity was stronger at the\r\nPoles, and weaker at the Equator, proved, he thought, that the Equator\r\nwas further from the centre than the Poles. All the measures, however,\r\nwhich had hitherto been made of the Earth, seemed to show the\r\ncontrary, that it was drawn out towards the Poles, and flattened\r\ntowards the Equator. Newton, however, preferred his mechanical\r\ncomputations to the former measures of Geographers and Astronomers;\r\nand in this he was confirmed by the observations of Astronomers on the\r\nfigure of Jupiter, whose diameter at the Pole seems to be to his\r\ndiameter at the Equator, as twelve to thirteen; a much greater\r\ninequality than could be supposed to take place betwixt the\r\ncorrespondent diameters of the Earth, but which was exactly\r\nproportioned to the superior bulk of Jupiter, and the superior\r\nrapidity with which he performs his diurnal revolutions. The\r\nobservations of Astronomers at Lapland and Peru have fully confirmed\r\nSir Isaac’s system, and have not only demonstrated, that the figure of\r\nthe Earth is, in general, such as he supposed it; but that the\r\nproportion of its axis to the diameter of its Equator is almost\r\nprecisely such as he had computed it. And of all the proofs that have\r\never been adduced of the diurnal revolution of the Earth, this perhaps\r\nis the most solid and most satisfactory.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHipparchus, by comparing his own observations with those of some\r\nformer Astronomers, had found that the equinoctial points were not\r\nalways opposite to the same part of the Heavens, but that they\r\nadvanced gradually eastward by so slow a motion, as to be scarce\r\nsensible in one hundred years, and which would require thirty-six\r\nthousand to make a complete revolution of the Equinoxes, and to carry\r\nthem successively through all the different points of the Ecliptic.\r\nMore accurate observations discovered that this procession of the\r\nEquinoxes was not so slow as Hipparchus had imagined it, and that it\r\nrequired somewhat less than twenty-six thousand years to give them a\r\ncomplete \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page382\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e382\u003c/span\u003e revolution. While the ancient system of Astronomy,\r\nwhich represented the Earth as the immovable centre of the universe,\r\ntook place, this appearance was necessarily accounted for, by\r\nsupposing that the Firmament, besides its rapid diurnal revolution\r\nround the poles of the Equator, had likewise a slow periodical one\r\nround those of the Ecliptic. And when the system of Hipparchus was by\r\nthe schoolmen united with the solid Spheres of Aristotle, they placed\r\na new crystalline Sphere above the Firmament, in order to join this\r\nmotion to the rest. In the Copernican system, this appearance had\r\nhitherto been connected with the other parts of that hypothesis, by\r\nsupposing a small revolution in the Earth’s axis from east to west.\r\nSir Isaac Newton connected this motion by the same principle of\r\ngravity, by which he had united all the others, and showed, how the\r\nelevation of the parts of the Earth at the Equator must, by the\r\nattraction of the Sun, produce the same retrograde motion of the Nodes\r\nof the Ecliptic, which it produced of the Nodes of the Moon. He\r\ncomputed the quantity of motion which could arise from this action of\r\nthe Sun, and his calculations here too corresponded with the\r\nobservations of Astronomers.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eComets have hitherto, of all the appearances in the Heavens, been\r\nthe least attended to by Astronomers. The rarity and inconstancy of\r\ntheir appearance, seemed to separate them entirely from the constant,\r\nregular, and uniform objects in the Heavens, and to make them resemble\r\nmore the inconstant, transitory, and accidental phenomena of those\r\nregions that are in the neighbourhood of the Earth. Aristotle,\r\nEudoxus, Hipparchus, Ptolemy, and Purbach, therefore, had all degraded\r\nthem below the Moon, and ranked them among the meteors of the upper\r\nregions of the air. The observations of Tycho Brahe demonstrated, that\r\nthey ascended into the celestial regions, and were often higher than\r\nVenus or the Sun. Des Cartes, at random, supposed them to be always\r\nhigher than even the orbit of Saturn; and seems, by the superior\r\nelevation he thus bestowed upon them, to have been willing to\r\ncompensate that unjust degradation which they had suffered for so many\r\nages before. The observations of some later Astronomers demonstrated,\r\nthat they too revolved about the Sun, and might therefore be parts of\r\nthe Solar System. Newton accordingly applied his mechanical principle\r\nof gravity to explain the motions of these bodies. That they described\r\nequal areas in equal times, had been discovered by the observations of\r\nsome later Astronomers; and Newton endeavoured to show how from this\r\nprinciple, and those observations, the nature and position of their\r\nseveral orbits might be ascertained, and their periodic times\r\ndetermined. His followers have, from his principles, ventured even to\r\npredict the returns of several of them, particularly of one which is\r\nto make its appearance in 1758.\u003ca href=\"#FootnoteC1\" id=\"FnAnchorC1\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e1\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e We must wait for that time \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page383\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e383\u003c/span\u003e\r\nbefore we can determine, whether his philosophy corresponds as happily\r\nto this part of the system as to all the others. In the meantime,\r\nhowever, the ductility of this principle, which applied itself so\r\nhappily to these, the most irregular of all the celestial appearances,\r\nand which has introduced such complete coherence into the motions of\r\nall the Heavenly Bodies, has served not a little to recommend it to\r\nthe imaginations of mankind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"FootnoteC1\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchorC1\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e1\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e It must be observed, that the whole of this Essay was\r\nwritten previous to the date here mentioned; and that the return of\r\nthe comet happened agreeably to the prediction.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut of all the attempts of the Newtonian philosophy, that which\r\nwould appear to be the most above the reach of human reason and\r\nexperience, is the attempt to compute the weights and densities of the\r\nSun, and of the several Planets. An attempt, however, which was\r\nindispensably necessary to complete the coherence of the Newtonian\r\nsystem. The power of attraction which, according to the theory of\r\ngravity, each body possesses, is in proportion to the quantity of\r\nmatter contained in that body. But the periodic time in which one\r\nbody, at a given distance, revolves round another that attracts it, is\r\nshorter in proportion as this power is greater, and consequently as\r\nthe quantity of matter in the attracting body. If the densities of\r\nJupiter and Saturn were the same with that of the Earth, the periodic\r\ntimes of their several Satellites would be shorter than by observation\r\nthey are found to be. Because the quantity of matter, and consequently\r\nthe attracting power of each of them, would be as the cubes of their\r\ndiameters. By comparing the bulks of those Planets, and the periodic\r\ntimes of their Satellites, it is found that, upon the hypothesis of\r\ngravity, the density of Jupiter must be greater than that of Saturn,\r\nand the density of the Earth greater than that of Jupiter. This seems\r\nto establish it as a law in the system, that the nearer the several\r\nPlanets approach to the Sun, the density of their matter is the\r\ngreater: a constitution of things which seems to be the most\r\nadvantageous of any that could have been established; as water of the\r\nsame density with that of our Earth, would freeze under the Equator of\r\nSaturn, and boil under that of Mercury.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch is the system of Sir Isaac Newton, a system whose parts are\r\nall more strictly connected together, than those of any other\r\nphilosophical hypothesis. Allow his principle, the universality of\r\ngravity, and that it decreases as the squares of the distance\r\nincrease, and all the appearances, which he joins together by it,\r\nnecessarily follow. Neither is their connection merely a general and\r\nloose connection, as that of most other systems, in which either these\r\nappearances, or some such like appearances, might indifferently have\r\nbeen expected. It is everywhere the most precise and particular that\r\ncan be imagined, and ascertains the time, the place, the quantity, the\r\nduration of each individual phenomenon, to be exactly such as, by\r\nobservation, they have been determined to be. Neither are the\r\nprinciples of union, which it employs, such as the imagination can\r\nfind any difficulty in going along with. The gravity of matter is, of\r\nall its qualities, after its inertness, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page384\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e384\u003c/span\u003e that which is most\r\nfamiliar to us. We never act upon it without having occasion to\r\nobserve this property. The law too, by which it is supposed to\r\ndiminish as it recedes from its centre, is the same which takes place\r\nin all other qualities which are propagated in rays from a centre, in\r\nlight, and in every thing else of the same kind. It is such, that we\r\nnot only find that it does take place in all such qualities, but we\r\nare necessarily determined to conceive that, from the nature of the\r\nthing, it must take place. The opposition which was made in France,\r\nand in some other foreign nations, to the prevalence of this system,\r\ndid not arise from any difficulty which mankind naturally felt in\r\nconceiving gravity as an original and primary mover in the\r\nconstitution of the universe. The Cartesian system, which had\r\nprevailed so generally before it, had accustomed mankind to conceive\r\nmotion as never beginning, but in consequence of impulse, and had\r\nconnected the descent of heavy bodies, near the surface of the Earth,\r\nand the other Planets, by this more general bond of union; and it was\r\nthe attachment the world had conceived for this account of things,\r\nwhich indisposed them to that of Sir Isaac Newton. His system,\r\nhowever, now prevails over all opposition, and has advanced to the\r\nacquisition of the most universal empire that was ever established in\r\nphilosophy. His principles, it must be acknowledged, have a degree of\r\nfirmness and solidity that we should in vain look for in any other\r\nsystem. The most sceptical cannot avoid feeling this. They not only\r\nconnect together most perfectly all the phenomena of the Heavens,\r\nwhich had been observed before his time; but those also which the\r\npersevering industry and more perfect instruments of later Astronomers\r\nhave made known to us have been either easily and immediately\r\nexplained by the application of his principles, or have been explained\r\nin consequence of more laborious and accurate calculations from these\r\nprinciples, than had been instituted before. And even we, while we\r\nhave been endeavouring to represent all philosophical systems as mere\r\ninventions of the imagination, to connect together the otherwise\r\ndisjointed and discordant phenomena of Nature, have insensibly been\r\ndrawn in, to make use of language expressing the connecting principles\r\nof this one, as if they were the real chains which Nature makes use of\r\nto bind together her several operations. Can we wonder then, that it\r\nshould have gained the general and complete approbation of mankind,\r\nand that it should now be considered, not as an attempt to connect in\r\nthe imagination the phenomena of the Heavens, but as the greatest\r\ndiscovery that ever was made by man, the discovery of an immense chain\r\nof the most important and sublime truths, all closely connected\r\ntogether, by one capital fact, of the reality of which we have daily\r\nexperience.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e* * * * * * * *\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e* * * * * * * *\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e385\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eNote by the Editors.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Author, at the end of this Essay, left some Notes and\r\nMemorandums, from which it appears, that he considered this last part\r\nof his History of Astronomy as imperfect, and needing several\r\nadditions. The Editors, however, chose rather to publish than\r\nsuppress it. It must be viewed, not as a History or Account of Sir\r\nIsaac Newton’s Astronomy, but chiefly as an additional illustration of\r\nthose Principles in the Human Mind which Mr. Smith has pointed out to\r\nbe the universal motives of Philosophical Researches.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr class=\"thirty\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch3 id=\"D\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page385\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eTHE PRINCIPLES\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eWHICH LEAD AND DIRECT\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch2\u003ePHILOSOPHICAL ENQUIRIES;\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eILLUSTRATED BY THE\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003eHISTORY OF THE ANCIENT PHYSICS.\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eF\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eROM\u003c/span\u003e arranging and methodizing the System of the Heavens,\r\nPhilosophy descended to the consideration of the inferior parts of\r\nNature, of the Earth, and of the bodies which immediately surround it.\r\nIf the objects, which were here presented to its view, were inferior\r\nin greatness or beauty, and therefore less apt to attract the\r\nattention of the mind, they were more apt, when they came to be\r\nattended to, to embarrass and perplex it, by the variety of their\r\nspecies, and by the intricacy and seeming irregularity of the laws or\r\norders of their succession. The species of objects in the Heavens are\r\nfew in number; the Sun, the Moon, the Planets, and the Fixed Stars,\r\nare all which those philosophers could distinguish. All the changes\r\ntoo, which are ever observed in these bodies, evidently arise from\r\nsome difference in the velocity and direction of their several\r\nmotions; but the variety of meteors in the air, of clouds, rainbows,\r\nthunder, lightning, winds, rain, hail, snow, is vastly greater; and\r\nthe order of their succession seems to be still more irregular and\r\ninconstant. The species of fossils, minerals, plants, animals, which\r\nare found in the Waters, and near the surface of the Earth, are still\r\nmore intricately diversified; and if we regard the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page386\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e386\u003c/span\u003e different\r\nmanners of their production, their mutual influence in altering,\r\ndestroying, supporting one another, the orders of their succession\r\nseem to admit of an almost infinite variety. If the imagination,\r\ntherefore, when it considered the appearances in the Heavens, was\r\noften perplexed, and driven out of its natural career, it would be\r\nmuch more exposed to the same embarrassment, when it directed its\r\nattention to the objects which the Earth presented to it, and when it\r\nendeavoured to trace their progress and successive revolutions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo introduce order and coherence into the mind’s conception of this\r\nseeming chaos of dissimilar and disjointed appearances, it was\r\nnecessary to deduce all their qualities, operations, and laws of\r\nsuccession, from those of some particular things, with which it was\r\nperfectly acquainted and familiar, and along which its imagination\r\ncould glide smoothly and easily, and without interruption. But as we\r\nwould in vain attempt to deduce the heat of a stove from that of an\r\nopen chimney, unless we could show that the same fire which was\r\nexposed in the one, lay concealed in the other; so it was impossible\r\nto deduce the qualities and laws of succession, observed in the more\r\nuncommon appearances of Nature, from those of such as were more\r\nfamiliar, if those customary objects were not supposed, however\r\ndisguised in their appearance, to enter into the composition of those\r\nrarer and more singular phenomena. To render, therefore, this lower\r\npart of the great theatre of nature a coherent spectacle to the\r\nimagination, it became necessary to suppose, first, That all the\r\nstrange objects of which it consisted were made up out of a few, with\r\nwhich the mind was extremely familiar: and secondly, That all their\r\nqualities, operations and rules of succession, were no more than\r\ndifferent diversifications of those to which it had long been\r\naccustomed, in these primary and elementary objects.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf all the bodies of which these inferior parts of the universe\r\nseem to be composed, those with which we are most familiar, are the\r\nEarth, which we tread upon; the Water, which we every day use; the\r\nAir, which we constantly breathe; and the Fire, whose benign influence\r\nis not only required for preparing the common necessaries of life, but\r\nfor the continual support of that vital principle which actuates both\r\nplants and animals. These therefore, were by Empedocles, and the other\r\nphilosophers of the Italian school, supposed to be the elements, out\r\nof which, at least, all the inferior parts of nature were composed.\r\nThe familiarity of those bodies to the mind, naturally disposed it to\r\nlook for some resemblance to them in whatever else was presented to\r\nits consideration. The discovery of some such resemblance united the\r\nnew object to an assortment of things, with which the imagination was\r\nperfectly acquainted. And if any analogy could be observed betwixt the\r\noperations and laws of succession of the compound, and those of the\r\nsimple objects, the movement of the fancy, in tracing their progress,\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page387\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e387\u003c/span\u003e became quite smooth, and natural, and easy. This natural\r\nanticipation, too, was still more confirmed by such a slight and\r\ninaccurate analysis of things, as could be expected in the infancy of\r\nscience, when the curiosity of mankind, grasping at an account of all\r\nthings before it had got full satisfaction with regard to any one,\r\nhurried on to build, in imagination, the immense fabric of the\r\nuniverse. The heat, observed in both plants and animals, seemed to\r\ndemonstrate, that Fire made a part of their composition. Air was not\r\nless necessary for the subsistence of both, and seemed, too, to enter\r\ninto the fabric of animals by respiration, and into that of plants by\r\nsome other means. The juices which circulated through them showed how\r\nmuch of their texture was owing to Water. And their resolution into\r\nEarth by putrefaction discovered that this element had not been left\r\nout in their original formation. A similar analysis seemed to show the\r\nsame principles in most of the other compound bodies.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe vast extent of those bodies seemed to render them, upon another\r\naccount, proper to be the great stores out of which nature compounded\r\nall the other species of things. Earth and Water divide almost the\r\nwhole of the terrestrial globe between them. The thin transparent\r\ncovering of the Air surrounds it to an immense height upon all sides.\r\nFire, with its attendant, light, seems to descend from the celestial\r\nregions, and might, therefore, either be supposed to be diffused\r\nthrough the whole of those etherial spaces, as well as to be condensed\r\nand conglobated in those luminous bodies, which sparkle across them,\r\nas by the Stoics; or, to be placed immediately under the sphere of the\r\nMoon, in the region next below them, as by the Peripatetics, who could\r\nnot reconcile the devouring nature of Fire with the supposed\r\nunchangeable essence of their solid and crystalline spheres.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe qualities, too, by which we are chiefly accustomed to\r\ncharacterize and distinguish natural bodies, are all of them found, in\r\nthe highest degree in those Four Elements. The great divisions of the\r\nobjects, near the surface of the Earth, are those into hot and cold,\r\nmoist and dry, light and heavy. These are the most remarkable\r\nproperties of bodies; and it is upon them that many of their other\r\nmost sensible qualities and powers seem to depend. Of these, heat and\r\ncold were naturally enough regarded by those first enquirers into\r\nnature, as the active, moisture and dryness, as the passive qualities\r\nof matter. It was the temperature of heat and cold which seemed to\r\noccasion the growth and dissolution of plants and animals; as appeared\r\nevident from the effects of the change of the seasons upon both. A\r\nproper degree of moisture and dryness was not less necessary for these\r\npurposes; as was evident from the different effects and productions of\r\nwet and dry seasons and soils. It was the heat and cold, however,\r\nwhich actuated and determined those two otherwise inert qualities of\r\nthings, to a state either of rest or motion. Gravity and levity were\r\nregarded \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page388\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e388\u003c/span\u003e as the two principles of motion, which directed all\r\nsublunary things to their proper place: and all those six qualities,\r\ntaken together, were, upon such an inattentive view of nature, as must\r\nbe expected in the beginnings of philosophy, readily enough\r\napprehended to be capable of connecting together the most remarkable\r\nrevolutions, which occur in these inferior parts of the universe. Heat\r\nand dryness were the qualities which characterized the element of\r\nFire; heat and moisture that of Air; moisture and cold that of Water;\r\ncold and dryness that of Earth. The natural motion of two of these\r\nelements, Earth and Water, was downwards, upon account of their\r\ngravity. This tendency, however, was stronger in the one than in the\r\nother, upon account of the superior gravity of Earth. The natural\r\nmotion of the two other elements, Fire and Air, was upwards, upon\r\naccount of their levity; and this tendency, too, was stronger in the\r\none than in the other, upon account of the superior levity of Fire.\r\nLet us not despise those ancient philosophers, for thus supposing,\r\nthat these two elements had a positive levity, or a real tendency\r\nupwards. Let us remember, that this notion has an appearance of being\r\nconfirmed by the most obvious observations; that those facts and\r\nexperiments, which demonstrate the weight of the Air, and which no\r\nsuperior sagacity, but chance alone, presented to the moderns, were\r\naltogether unknown to them; and that, what might, in some measure,\r\nhave supplied the place of those experiments, the reasonings\r\nconcerning the causes of the ascent of bodies, in fluids specifically\r\nheavier than themselves, seem to have been unknown in the ancient\r\nworld, till Archimedes discovered them, long after their system of\r\nphysics was completed, and had acquired an established reputation:\r\nthat those reasonings are far from being obvious, and that by their\r\ninventor, they seem to have been thought applicable only to the ascent\r\nof Solids in Water, and not even to that of Solids in Air, much less\r\nto that of one fluid in another. But it is this last only which could\r\nexplain the ascent of flame, vapours, and fiery exhalations, without\r\nthe supposition of a specific levity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThus, each of those Four Elements had, in the system of the\r\nUniverse, a place which was peculiarly allotted to it, and to which it\r\nnaturally tended. Earth and Water rolled down to the centre; the Air\r\nspread itself above them; while the Fire soared aloft, either to the\r\ncelestial region, or to that which was immediately below it. When each\r\nof those simple bodies had thus obtained its proper sphere, there was\r\nnothing in the nature of any one of them to make it pass into the\r\nplace of the other, to make the Fire descend into the Air, the Air\r\ninto the Water, or the Water into the Earth; or, on the contrary, to\r\nbring up the Earth into the place of the Water, the Water into that of\r\nthe Air, or the Air into that of the Fire. All sublunary things,\r\ntherefore, if left to themselves, would have remained in an eternal\r\nrepose. The revolution of the heavens, those of the Sun, Moon, and\r\nFive Planets, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page389\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e389\u003c/span\u003e by producing the vicissitudes of Day and Night,\r\nand of the Seasons, prevented this torpor and inactivity from reigning\r\nthrough the inferior parts of nature; inflamed by the rapidity of\r\ntheir circumvolutions, the element of Fire, and forced it violently\r\ndownwards into the Air, into the Water, and into the Earth, and\r\nthereby produced those mixtures of the different elements which kept\r\nup the motion and circulation of the lower parts of Nature;\r\noccasioned, sometimes, the entire transmutation of one element into\r\nanother, and sometimes the production of forms and species different\r\nfrom them all, and in which, though the qualities of them all might be\r\nfound, they were so altered and attempered by the mixture, as scarce\r\nto be distinguishable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThus, if a small quantity of Fire was mixed with a great quantity\r\nof Air, the moisture and moderate warmth of the one entirely\r\nsurmounted and changed into their own essence the intense heat and\r\ndryness of the other; and the whole aggregate became Air. The contrary\r\nof which happened, if a small quantity of Air was mixed with a great\r\nquantity of Fire: the whole, in this case, became Fire. In the same\r\nmanner, if a small quantity of Fire was mixed with a great quantity of\r\nWater, then, either the moisture and cold of the Water might surmount\r\nthe heat and dryness of the Fire, so that the whole should become\r\nWater; or, the moisture of the Water might surmount the dryness of the\r\nFire, while, in its turn, the heat of the Fire surmounted the coldness\r\nof the Water, so as that the whole aggregate, its qualities being heat\r\nand moisture, should become Air, which was regarded as the more\r\nnatural and easy metamorphosis of the two. In the same manner they\r\nexplained how like changes were produced by the different mixtures of\r\nFire and Earth, Earth and Water, Water and Air, Air and Earth; and\r\nthus they connected together the successive transmutations of the\r\nelements into one another.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEvery mixture of the Elements, however, did not produce an entire\r\ntransmutation. They were sometimes so blended together, that the\r\nqualities of the one, not being able to destroy, served only to\r\nattemper those of the other. Thus Fire, when mixed with Water,\r\nproduced sometimes a watery vapour, whose qualities were heat and\r\nmoisture; which partook at once of the levity of the Fire, and of the\r\ngravity of the Water, and which was elevated by the first into the\r\nAir, but retained by the last from ascending into the region of Fire.\r\nThe relative cold, which they supposed prevailed in the middle region\r\nof the Air, upon account of its equal distance, both from the region\r\nof Fire, and from the rays that are reflected by the surface of the\r\nEarth, condensed this vapour into Water; the Fire escaped it, and flew\r\nupwards, and the Water fell down in rain, or, according to the\r\ndifferent degrees of cold that prevailed in the different seasons, was\r\nsometimes congealed into snow, and sometimes into hail. In the same\r\nmanner, Fire, when mixed with Earth, produced sometimes a fiery\r\nexhalation, whose qualities \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page390\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e390\u003c/span\u003e were heat and dryness, which being\r\nelevated by the levity of the first into the Air condensed by the\r\ncold, so as to take fire, and being at the same time surrounded by\r\nwatery vapours, burst forth into thunder and lightning, and other\r\nfiery meteors. Thus they connected together the different appearances\r\nin the Air, by the qualities of their Four Elements; and from them,\r\ntoo, in the same manner, they endeavoured to deduce all the other\r\nqualities in the other homogeneous bodies, that are near the surface\r\nof the Earth. Thus, to give an example, with regard to the hardness\r\nand softness of bodies; heat and moisture, they observed, were the\r\ngreat softeners of matter. Whatever was hard, therefore, owed that\r\nquality either to the absence of heat, or to the absence of moisture.\r\nIce, crystal, lead, gold, and almost all metals, owed their hardness\r\nto the absence of heat, and were, therefore, dissolvable by Fire.\r\nRock-salt, nitre, alum, and hard clay, owed that quality to the\r\nabsence of moisture, and were therefore, dissolvable in water. And, in\r\nthe same manner, they endeavoured to connect together most of the\r\nother tangible qualities of matter. Their principles of union, indeed,\r\nwere often such as had no real existence, and were always vague and\r\nundetermined in the highest degree; they were such, however, as might\r\nbe expected in the beginnings of science, and such as, with all their\r\nimperfections, could enable mankind both to think and to talk, with\r\nmore coherence, concerning those general subjects, than without them\r\nthey would have been capable of doing. Neither was their system\r\nentirely devoid either of beauty or magnificence. Each of the Four\r\nElements having a particular region allotted to it, had a place of\r\nrest, to which it naturally tended, by its motion, either up or down,\r\nin a straight line, and where, when it had arrived, it naturally\r\nceased to move. Earth descended, till it arrived at the place of\r\nEarth; Water, till it arrived at that of Water; and Air, till it\r\narrived at that of Air; and there each of them tended to a state of\r\neternal repose and inaction. The Spheres consisted of a Fifth Element,\r\nwhich was neither light nor heavy, and whose natural motion made it\r\ntend, neither to the centre, nor from the centre, but revolve round it\r\nin a circle. As, by this motion, they could never change their\r\nsituation with regard to the centre, they had no place of repose, no\r\nplace to which they naturally tended more than to any other, but\r\nrevolved round and round for ever. This Fifth Element was subject\r\nneither to generation nor corruption, nor alteration of any kind; for\r\nwhatever changes may happen in the Heavens, the senses can scarce\r\nperceive them, and their appearance is the same in one age as in\r\nanother. The beauty, too, of their supposed crystalline spheres seemed\r\nstill more to entitle them to this distinction of unchangeable\r\nimmortality. It was the motion of those Spheres, which occasioned the\r\nmixtures of the Elements, and from hence, the production of all the\r\nforms and species, that diversify the world. It was the approach of\r\nthe Sun and of the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page391\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e391\u003c/span\u003e other Planets, to the different parts of the\r\nEarth, which, by forcing down the element of Fire, occasioned the\r\ngeneration of those forms. It was the recess of those bodies, which,\r\nby allowing each Element to escape to its proper sphere, brought\r\nabout, in an equal time, their corruption. It was the periods of those\r\ngreat lights of Heaven, which measured out to all sublunary things,\r\nthe term of their duration, of their growth, and of their decay,\r\neither in one, or in a number of seasons, according as the Elements of\r\nwhich they were composed, were either imperfectly or accurately\r\nblended and mixed with one another. Immortality, they could bestow\r\nupon no individual form, because the principles out of which it was\r\nformed, all tending to disengage themselves, and to return to their\r\nproper spheres, necessarily, at last, brought about its dissolution.\r\nBut, though all individuals were thus perishable, and constantly\r\ndecaying, every species was immortal, because the subject-matter out\r\nof which they were made, and the revolution of the Heavens, the cause\r\nof their successive generations, continued to be always the same.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the first ages of the world, the seeming incoherence of the\r\nappearances of nature, so confounded mankind, that they despaired of\r\ndiscovering in her operations any regular system. Their ignorance, and\r\nconfusion of thought, necessarily gave birth to that pusillanimous\r\nsuperstition, which ascribes almost every unexpected event, to the\r\narbitrary will of some designing, though invisible beings, who\r\nproduced it for some private and particular purpose. The idea of an\r\nuniversal mind, of a God of all, who originally formed the whole, and\r\nwho governs the whole by general laws, directed to the conservation\r\nand prosperity of the whole, without regard to that of any private\r\nindividual, was a notion to which they were utterly strangers. Their\r\ngods, though they were apprehended to interpose, upon some particular\r\noccasions, were so far from being regarded as the creators of the\r\nworld, that their origin was apprehended to be posterior to that of\r\nthe world. The Earth, according to Hesiod, was the first production of\r\nthe chaos. The Heavens arose out of the Earth, and from both together,\r\nall the gods, who afterwards inhabited them. Nor was this notion\r\nconfined to the vulgar, and to those poets who seem to have recorded\r\nthe vulgar theology. Of all the philosophers of the Ionian school,\r\nAnaxagoras, it is well known, was the first who supposed that mind and\r\nunderstanding were requisite to account for the first origin of the\r\nworld, and who, therefore, compared with the other philosophers of his\r\ntime, talked, as Aristotle observes, like a sober man among drunkards;\r\nbut whose opinion was, at the time, so remarkable, that he seems to\r\nhave got a sirname from it. The same notion, of the spontaneous origin\r\nof the world, was embraced, too, as the same author tells, by the\r\nearly Pythagoreans, a sect, which, in the ancient world, was never\r\nregarded as irreligious. Mind, and understanding, and consequently\r\nDeity, being \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page392\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e392\u003c/span\u003e the most perfect, were necessarily, according to\r\nthem, the last productions of Nature. For in all other things, what\r\nwas most perfect, they observed, always came last. As in plants and\r\nanimals, it is not the seed that is most perfect, but the complete\r\nanimal, with all its members, in the one; and the complete plant, with\r\nall its branches, leaves, flowers, and fruits, in the other. This\r\nnotion, which could take place only while Nature was still considered\r\nas, in some measure, disorderly and inconsistent in her operations,\r\nwas necessarily renounced by those philosophers, when, upon a more\r\nattentive survey, they discovered, or imagined they had discovered,\r\nmore distinctly, the chain which bound all her different parts to one\r\nanother. As soon as the Universe was regarded as a complete machine,\r\nas a coherent system, governed by general laws, and directed to\r\ngeneral ends, viz. its own preservation and prosperity, and that of\r\nall the species that are in it; the resemblance which it evidently\r\nbore to those machines which are produced by human art, necessarily\r\nimpressed those sages with a belief, that in the original formation of\r\nthe world there must have been employed an art resembling the human\r\nart, but as much superior to it, as the world is superior to the\r\nmachines which that art produces. The unity of the system, which,\r\naccording to this ancient philosophy, is most perfect, suggested the\r\nidea of the unity of that principle, by whose art it was formed; and\r\nthus, as ignorance begot superstition, science gave birth to the first\r\ntheism that arose among those nations, who were not enlightened by\r\ndivine Revelation. According to Timæus, who was followed by Plato,\r\nthat intelligent Being who formed the world endowed it with a\r\nprinciple of life and understanding, which extends from its centre to\r\nits remotest circumference, which is conscious of all its changes, and\r\nwhich governs and directs all its motions to the great end of its\r\nformation. This soul of the world was itself a God, the greatest of\r\nall the inferior, and created deities; of an essence that was\r\nindissoluble, by any power but by that of him who made it, and which\r\nwas united to the body of the world, so as to be inseparable by every\r\nforce, but his who joined them, from the exertion of which his\r\ngoodness secured them. The beauty of the celestial spheres attracting\r\nthe admiration of mankind, the constancy and regularity of their\r\nmotions seeming to manifest peculiar wisdom and understanding, they\r\nwere each of them supposed to be animated by an Intelligence of a\r\nnature that was, in the same manner, indissoluble and immortal, and\r\ninseparably united to that sphere which it inhabited. All the mortal\r\nand changeable beings which people the surface of the earth were\r\nformed by those inferior deities; for the revolutions of the heavenly\r\nbodies seemed plainly to influence the generation and growth of both\r\nplants and animals, whose frail and fading forms bore the too evident\r\nmarks of the weakness of those inferior causes, which joined their\r\ndifferent parts to one another. According to Plato and Timæus, neither\r\nthe \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page393\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e393\u003c/span\u003e Universe, nor even those inferior deities who govern the\r\nUniverse, were eternal, but were formed in time, by the great Author\r\nof all things, out of that matter which had existed from all eternity.\r\nThis at least their words seemed to import, and thus they are\r\nunderstood by Cicero, and by all the other writers of earlier\r\nantiquity, though some of the later Platonists have interpreted them\r\ndifferently.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAccording to Aristotle, who seems to have followed the doctrine of\r\nOcellus, the world was eternal; the eternal effect of an eternal\r\ncause. He found it difficult, it would seem, to conceive what could\r\nhinder the First Cause from exerting his divine energy from all\r\neternity. At whatever time he began to exert it, he must have been at\r\nrest during all the infinite ages of that eternity which had passed\r\nbefore it. To what obstruction, from within or from without, could\r\nthis be owing? or how could this obstruction, if it ever had\r\nsubsisted, have ever been removed? His idea of the nature and manner\r\nof existence of this First Cause, as it is expressed in the last book\r\nof his Physics, and the five last chapters of his Metaphysics, is\r\nindeed obscure and unintelligible in the highest degree, and has\r\nperplexed his commentators more than any other parts of his writings.\r\nThus far, however, he seems to express himself plainly enough: that\r\nthe First Heavens, that of the Fixed Stars, from which are derived the\r\nmotions of all the rest, is revolved by an eternal, immovable,\r\nunchangeable, unextended being, whose essence consists in\r\nintelligence, as that of a body consists in solidity and extension;\r\nand which is therefore necessarily and always intelligent, as a body\r\nis necessarily and always extended: that this Being was the first and\r\nsupreme mover of the Universe: that the inferior Planetary Spheres\r\nderived each of them its peculiar revolution from an inferior being of\r\nthe same kind; eternal, immovable, unextended, and necessarily\r\nintelligent: that the sole object of the intelligences of those beings\r\nwas their own essence, and the revolution of their own spheres; all\r\nother inferior things being unworthy of their consideration; and that\r\ntherefore whatever was below the Moon was abandoned by the gods to the\r\ndirection of Nature, and Chance, and Necessity. For though those\r\ncelestial beings were, by the revolutions of their several Spheres,\r\nthe original causes of the generation and corruption of all sublunary\r\nforms, they were causes who neither knew nor intended the effects\r\nwhich they produced. This renowned philosopher seems, in his\r\ntheological notions, to have been directed by prejudices which, though\r\nextremely natural, are not very philosophical. The revolutions of the\r\nHeavens, by their grandeur and constancy, excited his admiration, and\r\nseemed, upon that account, to be effects not unworthy a Divine\r\nIntelligence. Whereas the meanness of many things, the disorder and\r\nconfusion of all things below, exciting no such agreeable emotion,\r\nseemed to have no marks of being directed by that Supreme\r\nUnderstanding. Yet, though this opinion saps the foundations of human\r\nworship, and must have the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page394\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e394\u003c/span\u003e same effects upon society as Atheism\r\nitself, one may easily trace, in the Metaphysics upon which it is\r\ngrounded, the origin of many of the notions, or rather of many of the\r\nexpressions, in the scholastic theology, to which no notions can be\r\nannexed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Stoics, the most religious of all the ancient sects of\r\nphilosophers, seem in this, as in most other things, to have altered\r\nand refined upon the doctrine of Plato. The order, harmony, and\r\ncoherence which this philosophy bestowed upon the Universal System,\r\nstruck them with awe and veneration. As, in the rude ages of the\r\nworld, whatever particular part of Nature excited the admiration of\r\nmankind, was apprehended to be animated by some particular divinity;\r\nso the whole of Nature having, by their reasonings, become equally the\r\nobject of admiration, was equally apprehended to be animated by a\r\nUniversal Deity, to be itself a Divinity, an Animal; a term which to\r\nour ears seems by no means synonymous with the foregoing; whose body\r\nwas the solid and sensible parts of Nature, and whose soul was that\r\netherial Fire, which penetrated and actuated the whole. For of all the\r\nfour elements, out of which all things were composed, Fire or Ether\r\nseemed to be that which bore the greatest resemblance to the Vital\r\nPrinciple which informs both plants and animals, and therefore most\r\nlikely to be the Vital Principle which animated the Universe. This\r\ninfinite and unbounded Ether, which extended itself from the centre\r\nbeyond the remotest circumference of Nature, and was endowed with the\r\nmost consummate reason and intelligence, or rather was itself the very\r\nessence of reason and intelligence, had originally formed the world,\r\nand had communicated a portion, or ray, of its own essence to whatever\r\nwas endowed with life and sensation, which, upon the dissolution of\r\nthose forms, either immediately or some time after, was again absorbed\r\ninto that ocean of Deity from whence it had originally been detached.\r\nIn this system the Sun, the Moon, the Planets, and the Fixed Stars,\r\nwere each of them also inferior divinities, animated by a detached\r\nportion of that etherial essence which was the soul of the world. In\r\nthe system of Plato, the Intelligence which animated the world was\r\ndifferent from that which originally formed it. Neither were these\r\nwhich animated the celestial spheres, nor those which informed\r\ninferior terrestrial animals, regarded as portions of this plastic\r\nsoul of the world. Upon the dissolution of animals, therefore, their\r\nsouls were not absorbed in the soul of the world, but had a separate\r\nand eternal existence, which gave birth to the notion of the\r\ntransmigration of souls. Neither did it seem unnatural, that, as the\r\nsame matter which had composed one animal body might be employed to\r\ncompose another, that the same intelligence which had animated one\r\nsuch being should again animate another. But in the system of the\r\nStoics, the intelligence which originally formed, and that which\r\nanimated the world, were one and the same, all inferior intelligences\r\nwere detached portions \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e395\u003c/span\u003e of the great one; and therefore, in a\r\nlonger, or in a shorter time, were all of them, even the gods\r\nthemselves, who animated the celestial bodies, to be at last resolved\r\ninto the infinite essence of this almighty Jupiter, who, at a distant\r\nperiod, should, by an universal conflagration, wrap up all things, in\r\nthat etherial and fiery nature, out of which they had originally been\r\ndeduced, again to bring forth a new Heaven and a new Earth, new\r\nanimals, new men, new deities; all of which would again, at a fated\r\ntime, be swallowed up in a like conflagration, again to be\r\nre-produced, and again to be re-destroyed, and so on without end.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr class=\"thirty\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch3 id=\"E\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page395\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eTHE PRINCIPLES\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eWHICH LEAD AND DIRECT\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch2\u003ePHILOSOPHICAL ENQUIRIES;\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eILLUSTRATED BY THE HISTORY OF THE\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003eANCIENT LOGICS AND METAPHYSICS.\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eN\u003c/span\u003e every transmutation, either of one element into another, or of\r\none compound body either into the elements out of which it was\r\ncomposed, or into another compound body, it seemed evident, that both\r\nin the old and in the new species, there was something that was the\r\nsame, and something that was different. When Fire was changed into\r\nAir, or Water into Earth, the Stuff, or Subject-matter of this Air and\r\nthis Earth, was evidently the same with that of the former Fire or\r\nWater; but the Nature or Species of those new bodies was entirely\r\ndifferent. When, in the same manner, a number of fresh, green, and\r\nodoriferous flowers were thrown together in a heap, they, in a short\r\ntime, entirely changed their nature, became putrid and loathsome, and\r\ndissolved into a confused mass of ordure, which bore no resemblance,\r\neither in sensible qualities or in its effects, to their former\r\nbeautiful appearance. But how different soever the species, the\r\nsubject-matter of the flowers, and of the ordure, was, in this case\r\ntoo, evidently the same. In every body therefore, whether simple or\r\nmixed, there were evidently two principles, whose combination\r\nconstituted the whole nature of that particular body. The first was\r\nthe Stuff, or Subject-matter, out of which it was made; the second was\r\nthe Species, the Specific Essence, the Essential, or, as the schoolmen\r\nhave called it, the Substantial Form of the Body. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page396\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e396\u003c/span\u003e The first\r\nseemed to be the same in all bodies, and to have neither qualities nor\r\npowers of any kind, but to be altogether inert and imperceptible by\r\nany of the senses, till it was qualified and rendered sensible by its\r\nunion with some species or essential form. All the qualities and\r\npowers of bodies seemed to depend upon their species or essential\r\nforms. It was not the stuff or matter of Fire, or Air, or Earth, or\r\nWater, which enabled those elements to produce their several effects,\r\nbut that essential form which was peculiar to each of them. For it\r\nseemed evident that Fire must produce the effects of Fire, by that\r\nwhich rendered it Fire; Air, by that which rendered it Air; and that\r\nin the same manner all other simple and mixed bodies must produce\r\ntheir several effects, by that which constituted them such or such\r\nbodies; that is, by their Specific Essence or essential forms. But it\r\nis from the effects of bodies upon one another, that all the changes\r\nand revolutions in the material world arise. Since these, therefore,\r\ndepend upon the specific essences of those bodies, it must be the\r\nbusiness of philosophy, that science which endeavours to connect\r\ntogether all the different changes that occur in the world, to\r\ndetermine wherein the Specific Essence of each object consists, in\r\norder to foresee what changes or revolutions may be expected from it.\r\nBut the Specific Essence of each individual object is not that which\r\nis peculiar to it as an individual, but that which is common to it,\r\nwith all other objects of the same kind. Thus the Specific Essence of\r\nthe Water, which now stands before me, does not consist in its being\r\nheated by the Fire, or cooled by the Air, in such a particular degree;\r\nin its being contained in a vessel of such a form, or of such\r\ndimensions. These are all accidental circumstances, which are\r\naltogether extraneous to its general nature, and upon which none of\r\nits effects as Water depend. Philosophy, therefore, in considering the\r\ngeneral nature of Water, takes no notice of those particularities\r\nwhich are peculiar to this water, but confines itself to those things\r\nwhich are common to all Water. If, in the progress of its inquiries,\r\nit should descend to consider the nature of Water that is modified by\r\nsuch particular accidents, it still would not confine its\r\nconsideration to this water contained in this vessel, and thus heated\r\nat this fire, but would extend its views to Water in general contained\r\nin such kind of vessels, and heated to such a degree at such a fire.\r\nIn every case, therefore, Species, or Universals, and not Individuals,\r\nare the objects of Philosophy. Because whatever effects are produced\r\nby individuals, whatever changes can flow from them, must all proceed\r\nfrom some universal nature that is contained in them. As it was the\r\nbusiness of Physics, or Natural Philosophy, to determine wherein\r\nconsisted the Nature and Essence of every particular Species of\r\nthings, in order to connect together all the different events that\r\noccur in the material world; so there were two other sciences, which,\r\nthough they had originally arisen out of that system of Natural\r\nPhilosophy I have just \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page397\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e397\u003c/span\u003e been describing, were, however,\r\napprehended to go before it, in the order in which the knowledge of\r\nNature ought to be communicated. The first of these, Metaphysics,\r\nconsidered the general nature of Universals, and the different sorts\r\nor species into which they might be divided. The second of these,\r\nLogics, was built upon this doctrine of Metaphysics; and from the\r\ngeneral nature of Universals, and of the sorts into which they were\r\ndivided, endeavoured to ascertain the general rules by which we might\r\ndistribute all particular objects into general classes, and determine\r\nto what class each individual object belonged; for in this, they\r\njustly enough apprehended, consisted the whole art of philosophical\r\nreasoning. As the first of these two sciences, Metaphysics, is\r\naltogether subordinate to the second, Logic, they seem, before the\r\ntime of Aristotle, to have been regarded as one, and to have made up\r\nbetween them that ancient Dialectic of which we hear so much, and of\r\nwhich we understand so little: neither does this separation seem to\r\nhave been much attended to, either by his own followers, the ancient\r\nPeripatetics, or by any other of the old sects of philosophers. The\r\nlater schoolmen, indeed, have distinguished between Ontology and\r\nLogic; but their Ontology contains but a small part of what is the\r\nsubject of the metaphysical books of Aristotle, the greater part of\r\nwhich, the doctrines of Universals, and everything that is preparatory\r\nto the arts of defining and dividing, has, since the days of Porphery,\r\nbeen inserted into their Logic.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAccording to Plato and Timæus, the principles out of which the\r\nDeity formed the World, and which were themselves eternal, were three\r\nin number. The Subject-matter of things, the Species, or Specific\r\nEssences of things, and what was made out of these, the sensible\r\nobjects themselves. These last had no proper or durable existence, but\r\nwere in perpetual flux and succession. For as Heraclitus had said that\r\nno man ever passed the same river twice, because the water which he\r\nhad passed over once was gone before he could pass over it a second\r\ntime; so, in the same manner, no man ever saw, or heard, or touched\r\nthe same sensible object twice. When I look at the window, for\r\nexample, the visible species, which strikes my eyes this moment,\r\nthough resembling, is different from that which struck my eyes the\r\nimmediately preceding moment. When I ring the bell, the sound, or\r\naudible species, which I hear this moment, though resembling in the\r\nsame manner, is different, however, from that which I heard the moment\r\nbefore. When I lay my hand on the table, the tangible species which I\r\nfeel this moment, though resembling, in the same manner, is\r\nnumerically different too from that which I felt the moment before.\r\nOur sensations, therefore, never properly exist or endure one moment;\r\nbut, in the very instant of their generation, perish and are\r\nannihilated for ever. Nor are the causes of those sensations more\r\npermanent. No corporeal substance is ever exactly the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page398\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e398\u003c/span\u003e same,\r\neither in whole or in any assignable part, during two successive,\r\nmoments, but by the perpetual addition of new parts, as well as loss\r\nof old ones, is in continual flux and succession. Things of so\r\nfleeting a nature can never be the objects of science, or of any\r\nsteady or permanent judgment. While we look at them, in order to\r\nconsider them, they are changed and gone, and annihilated for ever.\r\nThe objects of science, and of all the steady judgments of the\r\nunderstanding, must be permanent, unchangeable, always existent, and\r\nliable neither to generation nor corruption, nor alteration of any\r\nkind. Such are the species or specific essences of things. Man is\r\nperpetually changing every particle of his body; and every thought of\r\nhis mind is in continual flux and succession. But humanity, or human\r\nnature, is always existent, is always the same, is never generated,\r\nand is never corrupted. This, therefore, is the object of science,\r\nreason, and understanding, as man is the object of sense, and of those\r\ninconstant opinions which are founded upon sense. As the objects of\r\nsense were apprehended to have an external existence, independent of\r\nthe act of sensation, so these objects of the understanding were much\r\nmore supposed to have an external existence independent of the act of\r\nunderstanding. Those external essences were, according to Plato, the\r\nexemplars, according to which the Deity formed the world, and all the\r\nsensible objects that are in it. The Deity comprehended within his\r\ninfinite essence, all these species, or external exemplars, in the\r\nsame manner as he comprehended all sensible objects.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePlato, however, seems to have regarded the first of those as\r\nequally distinct with the second from what we would now call the Ideas\r\nor Thoughts of the Divine Mind,\u003ca href=\"#FootnoteE1\" id=\"FnAnchorE1\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e1\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e and even to have supposed, that\r\nthey had a particular place of existence, beyond the sphere of the\r\nvisible \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page399\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e399\u003c/span\u003e corporeal world; though this has been much controverted,\r\nboth by the later Platonists, and by some very judicious modern\r\ncritics, who have followed the interpretation of the later Platonists,\r\nas what did most \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page400\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e400\u003c/span\u003e honour to the judgment of that renowned\r\nphilosopher. All the objects in this world, continued he, are\r\nparticular and individual. Here, therefore, the human mind has no\r\nopportunity of seeing any Species, or Universal Nature. Whatever ideas\r\nit has, therefore, of such beings, for it plainly has them, it must\r\nderive from the memory of what it has seen, in some former period of\r\nits existence, when it had an opportunity of visiting the place or\r\nSphere of Universals. For some time after it is immersed in the body,\r\nduring its infancy, its childhood, and a great part of its youth, the\r\nviolence of those passions which it derives from the body, and which\r\nare all directed to the particular and individual objects of this\r\nworld, hinder it from turning its attention to those Universal\r\nNatures, with which it had been conversant in the world from whence it\r\ncame. The Ideas, of these, therefore, seem, in this first period of\r\nits existence here, to be overwhelmed in the confusion of those\r\nturbulent emotions, and to be almost entirely wiped out of its\r\nremembrance. During the continuance of this state, it is incapable of\r\nReasoning, Science and Philosophy, which are conversant about\r\nUniversals. Its whole attention is turned towards particular objects,\r\nconcerning which, being directed by no general notions, it forms many\r\nvain and false opinions, and is filled with error, perplexity, and\r\nconfusion. But, when age has abated the violence of its passions, and\r\ncomposed the confusion of its thoughts, it then becomes more capable\r\nof reflection, and of turning its attention to those almost forgotten\r\nideas of things with which it had been conversant in the former state\r\nof its existence. All the particular objects in this sensible world,\r\nbeing formed after the eternal exemplars in that intellectual world,\r\nawaken, upon account of their resemblance, insensibly, and by slow\r\ndegrees, the almost obliterated ideas of these last. The beauty, which\r\nis shared in different degrees among terrestrial objects, revives the\r\nsame idea of that Universal Nature of beauty which exists in the\r\nintellectual world: particular acts of justice, of the universal\r\nnature of justice; particular reasonings, and particular sciences, of\r\nthe universal nature of science and reasoning; particular roundnesses,\r\nof the universal nature of roundness; particular squares, of the\r\nuniversal nature of squareness. Thus science, which is conversant\r\nabout Universals, is derived from memory; and to instruct any person\r\nconcerning the general nature of any subject, is no more than to\r\nawaken in him the remembrance of what he formerly knew about it. This\r\nboth Plato and Socrates imagined they could still further confirm, by\r\nthe fallacious experiment, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page401\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e401\u003c/span\u003e which showed, that a person might be\r\nled to discover himself, without any information, any general truth,\r\nof which he was before ignorant, merely by being asked a number of\r\nproperly arranged and connected questions concerning it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"FootnoteE1\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchorE1\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e1\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e He calls them, indeed, Ideas, a word which, in him, in\r\nAristotle, and all the other writers of earlier antiquity, signifies a\r\nSpecies, and is perfectly synonymous with that other word \u003cspan class=\"transl\" title=\"Eidos\"\u003eΕιδος\u003c/span\u003e,\r\n more frequently made use of by Aristotle. As, by some of the\r\nlater sects of philosophers, particularly by the Stoics, all species,\r\nor specific essences, were regarded as mere creatures of the mind,\r\nformed by abstraction, which had no real existence external to the\r\nthoughts that conceived them, the word Idea came, by degrees, to its\r\npresent signification, to mean, first, an abstract thought or\r\nconception; and afterwards, a thought or conception of any kind; and\r\nthus became synonymous with that other Greek word, \u003cspan class=\"transl\" title=\"Ennoia\"\u003eΕννοια\u003c/span\u003e,\r\nfrom which it had originally a very different meaning. When the later\r\nPlatonists, who lived at a time when the notion of the separate\r\nexistence of specific essences was universally exploded, began to\r\ncomment upon the writings of Plato, and upon that strange fancy that,\r\nin his writings, there was a double doctrine; and that they were\r\nintended to seem to mean one thing, while at bottom they meant a very\r\ndifferent, which the writings of no man in his senses ever were, or\r\never could be intended to do; they represented his doctrine as meaning\r\nno more, than that the Deity formed the world after what we would now\r\ncall an Idea, or plan conceived in his own mind, in the same manner as\r\nany other artist. But, if Plato had meant to express no more than this\r\nmost natural and simple of all notions, he might surely have expressed\r\nit more plainly, and would hardly, one would think, have talked of it\r\nwith so much emphasis, as of something which it required the utmost\r\nreach of thought to comprehend. According to this representation,\r\nPlato’s notion of Species, or Universals, was the same with that of\r\nAristotle. Aristotle, however, does not seem to understand it as such;\r\nhe bestows a great part of his Metaphysics upon confuting it, and\r\nopposes it in all his other works; nor does he, in any one of them,\r\ngive the least hint, or insinuation, as if it could be suspected that,\r\nby the Ideas of Plato, was meant the thoughts or conceptions of the\r\nDivine Mind. Is it possible that he, who was twenty years in his\r\nschool, should, during all that time, have misunderstood him,\r\nespecially when his meaning was so very plain and obvious? Neither is\r\nthis notion of the separate existence of Species, distinct both from\r\nthe mind which conceives them, and from the sensible objects which are\r\nmade to resemble them, one of those doctrines which Plato would but\r\nseldom have occasion to talk of. However it may be interpreted, it is\r\nthe very basis of his philosophy; neither is there a single dialogue\r\nin all his works which does not refer to it. Shall we suppose, that\r\nthat great philosopher, who appears to have been so much superior to\r\nhis master in every thing but eloquence, wilfully, and upon all\r\noccasions, misrepresented, not one of the deep and mysterious\r\ndoctrines of the philosophy of Plato, but the first and most\r\nfundamental principle of all his reasonings; when the writings of\r\nPlato were in the hands of every body; when his followers and\r\ndisciples were spread all over Greece; when almost every Athenian of\r\ndistinction, that was nearly of the same age with Aristotle, must have\r\nbeen bred in his school; when Speusippus, the nephew and successor of\r\nPlato, as well as Xenocrates, who continued the school in the Academy,\r\nat the same time that Aristotle held his in the Lyceum, must have been\r\nready, at all times, to expose and affront him for such gross\r\ndisingenuity. Does not Cicero, does not Seneca understand this\r\ndoctrine in the same manner as Aristotle has represented it? Is there\r\nany author in all antiquity who seems to understand it otherwise,\r\nearlier than Plutarch, an author who seems to have been as bad a\r\ncritic in philosophy as in history, and to have taken every thing at\r\nsecond-hand in both, and who lived after the origin of that eclectic\r\nphilosophy, from whence the later Platonists arose, and who seems\r\nhimself to have been one of that sect? Is there any one passage in any\r\nGreek author, near the time of Aristotle and Plato, in which the word\r\nIdea is used in its present meaning, to signify a thought or\r\nconception? Are not the words, which in all languages express reality\r\nor existence, directly opposed to those which express thought, or\r\nconception only? Or, is there any other difference betwixt a thing\r\nthat exists, and a thing that does not exist, except this, that the\r\none is a mere conception, and that the other is something more than a\r\nconception? With what propriety, therefore, could Plato talk of those\r\neternal species, as of the only things which had any real existence,\r\nif they were no more than the conceptions of the Divine Mind? Had not\r\nthe Deity, according to Plato, as well as according to the Stoics,\r\nfrom all eternity, the idea of every individual, as well as of every\r\nspecies, and of the state in which every individual was to be, in each\r\ndifferent instance of its existence? Were not all the divine ideas,\r\ntherefore, of each individual, or of all the different states, which\r\neach individual was to be in during the course of its existence,\r\nequally eternal and unalterable with those of the species? With what\r\nsense, therefore, could Plato say, that the first were eternal,\r\nbecause the Deity had conceived them from all eternity, since he had\r\nconceived the others from all eternity too, and since his ideas of the\r\nSpecies could, in this respect, have no advantage of those of the\r\nindividual? Does not Plato, in many different places, talk of the\r\nIdeas of Species or Universals as innate, and having been impressed\r\nupon the mind in its state of pre-existence, when it had an\r\nopportunity of viewing these Species as they are in themselves, and\r\nnot as they are expressed in their copies, or representatives upon\r\nearth? But if the only place of the existence of those Species was the\r\nDivine Mind, will not this suppose, that Plato either imagined, like\r\nFather Malbranche, that in its state of pre-existence, the mind saw\r\nall things in God: or that it was itself an emanation of the Divinity?\r\nThat he maintained the first opinion, will not be pretended by any\r\nbody who is at all versed in the history of science. That enthusiastic\r\nnotion, though it may seem to be favoured by some passages in the\r\nFathers, was never, it is well known, coolly and literally maintained\r\nby any body before that Cartesian philosopher. That the human mind was\r\nitself an emanation of the Divine, though it was the doctrine of the\r\nStoics, was by no means that of Plato; though, upon the notion of a\r\npretended double doctrine, the contrary has lately been asserted.\r\nAccording to Plato, the Deity formed the soul of the world out of that\r\nsubstance which is always the same, that is, out of Species or\r\nUniversals; out of that which is always different, that is, out of\r\ncorporeal substances; and out of a substance that was of a middle\r\nnature between these, which it is not easy to understand what he meant\r\nby. Out of a part of the same composition, he made those inferior\r\nintelligences who animated the celestial spheres, to whom he delivered\r\nthe remaining part of it, to form from thence the souls of men and\r\nanimals. The souls of those inferior deities, though made out of a\r\nsimilar substance or composition, were not regarded as parts or\r\nemanations of that of the world; nor were those of animals, in the\r\nsame manner, regarded as parts or emanations of those inferior\r\ndeities: much less were any of them regarded as parts, or emanations\r\nof the great Author of all things.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe more the soul was accustomed to the consideration of those\r\nUniversal Natures, the less it was attached to any particular and\r\nindividual objects; it approached the nearer to the original\r\nperfection of its nature, from which, according to this philosophy, it\r\nhad fallen. Philosophy, which accustoms it to consider the general\r\nEssence of things only, and to abstract from all their particular and\r\nsensible circumstances, was, upon this account, regarded as the great\r\npurifier of the soul. As death separated the soul from the body, and\r\nfrom the bodily senses and passions, it restored it to that\r\nintellectual world, from whence it had originally descended, where no\r\nsensible Species called off its attention from those general Essences\r\nof things. Philosophy, in this life, habituating it to the same\r\nconsiderations, brings it, in some degree, to that state of happiness\r\nand perfection, to which death restores the souls of just men in a\r\nlife to come.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch was the doctrine of Plato concerning the Species or Specific\r\nEssence of things. This, at least, is what his words seem to import,\r\nand thus he is understood by Aristotle, the most intelligent and the\r\nmost renowned of all his disciples. It is a doctrine, which, like many\r\nof the other doctrines of abstract Philosophy, is more coherent in the\r\nexpression than in the idea; and which seems to have arisen, more from\r\nthe nature of language, than from the nature of things. With all its\r\nimperfections it was excusable, in the beginnings of philosophy, and\r\nis not a great deal more remote from the truth, than many others which\r\nhave since been substituted in its room by some of the greatest\r\npretenders to accuracy and precision. Mankind have had, at all times,\r\na strong propensity to realize their own abstractions, of which we\r\nshall immediately see an example, in the notions of that very\r\nphilosopher who first exposed the ill-grounded foundation of those\r\nIdeas, or Universals, of Plato and Timæus. To explain the nature, and\r\nto account for the origin of general Ideas, is, even at this day, the\r\ngreatest difficulty in abstract philosophy. How the human mind, when\r\nit reasons concerning the general nature of triangles, should either\r\nconceive, as Mr. Locke imagines it does, the idea of a triangle, which\r\nis neither obtusangular, nor rectangular, nor acutangular; but which\r\nwas at once both none and of all those together; or should, as\r\nMalbranche thinks necessary for this purpose, comprehend at once,\r\nwithin its finite capacity, all possible triangles of all possible\r\nforms and dimensions, which are infinite in number, is a question, to\r\nwhich it is surely not easy to give a satisfactory answer. Malbranche,\r\nto solve it, had recourse to the enthusiastic and unintelligible\r\nnotion of the intimate union of the human mind with the divine, in\r\nwhose infinite \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page402\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e402\u003c/span\u003e essence the immensity of such species could alone\r\nbe comprehended; and in which alone, therefore, all finite\r\nintelligences could have an opportunity of viewing them. If, after\r\nmore than two thousand years reasoning about this subject, this\r\ningenious and sublime philosopher was forced to have recourse to so\r\nstrange a fancy, in order to explain it, can we wonder that Plato, in\r\nthe very first dawnings of science, should, for the same purpose,\r\nadopt an hypothesis, which has been thought, without much reason,\r\nindeed, to have some affinity to that of Malbranche, and which is not\r\nmore out of the way?\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat seems to have misled those early philosophers, was, the\r\nnotion, which appears, at first, natural enough, that those things,\r\nout of which any object is composed, must exist antecedent to that\r\nobject. But the things out of which all particular objects seem to be\r\ncomposed, are the stuff or matter of those objects, and the form or\r\nspecific Essence, which determines them to be of this or that class of\r\nthings. These, therefore, it was thought, must have existed antecedent\r\nto the object which was made up between them. Plato, who held, that\r\nthe sensible world, which, according to him, is the world of\r\nindividuals, was made in time, necessarily conceived, that both the\r\nuniversal matter, the object of spurious reason, and the specific\r\nessence, the object of proper reason and philosophy out of which it\r\nwas composed, must have had a separate existence from all eternity.\r\nThis intellectual world, very different from the intellectual world of\r\nCudworth, though much of the language of the one has been borrowed\r\nfrom that of the other, was necessarily and always existent; whereas\r\nthe sensible world owed its origin to the free will and bounty of its\r\nauthor.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA notion of this kind, as long as it is expressed in very general\r\nlanguage; as long as it is not much rested upon, nor attempted to be\r\nvery particularly and distinctly explained, passes easily enough,\r\nthrough the indolent imagination, accustomed to substitute words in\r\nthe room of ideas; and if the words seem to hang easily together,\r\nrequiring no great precision in the ideas. It vanishes, indeed; is\r\ndiscovered to be altogether incomprehensible, and eludes the grasp of\r\nthe imagination, upon an attentive consideration. It requires,\r\nhowever, an attentive consideration; and if it had been as fortunate\r\nas many other opinions of the same kind, and about the same subject,\r\nit might, without examination, have continued to be the current\r\nphilosophy for a century or two. Aristotle, however, seems immediately\r\nto have discovered, that it was impossible to conceive, as actually\r\nexistent, either that general matter, which was not determined by any\r\nparticular species, or those species which were not embodied, if one\r\nmay say so, in some particular portion of matter. Aristotle, too,\r\nheld, as we have already observed the eternity of the sensible world.\r\nThough he held, therefore, that all sensible objects were made up of\r\ntwo principles, both of which, he calls, equally, substances, the\r\nmatter and the specific essence, he was \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page403\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e403\u003c/span\u003e not obliged to hold,\r\nlike Plato, that those principles existed prior in the order of time\r\nto the objects which they afterwards composed. They were prior, he\r\nsaid, in nature, but not in time, according to a distinction which was\r\nof use to him upon some other occasion. He distinguished, too, betwixt\r\nactual and potential existence. By the first, he seems to have\r\nunderstood what is commonly meant by existence or reality; by the\r\nsecond, the bare possibility of existence. His meaning, I say, seems\r\nto amount to this; though he does not explain it precisely in this\r\nmanner. Neither the material Essence of body could, according to him,\r\nexist actually without being determined by some Specific Essence, to\r\nsome particular class of things, nor any Specific Essence without\r\nbeing embodied in some particular portion of matter. Each of these two\r\nprinciples, however, could exist potentially in this separate state.\r\nThat matter existed potentially, which, being endowed with a\r\nparticular form, could be brought into actual existence; and that\r\nform, which, by being embodied in a particular portion of matter,\r\ncould, in the same manner, be called forth into the class of complete\r\nrealities. This potential existence of matter and form, he sometimes\r\ntalks of, in expressions which resemble those of Plato, to whose\r\nnotion of separate Essence it bears a very great affinity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAristotle, who seems in many things original, and who endeavoured\r\nto seem to be so in all things, added the principle of privation to\r\nthose of matter and form, which he had derived from the ancient\r\nPythagorean school. When Water is changed into Air, the transmutation\r\nis brought about by the material principle of those two elements being\r\ndeprived of the form of Water, and then assuming the form of Air.\r\nPrivation, therefore, was a third principle opposite to form, which\r\nentered into the generation of every Species, which was always from\r\nsome other Species. It was a principle of generation, but not of\r\ncomposition, as is most obvious.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Stoics, whose opinions were, in all the different parts of\r\nphilosophy, either the same with, or very nearly allied to those of\r\nAristotle and Plato, though often disguised in very different\r\nlanguage, held, that all things, even the elements themselves, were\r\ncompounded of two principles, upon one of which depended all the\r\nactive, and upon the other all the passive, powers of these bodies.\r\nThe last of these, they called Matter; the first, the Cause, by which\r\nthey meant the very same thing which Aristotle and Plato understood,\r\nby their specific Essences. Matter, according to the Stoics, could\r\nhave no existence separate from the cause or efficient principle which\r\ndetermined it to some particular class of things. Neither could the\r\nefficient principle exist separately from the material, in which it\r\nwas always necessarily embodied. Their opinion, therefore, so far\r\ncoincided with that of the old Peripatetics. The efficient principle,\r\nthey said, was the Deity. By which they meant, that it was a detached\r\nportion of the etherial and divine nature, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page404\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e404\u003c/span\u003e which penetrated all\r\nthings, that constituted what Plato would have called the Specific\r\nEssence of each individual object; and so far their opinion coincides\r\npretty nearly with that of the latter Platonists, who held, that the\r\nSpecific Essences of all things were detached portions of their\r\ncreated deity, the soul of the world; and with that of some of the\r\nArabian and Scholastic Commentators of Aristotle, who held that the\r\nsubstantial forms of all things descended from those Divine Essences\r\nwhich animated the Celestial Spheres. Such was the doctrine of the\r\nfour principal Sects of the ancient Philosophers, concerning the\r\nSpecific Essences of things, of the old Pythagoreans, of the\r\nAcademical, the Peripatetic, and the Stoical Sects.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs this doctrine of Specific Essences seems naturally enough to\r\nhave arisen from that ancient system of Physics, which I have above\r\ndescribed, and which is, by no means, devoid of probability, so many\r\nof the doctrines of that system, which seems to us, who have been long\r\naccustomed to another, the most incomprehensible, necessarily flow\r\nfrom this metaphysical notion. Such are those of generation,\r\ncorruption, and alteration; of mixture, condensation, and rarefaction.\r\nA body was generated or corrupted, when it changed its Specific\r\nEssence, and passed from one denomination to another. It was altered\r\nwhen it changed only some of its qualities, but still retained the\r\nsame Specific Essence, and the same denomination. Thus, when a flower\r\nwas withered, it was not corrupted; though some of its qualities were\r\nchanged, it still retained the Specific Essence, and therefore justly\r\npassed under the denomination of a flower. But, when, in the further\r\nprogress of its decay, it crumbled into earth, it was corrupted; it\r\nlost the Specific Essence, or substantial form of the flower, and\r\nassumed that of the earth, and therefore justly changed its\r\ndenomination.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Specific Essence, or universal nature that was lodged in each\r\nparticular class of bodies, was not itself the object of any of our\r\nsenses, but could be perceived only by the understanding. It was by\r\nthe sensible qualities, however, that we judged of the Specific\r\nEssence of each object. Some of these sensible qualities, therefore,\r\nwe regarded as essential, or such as showed, by their presence or\r\nabsence, the presence or absence of that essential form from which\r\nthey necessarily flowed. Others were accidental, or such whose\r\npresence or absence had no such necessary consequences. The first of\r\nthese two sorts of qualities was called Properties; the second,\r\nAccidents.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the Specific Essence of each object itself, they distinguished\r\ntwo parts; one of which was peculiar and characteristical of the one\r\nclass of things of which that particular object was an individual, the\r\nother was common to it with some other higher classes of things. These\r\ntwo parts were, to the Specific Essence, pretty much what the Matter\r\nand the Specific Essence were to each individual body. The one, which\r\nwas called the Genus, was modified and determined by the other, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e405\u003c/span\u003e\r\nwhich was called the Specific Difference, pretty much in the same\r\nmanner as the universal matter contained in each body was modified and\r\ndetermined by the Specific Essence of that particular class of bodies.\r\nThese four, with the Specific Essence or Species itself, made up the\r\nnumber of the Five Universals, so well known in the schools by the\r\nnames of Genus, Species, Differentia, Proprium, and Accidens.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e* * * * * * * *\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr class=\"thirty\"\u003e\r\n\u003ch6 id=\"F\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page405\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eOF THE\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003eNATURE OF THAT IMITATION\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eWHICH TAKES PLACE IN WHAT ARE CALLED\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch2\u003eTHE IMITATIVE ARTS.\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003ePART Ⅰ.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e most perfect imitation of an object of any kind must in all\r\ncases, it is evident, be another object of the same kind, made as\r\nexactly as possible after the same model. What, for example, would be\r\nthe most perfect imitation of the carpet which now lies before\r\nme?—Another carpet, certainly, wrought as exactly as possible after\r\nthe same pattern. But, whatever might be the merit or beauty of this\r\nsecond carpet, it would not be supposed to derive any from the\r\ncircumstance of its having been made in imitation of the first. This\r\ncircumstance of its being not an original, but a copy, would even be\r\nconsidered as some diminution of that merit; a greater or smaller, in\r\nproportion as the object was of a nature to lay claim to a greater or\r\nsmaller degree of admiration. It would not much diminish the merit of\r\na common carpet, because in such trifling objects, which at best can\r\nlay claim to so little beauty or merit of any kind, we do not always\r\nthink it worth while to affect originality: it would diminish a good\r\ndeal that of a carpet of very exquisite workmanship. In objects of\r\nstill greater importance, this exact, or, as it would be called, this\r\nservile imitation, would be considered as the most unpardonable\r\nblemish. To build another St. Peter’s or St. Paul’s church, of exactly\r\nthe same dimensions, proportions, and ornaments with the present\r\nbuildings at Rome or London, would be supposed to argue such a\r\nmiserable barrenness of genius and invention in the architect as would\r\ndisgrace the most expensive magnificence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe exact resemblance of the correspondent parts of the same object\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page406\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e406\u003c/span\u003e is frequently considered as a beauty, and the want of it as a\r\ndeformity; as in the correspondent members of the human body, in the\r\nopposite wings of the same building, in the opposite trees of the same\r\nalley, in the correspondent compartments of the same piece of\r\ncarpet-work, or of the same flower-garden, in the chairs or tables\r\nwhich stand in the correspondent parts of the same room, etc. But in\r\nobjects of the same kind, which in other respects are regarded as\r\naltogether separate and unconnected, this exact resemblance is seldom\r\nconsidered as a beauty, nor the want of it as a deformity. A man, and\r\nin the same manner a horse, is handsome or ugly, each of them, on\r\naccount of his own intrinsic beauty or deformity, without any regard\r\nto their resembling or not resembling, the one, another man, or the\r\nother, another horse. A set of coach-horses, indeed, is supposed to be\r\nhandsomer when they are all exactly matched; but each horse is, in\r\nthis case, considered not as a separated and unconnected object, or as\r\na whole by himself, but as a part of another whole, to the other parts\r\nof which he ought to bear a certain correspondence: separated from the\r\nset, he derives neither beauty from his resemblance, nor deformity\r\nfrom his unlikeness to the other horses which compose it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEven in the correspondent parts of the same object, we frequently\r\nrequire no more than a resemblance in the general outline. If the\r\ninferior members of those correspondent parts are too minute to be\r\nseen distinctly, without a separate and distinct examination of each\r\npart by itself, as a separate and unconnected object, we should\r\nsometimes even be displeased if the resemblance was carried beyond\r\nthis general outline. In the correspondent parts of a room we\r\nfrequently hang pictures of the same size; those pictures, however,\r\nresemble one another in nothing but the frame, or, perhaps, in the\r\ngeneral character of the subject; if the one is a landscape, the other\r\nis a landscape too; if the one represents a religious or a\r\nbacchanalian subject, its companion represents another of the same\r\nkind. Nobody ever thought of repeating the same picture in each\r\ncorrespondent frame. The frame, and the general character of two or\r\nthree pictures, is as much as the eye can comprehend at one view, or\r\nfrom one station. Each picture, in order, to be seen distinctly, and\r\nunderstood thoroughly, must be viewed from a particular station, and\r\nexamined by itself as a separate and unconnected object. In a hall or\r\nportico, adorned with statues, the niches, or perhaps the pedestals,\r\nmay exactly resemble one another, but the statues are always different\r\nEven the masks which are sometimes carried upon the different\r\nkey-stones of the same arcade, or of the correspondent doors and\r\nwindows of the same front, though they may all resemble one another in\r\nthe general outline, yet each of them has always its own peculiar\r\nfeatures, and a grimace of its own. There are some Gothic buildings in\r\nwhich the correspondent windows resemble one another only in the\r\ngeneral outline, and not in the smaller \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page407\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e407\u003c/span\u003e ornaments and\r\nsubdivisions. These are different in each, and the architect had\r\nconsidered them as too minute to be seen distinctly, without a\r\nparticular and separate examination of each window by itself, as a\r\nseparate and unconnected object. A variety of this sort, however, I\r\nthink, is not agreeable. In objects which are susceptible only of a\r\ncertain inferior order of beauty, such as the frames of pictures, the\r\nniches or the pedestals of statues, \u0026amp;c., there seems frequently to be\r\naffectation in the study of variety, of which the merit is scarcely\r\never sufficient to compensate the want of that perspicuity and\r\ndistinctness, of that easiness to be comprehended and remembered,\r\nwhich is the natural effect of exact uniformity. In a portico of the\r\nCorinthian or Ionic order, each column resembles every other, not only\r\nin the general outline, but in all the minutest ornaments; though some\r\nof them, in order to be seen distinctly, may require a separate and\r\ndistinct examination in each column, and in the entablature of each\r\nintercolumnation. In the inlaid tables, which, according to the\r\npresent fashion, are sometimes fixed in the correspondent parts of the\r\nsame room, the pictures only are different in each. All the other more\r\nfrivolous and fanciful ornaments are commonly, so far at least as I\r\nhave observed the fashion, the same in them all. Those ornaments,\r\nhowever, in order to be seen distinctly, require a distinct\r\nexamination of each table.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe extraordinary resemblance of two natural objects, of twins, for\r\nexample, is regarded as a curious circumstance; which, though it does\r\nnot increase, yet does not diminish the beauty of either, considered\r\nas a separate and unconnected object. But the exact resemblance of two\r\nproductions of art, seems to be always considered as some diminution\r\nof the merit of at least one of them; as it seems to prove, that one\r\nof them, at least, is a copy either of the other, or of some other\r\noriginal. One may say, even of the copy of a picture, that it derives\r\nits merit, not so much from its resemblance to the original, as from\r\nits resemblance to the object which the original was meant to\r\nresemble. The owner of the copy, so far from setting any high value\r\nupon its resemblance to the original, is often anxious to destroy any\r\nvalue or merit which it might derive from this circumstance. He is\r\noften anxious to persuade both himself and other people that it is not\r\na copy, but an original, of which what passes for the original is only\r\na copy. But, whatever merit a copy may derive from its resemblance to\r\nthe original, an original can derive none from the resemblance of its\r\ncopy.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though a production of art seldom derives any merit from its\r\nresemblance to another object of the same kind, it frequently derives\r\na great deal from its resemblance to an object of a different kind,\r\nwhether that object be a production of art or of nature. A painted\r\ncloth, the work of some laborious Dutch artist, so curiously shaded\r\nand coloured as to represent the pile and softness of a woollen one,\r\nmight derive some merit from its resemblance even to the sorry carpet\r\nwhich now \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page408\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e408\u003c/span\u003e lies before me. The copy might, and probably would, in\r\nthis case, be of much greater value than the original. But if this\r\ncarpet was represented as spread, either upon a floor or upon a table,\r\nand projecting from the background of the picture, with exact\r\nobservation of perspective, and of light and shade, the merit of the\r\nimitation would be still even greater.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn Painting, a plain surface of one kind is made to resemble, not\r\nonly a plain surface of another, but all the three dimensions of a\r\nsolid substance. In Statuary and Sculpture, a solid substance of one\r\nkind, is made to resemble a solid substance of another. The disparity\r\nbetween the object imitating, and the object imitated, is much greater\r\nin the one art than in the other; and the pleasure arising from the\r\nimitation seems greater in proportion as this disparity is\r\ngreater.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn Painting, the imitation frequently pleases, though the original\r\nobject be indifferent, or even offensive. In Statuary and Sculpture it\r\nis otherwise. The imitation seldom pleases, unless the original object\r\nbe in a very high degree either great, or beautiful, or interesting. A\r\nbutcher’s-stall, or a kitchen-dresser, with the objects which they\r\ncommonly present, are not certainly the happiest subjects, even for\r\nPainting. They have, however, been represented with so much care and\r\nsuccess by some Dutch masters, that it is impossible to view the\r\npictures without some degree of pleasure. They would be most absurd\r\nsubjects for Statuary or Sculpture, which are, however, capable of\r\nrepresenting them. The picture of a very ugly or deformed man, such as\r\nÆsop, or Scarron, might not make a disagreeable piece of furniture.\r\nThe statue certainly would. Even a vulgar ordinary man or woman,\r\nengaged in a vulgar ordinary action, like what we see with so much\r\npleasure in the pictures of Rembrandt, would be too mean a subject for\r\nStatuary. Jupiter, Hercules, and Apollo, Venus and Diana, the Nymphs\r\nand the Graces, Bacchus, Mercury, Antinous, and Meleager, the\r\nmiserable death of Laocoon, the melancholy fate of the children of\r\nNiobe, the Wrestlers, the fighting, the dying gladiator, the figures\r\nof gods and goddesses, of heroes and heroines, the most perfect forms\r\nof the human body, placed either in the noblest attitudes, or in the\r\nmost interesting situations which the human imagination is capable of\r\nconceiving, are the proper, and therefore have always been the\r\nfavourite, subjects of Statuary: that art cannot, without degrading\r\nitself, stoop to represent any thing that is offensive, or mean, or\r\neven indifferent. Painting is not so disdainful; and, though capable\r\nof representing the noblest objects, it can, without forfeiting its\r\ntitle to please, submit to imitate those of a much more humble nature.\r\nThe merit of the imitation alone, and without any merit in the\r\nimitated object, is capable of supporting the dignity of Painting: it\r\ncannot support that of Statuary. There would seem, therefore, to be\r\nmore merit in the one species of imitation than in the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page409\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e409\u003c/span\u003e In Statuary, scarcely any drapery is agreeable. The best of\r\nthe ancient statues were either altogether naked or almost naked; and\r\nthose of which any considerable part of the body is covered, are\r\nrepresented as clothed in wet linen—a species of clothing which most\r\ncertainly never was agreeable to the fashion of any country. This\r\ndrapery too is drawn so tight, as to express beneath its narrow\r\nfoldings the exact form and outline of any limb, and almost of every\r\nmuscle of the body. The clothing which thus approached the nearest to\r\nno clothing at all, had, it seems, in the judgment of the great\r\nartists of antiquity, been that which was most suitable to Statuary. A\r\ngreat painter of the Roman school, who had formed his manner almost\r\nentirely upon the study of the ancient statues, imitated at first\r\ntheir drapery in his pictures; but he soon found that in Painting it\r\nhad the air of meanness and poverty, as if the persons who wore it\r\ncould scarce afford clothes enough to cover them; and that larger\r\nfolds, and a looser and more flowing drapery, were more suitable to\r\nthe nature of his art. In Painting, the imitation of so very inferior\r\nan object as a suit of clothes is capable of pleasing; and, in order\r\nto give this object all the magnificence of which it is capable, it is\r\nnecessary that the folds should be large, loose, and flowing. It is\r\nnot necessary in Painting that the exact form and outline of every\r\nlimb, and almost of every muscle of the body, should be expressed\r\nbeneath the folds of the drapery; it is sufficient if these are so\r\ndisposed as to indicate in general the situation and attitude of the\r\nprincipal limbs. Painting, by the mere force and merit of its\r\nimitation, can venture, without the hazard of displeasing, to\r\nsubstitute, upon many occasions, the inferior in the room of the\r\nsuperior object, by making the one, in this manner, cover and entirely\r\nconceal a great part of the other. Statuary can seldom venture to do\r\nthis, but with the utmost reserve and caution; and the same drapery,\r\nwhich is noble and magnificent in the one art, appears clumsy and\r\nawkward in the other. Some modern artists, however, have attempted to\r\nintroduce into Statuary the drapery which is peculiar to Painting. It\r\nmay not, perhaps, upon every occasion, be quite so ridiculous as the\r\nmarble periwigs in Westminster Abbey: but if it does not always appear\r\nclumsy and awkward, it is at best always insipid and\r\nuninteresting.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is not the want of colouring which hinders many things from\r\npleasing in Statuary which please in Painting; it is the want of that\r\ndegree of disparity between the imitating and the imitated object,\r\nwhich is necessary, in order to render interesting the imitation of an\r\nobject which is itself not interesting. Colouring, when added to\r\nStatuary, so far from increasing, destroys almost entirely the\r\npleasure which we receive from the imitation; because it takes away\r\nthe great source of that pleasure, the disparity between the imitating\r\nand the imitated object. That one solid and coloured object should\r\nexactly resemble another solid and coloured object, seems to be a\r\nmatter of no \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page410\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e410\u003c/span\u003e great wonder or admiration. A painted statue,\r\nthough it may resemble a human figure much more exactly than any\r\nstatue which is not painted, is generally acknowledged to be a\r\ndisagreeable and even an offensive object; and so far are we from\r\nbeing pleased with this superior likeness, that we are never satisfied\r\nwith it; and, after viewing it again and again, we always find that it\r\nis not equal to what we are disposed to imagine it might have been:\r\nthough it should seem to want scarce any thing but the life, we could\r\nnot pardon it for thus wanting what it is altogether impossible it\r\nshould have. The works of Mrs. Wright, a self-taught artist of great\r\nmerit, are perhaps more perfect in this way than any thing I have ever\r\nseen. They do admirably well to be seen now and then as a show; but\r\nthe best of them we shall find, if brought home to our own house, and\r\nplaced in a situation where it was to come often into view, would\r\nmake, instead of an ornamental, a most offensive piece of household\r\nfurniture. Painted statues, accordingly, are universally reprobated,\r\nand we scarce ever meet with them. To colour the eyes of statues is\r\nnot altogether so uncommon: even this, however, is disapproved by all\r\ngood judges. ‘I cannot bear it,’ (a gentleman used to say, of great\r\nknowledge and judgment in this art), ‘I cannot bear it; I always want\r\nthem to speak to me.’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eArtificial fruits and flowers sometimes imitate so exactly the\r\nnatural objects which they represent, that they frequently deceive us.\r\nWe soon grow weary of them, however; and, though they seem to want\r\nnothing but the freshness and the flavour of natural fruits and\r\nflowers, we cannot pardon them, in the same manner, for thus wanting\r\nwhat it is altogether impossible they should have. But we do not grow\r\nweary of a good flower and fruit painting. We do not grow weary of the\r\nfoliage of the Corinthian capital, or of the flowers which sometimes\r\nornament the frieze of that order. Such imitations, however, never\r\ndeceive us; their resemblance to the original objects is always much\r\ninferior to that of artificial fruits and flowers. Such as it is,\r\nhowever, we are contented with it; and, where there is such disparity\r\nbetween the imitating and the imitated objects, we find that it is as\r\ngreat as it can be, or as we expect that it should be. Paint that\r\nfoliage and those flowers with the natural colours, and, instead of\r\npleasing more, they will please much less. The resemblance, however,\r\nwill be much greater; but the disparity between the imitating and the\r\nimitated objects will be so much less, that even this superior\r\nresemblance will not satisfy us. Where the disparity is so very great,\r\non the contrary, we are often contented with the most imperfect\r\nresemblance; with the very imperfect resemblance, for example, both as\r\nto the figure and the colour, of fruits and flowers in shell-work.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt may be observed, however, that, though in Sculpture the\r\nimitation of flowers and foliage pleases as an ornament of\r\narchitecture, as a part of the dress which is to set off the beauty of\r\na different and a more \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page411\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e411\u003c/span\u003e important object, it would not please\r\nalone, or as a separate and unconnected object, in the same manner as\r\na fruit and flower painting pleases. Flowers and foliage, how elegant\r\nand beautiful soever, are not sufficiently interesting; they have not\r\ndignity enough, if I may say so, to be proper subjects for a piece of\r\nSculpture, which is to please alone, and not to appear as the\r\nornamental appendage of some other object.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn Tapestry and Needle-work, in the same manner as in Painting, a\r\nplain surface is sometimes made to represent all the three dimensions\r\nof a solid substance. But both the shuttle of the weaver, and the\r\nneedle of the embroiderer, are instruments of imitation so much\r\ninferior to the pencil of the painter, that we are not surprised to\r\nfind a proportionable inferiority in their productions. We have all\r\nmore or less experience that they usually are much inferior: and, in\r\nappreciating a piece of Tapestry or Needle-work, we never compare the\r\nimitation of either with that of a good picture, for it never could\r\nstand that comparison, but with that of other pieces of Tapestry or\r\nNeedle-work. We take into consideration, not only the disparity\r\nbetween the imitating and the imitated object, but the awkwardness of\r\nthe instruments of imitation; and if it is as well as any thing that\r\ncan be expected from these, if it is better than the greater part of\r\nwhat actually comes from them, we are often not only contented but\r\nhighly pleased.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA good painter will often execute in a few days a subject which\r\nwould employ the best tapestry-weaver for many years; though, in\r\nproportion to his time, therefore, the latter is always much worse\r\npaid than the former, yet his work in the end comes commonly much\r\ndearer to market. The great expense of good Tapestry, the circumstance\r\nwhich confines it to the palaces of princes and of great lords, gives\r\nit, in the eyes of the greater part of the people, an air of riches\r\nand magnificence, which contributes still further to compensate the\r\nimperfection of its imitation. In arts which address themselves, not\r\nto the prudent and the wise, but to the rich and the great, to the\r\nproud and the vain, we ought not to wonder if the appearances of great\r\nexpense, of being what few people can purchase, of being one of the\r\nsurest characteristics of great fortune, should often stand in the\r\nplace of exquisite beauty, and contribute equally to recommend their\r\nproductions. As the idea of expense seems often to embellish, so that\r\nof cheapness seems as frequently to tarnish the lustre even of very\r\nagreeable objects. The difference between real and false jewels is\r\nwhat even the experienced eye of a jeweller can sometimes with\r\ndifficulty distinguish. Let an unknown lady, however, come into a\r\npublic assembly, with a head-dress which appears to be very richly\r\nadorned with diamonds, and let a jeweller only whisper in our ear that\r\nthey are false stones, not only the lady will immediately sink in our\r\nimagination from the rank of a princess to that of a very ordinary\r\nwoman, but the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page412\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e412\u003c/span\u003e head-dress, from being an object of the most\r\nsplendid magnificence, will at once become an impertinent piece of\r\ntawdry and tinsel finery.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt was some years ago the fashion to ornament a garden with yew and\r\nholly trees, clipped into the artificial shapes of pyramids, and\r\ncolumns, and vases, and obelisks. It is now the fashion to ridicule\r\nthis taste as unnatural. The figure of a pyramid or obelisk, however,\r\nis not more unnatural to a yew-tree than to a block of porphyry or\r\nmarble. When the yew-tree is presented to the eye in this artificial\r\nshape, the gardener does not mean that it should be understood to have\r\ngrown in that shape: he means, first, to give it the same beauty of\r\nregular figure, which pleases so much in porphyry and marble; and,\r\nsecondly, to imitate in a growing tree the ornaments of those precious\r\nmaterials: he means to make an object of one kind resembling another\r\nobject of a very different kind; and to the original beauty of figure\r\nto join the relative beauty of imitation: but the disparity between\r\nthe imitating and the imitated object is the foundation of the beauty\r\nof imitation. It is because the one object does not naturally resemble\r\nthe other, that we are so much pleased with it, when by art it is made\r\nto do so. The shears of the gardener, it may be said, indeed, are very\r\nclumsy instruments of Sculpture. They are so, no doubt, when employed\r\nto imitate the figures of men, or even of animals. But in the simple\r\nand regular forms of pyramids, vases, and obelisks, even the shears of\r\nthe gardener do well enough. Some allowance, too, is naturally made\r\nfor the necessary imperfection of the instrument, in the same manner\r\nas in Tapestry and Needle-work. In short, the next time you have an\r\nopportunity of surveying those out-of-fashion ornaments, endeavour\r\nonly to let yourself alone, and to restrain for a few minutes the\r\nfoolish passion for playing the critic, and you will be sensible that\r\nthey are not without some degree of beauty; that they give the air of\r\nneatness and correct culture at least to the whole garden; and that\r\nthey are not unlike what the ‘retired leisure, that’ (as Milton says)\r\n‘in trim gardens takes his pleasure,’ might be amused with. What then,\r\nit may be said, has brought them into such universal disrepute among\r\nus? In a pyramid or obelisk of marble, we know that the materials are\r\nexpensive, and that the labour which wrought them into that shape must\r\nhave been still more so. In a pyramid or obelisk of yew, we know that\r\nthe materials could cost very little, and the labour still less. The\r\nformer are ennobled by their expense; the latter degraded by their\r\ncheapness. In the cabbage-garden of a tallow-chandler we may sometimes\r\nperhaps have seen as many columns and vases and other ornaments in\r\nyew, as there are in marble and porphyry at Versailles: it is this\r\nvulgarity which has disgraced them. The rich and the great, the proud\r\nand the vain will not admit into their gardens an ornament which the\r\nmeanest of the people can have as well as they. The taste for these\r\nornaments came originally from France; where, notwithstanding that\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page413\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e413\u003c/span\u003e inconstancy of fashion with which we sometimes reproach the\r\nnatives of that country, it still continues in good repute. In France,\r\nthe condition of the inferior ranks of people is seldom so happy as it\r\nfrequently is in England; and you will there seldom find even pyramids\r\nand obelisks of yew in the garden of a tallow-chandler. Such\r\nornaments, not having in that country been degraded by their\r\nvulgarity, have not yet been excluded from the gardens of princes and\r\nlords.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe works of the great masters in Statuary and Painting, it is to\r\nbe observed, never produce their effect by deception. They never are,\r\nand it never is intended that they should be, mistaken for the real\r\nobjects which they represent. Painted Statuary may sometimes deceive\r\nan inattentive eye: proper Statuary never does. The little pieces of\r\nperspective in Painting, which it is intended should please by\r\ndeception, represent always some very simple, as well as\r\ninsignificant, objects: a roll of paper, for example, or the steps of\r\na staircase, in the dark corner of some passage or gallery. They are\r\ngenerally the works too of some very inferior artists. After being\r\nseen once, and producing the little surprise which it is meant they\r\nshould excite, together with the mirth which commonly accompanies it,\r\nthey never please more, but appear to be ever after insipid and\r\ntiresome.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe proper pleasure which we derive from those two imitative arts,\r\nso far from being the effect of deception, is altogether incompatible\r\nwith it. That pleasure is founded altogether upon our wonder at seeing\r\nan object of one kind represent so well an object of a very different\r\nkind, and upon our admiration of the art which surmounts so happily\r\nthat disparity which Nature had established between them. The nobler\r\nworks of Statuary and Painting appear to us a sort of wonderful\r\nphenomena, differing in this respect from the wonderful phenomena of\r\nNature, that they carry, as it were, their own explication along with\r\nthem, and demonstrate, even to the eye, the way and manner in which\r\nthey are produced. The eye, even of an unskilful spectator,\r\nimmediately discerns, in some measure, how it is that a certain\r\nmodification of figure in Statuary, and of brighter and darker colours\r\nin Painting, can represent, with so much truth and vivacity, the\r\nactions, passions, and behaviour of men, as well as a great variety of\r\nother objects. The pleasing wonder of ignorance is accompanied with\r\nthe still more pleasing satisfaction of science. We wonder and are\r\namazed at the effect; and we are pleased ourselves, and happy to find\r\nthat we can comprehend, in some measure, how that wonderful effect is\r\nproduced upon us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA good looking-glass represents the objects which are set before it\r\nwith much more truth and vivacity than either Statuary or Painting.\r\nBut, though the science of optics may explain to the understanding,\r\nthe looking-glass itself does not at all demonstrate to the eye how\r\nthis effect is brought about. It may excite the wonder of ignorance;\r\nand \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page414\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e414\u003c/span\u003e in a clown, who had never beheld a looking-glass before, I\r\nhave seen that wonder rise almost to rapture and extasy; but it cannot\r\ngive the satisfaction of science. In all looking-glasses the effects\r\nare produced by the same means, applied exactly in the same manner. In\r\nevery different statue and picture the effects are produced, though by\r\nsimilar, yet not by the same means; and those means too are applied in\r\na different manner in each. Every good statue and picture is a fresh\r\nwonder, which at the same time carries, in some measure, its own\r\nexplication along with it. After a little use and experience, all\r\nlooking-glasses cease to be wonders altogether; and even the ignorant\r\nbecome so familiar with them, as not to think that their effects\r\nrequire any explication. A looking-glass, besides, can represent only\r\npresent objects; and, when the wonder is once fairly over, we choose,\r\nin all cases, rather to contemplate the substance than to gaze at the\r\nshadow. One’s own face becomes then the most agreeable object which a\r\nlooking-glass can represent to us, and the only object which we do not\r\nsoon grow weary with looking at; it is the only present object of\r\nwhich we can see only the shadow: whether handsome or ugly, whether\r\nold or young, it is the face of a friend always, of which the features\r\ncorrespond exactly with whatever sentiment, emotion, or passion we may\r\nhappen at that moment to feel.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn Statuary, the means by which the wonderful effect is brought\r\nabout appear more simple and obvious than in Painting; where the\r\ndisparity between the imitating and the imitated object being much\r\ngreater, the art which can conquer that greater disparity appears\r\nevidently, and almost to the eye, to be founded upon a much deeper\r\nscience, or upon principles much more abstruse and profound. Even in\r\nthe meanest subjects we can often trace with pleasure the ingenious\r\nmeans by which Painting surmounts this disparity. But we cannot do\r\nthis in Statuary, because the disparity not being so great, the means\r\ndo not appear so ingenious. And it is upon this account, that in\r\nPainting we are often delighted with the representation of many\r\nthings, which in Statuary would appear insipid, and not worth the\r\nlooking at.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt ought to be observed, however, that though in Statuary the art\r\nof imitation appears, in many respects, inferior to what it is in\r\nPainting, yet, in a room ornamented with both statues and pictures of\r\nnearly equal merit, we shall generally find that the statues draw off\r\nour eye from the pictures. There is generally but one or little more\r\nthan one, point of view from which a picture can be seen with\r\nadvantage, and it always presents to the eye precisely the same\r\nobject. There are many different points of view from which a statue\r\nmay be seen with equal advantage, and from each it presents a\r\ndifferent object. There is more variety in the pleasure which we\r\nreceive from a good statue, than in that which we receive from a good\r\npicture; and one statue may frequently be the subject of many good\r\npictures or drawings, all different \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e415\u003c/span\u003e from one another. The\r\nshadowy relief and projection of a picture, besides, is much\r\nflattened, and seems almost to vanish away altogether, when brought\r\ninto comparison with the real and solid body which stands by it. How\r\nnearly soever these two arts may seem to be akin, they accord so very\r\nill with one another, that their different productions ought, perhaps,\r\nscarce ever to be seen together.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page415\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003ePART Ⅱ.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eA\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eFTER\u003c/span\u003e the pleasures which arise from the gratification of the\r\nbodily appetites, there seem to be none more natural to man than Music\r\nand Dancing. In the progress of art and improvement they are, perhaps,\r\nthe first and earliest pleasures of his own invention; for those which\r\narise from the gratification of the bodily appetites cannot be said to\r\nbe his own invention. No nation has yet been discovered so uncivilized\r\nas to be altogether without them. It seems even to be amongst the most\r\nbarbarous nations that the use and practice of them is both most\r\nfrequent and most universal, as among the negroes of Africa and the\r\nsavage tribes of America. In civilized nations, the inferior ranks of\r\npeople have very little leisure, and the superior ranks have many\r\nother amusements; neither the one nor the other, therefore, can spend\r\nmuch of their time in Music and Dancing. Among savage nations, the\r\ngreat body of the people have frequently great intervals of leisure,\r\nand they have scarce any other amusement; they naturally, therefore,\r\nspend a great part of their time in almost the only one they have.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhat the ancients called Rhythmus, what we call Time or Measure, is\r\nthe connecting principle of those two arts; Music consisting in a\r\nsuccession of a certain sort of sounds, and Dancing in a succession of\r\na certain sort of steps, gestures, and motions, regulated according to\r\ntime or measure, and thereby formed, into a sort of whole or system;\r\nwhich in the one art is called a song or tune, and in the other a\r\ndance; the time or measure of the dance corresponding always exactly\r\nwith that of the song or tune which accompanies and directs it.\u003ca href=\"#FootnoteF1\" id=\"FnAnchorF1\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"sp\"\u003e1\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"footnote\"\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"fn\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"FootnoteF1\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ca href=\"#FnAnchorF1\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003e\u003csup\u003e1\u003c/sup\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003c/span\u003e The Author’s Observations on the Affinity between\r\nMusic, Dancing, and Poetry, are annexed to the \u003ca href=\"#G\" class=\"pginternal\"\u003eend of Part Ⅲ. of\r\nthis Essay\u003c/a\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe human voice, as it is always the best, so it would naturally be\r\nthe first and earliest of all musical instruments: in singing, or in\r\nits first attempts towards singing, it would naturally employ sounds\r\nas similar as possible to those which it had been accustomed to; that\r\nis, it would employ words of some kind or other, pronouncing them only\r\nin time and measure, and generally with a more melodious tone than had\r\nbeen usual in common conversation. Those words, however, might not,\r\nand probably would not, for a long time have any meaning, but might\r\nresemble the syllables which we make use of in \u003ci\u003efol-faing\u003c/i\u003e, or\r\nthe \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page416\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e416\u003c/span\u003e \u003ci\u003ederry-down-down\u003c/i\u003e of our common ballads; and serve only\r\nto assist the voice in forming sounds proper to be modulated into\r\nmelody, and to be lengthened or shortened according to the time and\r\nmeasure of the tune. This rude form of vocal Music, as it is by far\r\nthe most simple and obvious, so it naturally would be the first and\r\nearliest.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the succession of ages it could not fail to occur, that in room\r\nof those unmeaning or musical words, if I may call them so, might be\r\nsubstituted words which expressed some sense or meaning, and of which\r\nthe pronunciation might coincide as exactly with the time and measure\r\nof the tune, as that of the musical words had done before. Hence the\r\norigin of Verse or Poetry. The Verse would for a long time be rude and\r\nimperfect. When the meaning words fell short of the measure required,\r\nthey would frequently be eked out with the unmeaning ones, as is\r\nsometimes done in our common ballads. When the public ear came to be\r\nso refined as to reject, in all serious Poetry, the unmeaning words\r\naltogether, there would still be a liberty assumed of altering and\r\ncorrupting, upon many occasions, the pronunciation of the meaning\r\nones, for the sake of accommodating them to the measure. The syllables\r\nwhich composed them would, for this purpose, sometimes be improperly\r\nlengthened, and sometimes improperly shortened; and though no\r\nunmeaning words were made use of, yet an unmeaning syllable would\r\nsometimes be stuck to the beginning, to the end, or into the middle of\r\na word. All these expedients we find frequently employed in the verses\r\neven of Chaucer, the father of the English Poetry. Many ages might\r\npass away before verse was commonly composed with such correctness,\r\nthat the usual and proper pronunciation of the words alone, and\r\nwithout any other artifice, subjected the voice to the observation of\r\na time and measure, of the same kind with the time and measure of the\r\nscience of Music.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Verse would naturally express some sense which suited the grave\r\nor gay, the joyous or melancholy humour of the tune which it was sung\r\nto; being as it were blended and united with that tune, it would seem\r\nto give sense and meaning to what otherwise might not appear to have\r\nany, or at least any which could be clearly understood, without the\r\naccompaniment of such an explication.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA pantomime dance may frequently answer the same purpose, and, by\r\nrepresenting some adventure in love or war, may seem to give sense and\r\nmeaning to a Music, which might not otherwise appear to have any. It\r\nis more natural to mimic, by gestures and motions, the adventures of\r\ncommon life, than to express them in Verse or Poetry. The thought\r\nitself is more obvious, and the execution is much more easy. If this\r\nmimicry was accompanied by Music, it would of its own accord, and\r\nalmost without any intention of doing so, accommodate, in some\r\nmeasure, its different steps and movements to the time and measure of\r\nthe tune; especially if the same person both sung the tune \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page417\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e417\u003c/span\u003e and\r\nperformed the mimicry, as is said to be frequently the case among the\r\nsavage nations of Africa and America. Pantomime Dancing might in this\r\nmanner serve to give a distinct sense and meaning to Music many ages\r\nbefore the invention, or at least before the common use of Poetry. We\r\nhear little, accordingly, of the Poetry of the savage nations who\r\ninhabit Africa and America, but a great deal of their pantomime\r\ndances.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePoetry, however, is capable of expressing many things fully and\r\ndistinctly, which Dancing either cannot represent at all, or can\r\nrepresent but obscurely and imperfectly; such as the reasonings and\r\njudgments, of the understanding; the ideas, fancies, and suspicions of\r\nthe imagination; the sentiments, emotions, and passions of the heart.\r\nIn the power of expressing a meaning with clearness and distinctness,\r\nDancing is superior to Music, and Poetry to Dancing.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf those three Sister Arts, which originally, perhaps, went always\r\ntogether, and which at all times go frequently together, there are two\r\nwhich can subsist alone, and separate from their natural companions,\r\nand one which cannot. In the distinct observation of what the ancients\r\ncalled Rhythmus, of what we call Time and Measure, consists the\r\nessence both of Dancing and of Poetry or Verse; or the\r\ncharacteristical quality which distinguishes the former from all other\r\nmotion and action, and the latter from all other discourse. But,\r\nconcerning the proportion between those intervals and divisions of\r\nduration which constitute what is called time and measure, the ear, it\r\nwould seem, can judge with much more precision than the eye; and\r\nPoetry, in the same manner as Music, addresses itself to the ear,\r\nwhereas Dancing addresses itself to the eye. In Dancing, the rhythmus,\r\nthe proper proportion, the time and measure of its motions, cannot\r\ndistinctly be perceived, unless they are marked by the more distinct\r\ntime and measure of Music. It is otherwise in Poetry; no accompaniment\r\nis necessary to mark the measure of good Verse. Music and Poetry,\r\ntherefore, can each of them subsist alone; Dancing always requires the\r\naccompaniment of Music.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is Instrumental Music which can best subsist apart, and separate\r\nfrom both Poetry and Dancing. Vocal Music, though it may, and\r\nfrequently does, consist of notes which have no distinct sense or\r\nmeaning, yet naturally calls for the support of Poetry. But, ‘Music,\r\nmarried to immortal Verse,’ as Milton says, or even to words of any\r\nkind which have a distinct sense or meaning, is necessarily and\r\nessentially imitative. Whatever be the meaning of those words, though,\r\nlike many of the songs of ancient Greece, as well as some of those of\r\nmore modern times, they may express merely some maxims of prudence and\r\nmorality, or may contain merely the simple narrative of some important\r\nevent, yet even in such didactic and historical songs there will still\r\nbe imitation; there will still be a thing of one kind, which by art is\r\nmade to \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page418\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e418\u003c/span\u003e resemble a thing of a very different kind; there will\r\nstill be Music imitating discourse; there will still be Rhythmus and\r\nMelody, shaped and fashioned into the form either of a good moral\r\ncounsel, or of an amusing and interesting story.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn this first species of imitation, which being essential to, is\r\ntherefore inseparable from, all such Vocal Music, there may be, and\r\nthere commonly is, added a second. The words may, and commonly do,\r\nexpress the situation of some particular person, and all the\r\nsentiments and passions which he feels from that situation. It is a\r\njoyous companion who gives vent to the gaiety and mirth with which\r\nwine, festivity, and good company inspire him. It is a lover who\r\ncomplains, or hopes, or fears, or despairs. It is a generous man who\r\nexpresses either his gratitude for the favours, or his indignation at\r\nthe injuries, which may have been done to him. It is a warrior who\r\nprepares himself to confront danger, and who provokes or desires his\r\nenemy. It is a person in prosperity who humbly returns thanks for the\r\ngoodness, or one in affliction who with contrition implores the mercy\r\nand forgiveness of that invisible Power to whom he looks up as the\r\nDirector of all the events of human life. The situation may\r\ncomprehend, not only one, but two, three, or more persons; it may\r\nexcite in them all either similar or opposite sentiments; what is a\r\nsubject of sorrow to one, being an occasion of joy and triumph to\r\nanother; and they may all express, sometimes separately and sometimes\r\ntogether, the particular way in which each of them is affected, as in\r\na duo, trio, or a chorus.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAll this it may, and it frequently has been said is unnatural;\r\nnothing being more so, than to sing when we are anxious to persuade,\r\nor in earnest to express any very serious purpose. But it should be\r\nremembered, that to make a thing of one kind resemble another thing of\r\na very different kind, is the very circumstance which, in all the\r\nImitative Arts, constitutes the merits of imitation; and that to\r\nshape, and as it were to bend, the measure and the melody of Music, so\r\nas to imitate the tone and the language of counsel and conversation,\r\nthe accent and the style of emotion and passion, is to make a thing of\r\none kind resemble another thing of a very different kind.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe tone and the movements of Music, though naturally very\r\ndifferent from those of conversation and passion, may, however, be so\r\nmanaged as to seem to resemble them. On account of the great disparity\r\nbetween the imitating and the imitated object, the mind in this, as in\r\nthe other cases, cannot only be contented, but delighted, and even\r\ncharmed and transported, with such an imperfect resemblance as can be\r\nhad. Such imitative Music, therefore, when sung to words which explain\r\nand determine its meaning, may frequently appear to be a very perfect\r\nimitation. It is upon this account, that even the incomplete Music of\r\na recitative seems to express sometimes all the sedateness and\r\ncomposure of serious but calm discourse, and sometimes all the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page419\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e419\u003c/span\u003e\r\nexquisite sensibility of the most interesting passion. The more\r\ncomplete Music of an air is still superior, and, in the imitation of\r\nthe more animated passions, has one great advantage over every sort of\r\ndiscourse, whether Prose or Poetry, which is not sung to Music. In a\r\nperson who is either much depressed by grief or enlivened by joy, who\r\nis strongly affected either with love or hatred, with gratitude or\r\nresentment, with admiration or contempt, there is commonly one thought\r\nor idea which dwells upon his mind, which continually haunts him,\r\nwhich, when he has chased it away, immediately returns upon him, and\r\nwhich in company makes him absent and inattentive. He can think but of\r\none object, and he cannot repeat to them that object so frequently as\r\nit recurs upon him. He takes refuge in solitude, where he can with\r\nfreedom either indulge the extasy or give way to the agony of the\r\nagreeable or disagreeable passion which agitates him; and where he can\r\nrepeat to himself, which he does sometimes mentally, and sometimes\r\neven aloud, and almost always in the same words, the particular\r\nthought which either delights or distresses him. Neither Prose nor\r\nPoetry can venture to imitate those almost endless repetitions of\r\npassion. They may describe them as I do now, but they dare not imitate\r\nthem; they would become most insufferably tiresome if they did. The\r\nMusic of a passionate air, not only may, but frequently does, imitate\r\nthem; and it never makes its way so directly or so irresistibly to the\r\nheart as when it does so. It is upon this account that the words of an\r\nair, especially of a passionate one, though they are seldom very long,\r\nyet are scarce ever sung straight on to the end, like those of a\r\nrecitative; but are almost always broken into parts, which are\r\ntransposed and repeated again and again, according to the fancy or\r\njudgment of the composer. It is by means of such repetitions only,\r\nthat Music can exert those peculiar powers of imitation which\r\ndistinguish it, and in which it excels all the other Imitative Arts.\r\nPoetry and Eloquence, it has accordingly been often observed, produce\r\ntheir effect always by a connected variety and succession of different\r\nthoughts and ideas: but Music frequently produces its effects by a\r\nrepetition of the same idea; and the same sense expressed in the same,\r\nor nearly the same, combination of sounds, though at first perhaps it\r\nmay make scarce any impression upon us, yet, by being repeated again\r\nand again, it comes at last gradually, and by little and little, to\r\nmove, to agitate, and to transport us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo these powers of imitating, Music naturally, or rather\r\nnecessarily, joins the happiest choice in the objects of its\r\nimitation. The sentiments and passions which Music can best imitate\r\nare those which unite and bind men together in society; the social,\r\nthe decent, the virtuous, the interesting and affecting, the amiable\r\nand agreeable, the awful and respectable, the noble, elevating, and\r\ncommanding passions. Grief and distress are interesting and affecting;\r\nhumanity and compassion, joy and admiration, are amiable and\r\nagreeable; devotion is awful \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page420\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e420\u003c/span\u003e and respectable; the generous\r\ncontempt of danger, the honourable indignation at injustice, are\r\nnoble, elevating, and commanding. But it is these and such like\r\npassions which Music is fittest for imitating, and which it in fact\r\nmost frequently imitates. They are, if I may say so, all Musical\r\nPassions; their natural tones are all clear, distinct, and almost\r\nmelodious; and they naturally express themselves in a language which\r\nis distinguished by pauses at regular, and almost equal, intervals;\r\nand which, upon that account, can more easily be adapted to the\r\nregular returns of the correspondent periods of a tune. The passions,\r\non the contrary, which drive men from one another, the unsocial, the\r\nhateful, the indecent, the vicious passions, cannot easily be imitated\r\nby Music, The voice of furious anger, for example, is harsh and\r\ndiscordant; its periods are all irregular, sometimes very long and\r\nsometimes very short, and distinguished by no regular pauses. The\r\nobscure and almost inarticulate grumblings of black malice and envy,\r\nthe screaming outcries of dastardly fear, the hideous growlings of\r\nbrutal and implacable revenge, are all equally discordant. It is with\r\ndifficulty that Music can imitate any of those passions, and the Music\r\nwhich does imitate them is not the most agreeable. A whole\r\nentertainment may consist, without any impropriety, of the imitation\r\nof the social and amiable passions. It would be a strange\r\nentertainment which consisted altogether in the imitation of the\r\nodious and the vicious. A single song expresses almost always some\r\nsocial, agreeable, or interesting passion. In an opera the unsocial\r\nand disagreeable are sometimes introduced, but it is rarely, and as\r\ndiscords are introduced into harmony, to set off by their contrast the\r\nsuperior beauty of the opposite passions. What Plato said of Virtue,\r\nthat it was of all beauties the brightest, may with some sort of truth\r\nbe said of the proper and natural objects of musical imitation. They\r\nare either the sentiments and passions, in the exercise of which\r\nconsist both the glory and the happiness of human life, or they are\r\nthose from which it derives its most delicious pleasures, and most\r\nenlivening joys; or, at the worst and the lowest, they are those by\r\nwhich it calls upon our indulgence and compassionate assistance to its\r\nunavoidable weaknesses, distresses, and misfortunes.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo the merit of its imitation and to that of its happy choice in\r\nthe objects which it imitates, the great merits of Statuary and\r\nPainting, Music joins another peculiar and exquisite merit of its own.\r\nStatuary and Painting cannot be said to add any new beauties of their\r\nown to the beauties of Nature which they imitate; they may assemble a\r\ngreater number of those beauties, and group them in a more agreeable\r\nmanner than they are commonly, or perhaps ever, to be found in Nature.\r\nIt may perhaps be true, what the artists are so very fond of telling\r\nus, that no woman ever equalled, in all the parts of her body, the\r\nbeauty of the Venus of Medicis, nor any man that of the Apollo of\r\nBelvidere. But they must allow, surely, that there is no particular\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page421\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e421\u003c/span\u003e beauty in any part or feature of those two famous statues, which\r\nis not at least equalled, if not much excelled, by what is to be found\r\nin many living subjects. But Music, by arranging, and as it were\r\nbending to its own time and measure, whatever sentiments and passions\r\nit expresses, not only assembles and groups, as well as Statuary and\r\nPainting, the different beauties of Nature which it imitates, but it\r\nclothes them, besides, with a new and an exquisite beauty of its own;\r\nit clothes them with melody and harmony, which, like a transparent\r\nmantle, far from concealing any beauty, serve only to give a brighter\r\ncolour, a more enlivening lustre and a more engaging grace to every\r\nbeauty which they infold.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTo these two different sorts of imitation,—to that general one, by\r\nwhich Music is made to resemble discourse, and to that particular one,\r\nby which it is made to express the sentiments and feelings with which\r\na particular situation inspires a particular person,—there is\r\nfrequently joined a third. The person who sings may join to this\r\ndouble imitation of the singer the additional imitation of the actor;\r\nand express, not only by the modulation and cadence of his voice, but\r\nby his countenance, by his attitudes, by his gestures, and by his\r\nmotions, the sentiments and feelings of the person whose situation is\r\npainted in the song. Even in private company, though a song may\r\nsometimes perhaps be said to be well sung, it can never be said to be\r\nwell performed, unless the singer does something of this kind; and\r\nthere is no comparison between the effect of what is sung coldly from\r\na music-book at the end of a harpsichord, and of what is not only\r\nsung, but acted with proper freedom, animation, and boldness. An opera\r\nactor does no more than this; and an imitation which is so pleasing,\r\nand which appears even so natural, in private society, ought not to\r\nappear forced, unnatural, or disagreeable upon the stage.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn a good opera actor, not only the modulations and pauses of his\r\nvoice, but every motion and gesture, every variation, either in the\r\nair of his head, or in the attitude of his body, correspond to the\r\ntime and measure of Music: they correspond to the expression of the\r\nsentiment or passion which the Music imitates, and that expression\r\nnecessarily corresponds to this time and measure. Music is as it were\r\nthe soul which animates him, which informs every feature of his\r\ncountenance, and even directs every movement of his eyes. Like the\r\nmusical expression of a song, his action adds to the natural grace of\r\nthe sentiment or action which it imitates, a new and peculiar grace of\r\nits own; the exquisite and engaging grace of those gestures and\r\nmotions, of those airs and attitudes which are directed by the\r\nmovement, by the time and measure of Music; this grace heightens and\r\nenlivens that expression. Nothing can be more deeply affecting than\r\nthe interesting scenes of the serious opera, when to good Poetry and\r\ngood Music, to the Poetry of Metastasio and the Music of Pergolese, is\r\nadded the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page422\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e422\u003c/span\u003e execution of a good actor. In the serious opera,\r\nindeed, the action is too often sacrificed to the Music; the castrati,\r\nwho perform the principal parts, being always the most insipid and\r\nmiserable actors. The sprightly airs of the comic opera are, in the\r\nsame manner, in the highest degree enlivening and diverting. Though\r\nthey do not make us laugh so loud as we sometimes do at the scenes of\r\nthe common comedy, they make us smile more frequently; and the\r\nagreeable gaiety, the temperate joy, if I may call it so, with which\r\nthey inspire us, is not only an elegant, but a most delicious\r\npleasure. The deep distress and the great passions of tragedy are\r\ncapable of producing some effect, though it should be but\r\nindifferently acted. It is not so with the lighter misfortunes and\r\nless affecting situations of comedy: unless it is at least tolerably\r\nacted, it is altogether insupportable. But the castrati are scarce\r\never tolerable actors; they are accordingly seldom admitted to play in\r\nthe comic opera; which, being upon that account commonly better\r\nperformed than the serious, appears to many people the better\r\nentertainment of the two.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe imitative powers of Instrumental are much inferior to those of\r\nVocal Music; its melodious but unmeaning and inarticulated sounds\r\ncannot, like the articulations of the human voice, relate distinctly\r\nthe circumstances of any particular story, or describe the different\r\nsituations which those circumstances produced; or even express\r\nclearly, and so as to be understood by every hearer, the various\r\nsentiments and passions which the parties concerned felt from these\r\nsituations: even its imitation of other sounds, the objects which it\r\ncan certainly best imitate, is commonly so indistinct, that alone, and\r\nwithout any explication, it might not readily suggest to us what was\r\nthe imitated object. The rocking of a cradle is supposed to be\r\nimitated in that concerto of Correlli, which is said to have been\r\ncomposed for the Nativity: but unless we were told beforehand, it\r\nmight not readily occur to us what it meant to imitate, or whether it\r\nmeant to imitate any thing at all; and this imitation (which, though\r\nperhaps as successful as any other, is by no means the distinguished\r\nbeauty of that admired composition) might only appear to us a singular\r\nand odd passage in Music. The ringing of bells and the singing of the\r\nlark and nightingale are imitated in the symphony of Instrumental\r\nMusic which Mr. Handel has composed for the Allegro and Penseroso of\r\nMilton: these are not only sounds but musical sounds, and may\r\ntherefore be supposed to be more within the compass of the powers of\r\nmusical imitation. It is accordingly universally acknowledged, that in\r\nthese imitations this great master has been remarkably successful; and\r\nyet, unless the verses of Milton explained the meaning of the Music,\r\nit might not even in this case readily occur to us what it meant to\r\nimitate, or whether it meant to imitate any thing at all. With the\r\nexplication of the words, indeed, the imitation appears, what it\r\ncertainly is, a very fine one; but without \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page423\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e423\u003c/span\u003e that explication it\r\nmight perhaps appear only a singular passage, which had less\r\nconnexion either with what went before or with what came after it,\r\nthan any other in the Music.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eInstrumental Music is said sometimes to imitate motion; but in\r\nreality it only either imitates the particular sounds which accompany\r\ncertain motions, or it produces sounds of which the time and measure\r\nbear some correspondence to the variations, to the pauses and\r\ninterruptions, to the successive accelerations and retardations of the\r\nmotion which it means to imitate: it is in this way that it sometimes\r\nattempts to express the march and array of an army, the confusion and\r\nhurry of a battle, \u0026amp;c. In all these cases, however, its imitation is\r\nso very indistinct, that without the accompaniment of some other art,\r\nto explain and interpret its meaning, it would be almost always\r\nunintelligible; and we could scarce ever know with certainty, either\r\nwhat it meant to imitate, or whether it meant to imitate any thing at\r\nall.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the imitative arts, though it is by no means necessary that the\r\nimitating should so exactly resemble the imitated object, that the one\r\nshould sometimes be mistaken for the other, it is, however, necessary\r\nthat they should resemble at least so far, that the one should always\r\nreadily suggest the other. It would be a strange picture which\r\nrequired an inscription at the foot to tell us, not only what\r\nparticular person it meant to represent, but whether it meant to\r\nrepresent a man or a horse, or whether it meant to be a picture at\r\nall, and to represent any thing. The imitations of instrumental Music\r\nmay, in some respects, be said to resemble such pictures. There is,\r\nhowever, this very essential difference between them, that the picture\r\nwould not be much mended by the inscription; whereas, by what may be\r\nconsidered as very little more than such an inscription, instrumental\r\nMusic, though it cannot always even then, perhaps, be said properly to\r\nimitate, may, however, produce all the effects of the finest and most\r\nperfect imitation. In order to explain how this is brought about, it\r\nwill not be necessary to descend into any great depth of philosophical\r\nspeculation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat train of thoughts and ideas which is continually passing\r\nthrough the mind does not always move on with, the same pace, if I may\r\nsay so, or with the same order and connection. When we are gay and\r\ncheerful, its motion is brisker and more lively, our thoughts succeed\r\none another more rapidly, and those which immediately follow one\r\nanother seem frequently either to have but little connection, or to be\r\nconnected rather by their opposition than by their mutual resemblance.\r\nAs in this wanton and playful disposition of mind we hate to dwell\r\nlong upon the same thought, so we do not much care to pursue\r\nresembling thoughts; and the variety of contrast is more agreeable to\r\nus than the sameness of resemblance. It is quite otherwise when we are\r\nmelancholy and desponding; we then frequently find ourselves haunted,\r\nas it were, by some thought which we would gladly chase away, but\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page424\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e424\u003c/span\u003e which constantly pursues us, and which admits no followers,\r\nattendants, or companions, but such as are of its own kindred and\r\ncomplexion. A slow succession of resembling or closely connected\r\nthoughts is the characteristic of this disposition of mind; a quick\r\nsuccession of thoughts, frequently contrasted and in general very\r\nslightly connected, is the characteristic of the other. What may be\r\ncalled the natural state of the mind, the state in which we are\r\nneither elated nor dejected, the state of sedateness, tranquillity,\r\nand composure, holds a sort of middle place between those two opposite\r\nextremes; our thoughts may succeed one another more slowly, and with a\r\nmore distinct connection, than in the one; but more quickly and with a\r\ngreater variety, than in the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAcute sounds are naturally gay, sprightly, and enlivening; grave\r\nsounds solemn, awful, and melancholy. There seems too to be some\r\nnatural connection between acuteness in tune and quickness in time or\r\nsuccession, as well as between gravity and slowness: an acute sound\r\nseems to fly off more quickly than a grave one: the treble is more\r\ncheerful than the bass; its notes likewise commonly succeed one\r\nanother more rapidly. But instrumental Music, by a proper arrangement,\r\nby a quicker or slower succession of acute and grave, of resembling\r\nand contrasted sounds, can not only accommodate itself to the gay, the\r\nsedate, or the melancholy mood; but if the mind is so far vacant as\r\nnot to be disturbed by any disorderly passion, it can, at least for\r\nthe moment, and to a certain degree, produce every possible\r\nmodification of each of those moods or dispositions. We all readily\r\ndistinguish the cheerful, the gay, and the sprightly Music, from the\r\nmelancholy, the plaintive, and the affecting; and both these from what\r\nholds a sort of middle place between them, the sedate, the tranquil,\r\nand the composing. And we are all sensible that, in the natural and\r\nordinary state of the mind, Music can, by a sort of incantation, sooth\r\nand charm us into some degree of that particular mood or disposition\r\nwhich accords with its own character and temper. In a concert of\r\ninstrumental Music the attention is engaged, with pleasure and\r\ndelight, to listen to a combination of the most agreeable and\r\nmelodious sounds, which follow one another, sometimes with a quicker,\r\nand sometimes with a slower succession; and in which those that\r\nimmediately follow one another sometimes exactly or nearly resemble,\r\nand sometimes contrast with one another in tune, in time, and in order\r\nof arrangement. The mind being thus successively occupied by a train\r\nof objects, of which the nature, succession, and connection\r\ncorrespond, sometimes to the gay, sometimes to the tranquil, and\r\nsometimes to the melancholy mood or disposition, it is itself\r\nsuccessively led into each of those moods or dispositions; and is thus\r\nbrought into a sort of harmony or concord with the Music which so\r\nagreeably engages its attention.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page425\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e425\u003c/span\u003e It is not, however, by imitation properly, that instrumental\r\nMusic produces this effect: instrumental Music does not imitate, as\r\nvocal Music, as Painting, or as Dancing would imitate, a gay, a\r\nsedate, or a melancholy person; it does not tell us, as any of those\r\nother arts could tell us, a pleasant, a serious, or a melancholy\r\nstory. It is not, as in vocal Music, in Painting, or in Dancing, by\r\nsympathy with the gaiety, the sedateness, or the melancholy and\r\ndistress of some other person, that instrumental Music soothes us into\r\neach of these dispositions: it becomes itself a gay, a sedate, or a\r\nmelancholy object; and the mind naturally assumes the mood or\r\ndisposition which at the time corresponds to the object which engages\r\nits attention. Whatever we feel from instrumental Music is an\r\noriginal, and not a sympathetic feeling: it is our own gaiety,\r\nsedateness, or melancholy; not the the reflected disposition of\r\nanother person.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen we follow the winding alleys of some happily situated and well\r\nlaid out garden, we are presented with a succession of landscapes,\r\nwhich are sometimes gay, sometimes gloomy, and sometimes calm and\r\nserene; if the mind is in its natural state, it suits itself to the\r\nobjects which successively present themselves, and varies in some\r\ndegree its mood and present humour with every variation of the scene.\r\nIt would be improper, however, to say that those scenes imitated the\r\ngay, the calm, or the melancholy mood of the mind; they may produce in\r\ntheir turn each of those moods, but they cannot imitate any of them.\r\nInstrumental Music, in the same manner, though it can excite all those\r\ndifferent dispositions, cannot imitate any of them. There are no two\r\nthings in nature more perfectly disparate than sound and sentiment;\r\nand it is impossible by any human power to fashion the one into any\r\nthing that bears any real resemblance to the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis power of exciting and varying the different moods and\r\ndispositions of the mind, which instrumental Music really possesses to\r\na very considerable degree, has been the principal source of its\r\nreputation for those great imitative powers which have been ascribed\r\nto it. ‘Painting,’ says an author, more capable of feeling strongly\r\nthan of analysing accurately, Mr. Rousseau of Geneva, ‘Painting, which\r\npresents its imitations, not to the imagination, but to the senses,\r\nand to only one of the senses, can represent nothing besides the\r\nobjects of sight. Music, one might imagine, should be equally confined\r\nto those of hearing. It imitates, however, every thing, even those\r\nobjects which are perceivable by sight only. By a delusion that seems\r\nalmost inconceivable, it can, as it were, put the eye into the ear;\r\nand the greatest wonder, of an art which acts only by motion and\r\nsuccession, is, that it can imitate rest and repose. Night, Sleep,\r\nSolitude, and Silence are all within the compass of musical imitation.\r\nThough all Nature should be asleep, the person who contemplates it is\r\nawake; and the art of the musician consists in substituting, in the\r\nroom of an \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page426\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e426\u003c/span\u003e image of what is not the object of hearing, that of\r\nthe movements which its presence would excite in the mind of the\r\nspectator.’—That is, of the effects which it would produce upon his\r\nmood and disposition. ‘The musician (continues the same author) will\r\nsometimes, not only agitate the waves of the sea, blow up the flames\r\nof a conflagration, make the rain fall, the rivulets flow and swell\r\nthe torrents, but he will paint the horrors of a hideous desert,\r\ndarken the walls of a subterraneous dungeon, calm the tempest, restore\r\nserenity and tranquillity to the air and the sky, and shed from the\r\norchestra a new freshness over the groves and the fields. He will not\r\ndirectly represent any of these objects, but he will excite in the\r\nmind the same movements which it would feel from seeing them.’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eUpon this very eloquent description of Mr. Rousseau I must observe,\r\nthat without the accompaniment of the scenery and action of the opera,\r\nwithout the assistance either of the scene-painter or of the poet, or\r\nof both, the instrumental Music of the orchestra could produce none of\r\nthe effects which are here ascribed to it: and we could never know, we\r\ncould never even guess, which of the gay, melancholy, or tranquil\r\nobjects above mentioned it meant to represent to us; or whether it\r\nmeant to represent any of them, and not merely to entertain us with a\r\nconcert of gay, melancholy, or tranquil Music; or, as the ancients\r\ncalled them, of the Diastaltic, of the Systaltic, or of the Middle\r\nMusic. With that accompaniment, indeed, though it cannot always even\r\nthen, perhaps, be said properly to imitate, yet by supporting the\r\nimitation of some other art, it may produce all the same effects upon\r\nus as if itself had imitated in the finest and most perfect manner.\r\nWhatever be the object or situation which the scene-painter represents\r\nupon the theatre, the Music of the orchestra, by disposing the mind to\r\nthe same sort of mood and temper which it would feel from the presence\r\nof that object, or from sympathy with the person who was placed in\r\nthat situation, can greatly enhance the effect of that imitation: it\r\ncan accommodate itself to every diversity of scene. The melancholy of\r\nthe man who, upon some great occasion, only finds himself alone in the\r\ndarkness, the silence and solitude of the night, is very different\r\nfrom that of one who, upon a like occasion, finds himself in the midst\r\nof some dreary and inhospitable desert; and even in this situation his\r\nfeelings would not be the same as if he was shut up in a subterraneous\r\ndungeon. The different degrees of precision with which the Music of\r\nthe orchestra can accommodate itself to each of those diversities,\r\nmust depend upon the taste, the sensibility, the fancy and imagination\r\nof the composer: it may sometimes, perhaps, contribute to this\r\nprecision, that it should imitate, as well as it can, the sounds which\r\neither naturally accompany, or which might be supposed to accompany,\r\nthe particular objects represented. The symphony in the French opera\r\nof Alcyone, which imitated the violence of the winds and the dashing\r\nof the waves, in the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page427\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e427\u003c/span\u003e tempest which was to drown Coix, is much\r\ncommended by cotemporary writers. That in the opera of Isse, which\r\nimitated that murmuring in the leaves of the oaks of Dodona, which\r\nmight be supposed to precede the miraculous pronunciation of the\r\noracle: and that in the opera of Amadis, of which the dismal accents\r\nimitated the sounds which might be supposed to accompany the opening\r\nof the tomb of Ardari, before the apparition of the ghost of that\r\nwarrior, are still more celebrated. Instrumental Music, however,\r\nwithout violating too much its own melody and harmony, can imitate but\r\nimperfectly the sounds of natural objects, of which the greater part\r\nhave neither melody nor harmony. Great reserve, great discretion, and\r\na very nice discernment are requisite, in order to introduce with\r\npropriety such imperfect imitations, either into Poetry or Music; when\r\nrepeated too often, when continued too long, they appear to be what\r\nthey really are, mere tricks, in which a very inferior artist, if he\r\nwill only give himself the trouble to attend to them, can easily equal\r\nthe greatest. I have seen a Latin translation of Mr. Pope’s Ode on St.\r\nCecilia’s Day, which in this respect very much excelled the original.\r\nSuch imitations are still easier in Music. Both in the one art and in\r\nthe other, the difficulty is not in making them as well as they are\r\ncapable of being made, but in knowing when and how far to make them at\r\nall: but to be able to accommodate the temper and character of the\r\nMusic to every peculiarity of the scene and situation with such exact\r\nprecision, that the one shall produce the very same effect upon the\r\nmind as the other, is not one of those tricks in which an inferior\r\nartist can easily equal the greatest; it is an art which requires all\r\nthe judgment, knowledge, and invention of the most consummate master.\r\nIt is upon this art, and not upon its imperfect imitation, either of\r\nreal or imaginary sounds, that the great effects of instrumental Music\r\ndepend; such imitations ought perhaps to be admitted only so far as\r\nthey may sometimes contribute to ascertain the meaning, and thereby to\r\nenhance the effects of this art.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBy endeavouring to extend the effects of scenery beyond what the\r\nnature of the thing will admit of, it has been much abused; and in the\r\ncommon, as well as in the musical drama, many imitations have been\r\nattempted, which, after the first and second time we have seen them,\r\nnecessarily appear ridiculous: such are, the Thunder rumbling from the\r\nMustard-bowl, and the Snow of Paper and thick Hail of Pease, so finely\r\nexposed by Mr. Pope. Such imitations resemble those of painted\r\nStatuary; they may surprise at first, but they disgust ever after, and\r\nappear evidently such simple and easy tricks as are fit only for the\r\namusement of children and their nurses at a puppet-show. The thunder\r\nof either theatre ought certainly never to be louder than that which\r\nthe orchestra is capable of producing; and their most dreadful\r\ntempests ought never to exceed what the scene painter is capable of\r\nrepresenting. In such imitations there may be an art which merits\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page428\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e428\u003c/span\u003e some degree of esteem and admiration. In the other there can be\r\nnone which merits any.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis abuse of scenery has both subsisted much longer, and been\r\ncarried to a much greater degree of extravagance, in the musical than\r\nin the common drama. In France it has been long banished from the\r\nlatter; but it still continues, not only to be tolerated, but to be\r\nadmired and applauded in the former. In the French operas, not only\r\nthunder and lightning, storms and tempests, are commonly represented\r\nin the ridiculous manner above mentioned, but all the marvellous, all\r\nthe supernatural of Epic Poetry, all the metamorphoses of Mythology,\r\nall the wonders of Witchcraft and Magic, every thing that is most\r\nunfit to be represented upon the stage, are every day exhibited with\r\nthe most complete approbation and applause of that ingenious nation.\r\nThe music of the orchestra producing upon the audience nearly the same\r\neffect which a better and more artful imitation would produce, hinders\r\nthem from feeling, at least in its full force, the ridicule of those\r\nchildish and awkward imitations which necessarily abound in that\r\nextravagant scenery. And in reality such imitations, though no doubt\r\nridiculous every where, yet certainly appear somewhat less so in the\r\nmusical than they would in the common drama. The Italian opera, before\r\nit was reformed by Apostolo, Zeno, and Metastasio, was in this respect\r\nequally extravagant, and was upon that account the subject of the\r\nagreeable raillery of Mr. Addison in several different papers of the\r\nSpectator. Even since that reformation it still continues to be a\r\nrule, that the scene should change at least with every act; and the\r\nunity of place never was a more sacred law in the common drama, than\r\nthe violation of it has become in the musical: the latter seems in\r\nreality to require both a more picturesque and a more varied scenery,\r\nthan is at all necessary for the former. In an opera, as the Music\r\nsupports the effect of the scenery, so the scenery often serves to\r\ndetermine the character, and to explain the meaning of the Music; it\r\nought to vary therefore as that character varies. The pleasure of an\r\nopera, besides, is in its nature more a sensual pleasure, than that of\r\na common comedy or tragedy; the latter produce their effect\r\nprincipally by means of the imagination: in the closet, accordingly,\r\ntheir effect is not much inferior to what it is upon the stage. But\r\nthe effect of an opera is seldom very great in the closet; it\r\naddresses itself more to the external senses, and as it soothes the\r\near by its melody and harmony, so we feel that it ought to dazzle the\r\neye with the splendour of its scenery.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn an opera the instrumental Music of the orchestra supports the\r\nimitation both of the poet and of the actor, as well as of the\r\nscene-painter. The overture disposes the mind to that mood which fits\r\nit for the opening of the piece. The Music between the acts keeps up\r\nthe impression which the foregoing had made, and prepares us for that\r\nwhich the following is to make. When the orchestra interrupts, as it\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page429\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e429\u003c/span\u003e frequently does, either the recitative or the air, it is in\r\norder either to enforce the effect of what had gone before, or to put\r\nthe mind in the mood which fits it for hearing what is to come after.\r\nBoth in the recitatives and in the airs it accompanies and directs the\r\nvoice, and often brings it back to the proper tone and modulation,\r\nwhen it is upon the point of wandering away from them; and the\r\ncorrectness of the best vocal Music is owing in a great measure to the\r\nguidance of instrumental; though in all these cases it supports the\r\nimitation of another art, yet in all of them it may be said rather to\r\ndiminish than to increase the resemblance between the imitating and\r\nthe imitated object. Nothing can be more unlike to what really passes\r\nin the world, than that persons engaged in the most interesting\r\nsituations, both of public and private life, in sorrow, in\r\ndisappointment, in distress, in despair, should, in all that they say\r\nand do, be constantly accompanied with a fine concert of instrumental\r\nMusic. Were we to reflect upon it, such accompaniment must in all\r\ncases diminish the probability of the action, and render the\r\nrepresentation still less like nature than it otherwise would be. It\r\nis not by imitation, therefore, that instrumental Music supports and\r\nenforces the imitations of the other arts; but it is by producing upon\r\nthe mind, in consequence of other powers, the same sort of effect\r\nwhich the most exact imitation of nature, which the most perfect\r\nobservation of probability, could produce. To produce this effect is,\r\nin such entertainments, the sole end and purpose of that imitation and\r\nobservation. If it can be equally well produced by other means, this\r\nend and purpose may be equally well answered.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut if instrumental Music can seldom be said to be properly\r\nimitative, even when it is employed to support the imitation of some\r\nother art, it is commonly still less so when it is employed alone. Why\r\nshould it embarrass its melody and harmony, or constrain its time and\r\nmeasure, by attempting an imitation which, without the accompaniment\r\nof some other art to explain and interpret its meaning, nobody is\r\nlikely to understand? In the most approved instrumental Music,\r\naccordingly, in the overtures of Handel and the concertos of Correlli,\r\nthere is little or no imitation, and where there is any, it is the\r\nsource of but a very small part of the merit of those compositions.\r\nWithout any imitation, instrumental Music can produce very\r\nconsiderable effects; though its powers over the heart and affections\r\nare, no doubt, much inferior to those of vocal Music, it has, however,\r\nconsiderable powers: by the sweetness of its sounds it awakens\r\nagreeably, and calls upon the attention; by their connection and\r\naffinity it naturally detains that attention, which follows easily a\r\nseries of agreeable sounds, which have all a certain relation both to\r\na common, fundamental, or leading note, called the key note; and to a\r\ncertain succession or combination of notes, called the song or\r\ncomposition. By means of this relation each foregoing sound seems to\r\nintroduce, and as it were prepare the mind for the following: by its\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page430\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e430\u003c/span\u003e rhythmus, by its time and measure, it disposes that succession\r\nof sounds into a certain arrangement, which renders the whole more\r\neasy to be comprehended and remembered. Time and measure are to\r\ninstrumental Music what order and method are to discourse; they break\r\nit into proper parts and divisions, by which we are enabled both to\r\nremember better what is gone before, and frequently to foresee\r\nsomewhat of what is to come after; we frequently foresee the return of\r\na period which we know must correspond to another which we remember to\r\nhave gone before; and, according to the saying of an ancient\r\nphilosopher and musician, the enjoyment of Music arises partly from\r\nmemory and partly from foresight. When the measure, after having been\r\ncontinued so long as to satisfy us, changes to another, that variety,\r\nwhich thus disappoints, becomes more agreeable to us than the\r\nuniformity which would have gratified our expectation: but without\r\nthis order and method we could remember very little of what had gone\r\nbefore, and we could foresee still less of what was to come after; and\r\nthe whole enjoyment of Music would be equal to little more than the\r\neffect of the particular sounds which rung in our ears at every\r\nparticular instant. By means of this order and method it is, during\r\nthe progress of the entertainment, equal to the effect of all that we\r\nremember, and of all that we foresee; and at the conclusion of the\r\nentertainment, to the combined and accumulated effect of all the\r\ndifferent parts of which the whole was composed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA well-composed concerto of instrumental Music, by the number and\r\nvariety of the instruments, by the variety of the parts which are\r\nperformed by them, and the perfect concord or correspondence of all\r\nthese different parts; by the exact harmony or coincidence of all the\r\ndifferent sounds which are heard at the same time, and by that happy\r\nvariety of measure which regulates the succession of those which are\r\nheard at different times, presents an object so agreeable, so great,\r\nso various, and so interesting, that alone, and without suggesting any\r\nother object, either by imitation or otherwise, it can occupy, and as\r\nit were fill up, completely the whole capacity of the mind, so as to\r\nleave no part of its attention vacant for thinking of any thing else.\r\nIn the contemplation of that immense variety of agreeable and\r\nmelodious sounds, arranged and digested, both in their coincidence and\r\nin their succession, into so complete and regular a system, the mind\r\nin reality enjoys not only a very great sensual, but a very high\r\nintellectual pleasure, not unlike that which it derives from the\r\ncontemplation of a great system in any other science. A full concerto\r\nof such instrumental Music, not only does not require, but it does not\r\nadmit of any accompaniment. A song or a dance, by demanding an\r\nattention which we have not to spare, would disturb, instead of\r\nheightening, the effect of the Music; they may often very properly\r\nsucceed, but they cannot accompany it. That music seldom means to tell\r\nany particular story, or to imitate any \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page431\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e431\u003c/span\u003e particular event, or in\r\ngeneral to suggest any particular object, distinct from that\r\ncombination of sounds of which itself is composed. Its meaning,\r\ntherefore, may be said to be complete in itself, and to require no\r\ninterpreters to explain it. What is called the subject of such Music\r\nis merely, as has already been said, a certain leading combination of\r\nnotes, to which it frequently returns, and to which all its\r\ndigressions and variations bear a certain affinity. It is altogether\r\ndifferent from what is called the subject of a poem or a picture,\r\nwhich is always something which is not either in the poem or in the\r\npicture, or something distinct from that combination, either of words\r\non the one hand or of colours on the other, of which they are\r\nrespectively composed. The subject of a composition of instrumental\r\nMusic is part of that composition: the subject of a poem or picture is\r\npart of neither.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe effect of instrumental Music upon the mind has been called its\r\nexpression. In the feeling it is frequently not unlike the effect of\r\nwhat is called the expression of Painting, and is sometimes equally\r\ninteresting. But the effect of the expression of Painting arises\r\nalways from the thought of something which, though distinctly and\r\nclearly suggested by the drawing and colouring of the picture, is\r\naltogether different from that drawing and colouring. It arises\r\nsometimes from sympathy with, sometimes from antipathy and aversion\r\nto, the sentiments, emotions, and passions which the countenance, the\r\naction, the air and attitude of the persons represented suggest. The\r\nmelody and harmony of instrumental Music, on the contrary, do not\r\ndistinctly and clearly suggest any thing that is different from that\r\nmelody and harmony. Whatever effect it produces is the immediate\r\neffect of that melody and harmony, and not of something else which is\r\nsignified and suggested by them: they in fact signify and suggest\r\nnothing. It may be proper to say that the complete art of painting,\r\nthe complete merit of a picture, is composed of three distinct arts or\r\nmerits; that of drawing, that of colouring, and that of expression.\r\nBut to say, as Mr. Addison does, that the complete art of a musician,\r\nthe complete merit of a piece of Music, is composed or made up of\r\nthree distinct arts or merits, that of melody, that of harmony, and\r\nthat of expression, is to say, that it is made up of melody and\r\nharmony, and of the immediate and necessary effect of melody and\r\nharmony: the division is by no means logical; expression in painting\r\nis not the necessary effect either of good drawing or of good\r\ncolouring, or of both together; a picture may be both finely drawn and\r\nfinely coloured, and yet have very little expression: but that effect\r\nupon the mind which is called expression in Music, is the immediate\r\nand necessary effect of good melody. In the power of producing this\r\neffect consists the essential characteristic which distinguishes such\r\nmelody from what is bad or indifferent. Harmony may enforce the effect\r\nof good melody, but without good melody the most skilful harmony can\r\nproduce no effect which deserves the name \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e432\u003c/span\u003e of expression; it can\r\ndo little more than fatigue and confound the ear. A painter may\r\npossess, in a very eminent degree, the talents of drawing and\r\ncolouring, and yet possess that of expression in a very inferior\r\ndegree. Such a painter, too, may have great merit. In the judgment of\r\nDu Piles, even the celebrated Titian was a painter of this kind. But\r\nto say that a musician possessed the talents of melody and harmony in\r\na very eminent degree, and that of expression in a very inferior one,\r\nwould be to say, that in his works the cause was not followed by its\r\nnecessary and proportionable effect. A musician may be a very skilful\r\nharmonist, and yet be defective in the talents of melody, air, and\r\nexpression; his songs may be dull and without effect. Such a musician\r\ntoo may have a certain degree of merit, not unlike that of a man of\r\ngreat learning, who wants fancy, taste, and invention.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eInstrumental Music, therefore, though it may, no doubt, be\r\nconsidered in some respects as an imitative art, is certainly less so\r\nthan any other which merits that appellation; it can imitate but a few\r\nobjects, and even these so imperfectly, that without the accompaniment\r\nof some other art, its imitation is scarce ever intelligible:\r\nimitation is by no means essential to it, and the principal effect it\r\nis capable of producing arises from powers altogether different from\r\nthose of imitation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003ch4\u003e\u003ca id=\"page432\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003ePART Ⅲ.\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e imitative powers of Dancing are much superior to those of\r\ninstrumental Music, and are at least equal, perhaps superior, to those\r\nof any other art. Like instrumental Music, however, it is not\r\nnecessarily or essentially imitative, and it can produce very\r\nagreeable effects, without imitating any thing. In the greater part of\r\nour common dances there is little or no imitation, and they consist\r\nalmost entirely of a succession of such steps, gestures, and motions,\r\nregulated by the time and measure of Music, as either display\r\nextraordinary grace or require extraordinary agility. Even some of our\r\ndances, which are said to have been originally imitative, have, in the\r\nway in which we practise them, almost ceased to be so. The minuet, in\r\nwhich the woman, after passing and repassing the man several times,\r\nfirst gives him up one hand, then the other, and then both hands, is\r\nsaid to have been originally a Moorish dance, which emblematically\r\nrepresented the passion of love. Many of my readers may have\r\nfrequently danced this dance, and, in the opinion of all who saw them,\r\nwith great grace and propriety, though neither they nor the spectators\r\nonce thought of the allegorical meaning which it originally intended\r\nto express.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA certain measured, cadenced step, commonly called a dancing step,\r\nwhich keeps time with, and as it were beats the measure of, the Music\r\nwhich accompanies and directs it, is the essential characteristic\r\nwhich \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page433\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e433\u003c/span\u003e distinguishes a dance from every other sort of motion.\r\nWhen the dancer, moving with a step of this kind, and observing this\r\ntime and measure, imitates either the ordinary or the more important\r\nactions of human life, he shapes and fashions, as it were, a thing of\r\none kind, into the resemblance of another thing of a very different\r\nkind: his art conquers the disparity which Nature has placed between\r\nthe imitating and the imitated object, and has upon that account some\r\ndegree of that sort of merit which belongs to all the imitative arts.\r\nThis disparity, indeed, is not so great as in some other of those\r\narts, nor consequently the merit of the imitation which conquers it.\r\nNobody would compare the merit of a good imitative dancer to that of a\r\ngood painter or statuary. The dancer, however, may have a very\r\nconsiderable degree of merit, and his imitation perhaps may sometimes\r\nbe capable of giving us as much pleasure as that of either of the\r\nother two artists. All the subjects, either of Statuary or of History\r\nPainting, are within the compass of his imitative powers; and in\r\nrepresenting them, his art has even some advantage over both the other\r\ntwo. Statuary and History Painting can represent but a single instant\r\nof the action which they mean to imitate: the causes which prepared,\r\nthe consequences which followed, the situation of that single instant\r\nare altogether beyond the compass of their imitation. A pantomime\r\ndance can represent distinctly those causes and consequences; it is\r\nnot confined to the situation of a single instant; but, like Epic\r\nPoetry, it can represent all the events of a long story, and exhibit a\r\nlong train and succession of connected and interesting situations. It\r\nis capable therefore of affecting us much more than either Statuary or\r\nPainting. The ancient Romans used to shed tears at the representations\r\nof their pantomimes, as we do at that of the most interesting\r\ntragedies; an effect which is altogether beyond the powers of Statuary\r\nor Painting.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe ancient Greeks appear to have been a nation of dancers, and\r\nboth their common and their stage dances seem to have been all\r\nimitative. The stage dances of the ancient Romans appear to have been\r\nequally so. Among that grave people it was reckoned indecent to dance\r\nin private societies; and they could therefore have no common dances;\r\nand among both nations imitation seems to have been considered as\r\nessential to dancing.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is quite otherwise in modern times: though we have pantomime\r\ndances upon the stage, yet the greater part even of our stage dances\r\nare not pantomime, and cannot well be said to imitate any thing. The\r\ngreater part of our common dances either never were pantomime, or,\r\nwith a very few exceptions, have almost all ceased to be so.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis remarkable difference of character between the ancient and the\r\nmodern dances seems to be the natural effect of a correspondent\r\ndifference in that of the music, which has accompanied and directed\r\nboth the one and the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page434\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e434\u003c/span\u003e In modern times we almost always dance to instrumental music,\r\nwhich being itself not imitative, the greater part of the dances which\r\nit directs, and as it were inspires, have ceased to be so. In ancient\r\ntimes, on the contrary, they seem to have danced almost always to\r\nvocal music; which being necessarily and essentially imitative, their\r\ndances became so too. The ancients seem to have had little or nothing\r\nof what is properly called instrumental music, or of music composed\r\nnot to be sung by the voice, but to be played upon instruments, and\r\nboth their wind and stringed instruments seem to have served only as\r\nan accompaniment and direction to the voice.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the country it frequently happens, that a company of young\r\npeople take a fancy to dance, though they have neither fiddler nor\r\npiper to dance to. A lady undertakes to sing while the rest of the\r\ncompany dance: in most cases she sings the notes only, without the\r\nwords, and then the voice being little more than a musical instrument,\r\nthe dance is performed in the usual way, without any imitation. But if\r\nshe sings the words, and if in those words there happens to be\r\nsomewhat more than ordinary spirit and humour, immediately all the\r\ncompany, especially all the best dancers, and all those who dance most\r\nat their ease, become more or less pantomimes, and by their gestures\r\nand motions express, as well as they can, the meaning and story of the\r\nsong. This would be still more the case, if the same person both\r\ndanced and sung; a practice very common among the ancients: it\r\nrequires good lungs and a vigorous constitution; but with these\r\nadvantages and long practice, the very highest dances may be performed\r\nin this manner. I have seen a Negro dance to his own song, the\r\nwar-dance of his own country, with such vehemence of action and\r\nexpression, that the whole company, gentlemen as well as ladies, got\r\nup upon chairs and tables, to be as much as possible out of the way of\r\nhis fury. In the Greek language there are two verbs which both signify\r\nto dance; each of which has its proper derivatives, signifying a dance\r\nand a dancer. In the greater part of Greek authors, these two sets of\r\nwords, like all others which are nearly synonymous, are frequently\r\nconfounded, and used promiscuously. According to the best critics,\r\nhowever, in strict propriety, one of these verbs signifies to dance\r\nand sing at the same time, or to dance to one’s own music. The other\r\nto dance without singing, or to dance to the music of other people.\r\nThere is said too to be a correspondent difference in the\r\nsignification of their respective derivatives. In the choruses of the\r\nancient Greek tragedies, consisting sometimes of more than fifty\r\npersons, some piped and some sung, but all danced, and danced to their\r\nown music.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e* * * * * * * *\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e* * * * * * * *\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page435\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e435\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e*** [\u003ci\u003eThe following Observations were found among Mr.\u003c/i\u003e SMITH’S\r\n\u003ci\u003eManuscripts, without any intimation whether they were intended as\r\npart of this, or of a different Essay. As they appeared too valuable\r\nto be suppressed, the Editors have annexed them to this\r\nEssay.\u003c/i\u003e]\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch4 id=\"G\"\u003e \u003ci\u003eOf the Affinity between Music, Dancing, and Poetry.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/h4\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eI\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eN\u003c/span\u003e the second part of the preceding Essay I have mentioned the\r\nconnection between the two arts of \u003ci\u003eMusic\u003c/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eDancing\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nformed by the \u003ci\u003eRhythmus\u003c/i\u003e, as the ancients termed it, or, as we\r\ncall it, the tune or measure that equally regulates both.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is not, however, every sort of step, gesture, or motion, of\r\nwhich the correspondence with the tune or measure of Music will\r\nconstitute a Dance. It must be a step, gesture, or motion of a\r\nparticular sort. In a good opera-actor, not only the modulations and\r\npauses of his voice, but every motion and gesture, every variation,\r\neither in the air of his head or in the attitude of his body,\r\ncorrespond to the time and measure of Music. The best opera-actor,\r\nhowever, is not, according to the language of any country in Europe,\r\nunderstood to dance, yet in the performance of his part, he makes use\r\nof what is called the stage step; but even this step is not understood\r\nto be a dancing step.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThough the eye of the most ordinary spectator readily distinguishes\r\nbetween what is called a dancing step and any other step, gesture, or\r\nmotion, yet it may not perhaps be very easy to express what it is\r\nwhich constitutes this distinction. To ascertain exactly the precise\r\nlimits at which the one species begins, and the other ends, or to give\r\nan accurate definition of this very frivolous matter, might perhaps\r\nrequire more thought and attention than the very small importance of\r\nthe subject may seem to deserve. Were I, however, to attempt to do\r\nthis, I should observe, that though in performing any ordinary\r\naction—in walking, for example—from the one end of the room to the\r\nother, a person may show both grace and agility, yet if he betrays the\r\nleast intention of showing either, he is sure of offending more or\r\nless, and we never fail to accuse him of some degree of vanity and\r\naffectation. In the performance of any such ordinary action, every\r\nperson wishes to appear to be solely occupied about the proper purpose\r\nof the action: if he means to show either grace or agility, he is\r\ncareful to conceal that meaning, and he is very seldom successful in\r\ndoing so: he offends, however, just in proportion as he betrays it,\r\nand he almost always betrays it. In Dancing, on the contrary, every\r\nperson professes, and avows, as it were, the intention of displaying\r\nsome degree either of grace or of agility, or of both. The display of\r\none, or other, or both of these qualities, is in reality the proper\r\npurpose of the action; and there can never be any disagreeable vanity\r\nor affectation in following \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page436\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e436\u003c/span\u003e out the proper purpose of any\r\naction. When we say of any particular person, that he gives himself\r\nmany affected airs and graces in Dancing, we mean either that he gives\r\nhimself airs and graces which are unsuitable to the nature of the\r\nDance, or that he executes awkwardly, perhaps exaggerates too much,\r\n(the most common fault in Dancing,) the airs and graces which are\r\nsuitable to it. Every Dance is in reality a succession of airs and\r\ngraces of some kind or other, and of airs and graces which, if I may\r\nsay so, profess themselves to be such. The steps, gestures, and\r\nmotions which, as it were, avow the intention of exhibiting a\r\nsuccession of such airs and graces, are the steps, the gestures, and\r\nthe motions which are peculiar to Dancing, and when these are\r\nperformed to the time and the measure of Music, they constitute what\r\nis properly called a Dance.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though every sort of step, gesture, or motion, even though\r\nperformed to the time and measure of Music, will not alone make a\r\nDance, yet almost any sort of sound, provided it is repeated with a\r\ndistinct rhythmus, or according to a distinct time and measure, though\r\nwithout any variation as to gravity or acuteness, will make a sort of\r\nMusic, no doubt indeed, an imperfect one. Drums, cymbals, and, so far\r\nas I have observed, all other instruments of percussion, have only one\r\nnote; this note, however, when repeated with a certain rhythmus, or\r\naccording to a certain time and measure, and sometimes, in order to\r\nmark more distinctly that time and measure, with some little variation\r\nas to loudness and lowness, though without any as to acuteness and\r\ngravity, does certainly make a sort of Music, which is frequently far\r\nfrom being disagreeable, and which even sometimes produces\r\nconsiderable effects. The simple note of such instruments, it is true,\r\nis generally a very clear, or what is called a melodious, sound. It\r\ndoes not however seem indispensably necessary that it should be so.\r\nThe sound of the muffled drum, when it beats the dead march, is far\r\nfrom being either clear or melodious, and yet it certainly produces a\r\nspecies of Music which is sometimes affecting. Even in the performance\r\nof the most humble of all artists, of the man who drums upon the table\r\nwith his fingers, we may sometimes distinguish the measure, and\r\nperhaps a little of the humour, of some favourite song; and we must\r\nallow that even he makes some sort of Music. Without a proper step and\r\nmotion, the observation of tune alone will not make a Dance; time\r\nalone, without tune, will make some sort of Music.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat exact observation of tune, or of the proper intervals of\r\ngravity and acuteness, which constitutes the great beauty of all\r\nperfect Music, constitutes likewise its great difficulty. The time, or\r\nmeasure of a song are simple matters, which even a coarse and\r\nunpractised ear is capable of distinguishing and comprehending: but to\r\ndistinguish and comprehend all the variations of the tune, and to\r\nconceive with precision the exact proportion of every note, is what\r\nthe finest and most cultivated \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page437\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e437\u003c/span\u003e ear is frequently no more than\r\ncapable of performing. In the singing of the common people we may\r\ngenerally remark a distinct enough observation of time, but a very\r\nimperfect one of tune. To discover and to distinguish with precision\r\nthe proper intervals of tune, must have been a work of long experience\r\nand much observation. In the theoretical treatises upon Music, what\r\nthe authors have to say upon time is commonly discussed in a single\r\nchapter of no great length or difficulty. The theory of tune fills\r\ncommonly all the rest of the volume, and has long ago become both an\r\nextensive and an abstruse science, which is often but imperfectly\r\ncomprehended, even by intelligent artists. In the first rude efforts\r\nof uncivilized nations towards singing, the niceties of tune could be\r\nbut little attended to: I have, upon this account, been frequently\r\ndisposed to doubt of the great antiquity of those national songs,\r\nwhich it is pretended have been delivered down from age to age by a\r\nsort of oral tradition, without having been ever noted or distinctly\r\nrecorded for many successive generations. The measure, the humour of\r\nthe song, might perhaps have been delivered down in this manner, but\r\nit seems scarcely possible that the precise notes of the tune should\r\nhave been so preserved. The method of singing some of what we reckon\r\nour old Scotch songs, has undergone great alterations within the\r\ncompass of my memory, and it may have undergone still greater\r\nbefore.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe distinction between the sounds or tones of singing and those of\r\nspeaking seems to be of the same kind with that between the steps,\r\ngestures, and motions of Dancing, and those of any other ordinary\r\naction; though in speaking, a person may show a very agreeable tone of\r\nvoice, yet if he seems to intend to show it, if he appears to listen\r\nto the sound of his own voice, and as it were to tune it into a\r\npleasing modulation, he never fails to offend, as guilty of a most\r\ndisagreeable affectation. In speaking, as in every other ordinary\r\naction, we expect and require that the speaker should attend only to\r\nthe proper purpose of the action, the clear and distinct expression of\r\nwhat he has to say. In singing, on the contrary, every person\r\nprofesses the intention to please by the tone and cadence of his\r\nvoice; and he not only appears to be guilty of no disagreeable\r\naffectation in doing so, but we expect and require that he should do\r\nso. To please by the choice and arrangement of agreeable sounds is the\r\nproper purpose of all Music, vocal as well as instrumental; and we\r\nalways expect and require, that every person should attend to the\r\nproper purpose of whatever action he is performing. A person may\r\nappear to sing, as well as to dance, affectedly; he may endeavour to\r\nplease by sounds and tones which are unsuitable to the nature of the\r\nsong, or he may dwell too much on those which are suitable to it, or\r\nin some other way he may show an overweening conceit of his own\r\nabilities, beyond what seems to be warranted by his performance. The\r\ndisagreeable affectation appears \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e438\u003c/span\u003e to consist always, not in\r\nattempting to please by a proper, but by some improper modulation of\r\nthe voice. It was early discovered that the vibrations of chords or\r\nstrings, which either in their lengths, or in their densities, or in\r\ntheir degrees of tension, bear a certain proportion to one another,\r\nproduce sounds which correspond exactly, or, as the musicians say, are\r\nthe unisons of those sounds or tones of the human voice which the ear\r\napproves of in singing. This discovery has enabled musicians to speak\r\nwith distinctness and precision concerning the musical sounds or tones\r\nof the human voice; they can always precisely ascertain what are the\r\nparticular sounds or tones which they mean, by ascertaining what are\r\nthe proportions of the strings of which the vibrations produce the\r\nunisons of those sounds or tones. What are called the intervals; that\r\nis, the differences, in point of gravity and acuteness, between the\r\nsounds or tones of a singing voice, are much greater and more distinct\r\nthan those of the speaking voice. Though the former, therefore, can be\r\nmeasured and appreciated by the proportions of chords or strings, the\r\nlatter cannot. The nicest instruments cannot express the extreme\r\nminuteness of these intervals. The heptamerede of Mr. \u003ci\u003eSauveur\u003c/i\u003e\r\ncould express an interval so small as the seventh part of what is\r\ncalled a comma, the smallest interval that is admitted in modern\r\nMusic. Yet even this instrument, we are informed by Mr. \u003ci\u003eDuclos\u003c/i\u003e,\r\ncould not express the minuteness of the intervals in the pronunciation\r\nof the Chinese language; of all the languages in the world, that of\r\nwhich the pronunciation is said to approach the nearest to singing, or\r\nin which the intervals are said to be the greatest.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs the sounds or tones of the singing voice, therefore, can be\r\nascertained or appropriated, while those of the speaking voice cannot;\r\nthe former are capable of being noted or recorded, while the latter\r\nare not.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr class=\"thirty\"\u003e\r\n\u003ch3 id=\"H\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page438\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eADAM SMITH\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eON THE\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch2\u003eEXTERNAL SENSES;\u003c/h2\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e Senses, by which we perceive external objects, are commonly\r\nreckoned Five in Number; viz. Seeing, Hearing, Smelling, Tasting, and\r\nTouching.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf these, the four first mentioned are each of them confined to\r\nparticular parts or organs of the body; the Sense of Seeing is\r\nconfined to the Eyes; that of Hearing to the Ears; that of Smelling to\r\nthe Nostrils; and that of Tasting to the Palate. The Sense of Touching\r\nalone \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e439\u003c/span\u003e seems not to be confined to any particular organ, but to\r\nbe diffused through almost every part of the body; if we except the\r\nhair and the nails of the fingers and toes, I believe through every\r\npart of it. I shall say a few words concerning each of these Senses;\r\nbeginning with the last, proceeding backwards in the opposite order to\r\nthat in which they are commonly enumerated.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page439\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ci\u003eOf the Sense of\u003c/i\u003e T\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eOUCHING\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe objects of Touch always present themselves as pressing upon, or\r\nas resisting the particular part of the body which perceives them, or\r\nby which we perceive them. When I lay my hand upon the table, the\r\ntable presses upon my hand, or resists the further motion of my hand,\r\nin the same manner as my hand presses upon the table. But pressure or\r\nresistance necessarily supposes externality in the thing which presses\r\nor resists. The table could not press upon, or resist the further\r\nmotion of my hand, if it was not external to my hand. I feel it\r\naccordingly as something which is not merely an affection of the hand,\r\nbut altogether external to and independent of my hand. The agreeable,\r\nindifferent, or painful sensation of pressure, accordingly as I happen\r\nto press hardly or softly, I feel, no doubt, as affections of my hand;\r\nbut the thing which presses and which resists I feel as something\r\naltogether different from those affections, as external to my hand,\r\nand as being altogether independent of it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn moving my hand along the table it soon comes, in every\r\ndirection, to a place where this pressure or resistance ceases. This\r\nplace we call the boundary, or end of the table; of which the extent\r\nand figure are determined by the extent and direction of the lines or\r\nsurfaces which constitute this boundary or end.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is in this manner that a man born blind, or who has lost his\r\nsight so early that he has no remembrance of visible objects, may form\r\nthe most distinct idea of the extent and figure of all the different\r\nparts of his own body, and of every other tangible object which he has\r\nan opportunity of handling and examining. When he lays his hand upon\r\nhis foot, as his hand feels the pressure or resistance of his foot, so\r\nhis foot feels that of his hand. They are both external to one\r\nanother, but they are, neither of them, altogether so external to him.\r\nHe feels in both, and he naturally considers them as parts of himself,\r\nor at least as something which belongs to him, and which, for his own\r\ncomfort, it is necessary that he should take some care of.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen he lays his hand upon the table, though his hand feels the\r\npressure of the table, the table does not feel, at least he does not\r\nknow that it feels, the pressure of his hand. He feels it therefore as\r\nsomething external, not only to his hand, but to himself, as something\r\nwhich makes no part of himself, and in the state and condition of\r\nwhich he has not necessarily any concern.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page440\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e440\u003c/span\u003e When he lays his hand upon the body either of another man, or\r\nof any other animal, though he knows, or at least may know, that they\r\nfeel the pressure of his hand as much as he feels that of their body:\r\nyet as this feeling is altogether external to him, he frequently gives\r\nno attention to it, and at no time takes any further concern in it\r\nthan he is obliged to do by that fellow-feeling which Nature has, for\r\nthe wisest purposes, implanted in man, not only towards all other men,\r\nbut (though no doubt in a much weaker degree) towards all other\r\nanimals. Having destined him to be the governing animal in this world,\r\nit seems to have been her benevolent intention to inspire him with\r\nsome degree of respect, even for the meanest and weakest of his\r\nsubjects.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis power or quality of resistance we call Solidity; and the thing\r\nwhich possesses it, the Solid Body or Thing. As we feel it as\r\nsomething altogether external to us, so we necessarily conceive it as\r\nsomething altogether independent of us. We consider it, therefore, as\r\nwhat we call a Substance, or as a thing that subsists by itself, and\r\nindependent of any other thing. Solid and substantial, accordingly,\r\nare two words which, in common language, are considered either as\r\naltogether or as nearly synonymous.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSolidity necessarily supposes some degree of extension, and that in\r\nall the three directions of length, breadth, and thickness. All the\r\nsolid bodies, of which we have any experience, have some degree of\r\nsuch bulk or magnitude. It seems to be essential to their nature, and\r\nwithout it, we cannot even conceive how they should be capable of\r\npressure or resistance; are are the powers by which they are made\r\nknown to us, and by which alone they are capable of acting upon our\r\nown, and upon all other bodies.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eExtension, at least any sensible extension, supposes divisibility.\r\nThe body may be so hard, that our strength is not sufficient to break\r\nit; we still suppose, however, that if a sufficient force were\r\napplied, it might be so broken; and, at any rate, we can always, in\r\nfancy at least, imagine it to be divided into two or more parts.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEvery solid and extended body, if it be not infinite, (as the\r\nuniverse may be conceived to be,) must have some shape or figure, or\r\nbe bounded by certain lines and surfaces.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEvery such body must likewise be conceived as capable both of\r\nmotion and of rest; both of altering its situation with regard to\r\nother surrounding bodies, and of remaining in the same situation. That\r\nbodies of small or moderate bulk, are capable of both motion and rest\r\nwe have constant experience. Great masses, perhaps, are according to\r\nthe ordinary habits of the imagination, supposed to be more fitted for\r\nrest than for motion. Provided a sufficient force could be applied,\r\nhowever, we have no difficulty in conceiving that the greatest and\r\nmost unwieldy masses might be made capable of motion. Philosophy\r\nteaches us, (and by reasons too to which it is scarcely possible to\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page441\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e441\u003c/span\u003e refuse our assent,) that the earth itself, and bodies much\r\nlarger than the earth, are not only movable, but are at all times\r\nactually in motion, and continually altering their situation, in\r\nrespect to other surrounding bodies, with a rapidity that almost\r\npasses all human comprehension. In the system of the universe, at\r\nleast according to the imperfect notions which we have hitherto been\r\nable to attain concerning it, the great difficulty seems to be, not to\r\nfind the most enormous masses in motion, but to find the smallest\r\nparticle of matter that is perfectly at rest with regard to all other\r\nsurrounding bodies.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThese four qualities, or attributes of extension, divisibility,\r\nfigure, and mobility, or the capacity of motion or rest, seem\r\nnecessarily involved in the idea or conception of a solid substance.\r\nThey are, in reality, inseparable from that idea or conception, and\r\nthe solid substance cannot possibly be conceived to exist without\r\nthem. No other qualities or attributes seem to be involved, in the\r\nsame manner, in this our idea or conception of solidity. It would,\r\nhowever, be rash from thence to conclude that the solid substance can,\r\nas such, possess no other qualities or attributes. This rash\r\nconclusion, notwithstanding, has been not only drawn, but insisted\r\nupon, as an axiom of indubitable certainty, by philosophers of very\r\neminent reputation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eOf these external and resisting substances, some yield easily, and\r\nchange their figure, at least in some degree, in consequence of the\r\npressure of our hand: others neither yield nor change their figure, in\r\nany respect, in consequence of the utmost pressure which our hand\r\nalone is capable of giving them. The former we call soft, the latter\r\nhard, bodies. In some bodies the parts are so very easily separable,\r\nthat they not only yield to a very moderate pressure, but easily\r\nreceive the pressing body within them, and without much resistance\r\nallow it to traverse their extent in every possible direction. These\r\nare called Fluid, in contradistinction to those of which the parts not\r\nbeing so easily separable, are upon that account peculiarly called\r\nSolid Bodies; as if they possessed, in a more distinct and perceptible\r\nmanner, the characteristical quality of solidity or the power of\r\nresistance. Water, however (one of the fluids with which we are most\r\nfamiliar), when confined on all sides (as in a hollow globe of metal,\r\nwhich is first filled with it, and then sealed hermetically), has been\r\nfound to resist pressure as much as the very hardest, or what we\r\ncommonly call the most solid bodies.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSome fluids yield so very easily to the slightest pressure, that\r\nupon, ordinary occasions we are scarcely sensible of their resistance;\r\nand are upon that account little disposed to conceive them as bodies,\r\nor as things capable of pressure and resistance. There was a time, as\r\nwe may learn from Aristotle and Lucretius, when it was supposed to\r\nrequire some degree of philosophy to demonstrate that air was a real\r\nsolid body, or capable of pressure and resistance. What, in ancient\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page442\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e442\u003c/span\u003e times, and in vulgar apprehensions, was supposed to be doubtful\r\nwith regard to air, still continues to be so with regard to light, of\r\nwhich the rays, however condensed or concentrated, have never appeared\r\ncapable of making the smallest resistance to the motion of other\r\nbodies, the characteristical power or quality of what are called\r\nbodies, or solid substances. Some philosophers accordingly doubt, and\r\nsome even deny, that light is a material or corporeal substance.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThough all bodies or solid substances resist, yet all those with\r\nwhich we are acquainted appear to be more or less compressible, or\r\ncapable of having, without any diminution in the quantity of their\r\nmatter, their bulk more or less reduced within a smaller space than\r\nthat which they usually occupy. An experiment of the Florentine\r\nacademy was supposed to have fully demonstrated that water was\r\nabsolutely incompressible. The same experiment, however, having been\r\nrepeated with more care and accuracy, it appears, that water, though\r\nit strongly resists compression, is, however, when a sufficient force\r\nis applied, like all other bodies, in some degree liable to it. Air,\r\non the contrary, by the application of a very moderate force, is\r\neasily reducible within a much smaller portion of space than that\r\nwhich it usually occupies. The condensing engine, and what is founded\r\nupon it, the wind-gun, sufficiently demonstrate this: and even without\r\nthe help of such ingenious and expensive machines, we may easily\r\nsatisfy ourselves of the truth of this proportion, by squeezing a\r\nfull-blown bladder of which the neck is well tied.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe hardness or softness of bodies, or the greater or smaller force\r\nwith which they resist any change of shape, seems to depend altogether\r\nupon the stronger or weaker degree of cohesion with which their parts\r\nare mutually attracted to one another. The greater or smaller force\r\nwith which they resist compression may, upon many occasions, be owing\r\npartly to the same cause: but it may likewise be owing to the greater\r\nor smaller proportion of empty space comprehended within their\r\ndimensions, or intermixed with the solid parts which compose them. A\r\nbody which comprehended no empty space within its dimensions, which,\r\nthrough all its parts, was completely filled with the resisting\r\nsubstance, we are naturally disposed to conceive as something which\r\nwould be absolutely incompressible, and which would resist, with\r\nunconquerable force, every attempt to reduce it within narrower\r\ndimensions. If the solid and resisting substance, without moving out\r\nof its place, should admit into the same place another solid and\r\nresisting substance, it would from that moment, in our apprehension,\r\ncease to be a solid and resisting substance, and would no longer\r\nappear to possess that quality, by which alone it is made known to us,\r\nand which we therefore consider as constituting its nature and\r\nessence, and as altogether inseparable from it. Hence our notion of\r\nwhat has been called impenetrability of matter; or of the absolute\r\nimpossibility that two \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page443\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e443\u003c/span\u003e solid resisting substances should occupy\r\nthe same place at the same time.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThis doctrine, which is as old as Leucippus, Democritus, and\r\nEpicurus, was in the last century revived by Gassendi, and has since\r\nbeen adopted by Newton and the far greater part of his followers. It\r\nmay at present be considered as the established system, or as the\r\nsystem that is most in fashion, and most approved of by the greater\r\npart of the philosophers of Europe. Though it has been opposed by\r\nseveral puzzling arguments, drawn from that species of metaphysics\r\nwhich confounds every thing and explains nothing, it seems upon the\r\nwhole to be the most simple, the most distinct, and the most\r\ncomprehensible account that has yet been given of the phenomena which\r\nare meant to be explained by it. I shall only observe, that whatever\r\nsystem may be adopted concerning the hardness or softness, the\r\nfluidity or solidity, the compressibility or incompressibility of the\r\nresisting substance, the certainty of our distinct sense and feeling\r\nof its Externality, or of its entire independency upon the organ which\r\nperceives it, or by which we perceive it, cannot in the smallest\r\ndegree be affected by any such system. I shall not therefore attempt\r\nto give any further account of such systems.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHeat and cold being felt by almost every part of the human body,\r\nhave commonly been ranked along with solidity and resistance, among\r\nthe qualities which are the objects of Touch. It is not, however, I\r\nthink, in our language proper to say that we touch, but that we feel\r\nthe qualities of heat and cold. The word \u003ci\u003efeeling\u003c/i\u003e, though in\r\nmany cases we use it as synonymous to \u003ci\u003etouching\u003c/i\u003e, has, however, a\r\nmuch more extensive signification, and is frequently employed to\r\ndenote our internal, as well as our external, affections. We feel\r\nhunger and thirst, we feel joy and sorrow, we feel love and\r\nhatred.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHeat and cold, in reality, though they may frequently be perceived\r\nby the same parts of the human body, constitute an order of sensations\r\naltogether different from those which are the proper objects of Touch.\r\nThey are naturally felt, not as pressing upon the organ, but as in the\r\norgan. What we feel while we stand in the sunshine during a hot, or in\r\nthe shade during a frosty, day, is evidently felt, not as pressing\r\nupon the body, but as in the body. It does not necessarily suggest the\r\npresence of any external object, nor could we from thence alone infer\r\nthe existence of any such object. It is a sensation which neither does\r\nnor can exist any where but either in the organ which feels it, or in\r\nthe unknown principle of perception, whatever that may be, which feels\r\nin that organ, or by means of that organ. When we lay our hand upon a\r\ntable, which is either heated or cooled a good deal beyond the actual\r\ntemperature of our hand, we have two distinct perceptions: first, that\r\nof the solid or resisting table, which is necessarily felt as\r\nsomething external to, and independent of, the hand which feels it;\r\nand secondly, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e444\u003c/span\u003e that of the heat or cold, which by the contact of\r\nthe table is excited in our hand, and which is naturally felt as\r\nnowhere but in our hand, or in the principle of perception which feels\r\nin our hand.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though the sensations of heat and cold do not necessarily\r\nsuggest the presence of any external object, we soon learn from\r\nexperience that they are commonly excited by some such object:\r\nsometimes by the temperature of some external body immediately in\r\ncontact with our own body, and sometimes by some body at either a\r\nmoderate or a great distance from us; as by the fire in a chamber, or\r\nby the sun in a summer’s day. By the frequency and uniformity of this\r\nexperience, by the custom and habit of thought which that frequency\r\nand uniformity necessarily occasion, the Internal Sensation, and the\r\nExternal Cause of that Sensation, come in our conception to be so\r\nstrictly connected, that in our ordinary and careless way of thinking,\r\nwe are apt to consider them as almost one and the same thing, and\r\ntherefore denote them by one and the same word. The confusion,\r\nhowever, is in this case more in the word than in the thought; for in\r\nreality we still retain some notion of the distinction, though we do\r\nnot always evolve it with that accuracy which a very slight degree of\r\nattention might enable us to do. When we move our hand, for example,\r\nalong the surface of a very hot or of a very cold table, though we say\r\nthat the table is hot or cold in every part of it, we never mean that,\r\nin any part of it, it feels the sensations either of heat or of cold,\r\nbut that in every part of it, it possesses the power of exciting one\r\nor other of those sensations in our bodies. The philosophers who have\r\ntaken so much pains to prove that there is no heat in the fire,\r\nmeaning that the sensation or feeling of heat is not in the fire, have\r\nlaboured to refute an opinion which the most ignorant of mankind never\r\nentertained. But the same word being, in common language, employed to\r\nsignify both the sensation and the power of exciting that sensation,\r\nthey, without knowing it perhaps, or intending it, have taken\r\nadvantage of this ambiguity, and have triumphed in their own\r\nsuperiority, when by irresistible arguments they establish an opinion\r\nwhich, in words indeed, is diametrically opposite to the most obvious\r\njudgments of mankind, but which in reality is perfectly agreeable to\r\nthose judgments.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page444\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ci\u003eOf the Sense of\u003c/i\u003e T\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eASTING\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eW\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHEN\u003c/span\u003e we taste any solid or liquid substance, we have always two\r\ndistinct perceptions: first, that of the solid or liquid body, which\r\nis naturally felt as pressing upon, and therefore as external to, and\r\nindependent of, the organ which feels it; and secondly, that of\r\nparticular taste, relish, or savour which it excites in the palate or\r\norgan of Tasting, and which is naturally felt, not as pressing upon,\r\nas external to, or as independent of, that organ; but as altogether in\r\nthe organ, and nowhere but in the organ, or in the principle of\r\nperception which feels in \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e445\u003c/span\u003e that organ. When we say that the food\r\nwhich we eat has an agreeable or disagreeable taste in every part of\r\nit, we do not thereby mean that it has the feeling or sensation of\r\ntaste in any part of it, but that in every part of it, it has the\r\npower of exciting that feeling or sensation in our palates. Though in\r\nthis case we denote by the same word (in the same manner, and for the\r\nsame reason, as in the case of heat and cold) both the sensation and\r\nthe power of exciting that sensation, this ambiguity of language\r\nmisleads the natural judgments of mankind in the one case as little as\r\nin the other. Nobody ever fancies that our food feels its own\r\nagreeable or disagreeable taste.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page445\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ci\u003eOf the Sense of\u003c/i\u003e S\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eMELLING\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eE\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eVERY\u003c/span\u003e smell or odour is naturally felt as in the nostrils; not as\r\npressing upon or resisting the organ, not as in any respect external\r\nto, or independent of, the organ, but as altogether in the organ, and\r\nnowhere else but in the organ, or in the principle of perception which\r\nfeels in that organ. We soon learn from experience, however, that this\r\nsensation is commonly excited by some external body; by a flower, for\r\nexample, of which the absence removes, and the presence brings back,\r\nthe sensation. This external body we consider as the cause of this\r\nsensation, and we denominate by the same words both the sensation and\r\nthe power by which the external body produces this sensation. But when\r\nwe say that the smell is in the flower, we do not thereby mean that\r\nthe flower itself has any feeling of the sensation which we feel; but\r\nthat it has the power of exciting this sensation in our nostrils, or\r\nin the principle of perception which feels in our nostrils. Though\r\nthis sensation, and the power by which it is excited, are thus denoted\r\nby the same word, this ambiguity of language misleads, in this case,\r\nthe natural judgments of mankind as little as in the two\r\npreceding.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page445a\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ci\u003eOf the Sense of\u003c/i\u003e H\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEARING\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eE\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eVERY\u003c/span\u003e sound is naturally felt as in the Ear, the organ of Hearing.\r\nSound is not naturally felt as resisting or pressing upon the organ,\r\nor as in any respect external to, or independent of, the organ. We\r\nnaturally feel it as an affection of our Ear, as something which is\r\naltogether in our Ear, and nowhere but in our Ear, or in the principle\r\nof perception which feels in our Ear. We soon learn from experience,\r\nindeed, that the sensation is frequently excited by bodies at a\r\nconsiderable distance from us; often at a much greater distance, than\r\nthose ever are which excite the sensation of Smelling. We learn too\r\nfrom experience that this sound or sensation in our Ears receives\r\ndifferent modifications, according to the distance and direction of\r\nthe body which originally causes it. The sensation is stronger, the\r\nsound is louder, when that body is near. The sensation is weaker, the\r\nsound is lower, when that body is at a distance. The sound, or\r\nsensation, too undergoes some \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page446\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e446\u003c/span\u003e variation according as the body is\r\nplaced on the right hand or on the left, before or behind us. In\r\ncommon language we frequently say, that the sound seems to come from a\r\ngreat or from a small distance, from the right hand or from the left,\r\nfrom before or from behind us. We frequently say too that we hear a\r\nsound at a great or small distance, on our right hand or on our left.\r\nThe real sound, however, the sensation in our ear, can never be heard\r\nor felt any where but in our ear, it can never change its place, it is\r\nincapable of motion, and can come, therefore, neither from the right\r\nnor from the left, neither from before nor from behind us. The Ear can\r\nfeel or hear nowhere but where it is, and cannot stretch out its\r\npowers of perception, either to a great or to a small distance, either\r\nto the right or to the left. By all such phrases we in reality mean\r\nnothing but to express our opinion concerning either the distance or\r\nthe direction of the body which excites the sensation of sound. When\r\nwe say that the sound is in the bell, we do not mean that the bell\r\nhears its own sound, or that any thing like our sensation is in the\r\nbell, but that it possesses the power of exciting that sensation in\r\nour organ of Hearing. Though in this, as well as in some other cases,\r\nwe express by the same word, both the Sensation, and the Power of\r\nexciting that Sensation; this ambiguity of language occasions scarce\r\nany confusion in the thought, and when the different meanings of the\r\nword are properly distinguished, the opinions of the vulgar, and those\r\nof the philosopher, though apparently opposite, on examination turn\r\nout to be exactly the same.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThese four classes of secondary qualities, as philosophers have\r\ncalled them, or to speak more properly, these four classes of\r\nSensations; Heat and Cold, Taste, Smell, and Sound; being felt, not as\r\nresisting or pressing upon the organ, but as in the organ, are not\r\nnaturally perceived as external and independent substances; or even as\r\nqualities of such substances; but as mere affections of the organ, and\r\nwhat can exist nowhere but in the organ.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThey do not possess, nor can we even conceive them as capable of\r\npossessing, any one of the qualities, which we consider as essential\r\nto, and inseparable from, external solid and independent\r\nsubstances.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFirst, They have no extension. They are neither long nor short;\r\nthey are neither broad nor narrow; they are neither deep nor shallow.\r\nThe bodies which excite them, the spaces within which they may be\r\nperceived, may possess any of those dimensions; but the Sensations\r\nthemselves can possess none of them. When we say of a Note in Music,\r\nthat it is long or short, we mean that it is so in point of duration.\r\nIn point of extension we cannot even conceive, that it should be\r\neither the one or the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSecondly, Those Sensations have no figure. They are neither round\r\nnor square, though the bodies which excite them, though the spaces\r\nwithin which they may be perceived, may be either the one or the\r\nother.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page447\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e447\u003c/span\u003e Thirdly, Those Sensations are incapable of motion. The bodies\r\nwhich excite them may be moved to a greater or to a smaller distance.\r\nThe Sensations become fainter in the one case, and stronger in the\r\nother. Those bodies may change their direction with regard to the\r\norgan of Sensation. If the change be considerable, the Sensations\r\nundergo some sensible variation in consequence of it. But still we\r\nnever ascribe motion to the Sensations. Even when the person who feels\r\nany of those Sensations, and consequently the organ by which he feels\r\nthem, changes his situation, we never, even in this case, say, that\r\nthe Sensation moves, or is moved. It seems to exist always, where\r\nalone it is capable of existing, in the organ which feels it. We never\r\neven ascribe to those Sensations the attribute of rest; because we\r\nnever say that any thing is at rest, unless we suppose it capable of\r\nmotion. We never say that any thing does not change its situation with\r\nregard to other things, unless we can suppose it to be capable of\r\nchanging that situation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eFourthly, Those Sensations, as they have no extension, so they can\r\nhave no divisibility. We cannot even conceive that a degree of Heat or\r\nCold, that a Smell, a Taste, or a Sound, should be divided (in the\r\nsame manner as the solid and extended substance may be divided) into\r\ntwo halves, or into four quarters, or into any number of parts.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though all these Sensations are equally incapable of division;\r\nthere are three of them, Taste, Smell, and Sound; which seem capable\r\nof a certain composition and decomposition. A skilful cook will, by\r\nhis taste, perhaps, sometimes distinguish the different ingredients,\r\nwhich enter into the composition of a new sauce, and of which the\r\nsimple tastes make up the compound one of the sauce. A skilful\r\nperfumer may, perhaps, sometimes be able to do the same thing with\r\nregard to a new scent. In a concert of vocal and instrumental music,\r\nan acute and experienced Ear readily distinguishes all the different\r\nsounds which strike upon it at the same time, and which may,\r\ntherefore, be considered as making up one compound sound.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIs it by nature, or by experience, that we learn to distinguish\r\nbetween simple and compound Sensations of this kind? I am disposed to\r\nbelieve that it is altogether by experience; and that naturally all\r\nTastes, Smells, and Sounds, which affect the organ of Sensation at the\r\nsame time, are felt as simple and uncompounded Sensations. It is\r\naltogether by experience, I think, that we learn to observe the\r\ndifferent affinities and resemblances which the compound Sensation\r\nbears to the different simple ones, which compose it, and to judge\r\nthat the different causes, which excite those different simple\r\nSensations, enter into the composition of that cause which excites the\r\ncompounded one.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is sufficiently evident that this composition and decomposition\r\nis altogether different from that union and separation of parts, which\r\nconstitutes the divisibility of solid extension.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page448\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e448\u003c/span\u003e The Sensations of Heat and Cold seem incapable even of this\r\nspecies of composition and decomposition. The Sensations of Heat and\r\nCold may be stronger at one time and weaker at another. They may\r\ndiffer in degree, but they cannot differ in kind. The Sensations of\r\nTaste, Smell, and Sound, frequently differ, not only in degree, but in\r\nkind. They are not only stronger and weaker, but some Tastes are sweet\r\nand some bitter; some Smells are agreeable, and some offensive; some\r\nSounds are acute, and some grave; and each of these different kinds or\r\nqualities, too, is capable of an immense variety of modifications. It\r\nis the combination of such simple Sensations, as differ not only in\r\ndegree but in kind, which constitutes the compounded Sensation.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThese four classes of Sensations, therefore, having none of the\r\nqualities which are essential to, and inseparable from, the solid,\r\nexternal, and independent substances which excite them, cannot be\r\nqualities or modifications of those substances. In reality we do not\r\nnaturally consider them as such; though in the way in which we express\r\nourselves on the subject, there is frequently a good deal of ambiguity\r\nand confusion. When the different meanings of words, however, are\r\nfairly distinguished, these Sensations are, even by the most ignorant\r\nand illiterate, understood to be, not the qualities, but merely the\r\neffects of the solid, external, and independent substances upon the\r\nsensible and living organ, or upon the principle of perception which\r\nfeels in that organ.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePhilosophers, however, have not in general supposed that those\r\nexciting bodies produce those Sensations immediately, but by the\r\nintervention of one, two, or more intermediate causes.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the Sensation of Taste, for example, though the exciting body\r\npresses upon the organ of Sensation, this pressure is not supposed to\r\nbe the immediate cause of the Sensation of Taste. Certain juices of\r\nthe exciting body are supposed to enter the pores of the palate, and\r\nto excite, in the irritable and sensible fibres of that organ, certain\r\nmotions or vibrations, which produce there the Sensation of Taste. But\r\nhow those juices should excite such motions, or how such motions\r\nshould produce, either in the organ, or in the principle of\r\nperception which feels in the organ, the Sensation of Taste; or a\r\nSensation, which not only does not bear the smallest resemblance to\r\nany motion, but which itself seems incapable of all motion, no\r\nphilosopher has yet attempted, nor probably ever will attempt, to\r\nexplain to us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Sensations of Heat and Cold, of Smell and Sound, are frequently\r\nexcited by bodies at a distance, sometimes at a great distance, from\r\nthe organ which feels them. But it is a very ancient and\r\nwell-established axiom in metaphysics, that nothing can act where it\r\nis not; and this axiom, it must, I think, be acknowledged, is at\r\nleast perfectly agreeable to our natural and usual habits of\r\nthinking.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Sun, the great source of both Heat and Light, is at an immense\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page449\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e449\u003c/span\u003e distance from us. His rays, however (traversing, with\r\ninconceivable rapidity, the immensity of the intervening regions), as\r\nthey convey the Sensation of Light to our eyes, so they convey that of\r\nHeat to all the sensible parts of our body. They even convey the power\r\nof exciting that Sensation to all the other bodies that surround us.\r\nThey warm the earth and air, we say; that is, they convey to the earth\r\nand the air the power of exciting that Sensation in our bodies. A\r\ncommon fire produces, in the same manner, all the same effects; though\r\nthe sphere of its action is confined within much narrower limits.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe odoriferous body, which is generally too at some distance from\r\nus, is supposed to act upon our organs by means of certain small\r\nparticles of matter, called Effluvia, which being sent forth in all\r\npossible directions, and drawn into our nostrils by the inspiration of\r\nbreathing, produce there the Sensation of Smell. The minuteness of\r\nthose small particles of matter, however, must surpass all human\r\ncomprehension. Inclose in a gold box, for a few hours, a small\r\nquantity of musk. Take out the musk, and clean the box with soap and\r\nwater as carefully as it is possible. Nothing can be supposed to\r\nremain in the box, but such effluvia as, having penetrated into its\r\ninterior pores, may have escaped the effects of this cleansing. The\r\nbox, however, will retain the smell of musk for many, I do not know\r\nfor how many years; and these effluvia, how minute soever we may\r\nsuppose them, must have had the powers of subdividing themselves, and\r\nof emitting other effluvia of the same kind, continually, and without\r\nany interruption, during so long a period. The nicest balance,\r\nhowever, which human art has ever been able to invent, will not show\r\nthe smallest increase of weight in the gold box immediately after it\r\nhas been thus carefully cleaned.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Sensation of Sound is frequently felt at a much greater\r\ndistance from the sounding, than that of Smell ever is from the\r\nodoriferous body. The vibrations of the sounding body, however, are\r\nsupposed to produce certain correspondent vibrations and pulses in the\r\nsurrounding atmosphere, which being propagated in all directions,\r\nreach our organ of Hearing, and produce there the Sensation of Sound.\r\nThere are not many philosophical doctrines, perhaps, established upon\r\na more probable foundation, than that of the propagation of Sound by\r\nmeans of the pulses or vibrations of the air. The experiment of the\r\nbell, which, in an exhausted receiver, produces no sensible Sound,\r\nwould alone render this doctrine somewhat more than probable. But this\r\ngreat probability is still further confirmed by the computations of\r\nSir Isaac Newton, who has shown that, what is called the velocity of\r\nSound, or the time which passes between the commencement of the action\r\nof the sounding body, and that of the Sensation in our ear, is\r\nperfectly suitable to the velocity with which the pulses and\r\nvibrations of an elastic fluid of the same density with the air, are\r\nnaturally propagated. Dr. \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e450\u003c/span\u003e Benjamin Franklin has made objections\r\nto this doctrine, but, I think, without success.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eSuch are the intermediate causes by which philosophers have\r\nendeavoured to connect the Sensation in our organs, with the distant\r\nbodies which excite them. How those intermediate causes, by the\r\ndifferent motions and vibrations which they may be supposed to excite\r\non our organs, produce there those different Sensations, none of which\r\nbear the smallest resemblance to vibration or motion of any kind, no\r\nphilosopher has yet attempted to explain to us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"center\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page450\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e\u003ci\u003eOf the Sense of\u003c/i\u003e S\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eEEING\u003c/span\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eD\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eR.\u003c/span\u003e B\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eERKLEY\u003c/span\u003e, in his New Theory of Vision, one of the finest\r\nexamples of philosophical analysis that is to be found, either in our\r\nown, or in any other language, has explained, so very distinctly, the\r\nnature of the objects of Sight: their dissimilitude to, as well as\r\ntheir correspondence and connection with those of Touch, that I have\r\nscarcely any thing to add to what he has already done. It is only in\r\norder to render some things, which I shall have occasion to say\r\nhereafter, intelligible to such readers as may not have had an\r\nopportunity of studying his book, that I have presumed to treat of the\r\nsame subject, after so great a master. Whatever I shall say upon it,\r\nif not directly borrowed from Dr. Berkley, has at least been suggested\r\nby what he has already said.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat the objects of Sight are not perceived as resisting or\r\npressing upon the organ which perceives them, is sufficiently obvious.\r\nThey cannot therefore suggest, at least in the same manner as the\r\nobjects of Touch, their externality and independency of existence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWe are apt, however, to imagine that we see objects at a distance\r\nfrom us, and that consequently the externality of their existence is\r\nimmediately perceived by our sight. But if we consider that the\r\ndistance of any object from the eye, is a line turned endways to it;\r\nand that this line must consequently appear to it, but as one point;\r\nwe shall be sensible that distance from the eye cannot be the\r\nimmediate object of Sight, but that all visible objects must naturally\r\nbe perceived as close upon the organ, or more properly, perhaps, like\r\nall other Sensations, as in the organ which perceives them. That the\r\nobjects of Sight are all painted in the bottom of the eye, upon a\r\nmembrane called the \u003ci\u003eretina\u003c/i\u003e, pretty much in the same manner as\r\nthe like objects are painted in a Camera Obscura, is well known to\r\nwhoever has the slightest tincture of the science of Optics: and the\r\nprinciple of perception, it is probable, originally perceives them, as\r\nexisting in that part of the organ, and nowhere but in that part of\r\nthe organ. No optician, accordingly, no person who has ever bestowed\r\nany moderate degree of attention upon the nature of Vision, has ever\r\npretended that distance from the eye was the immediate object of\r\nSight. How it is that, by \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page451\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e451\u003c/span\u003e means of our Sight we learn to judge\r\nof such distances Opticians have endeavoured to explain in several\r\ndifferent ways. I shall not, however, at present, stop to examine\r\ntheir systems.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe objects of Touch are solidity, and those modifications of\r\nsolidity which we consider as essential to it, and inseparable from\r\nit; solid extension, figure, divisibility, and mobility.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe objects of Sight are colour, and those modifications of colour\r\nwhich, in the same manner, we consider as essential to it, and\r\ninseparable from it; coloured extension, figure, divisibility, and\r\nmobility. When we open our eyes, the sensible coloured objects, which\r\npresent themselves to us, must all have a certain extension, or must\r\noccupy a certain portion of the visible surface which appears before\r\nus. They must too have all a certain figure, or must be bounded by\r\ncertain visible lines, which mark upon that surface the extent of\r\ntheir respective dimensions. Every sensible portion of this visible or\r\ncoloured extension must be conceived as divisible, or as separable\r\ninto two, three, or more parts. Every portion too of this visible or\r\ncoloured surface must be conceived as moveable, or as capable of\r\nchanging its situation, and of assuming a different arrangement with\r\nregard to the other portions of the same surface.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eColour, the visible, bears no resemblance to solidity, the tangible\r\nobject. A man born blind, or who has lost his sight so early as to\r\nhave no remembrance of visible objects, can form no idea or conception\r\nof colour. Touch alone can never help him to it. I have heard, indeed,\r\nof some persons who had lost their sight after the age of manhood, and\r\nwho had learned to distinguish by the touch alone, the different\r\ncolours of cloths or silks, the goods which it happened to be their\r\nbusiness to deal in. The powers by which different bodies excite in\r\nthe organs of Sight the Sensations of different colours, probably\r\ndepend upon some difference in the nature, configuration, and\r\narrangement of the parts which compose their respective surfaces. This\r\ndifference may, to a very nice and delicate touch, make some\r\ndifference in the feeling, sufficient to enable a person, much\r\ninterested in the case, to make this distinction in some degree,\r\nthough probably in a very imperfect and inaccurate one. A man born\r\nblind might possibly be taught to make the same distinctions. But\r\nthough he might thus be able to name the different colours, which\r\nthose different surfaces reflected, though he might thus have some\r\nimperfect notion of the remote causes of the Sensations, he could have\r\nno better idea of the Sensations themselves, than that other blind\r\nman, mentioned by Mr. Locke, had, who said that he imagined the Colour\r\nof Scarlet resembled the Sound of a Trumpet. A man born deaf may, in\r\nthe same manner, be taught to speak articulately. He is taught how to\r\nshape and dispose of his organs, so as to pronounce each letter,\r\nsyllable, and word. But still, though he may have some imperfect idea\r\nof the remote causes of \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page452\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e452\u003c/span\u003e the Sounds which he himself utters, of\r\nthe remote causes of the Sensations which he himself excites in other\r\npeople; he can have none of those Sounds or Sensations themselves.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIf it were possible, in the same manner, that a man could be born\r\nwithout the Sense of Touching, that of Seeing could never alone\r\nsuggest to him the idea of Solidity, or enable him to form any notion\r\nof the external and resisting substance. It is probable, however, not\r\nonly that no man, but that no animal was ever born without the Sense\r\nof Touching, which seems essential to, and inseparable from, the\r\nnature of animal life and existence. It is unnecessary, therefore, to\r\nthrow away any reasoning, or to hazard any conjectures, about what\r\nmight be the effects of what I look upon as altogether an impossible\r\nsupposition. The eye when pressed upon by any external and solid\r\nsubstance, feels, no doubt, that pressure and resistance, and suggests\r\nto us (in the same manner as every other feeling part of the body) the\r\nexternal and independent existence of that solid substance. But in\r\nthis case, the eye acts, not as the organ of Sight, but as an organ of\r\nTouch; for the eye possesses the Sense of Touching in common with\r\nalmost all the other parts of the body.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe extension, figure, divisibility, and mobility of Colour, the\r\nsole object of Sight, though, on account of their correspondence and\r\nconnection with the extension, figure, divisibility, and mobility of\r\nSolidity, they are called by the same name, yet seem to bear no sort\r\nof resemblance to their namesakes. As Colour and Solidity bear no sort\r\nof resemblance to one another, so neither can their respective\r\nmodifications. Dr. Berkley very justly observes, that though we can\r\nconceive either a coloured or a solid line to be prolonged\r\nindefinitely, yet we cannot conceive the one to be added to the other.\r\nWe cannot, even in imagination, conceive an object of Touch to be\r\nprolonged into an object of Sight, or an object of Sight into an\r\nobject of Touch. The objects of Sight and those of Touch constitute\r\ntwo worlds, which, though they have a most important correspondence\r\nand connection with one another, bear no sort of resemblance to one\r\nanother. The tangible world, as well as all the different parts which\r\ncompose it, has three dimensions, Length, Breadth, and Depth. The\r\nvisible world, as well as all the different parts which compose it,\r\nhas only two, Length and Breadth. It presents to us only a plain or\r\nsurface, which, by certain shades and combinations of Colour, suggests\r\nand represents to us (in the same manner as a picture does) certain\r\ntangible objects which have no Colour, and which therefore can bear no\r\nresemblance to those shades and combinations of Colour. Those shades\r\nand combinations suggest those different tangible objects as at\r\ndifferent distances, according to certain rules of Perspective, which\r\nit is, perhaps, not very easy to say how it is that we learn, whether\r\nby some particular instinct, or by some application of either reason\r\nor experience, which \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page453\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e453\u003c/span\u003e has become so perfectly habitual to us,\r\nthat we are scarcely sensible when we make use of it.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe distinctness of this Perspective, the precision and accuracy\r\nwith which, by means of it, we are capable of judging concerning the\r\ndistance of different tangible objects, is greater or less, exactly in\r\nproportion as this distinctness, as this precision and accuracy, are\r\nof more or less importance to us. We can judge of the distance of near\r\nobjects, of the chairs and tables for example, in the chamber where we\r\nare sitting, with the most perfect precision and accuracy; and if in\r\nbroad daylight we ever stumble over any of them, it must be, not from\r\nany error in the Sight, but from some defect in the attention. The\r\nprecision and accuracy of our judgment concerning such near objects\r\nare of the utmost importance to us, and constitute the great advantage\r\nwhich a man who sees has over one who is unfortunately blind. As the\r\ndistance increases, the distinctness of this Perspective, the\r\nprecision and accuracy of our judgment gradually diminish. Of the\r\ntangible objects which are even at the moderate distance of one, two,\r\nor three miles from the eye, we are frequently at a loss to determine\r\nwhich is nearest, and which remotest. It is seldom of much importance\r\nto us to judge with precision concerning the situation of the tangible\r\nobjects which are even at this moderate distance. As the distance\r\nincreases, our judgments become more and more uncertain; and at a very\r\ngreat distance, such as that of the fixed stars, it becomes altogether\r\nuncertain. The most precise knowledge of the relative situation of\r\nsuch objects could be of no other use to the enquirer than to satisfy\r\nthe most unnecessary curiosity.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe distances at which different men can by Sight distinguish, with\r\nsome degree of precision, the situation of the tangible objects which\r\nthe visible ones represent, is very different; and this difference,\r\nthough it, no doubt, may sometimes depend upon some difference in the\r\noriginal configuration of their eyes, yet seems frequently to arise\r\naltogether from the different customs and habits which their\r\nrespective occupations have led them to contract. Men of letters, who\r\nlive much in their closets, and have seldom occasion to look at very\r\ndistant objects, are seldom far-sighted. Mariners, on the contrary,\r\nalmost always are; those especially who have made many distant\r\nvoyages, in which they have been the greater part of their time out of\r\nsight of land, and have in daylight been constantly looking out\r\ntowards the horizon for the appearance of some ship, or of some\r\ndistant shore. It often astonishes a landsman to observe with what\r\nprecision a sailor can distinguish in the offing, not only the\r\nappearance of a ship which is altogether invisible to the landsman,\r\nbut the number of her masts, the direction of her course, and the rate\r\nof her sailing. If she is a ship of his acquaintance, he frequently\r\ncan tell her name, before the landsman has been able to discover even\r\nthe appearance of a ship.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page454\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e454\u003c/span\u003e Visible objects, Colour, and all its different modifications,\r\nare in themselves mere shadows or pictures, which seem to float, as it\r\nwere, before the organ of Sight. In themselves, and independent of\r\ntheir connection with the tangible objects which they represent, they\r\nare of no importance to us, and can essentially neither benefit us\r\nnor hurt us. Even while we see them we are seldom thinking of them.\r\nEven when we appear to be looking at them with the greatest\r\nearnestness, our whole attention is frequently employed, not upon\r\nthem, but upon the tangible objects represented by them.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is because almost our whole attention is employed, not upon the\r\nvisible and representing, but upon the tangible and represented\r\nobjects, that in our imaginations we are apt to ascribe to the former\r\na degree of magnitude which does not belong to them, but which belongs\r\naltogether to the latter. If you shut one eye, and hold immediately\r\nbefore the other a small circle of plain glass, of not more than half\r\nan inch in diameter, you may see through that circle the most\r\nextensive prospects; lawns and woods, and arms of the sea, and distant\r\nmountains. You are apt to imagine that the Landscape which is thus\r\npresented to you, that the visible Picture which you thus see, is\r\nimmensely great and extensive. The tangible objects which this visible\r\nPicture represents, undoubtedly are so. But the visible Picture which\r\nrepresents them can be no greater than the little visible circle\r\nthrough which you see it. If while you are looking through this\r\ncircle, you could conceive a fairy hand and a fairy pencil to come\r\nbetween your eye and the glass, that pencil could delineate upon that\r\nlittle glass the outline of all those extensive lawns and woods, and\r\narms of the sea, and distant mountains, in the full and the exact\r\ndimensions with which they are really seen by the naked eye.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eEvery visible object which covers from the eye any other visible\r\nobject, must appear at least as large as that other visible object. It\r\nmust occupy at least an equal portion of that visible plain or surface\r\nwhich is at that time presented to the eye. Opticians accordingly tell\r\nus, that all the visible objects which are seen under equal angles\r\nmust to the eye appear equally large. But the visible object, which\r\ncovers from the eye any other visible object, must necessarily be seen\r\nunder angles at least equally large as those under which that other\r\nobject is seen. When I hold up my finger, however, before my eye, it\r\nappears to cover the greater part of the visible chamber in which I am\r\nsitting. It should therefore appear as large as the greater part of\r\nthat visible chamber. But because I know that the tangible finger\r\nbears but a very small proportion to the greater part of the tangible\r\nchamber, I am apt to fancy that the visible finger bears but a like\r\nproportion to the greater part of the visible chamber. My judgment\r\ncorrects my eyesight, and, in my fancy, reduces the visible object,\r\nwhich represents the little tangible one, below its real visible\r\ndimensions; and, on the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page455\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e455\u003c/span\u003e contrary, it augments the visible object\r\nwhich represents the great tangible one a good deal beyond those\r\ndimensions. My attention being generally altogether occupied about the\r\ntangible and represented, and not at all about the visible and\r\nrepresenting objects, my careless fancy bestows upon the latter a\r\nproportion which does not in the least belong to them, but which\r\nbelongs altogether to the former.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt is because the visible object which covers any other visible\r\nobject must always appear at least as large as that other object, that\r\nopticians tell us that the sphere of our vision appears to the eye\r\nalways equally large; and that when we hold our hand before our eye in\r\nsuch a manner that we see nothing but the inside of the hand, we still\r\nsee precisely the same number of visible points, the sphere of our\r\nvision is still as completely filled, the retina of the eye is as\r\nentirely covered with the object which is thus presented to it, as\r\nwhen we survey the most extensive horizon.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eA young gentleman who was born with a cataract upon each of his\r\neyes, was, in one thousand seven hundred and twenty-eight, couched by\r\nMr. Cheselden, and by that means for the first time made to see\r\ndistinctly. ‘At first,’ says the operator, ‘he could bear but very\r\nlittle sight, and the things he saw he thought extremely large; but\r\nupon seeing things larger, those first seen he conceived less, never\r\nbeing able to imagine any lines beyond the bounds he saw; the room he\r\nwas in, he said, he knew to be but part of the house, yet he could not\r\nconceive that the whole house would look bigger.’ It was unavoidable\r\nthat he should at first conceive, that no visible object could be\r\ngreater, could present to his eye a greater number of visible points,\r\nor could more completely fill the comprehension of that organ, than\r\nthe narrowest sphere of his vision. And when that sphere came to be\r\nenlarged, he still could not conceive that the visible objects which\r\nit presented could be larger than those which he had first seen. He\r\nmust probably by this time have been in some degree habituated to the\r\nconnection between visible and tangible objects, and enabled to\r\nconceive that visible object to be small which represented a small\r\ntangible object; and that to be great, which represented a great one.\r\nThe great objects did not appear to his sight greater than the small\r\nones had done before; but the small ones, which, having filled the\r\nwhole sphere of his vision, had before appeared as large as possible,\r\nbeing now known to represent much smaller tangible objects, seemed in\r\nhis conception to grow smaller. He had begun now to employ his\r\nattention more about the tangible and represented, than about the\r\nvisible and representing objects; and he was beginning to ascribe to\r\nthe latter the proportions and dimensions which properly belonged\r\naltogether to the former.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eAs we frequently ascribe to the objects of Sight a magnitude and\r\nproportion which does not really belong to them, but to the objects of\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page456\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e456\u003c/span\u003e Touch which they represent, so we likewise ascribe to them a\r\nsteadiness of appearance, which as little belongs to them, but which\r\nthey derive altogether from their connection with the same objects of\r\nTouch. The chair which now stands at the farther end of the room, I am\r\napt to imagine, appears to my eye as large as it did when it stood\r\nclose by me, when it was seen under angles at least four times larger\r\nthan those under which it is seen at present, and when it must have\r\noccupied, at least, sixteen times that portion which it occupies at\r\npresent, of the visible plain or surface which is now before my eyes.\r\nBut as I know that the magnitude of the tangible and represented\r\nchair, the principal object of my attention, is the same in both\r\nsituations, I ascribe to the visible and representing chair (though\r\nnow reduced to less than the sixteenth part of its former dimensions)\r\na steadiness of appearance, which certainly belongs not in any respect\r\nto it, but altogether to the tangible and represented one. As we\r\napproach to, or retire from, the tangible object which any visible one\r\nrepresents, the visible object gradually augments in the one case, and\r\ndiminishes in the other. To speak accurately, it is not the same\r\nvisible object which we see at different distances, but a succession\r\nof visible objects, which, though they all resemble one another, those\r\nespecially which follow near after one another; yet are all really\r\ndifferent and distinct. But as we know that the tangible object which\r\nthey represent remains always the same, we ascribe to them too a\r\nsameness which belongs altogether to it: and we fancy that we see the\r\nsame tree at a mile, at half a mile, and at a few yards distance. At\r\nthose different distances, however, the visible objects are so very\r\nwidely different, that we are sensible of a change in their\r\nappearance. But still, as the tangible objects which they represent\r\nremain invariably the same, we ascribe a sort of sameness even to them\r\ntoo.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt has been said, that no man ever saw the same visible object\r\ntwice; and this, though, no doubt, an exaggeration, is, in reality,\r\nmuch less so than at first view it appears to be. Though I am apt to\r\nfancy that all the chairs and tables, and other little pieces of\r\nfurniture in the room where I am sitting, appear to my eye always the\r\nsame, yet their appearance is in reality continually varying, not only\r\naccording to every variation in their situation and distance with\r\nregard to where I am sitting, but according to every, even the most\r\ninsensible variation in the altitude of my body, in the movement of my\r\nhead, or even in that of my eyes. The perspective necessarily varies\r\naccording to all even the smallest of these variations; and\r\nconsequently the appearance of the objects which that perspective\r\npresents to me. Observe what difficulty a portrait painter finds, in\r\ngetting the person who sits for his picture to present to him\r\nprecisely that view of the countenance from which the first outline\r\nwas drawn. The painter is scarce ever completely satisfied with the\r\nsituation of the face which is presented to \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page457\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e457\u003c/span\u003e him, and finds that\r\nit is scarcely ever precisely the same with that from which he rapidly\r\nsketched the first outline. He endeavours, as well as he can, to\r\ncorrect the difference from memory, from fancy, and from a sort of art\r\nof approximation, by which he strives to express as nearly as he can,\r\nthe ordinary effect of the look, air, and character of the person\r\nwhose picture he is drawing. The person who draws from a statue, which\r\nis altogether immovable, feels a difficulty, though, no doubt, in a\r\nless degree, of the same kind. It arises altogether from the\r\ndifficulty which he finds in placing his own eye precisely in the same\r\nsituation during the whole time which he employs in completing his\r\ndrawing. This difficulty is more than doubled upon the painter who\r\ndraws from a living subject. The statue never is the cause of any\r\nvariation or unsteadiness in its own appearance. The living subject\r\nfrequently is.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe benevolent purpose of nature in bestowing upon us the sense of\r\nseeing, is evidently to inform us concerning the situation and\r\ndistance of the tangible objects which surround us. Upon the knowledge\r\nof this distance and situation depends the whole conduct of human\r\nlife, in the most trifling as well as in the most important\r\ntransactions. Even animal motion depends upon it; and without it we\r\ncould neither move, nor even sit still, with complete security. The\r\nobjects of sight, as Dr. Berkley finely observes, constitute a sort of\r\nlanguage which the Author of Nature addresses to our eyes, and by\r\nwhich he informs us of many things, which it is of the utmost\r\nimportance to us to know. As, in common language, the words or sounds\r\nbear no resemblance to the thing which they denote, so, in this other\r\nlanguage, the visible objects bear no sort of resemblance to the\r\ntangible object which they represent, and of whose relative situation,\r\nwith regard both to ourselves and to one another, they inform us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eHe acknowledges, however, that though scarcely any word be by\r\nnature better fitted to express one meaning than any other meaning,\r\nyet that certain visible objects are better fitted than others to\r\nrepresent certain tangible objects. A visible square, for example, is\r\nbetter fitted than a visible circle to represent a tangible square.\r\nThere is, perhaps, strictly speaking, no such thing as either a\r\nvisible cube, or a visible globe, the objects of sight being all\r\nnaturally presented to the eye as upon one surface. But still there\r\nare certain combinations of colours which are fitted to represent to\r\nthe eye, both the near and the distant, both the advancing and the\r\nreceding lines, angles, and surfaces of the tangible cube; and there\r\nare others fitted to represent, in the same manner, both the near and\r\nthe receding surface of the tangible globe. The combination which\r\nrepresents the tangible cube, would not be fit to represent the\r\ntangible globe; and that which represents the tangible globe, would\r\nnot be fit to represent the tangible cube. Though there may,\r\ntherefore, be no resemblance between visible and tangible \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page458\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e458\u003c/span\u003e\r\nobjects, there seems to be some affinity or correspondence between\r\nthem sufficient to make each visible object fitter to represent a\r\ncertain precise tangible object than any other tangible object. But\r\nthe greater part of words seem to have no sort of affinity or\r\ncorrespondence with the meanings or ideas which they express; and if\r\ncustom had so ordered it, they might with equal propriety have been\r\nmade use of to express any other meanings or ideas.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDr. Berkley, with that happiness of illustration which scarcely\r\never deserts him, remarks, that this in reality is no more than what\r\nhappens in common language; and that though letters bear no sort of\r\nresemblance to the words which they denote, yet that the same\r\ncombination of letters which represents one word, would not always be\r\nfit to represent another; and that each word is always best\r\nrepresented by its own proper combination of letters. The comparison,\r\nhowever, it must be observed, is here totally changed. The connection\r\nbetween visible and tangible objects was first illustrated by\r\ncomparing it with that between spoken language and the meanings or\r\nideas which spoken language suggests to us; and it is now illustrated\r\nby the connection between written language and spoken language, which\r\nis altogether different. Even this second illustration, besides, will\r\nnot apply perfectly to the case. When custom, indeed has perfectly\r\nascertained the powers of each letter; when it has ascertained, for\r\nexample, that the first letter of the alphabet shall always represent\r\nsuch a sound, and the second letter such another sound; each word\r\ncomes then to be more properly represented by one certain combination\r\nof written letters or characters, than it could be by any other\r\ncombination. But still the characters themselves are altogether\r\narbitrary, and have no sort of affinity or correspondence with the\r\narticulate sounds which they denote. The character which marks the\r\nfirst letter of the alphabet, for example, if custom had so ordered\r\nit, might, with perfect propriety, have been made use of to express\r\nthe sound which we now annex to the second, and the character of the\r\nsecond to express that which we now annex to the first. But the\r\nvisible characters which represent to our eyes the tangible globe,\r\ncould not so well represent the tangible cube; nor could those which\r\nrepresent the tangible cube, so properly represent the tangible globe.\r\nThere is evidently, therefore, a certain affinity and correspondence\r\nbetween each visible object and the precise tangible object\r\nrepresented by it, much superior to what takes place either between\r\nwritten and spoken language, or between spoken language and the ideas\r\nor meanings which it suggests. The language which nature addresses to\r\nour eyes, has evidently a fitness of representation, an aptitude for\r\nsignifying the precise things which it denotes, much superior to that\r\nof any of the artificial languages which human art and ingenuity have\r\never been able to invent.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page459\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e459\u003c/span\u003e That this affinity and correspondence, however, between\r\nvisible and tangible objects could not alone, and without the\r\nassistance of observation and experience, teach us, by any effort of\r\nreason, to infer what was the precise tangible object which each\r\nvisible one represented, if it is not sufficiently evident from what\r\nhas been already said, it must be completely so from the remarks of\r\nMr. Cheselden upon the young gentleman above-mentioned, whom he had\r\ncouched for a cataract. ‘Though we say of this gentleman, that he was\r\nblind,’ observes Mr. Cheselden, ‘as we do of all people who have ripe\r\ncataracts; yet they are never so blind from that cause but that they\r\ncan discern day from night; and for the most part, in a strong light,\r\ndistinguish black, white, and scarlet; but they cannot perceive the\r\nshape of any thing; for the light by which these perceptions are made,\r\nbeing let in obliquely through aqueous humour, or the anterior surface\r\nof the crystalline, (by which the rays cannot be brought into a focus\r\nupon the retina,) they can discern in no other manner than a sound\r\neye can through a glass of broken jelly, where a great variety of\r\nsurfaces so differently refract the light, that the several distinct\r\npencils of rays cannot be collected by the eye into their proper foci;\r\nwherefore the shape of an object in such a case cannot be at all\r\ndiscerned though the colour may: and thus it was with this young\r\ngentleman, who, though he knew those colours asunder in a good light,\r\nyet when he saw them after he was couched, the faint ideas he had of\r\nthem before were not sufficient for him to know them by afterwards;\r\nand therefore he did not think them the same which he had before known\r\nby those names.’ This young gentleman, therefore, had some advantage\r\nover one who from a state of total blindness had been made for the\r\nfirst time to see. He had some imperfect notion of the distinction of\r\ncolours; and he must have known that those colours had some sort of\r\nconnection with the tangible objects which he had been accustomed to\r\nfeel. But had he emerged from total blindness, he could have learnt\r\nthis connection only from a very long course of observation and\r\nexperience. How little this advantage availed him, however, we may\r\nlearn partly from the passages of Mr. Cheselden’s narrative, already\r\nquoted, and still more from the following:\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e‘When he first saw,’ says that ingenious operator, ‘he was so far\r\nfrom making any judgment about distances, that he thought all objects\r\nwhatever touched his eyes (as he expressed) as what he felt did his\r\nskin; and thought no objects so agreeable as those which were smooth\r\nand regular, though he could form no judgment of their shape, or guess\r\nwhat it was in any object that was pleasing to him. He knew not the\r\nshape of any thing, nor any one thing from another, however different\r\nin shape or magnitude; but upon being told what things were, whose\r\nform he before knew from feeling, he would carefully observe, that he\r\nmight know them again; but having too many \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page460\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e460\u003c/span\u003e objects to learn at\r\nonce, he forgot many of them; and (as he said) at first learned to\r\nknow, and again forgot a thousand things in a day. One particular only\r\n(though it may appear trifling) I will relate: Having often forgot\r\nwhich was the cat and which was the dog, he was ashamed to ask; but\r\ncatching the cat (which he knew by feeling) he was observed to look at\r\nher steadfastly, and then setting her down, said, So, puss! I shall\r\nknow you another time.’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eWhen the young gentleman said, that the objects which he saw\r\ntouched his eyes, he certainly could not mean that they pressed upon\r\nor resisted his eyes; for the objects of sight never act upon the\r\norgan in any way that resembles pressure or resistance. He could mean\r\nno more than that they were close upon his eyes, or, to speak more\r\nproperly, perhaps, that they were in his eyes. A deaf man, who was\r\nmade all at once to hear, might in the same manner naturally enough\r\nsay, that the sounds which he heard touched his ears, meaning that he\r\nfelt them as close upon his ears, or, to speak perhaps more properly,\r\nas in his ears.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eMr. Cheselden adds afterwards: ‘We thought he soon knew what\r\npictures represented which were showed to him, but we found afterwards we were mistaken; for about two months after he was couched, he\r\ndiscovered at once they represented solid bodies, when to that time,\r\nhe considered them only as party-coloured planes, or surfaces\r\ndiversified with variety of paints; but even then he was no less\r\nsurprised, expecting the pictures would feel like the things they\r\nrepresented, and was amazed when he found those parts, which by their\r\nlight and shadow appeared now round and uneven, felt only flat like\r\nthe rest; and asked which was the lying sense, feeling or seeing?’\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003ePainting, though, by combinations of light and shade, similar to\r\nthose which Nature makes use of in the visible objects which she\r\npresents to our eyes, it endeavours to imitate those objects; yet it\r\nnever has been able to equal the perspective of Nature, or to give to\r\nits productions that force and distinctness of relief and rejection\r\nwhich Nature bestows upon hers. When the young gentleman was just\r\nbeginning to understand the strong and distinct perspective of Nature,\r\nthe faint and feeble perspective of Painting made no impression upon\r\nhim, and the picture appeared to him what it really was, a plain\r\nsurface bedaubed with different colours. When he became more familiar\r\nwith the perspective of Nature, the inferiority of that of Painting\r\ndid not hinder him from discovering its resemblance to that of Nature.\r\nIn the perspective of Nature, he had always found that the situation\r\nand distance of the tangible and represented objects, corresponded\r\nexactly to what the visible and representing ones suggested to him. He\r\nexpected to find the same thing in the similar, though inferior\r\nperspective of Painting, and was disappointed when he found that the\r\nvisible and tangible objects had not, in this case, their usual\r\ncorrespondence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page461\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e461\u003c/span\u003e ‘In a year after seeing,’ adds Mr. Cheselden, ‘the young\r\ngentleman being carried upon Epsom-downs, and observing a large\r\nprospect, he was exceedingly delighted with it, and called it a new\r\nkind of seeing.’ He had now, it is evident, come to understand\r\ncompletely the language of Vision. The visible objects which this\r\nnoble prospect presented to him did not now appear as touching, or as\r\nclose upon his eye. They did not now appear of the same magnitude with\r\nthose small objects to which, for some time after the operation, he\r\nhad been accustomed, in the little chamber where he was confined.\r\nThose new visible objects at once, and as it were of their own accord,\r\nassumed both the distance and the magnitude of the great tangible\r\nobjects which they represented. He had now, therefore, it would seem,\r\nbecome completely master of the language of Vision, and he had become\r\nso in the course of a year; a much shorter period than that in which\r\nany person, arrived at the age of manhood, could completely acquire\r\nany foreign language. It would appear too, that he had made very\r\nconsiderable progress even in the two first months. He began at that\r\nearly period to understand even the feeble perspective of Painting;\r\nand though at first he could not distinguish it from the strong\r\nperspective of Nature, yet he could not have been thus imposed upon by\r\nso imperfect an imitation, if the great principles of Vision had not\r\nbeforehand been deeply impressed upon his mind, and if he had not,\r\neither by the association of ideas, or by some other unknown\r\nprinciple, been strongly determined to expect certain tangible objects\r\nin consequence of the visible ones which had been presented to him.\r\nThis rapid progress, however, may, perhaps, be accounted for from that\r\nfitness of representation, which has already been taken notice of,\r\nbetween visible and tangible objects. In this language of Nature, it\r\nmay be said, the analogies are more perfect; the etymologies, the\r\ndeclensions, and conjugations, if one may say so, are more regular\r\nthan those of any human language. The rules are fewer, and those rules\r\nadmit of no exceptions.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut though it may have been altogether by the slow paces of\r\nobservation and experience that this young gentleman acquired the\r\nknowledge of the connection between visible and tangible objects; we\r\ncannot from thence with certainty infer, that young children have not\r\nsome instinctive perception of the same kind. In him this instinctive\r\npower, not having been exerted at the proper season, may, from disuse,\r\nhave gone gradually to decay, and at last have been completely\r\nobliterated. Or, perhaps (what seems likewise very possible), some\r\nfeeble and unobserved remains of it may have somewhat facilitated his\r\nacquisition of what he might otherwise have found it much more\r\ndifficult to acquire a knowledge of.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat, antecedent to all experience, the young of at least the\r\ngreater part of animals possess some instinctive perception of this\r\nkind, seems abundantly evident. The hen never feeds her young by\r\ndropping the \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page462\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e462\u003c/span\u003e food into their bills, as the linnet and thrush\r\nfeed theirs. Almost as soon as her chickens are hatched, she does not\r\nfeed them, but carries them to the field to feed, where they walk\r\nabout at their ease, it would seem, and appear to have the most\r\ndistinct perception of all the tangible objects which surround them.\r\nWe may often see them, accordingly, by the straightest road, run to\r\nand pick up any little grains which she shows them, even at the\r\ndistance of several yards; and they no sooner come into the light than\r\nthey seem to understand this language of Vision as well as they ever\r\ndo afterwards. The young of the partridge and of the grouse seem to\r\nhave, at the same early period, the most distinct perceptions of the\r\nsame kind. The young partridge, almost as soon as it comes from the\r\nshell, runs about among long grass and corn; the young grouse among\r\nlong heath, and would both most essentially hurt themselves if they\r\nhad not the most acute, as well as distinct perception of the tangible\r\nobjects which not only surround them but press upon them on all sides.\r\nThis is the case too with the young of the goose, of the duck, and, so\r\nfar as I have been able to observe, with those of at least the greater\r\npart of the birds which make their nests upon the ground, with the\r\ngreater part of those which are ranked by Linnæus in the orders of the\r\nhen and the goose, and of many of those long-shanked and wading birds\r\nwhich he places in the order that he distinguishes by the name of\r\nGrallæ.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe young of those birds that build their nests in bushes, upon\r\ntrees, in the holes and crevices of high walls, upon high rocks and\r\nprecipices, and other places of difficult access; of the greater part\r\nof those ranked by Linnæus in the orders of the hawk, the magpie, and\r\nthe sparrow, seem to come blind from the shell, and to continue so for\r\nat least some days thereafter. Till they are able to fly they are fed\r\nby the joint labour of both parents. As soon as that period arrives,\r\nhowever, and probably for some time before, they evidently enjoy all\r\nthe powers of Vision in the most complete perfection, and can\r\ndistinguish with most exact precision the shape and proportion of the\r\ntangible objects which every visible one represents. In so short a\r\nperiod they cannot be supposed to have acquired those powers from\r\nexperience, and must therefore derive them from some instinctive\r\nsuggestion. The sight of birds seems to be both more prompt and more\r\nacute than that of any other animals. Without hurting themselves they\r\ndart into the thickest and most thorny bushes, fly with the utmost\r\nrapidity through the most intricate forests, and while they are\r\nsoaring aloft in the air, discover upon the ground the insects and\r\ngrains upon which they feed.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe young of several sorts of quadrupeds seem, like those of the\r\ngreater part of birds which make their nests upon the ground, to enjoy\r\nas soon as they come into the world the faculty of seeing as\r\ncompletely as they ever do afterwards. The day, or the day after they\r\nare dropped, the calf follows the cow, and the foal the mare, to the\r\nfield; and though \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page463\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e463\u003c/span\u003e from timidity they seldom remove far from the\r\nmother, yet they seem to walk about at their ease; which they could\r\nnot do unless they could distinguish, with some degree of precision,\r\nthe shape and proportion of the tangible objects which each visible\r\none represents. The degree of precision, however, with which the horse\r\nis capable of making this distinction, seems at no period of his life\r\nto be very complete. He is at all times apt to startle at many visible\r\nobjects, which, if they distinctly suggested to him the real shape and\r\nproportion of the tangible objects which they represent, could not be\r\nthe objects of fear; at the trunk or root of an old tree, for example,\r\nwhich happens to be laid by the roadside, at a great stone, or the\r\nfragment of a rock which happens to lie near the way where he is\r\ngoing. To reconcile him, even to a single object of this kind, which\r\nhas once alarmed him, frequently requires some skill, as well as much\r\npatience and good temper in the rider. Such powers of sight, however,\r\nas Nature has thought proper to render him capable of acquiring, he\r\nseems to enjoy from the beginning, in as great perfection as he ever\r\ndoes afterwards.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe young of other quadrupeds, like those of the birds which make\r\ntheir nests in places of difficult access, come blind into the world.\r\nTheir sight, however, soon opens, and as soon as it does so, they seem\r\nto enjoy it in the most complete perfection, as we may all observe in\r\nthe puppy and the kitten. The same thing, I believe, may be said of\r\nall other beasts of prey, at least of all those concerning which I\r\nhave been able to collect any distinct information. They come blind\r\ninto the world; but as soon as their sight opens, they appear to enjoy\r\nit in the most complete perfection.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt seems difficult to suppose that man is the only animal of which\r\nthe young are not endowed with some instinctive perception of this\r\nkind. The young of the human species, however, continue so long in a\r\nstate of entire dependency, they must be so long carried about in the\r\narms of their mothers or of their nurses, that such an instinctive\r\nperception may seem less necessary to them than to any other race of\r\nanimals. Before it could be of any use to them, observation and\r\nexperience may, by the known principle of the association of ideas,\r\nhave sufficiently connected in their young minds each visible object\r\nwith the corresponding tangible one which it is fitted to represent.\r\nNature, it may be said, never bestows upon any animal any faculty\r\nwhich is not either necessary or useful, and an instinct of this kind\r\nwould be altogether useless to an animal which must necessarily\r\nacquire the knowledge which the instinct is given to supply, long\r\nbefore that instinct could be of any use to it. Children, however,\r\nappear at so very early a period to know the distance, the shape, and\r\nmagnitude of the different tangible objects which are presented to\r\nthem, that I am disposed to believe that even they may have some\r\ninstinctive perception of this kind; though possibly in a much weaker\r\ndegree than the greater part \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page464\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e464\u003c/span\u003e of other animals. A child that is\r\nscarcely a month old, stretches out its hands to feel any little\r\nplaything that is presented to it. It distinguishes its nurse, and the\r\nother people who are much about it, from strangers. It clings to the\r\nformer, and turns away from the latter. Hold a small looking-glass\r\nbefore a child of not more than two or three months old, and it will\r\nstretch out its little arms behind the glass, in order to feel the\r\nchild which it sees, and which it imagines is at the back of the\r\nglass. It is deceived, no doubt; but even this sort of deception\r\nsufficiently demonstrates that it has a tolerably distinct\r\napprehension of the ordinary perspective of Vision, which it cannot\r\nwell have learnt from observation and experience.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eDo any of our other senses, antecedently to such observation and\r\nexperience, instinctively suggest to us some conception of the solid\r\nand resisting substances which excite their respective sensations,\r\nthough these sensations bear no sort of resemblance to those\r\nsubstances?\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe sense of Tasting certainly does not. Before we can feel the\r\nsensation, the solid and resisting substance which excites it must be\r\npressed against the organs of Taste, and must consequently be\r\nperceived by them. Antecedently to observation and experience,\r\ntherefore, the sense of Tasting can never be said instinctively to\r\nsuggest some conception of that substance.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt may, perhaps, be otherwise with the sense of Smelling. The young\r\nof all suckling animals, (of the Mammalia of Linnæus,) whether they\r\nare born with sight or without it, yet as soon as they come into the\r\nworld apply to the nipple of the mother in order to suck. In doing\r\nthis they are evidently directed by the Smell. The Smell appears\r\neither to excite the appetite for the proper food, or at least to\r\ndirect the new-born animal to the place where that food is to be\r\nfound. It may perhaps do both the one and the other.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat when the stomach is empty, the Smell of agreeable food excites\r\nand irritates the appetite, is what we all must have frequently\r\nexperienced. But the stomach of every new-born animal is necessarily\r\nempty. While in the womb it is nourished, not by the mouth, but by the\r\nnavel-string. Children have been born apparently in the most perfect\r\nhealth and vigour, and have applied to suck in the usual manner; but\r\nimmediately, or soon after, have thrown up the milk, and in the course\r\nof a few hours have died vomiting and in convulsions. Upon opening\r\ntheir bodies it has been found that the intestinal tube or canal had\r\nnever been opened or pierced in the whole extent of its length; but,\r\nlike a sack, admitted of no passage beyond a particular place. It\r\ncould not have been in any respect by the mouth, therefore, but\r\naltogether by the navel-string, that such children had been nourished\r\nand fed up to the degree of health and vigour in which they were born.\r\nEvery animal, while in the womb, seems to draw its nourishment, more\r\nlike a vegetable, from the root, than like an animal \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page465\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e465\u003c/span\u003e from the\r\nmouth; and that nourishment seems to be conveyed to all the different\r\nparts of the body by tubes and canals in many respects different from\r\nthose which afterwards perform the same function. As soon as it comes\r\ninto the world, this new set of tubes and canals which the\r\nprovidential care of Nature had for a long time before been gradually\r\npreparing, is all at once and instantaneously opened. They are all\r\nempty, and they require to be filled. An uneasy sensation accompanies\r\nthe one situation, and an agreeable one the other. The smell of the\r\nsubstance which is fitted for filling them, increases and irritates\r\nthat uneasy sensation, and produces in the infant hunger, or the\r\nappetite for food.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBut all the appetites which take their origin from a certain state\r\nof the body, seem to suggest the means of their own gratification;\r\nand, even long before experience, some anticipation or preconception\r\nof the pleasure which attends that gratification. In the appetite for\r\nsex, which frequently, I am disposed to believe almost always, comes a\r\nlong time before the age of puberty, this is perfectly and distinctly\r\nevident. The appetite for food suggests to the new-born infant the\r\noperation of sucking, the only means by which it can possibly\r\ngratifying that appetite. It is continually sucking. It sucks whatever\r\nis presented to its mouth. It sucks even when there is nothing\r\npresented to its mouth, and some anticipation or preconception of the\r\npleasure which it is to enjoy in sucking, seems to make it delight in\r\nputting its mouth into the shape and configuration by which it alone\r\ncan enjoy that pleasure. There are other appetites in which the most\r\nunexperienced imagination produces a similar effect upon the organs\r\nwhich Nature has provided for their gratification.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe smell not only excites the appetite, but directs to the object\r\nwhich can alone gratify that appetite. But by suggesting the direction\r\ntowards that object, the Smell must necessarily suggest some notion of\r\ndistance and externality, which are necessarily involved in the idea\r\nof direction; in the idea of the line of motion by which the distance\r\ncan best be overcome, and the mouth brought into contact with the\r\nunknown substance which is the object of the appetite. That the Smell\r\nshould alone suggest any preconception of the shape or magnitude of\r\nthe external body to which it directs, seems not very probable. The\r\nsensation of Smell seems to have no sort of affinity or correspondence\r\nwith shape or magnitude; and whatever preconception the infant may\r\nhave of these, (and it may very probably have some such\r\npreconception,) is likely to be suggested, not so much directly by the\r\nSmell, and indirectly by the appetite excited by that Smell; as by the\r\nprinciple which teaches the child to mould its mouth into the\r\nconformation and action of sucking, even before it reaches the object\r\nto which alone that conformation and action can be usefully\r\napplied.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Smell, however, as it suggests the direction by which the\r\nexternal \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page466\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e466\u003c/span\u003e body must be approached, must suggest at least some\r\nvague idea or preconception of the existence of that body; of the\r\nthing to which it directs, though not perhaps of the precise shape and\r\nmagnitude of that thing. The infant, too, feeling its mouth attracted\r\nand drawn as it were towards that external body, must conceive the\r\nSmell which thus draws and attracts it, as something belonging to or\r\nproceeding from that body, or what is afterwards denominated and\r\nobscurely understood to be as a sort of quality or attribute of that\r\nbody.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe Smell, too, may very probably suggest some even tolerably\r\ndistinct perception of the Taste of the food to which it directs. The\r\nrespective objects of our different external senses seem, indeed, the\r\ngreater part of them, to bear no sort of resemblance to one another.\r\nColour bears no sort of resemblance to Solidity, nor to Heat, nor to\r\nCold, nor to Sound, nor to Smell, nor to Taste. To this general rule,\r\nhowever, there seems to be one, and perhaps but one exception. The\r\nsensations of Smell and Taste seem evidently to bear some sort of\r\nresemblance to one another. Smell appears to have been given to us by\r\nNature as the director of Taste. It announces, as it were, before\r\ntrial, what is likely to be the Taste of the food which is set before\r\nus. Though perceived by a different organ, it seems in many cases to\r\nbe but a weaker sensation nearly of the same kind with that of the\r\nTaste which that announces. It is very natural to suppose, therefore,\r\nthat the Smell may suggest to the infant some tolerably distinct\r\npreconception of the Taste of the food which it announces, and may,\r\neven before experience, make its mouth, as we say, water for that\r\nfood.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat numerous division of animals which Linnæus ranks under the\r\nclass of \u003ci\u003eworms\u003c/i\u003e, have, scarcely any of them, any head. They\r\nneither see nor hear, have neither eyes nor ears; but many of them\r\nhave the power of self-motion, and appear to move about in search of\r\ntheir food. They can be directed in this search by no other sense than\r\nthat of Smelling. The most accurate microscopical observations,\r\nhowever, have never been able to discover in such animals any distinct\r\norgan of Smell. They have a mouth and a stomach, but no nostrils. The\r\norgan of Taste, it is probable, has in them a sensibility of the same\r\nkind with that which the olfactory nerves have in more perfect\r\nanimals. They may, as it were, taste at a distance, and be attracted\r\nto their food by an affection of the same organ by which they\r\nafterwards enjoy it; and Smell and Taste may in them be no otherwise\r\ndistinguished than as weaker or stronger sensations derived from the\r\nsame organ.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe sensations of Heat and Cold, when excited by the pressure of\r\nsome body either heated or cooled beyond the actual temperature of our\r\nown organs, cannot be said, antecedently to observation and\r\nexperience, instinctively to suggest any conception of the solid and\r\nresisting substance which excites them. What was said of the sense of\r\nTaste may very properly be said here. Before we can feel those\r\nsensations, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page467\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e467\u003c/span\u003e the pressure of the external body which excites them\r\nmust necessarily suggest, not only some conception, but the most\r\ndistinct conviction of its own external and independent existence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt may be otherwise, perhaps, when those sensations are either of\r\nthem excited by the temperature of the external air. In a calm day\r\nwhen there is no wind, we scarcely perceive the external air as a\r\nsolid body; and the sensations of Heat and Cold, it may be thought,\r\nare then felt merely as affections of our own body, without any\r\nreference to any thing external. Several cases, however, may be\r\nconceived, in which it must be allowed, I imagine, that those\r\nsensations, even when excited in this manner, must suggest some vague\r\nnotion of some external thing or substance which excites them. A\r\nnew-born animal, which had the power of self-motion, and which felt\r\nits body, either agreeably or disagreeably, more heated or more cooled\r\non the one side than on the other, would, I imagine, instinctively and\r\nantecedently to all observation and experience, endeavour to move\r\ntowards the side in which it felt the agreeable, and to withdraw from\r\nthat in which it felt the disagreeable sensation. But the very desire\r\nof motion supposes some notion or preconception of externality; and\r\nthe desire to move towards the side of the agreeable, or from that of\r\nthe disagreeable sensation, supposes at least some vague notion of\r\nsome external thing or place which is the cause of those respective\r\nsensations.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe degrees of Heat and Cold which are agreeable, it has been found\r\nfrom experience, are likewise healthful; and those which are\r\ndisagreeable, unwholesome. The degree of their unwholesomeness, too,\r\nseems to be pretty much in proportion to that of their\r\ndisagreeableness. If either of them is so disagreeable as to be\r\npainful, it is generally destructive; and, that, too, in a very short\r\nperiod of time. Those sensations appear to have been given us for the\r\npreservation of our own bodies. They necessarily excite the desire of\r\nchanging our situation when it is unwholesome or destructive; and when\r\nit is healthy, they allow us, or rather they entice us, to remain in\r\nit. But the desire of changing our situation necessarily supposes some\r\nidea of externality; or of motion into a place different from that in\r\nwhich we actually are; and even the desire of remaining in the same\r\nplace supposes some idea of at least the possibility of changing.\r\nThose sensations could not well have answered the intention of Nature,\r\nhad they not thus instinctively suggested some vague notion of\r\nexternal existence.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThat Sound, the object of the sense of Hearing, though perceived\r\nitself as in the ear, and nowhere but in the ear, may likewise,\r\ninstinctively, and antecedently to all observation and experience,\r\nobscurely suggest some vague notion of some external substance or\r\nthing which excites it, I am much disposed to believe. I acknowledge,\r\nhowever, that I have not been able to recollect any one instance in\r\nwhich this sense seems so distinctly to produce this effect, as that\r\nof Seeing, that \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e468\u003c/span\u003e of Smelling, and even that of Heat and Cold,\r\nappear to do in some particular cases. Unusual and unexpected Sound\r\nalarms always, and disposes us to look about for some external\r\nsubstance or thing as the cause which excites it, or from which it\r\nproceeds. Sound, however, considered merely as a sensation, or as an\r\naffection of the organ of Hearing, can in most cases neither benefit\r\nnor hurt us. It may be agreeable or disagreeable, but in its own\r\nnature it does not seem to announce any thing beyond the immediate\r\nfeeling. It should not therefore excite any alarm. Alarm is always the\r\nfear of some uncertain evil beyond what is immediately felt, and from\r\nsome unknown and external cause. But all animals, and men among the\r\nrest, feel some degree of this alarm, start, are roused and rendered\r\ncircumspect and attentive by unusual and unexpected Sound. This\r\neffect, too, is produced so readily and so instantaneously that it\r\nbears every mark of an instinctive suggestion of an impression\r\nimmediately struck by the hand of Nature, which does not wait for any\r\nrecollection of past observation and experience. The hare, and all\r\nthose other timid animals to whom flight is the only defence, are\r\nsupposed to possess the sense of Hearing in the highest degree of\r\nactiveness. It seems to be the sense in which cowards are very likely\r\nto excel.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe three senses of Seeing, Hearing, and Smelling, seem to be given\r\nto us by Nature, not so much in order to inform us concerning the\r\nactual situation of our bodies, as concerning that of those other\r\nexternal bodies, which, though at some distance from us, may sooner or\r\nlater affect the actual situation, and eventually either benefit or\r\nhurt us.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003chr class=\"thirty\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003ch3 id=\"I\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page468\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003eOF THE AFFINITY\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch6\u003eBETWEEN CERTAIN\u003c/h6\u003e\r\n\u003ch3\u003eENGLISH AND ITALIAN VERSES.\u003c/h3\u003e\r\n\u003chr\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eT\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eHE\u003c/span\u003e measure of the verses, of which the octave of the Italians,\r\ntheir terzetti, and the greater part of their sonnets, are composed,\r\nseems to be as nearly the same with that of the English Heroic Rhyme,\r\nas the different genius and pronunciation of the two languages will\r\npermit.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe English Heroic Rhyme is supposed to consist sometimes of ten,\r\nand sometimes of eleven syllables: of ten, when the verse ends with a\r\nsingle, and of eleven, when it ends with a double rhyme.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe correspondent Italian verse is supposed to consist sometimes of\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page469\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e469\u003c/span\u003e ten, sometimes of eleven, and sometimes of twelve syllables,\r\naccording as it happens to end with a single, a double, or a triple\r\nrhyme.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe rhyme ought naturally to fall upon the last syllable of the\r\nverse; it is proper likewise that it should fall upon an accented\r\nsyllable, in order to render it more sensible. When, therefore, the\r\naccent happens to fall, not upon the last syllable, but upon that\r\nimmediately before it, the rhyme must fall both upon the accented\r\nsyllable and upon that which is not accented. It must be a double\r\nrhyme.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the Italian language, when the accent falls neither upon the\r\nlast syllable, nor upon that immediately before it, but upon the third\r\nsyllable from the end, the rhyme must fall upon all the three. It must\r\nbe a triple rhyme, and the verse is supposed to consist of twelve\r\nsyllables:\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eForsè era ver, non però credìbile,\u003c/i\u003e \u0026amp;c.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eTriple rhymes are not admitted into English Heroic Verse.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the Italian language the accent falls much more rarely, either\r\nupon the third syllable from the end of a word, or upon the last\r\nsyllable, than it does upon the one immediately before the last. In\r\nreality, this second syllable from the end seems, in that language, to\r\nbe its most common and natural place. The Italian Heroic Poetry,\r\ntherefore, is composed principally of double rhymes, or of verses\r\nsupposed to consist of eleven syllables. Triple rhymes occur but\r\nseldom, and single rhymes still more seldom.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn the English language the accent falls frequently upon the last\r\nsyllable of the word. Our language, besides, abounds in words of one\r\nsyllable, the greater part of which do (for there are few which do\r\nnot) admit of being accented. Words of one syllable are most\r\nfrequently the concluding words of English rhymes. For both these\r\nreasons, English Heroic Rhyme is principally composed of single\r\nrhymes, or of verses supposed to consist of ten syllables. Double\r\nRhymes occur almost as rarely in it, as either single or triple do in\r\nthe Italian.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe rarity of double rhymes in English Heroic Verse makes them\r\nappear odd, and awkward, and even ludicrous, when they occur. By the\r\nbest writers, therefore, they are reserved for light and ludicrous\r\noccasions; when, in order to humour their subject, they stoop to a\r\nmore familiar style than usual. When Mr. Pope says;\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eWorth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;\u003cbr\u003e The rest is all but\r\nleather or prunello;\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003ehe means, in compliance with his subject, to condescend a good deal\r\nbelow the stateliness of his diction on the Essay on Man. Double\r\nrhymes abound more in Dryden than in Pope, and in Butler’s Hudibras\r\nmore than in Dryden.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe rarity both of single and of triple rhyme in Italian Heroic\r\nVerse, gives them the same odd and ludicrous air which double rhymes\r\nhave \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page470\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e470\u003c/span\u003e in English Verse. In Italian, triple rhymes occur more\r\nfrequently than single rhymes. The slippery, or if I may be allowed to\r\nuse a very low, but a very expressive word, the glib pronunciation of\r\nthe triple rhyme (\u003ci\u003everso sotrucciolo\u003c/i\u003e) seems to depart less from\r\nthe ordinary movement of the double rhyme, than the abrupt ending of\r\nthe single rhyme (\u003ci\u003everso tronco e cadente\u003c/i\u003e), of the verse that\r\nappears to be cut off and to fall short of the usual measure. Single\r\nrhymes accordingly appear in Italian verse much more burlesque than\r\ntriple rhymes. Single rhymes occur very rarely in Ariosto; but\r\nfrequently in the more burlesque poem of Ricciardetto. Triple rhymes\r\noccur much oftener in all the best writers. It is thus, that what in\r\nEnglish appears to be the verse of the greatest gravity and dignity,\r\nappears in Italian to be the most burlesque and ludicrous; for no\r\nother reason, I apprehend, but because in the one language it is the\r\nordinary verse, whereas in the other it departs most from the\r\nmovements of ordinary verse.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe common Italian Heroic Poetry being composed of double rhymes,\r\nit can admit both of single and of triple rhymes; which seem to recede\r\nfrom the common movement on opposite sides to nearly equal distances.\r\nThe common English Heroic Poetry, consisting of single rhymes, it can\r\nadmit of double; but it cannot admit of triple rhymes, which would\r\nrecede so far from the common movements as to appear perfectly\r\nburlesque and ridiculous. In English, when a word accented upon the\r\nthird syllable from the end happens to make the last word of a verse,\r\nthe rhyme falls upon the last syllable only. It is a single rhyme, and\r\nthe verse consists of no more than ten syllables: but as the last\r\nsyllable is not accented, it is an imperfect rhyme, which, however,\r\nwhen confined to the second verse of the couplet, and even there\r\nintroduced but rarely, may have a very agreeable grace, and the line\r\nmay even seem to run more easy and natural by means of it:\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eBùt of this fràme, the beàrings, and the tìes.\u003cbr\u003e The strìct\r\nconnèctions, nìce depèndencies, \u0026amp;c.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eWhen by a well accented syllable in the end of the first line of a\r\ncouplet, it has once been clearly ascertained what the rhyme is to be,\r\na very slight allusion to it, such as can be made by a syllable of the\r\nsame termination that is not accented, may often be sufficient to mark\r\nthe coincidence in the second line; a word of this kind in the end of\r\nthe first line seldom succeeds so well:\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eTh’ inhabitants of old Jerusalem\u003cbr\u003e Were Jebusites; the town so called\r\nfrom them.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eA couplet in which both verses were terminated in this manner,\r\nwould be extremely disagreeable and offensive.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn counting the syllables, even of verses which to the ear appear\r\nsufficiently correct, a considerable indulgence must frequently be\r\ngiven, \u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page471\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e471\u003c/span\u003e before they can, in either language, be reduced to the\r\nprecise number of ten, eleven, or twelve, according to the nature of\r\nthe rhyme. In the following couplet, for example, there are, strictly\r\nspeaking, fourteen syllables in the first line, and twelve in the\r\nsecond.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eAnd many a hŭmoŭrous, many an amorous lay,\u003cbr\u003e Was sung by many a\r\nbard, on many a day.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eBy the rapidity, however, or, if I may use a very low word a second\r\ntime, by the glibness of the pronunciation, those fourteen syllables\r\nin the first line, and those twelve in the second, appear to take up\r\nthe time but of ten ordinary syllables. The words \u003ci\u003emany a\u003c/i\u003e,\r\nthough they plainly consist of three distinct syllables, or sounds,\r\nwhich are all pronounced successively, or the one after the other, yet\r\npass as but two syllables; as do likewise these words,\r\n\u003ci\u003ehŭmoŭroŭs\u003c/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eamorous\u003c/i\u003e. The words \u003ci\u003eheaven\u003c/i\u003e\r\nand \u003ci\u003egiven\u003c/i\u003e, in the same manner, consist each of them of two\r\nsyllables, which, how rapidly so ever they may be pronounced, cannot\r\nbe pronounced but successively, or the one after the other. In verse,\r\nhowever, they are considered as consisting but of one syllable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn counting the syllables of the Italian Heroic Verse, still\r\ngreater indulgences must be allowed: three vowels must there\r\nfrequently be counted as making but one syllable, though they are all\r\npronounced, rapidly indeed, but in succession, or the one after the\r\nother, and though no two of them are supposed to make a diphthong. In\r\nthese licenses too, the Italians seem not to be very regular, and the\r\nsame concourse of vowels which in one place makes but one syllable,\r\nwill in another sometimes make two. There are even some words which in\r\nthe end of a verse are constantly counted for two syllables, but which\r\nin any other part of it are never counted for more than one; such as\r\nthe words \u003ci\u003esuo\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003etuo\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003esuoi\u003c/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003etuoi\u003c/i\u003e.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eRuscelli observes, that in the Italian Heroic Verse the accent\r\nought to fall upon the fourth, the sixth, the eighth, and the tenth\r\nsyllables; and that if it falls upon the third, the fifth, the\r\nseventh, or the ninth syllables, it will spoil the verse.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn English, if the accent falls upon any of the above-mentioned odd\r\nsyllables, it equally spoils the verse.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eBow’d their stiff necks, loaden with stormy blasts,\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003ethough a line of Milton, has not the ordinary movement of an\r\nEnglish Heroic Verse, the accent falls upon the third and sixth\r\nsyllables.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIn Italian frequently, and in English sometimes, an accent is with\r\ngreat grace thrown upon the first syllable, in which case it seldom\r\nhappens that any other syllable is accented before the fourth;\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eCánto l’armé pietóse e’l capitáno.\u003c/i\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eFírst in these fiélds I trý the sýlvan stráins.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBoth in English and in Italian the second syllable may be accented\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page472\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e472\u003c/span\u003e with great grace, and it generally is so when the first syllable\r\nis not accented:\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eE in van l’ inferno a’ lui s’ oppose; e in vano\u003cbr\u003e S’ armó d’ Asia,\r\ne di Libia il popol misto,\u003c/i\u003e \u0026amp;c.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eLet us, since life can little more supply\u003cbr\u003e Than just to look about\r\nus, and to die, \u0026amp;c.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBoth in English and in Italian Verse, an accent, though it must\r\nnever be misplaced, may sometimes be omitted with great grace. In the\r\nlast of the above-quoted English Verses there is no accent upon the\r\neighth syllable; the conjunction \u003ci\u003eand\u003c/i\u003e not admitting of any. In\r\nthe following Italian Verse there is no accent upon the sixth\r\nsyllable:\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eO Musa, tu, che di caduchi allori,\u003c/i\u003e \u0026amp;c.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eThe preposition \u003ci\u003edi\u003c/i\u003e will as little admit of an accent as the\r\nconjunction \u003ci\u003eand\u003c/i\u003e. In this case, however, when the even syllable\r\nis not accented, neither of the odd syllables immediately before or\r\nbehind it must be accented.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eNeither in English nor in Italian can two accents running be\r\nomitted.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eIt must be observed, that in Italian there are two accents, the\r\ngrave and the acute: the grave accent is always marked by a slight\r\nstroke over the syllable to which it belongs; the acute accent has no\r\nmark.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe English language knows no distinction between the grave and the\r\nacute accents.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eThe same author observes, that in the Italian Verse the Pause, or\r\nwhat the grammarians call the Cesura, may with propriety be introduced\r\nafter either the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, or the\r\nseventh syllables. The like observations have been made by several\r\ndifferent writers upon the English Heroic Verse. Dobie admires\r\nparticularly the verse in which there are two pauses; one after the\r\nfifth, and another after the ninth syllable. The example he gives is\r\nfrom Petrarch:\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003e\u003ci\u003eNel dolce tempo de la prima etade,\u003c/i\u003e \u0026amp;c.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eIn this verse, the second pause, which he says comes after the\r\nninth syllable, in reality comes in between the two vowels, which, in\r\nthe Italian way of counting syllables, compose the ninth syllable. It\r\nmay be doubtful, therefore, whether this pause may not be considered\r\nas coming after the eighth syllable. I do not recollect any good\r\nEnglish Verse in which the pause comes in after the ninth syllable. We\r\nhave many in which it comes in after the eighth:\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"poembox\"\u003e\u003cdiv class=\"poem\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eYet oft, before his infant eyes, would run, \u0026amp;c.\u003c/p\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"noind\"\u003eIn which verse there are two pauses; one after the second, and the\r\nother after the eighth syllable. I have observed many Italian Verses\r\nin which the pause comes after the second syllable.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eBoth the English and the Italian Heroic Verse, perhaps, are not so\r\n\u003cspan class=\"pagenum\"\u003e\u003ca id=\"page473\"\u003e\u003c/a\u003e473\u003c/span\u003e properly composed of a certain number of syllables, which vary\r\naccording to the nature of the rhyme; as of a certain number of\r\nintervals, (of five invariably,) each of which is equal in length, or\r\ntime, to two ordinary distinct syllables, though it may sometimes\r\ncontain more, of which the extraordinary shortness compensates the\r\nextraordinary number. The close frequently of each of those intervals,\r\nbut always of every second interval, is marked by a distinct accent.\r\nThis accent may frequently, with great grace, fall upon the beginning\r\nof the first interval; after which, it cannot, without spoiling the\r\nverse, fall any where but upon the close of an interval. The syllable\r\nor syllables which come after the accent that closes the fifth\r\ninterval are never accented. They make no distinct interval, but are\r\nconsidered as a sort of excrescence of the verse, and are in a manner\r\ncounted for nothing.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e \u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv class=\"center\"\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003eTHE END.\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e \u003c/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan class=\"smcap\"\u003eBRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.\u003c/span\u003e\u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003c/div\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e \u003c/p\u003e\r\n\u003cpre\u003e\u003c/pre\u003e\r\n\u003c/article\u003e"}],"SectionSequence":["Back Link","Work Title","Deck","Author","Period","Era","Composition","Region","Terra Avita","Terra Avita Region","Modern Country","Original Title","Language","Primary Discipline","Secondary Discipline","Tradition","Full Versions","Core Thesis","Classification","Arguments","Influence","Significance","Full Text"],"Counts":{"ContextCards":3,"GeoCards":4,"DisciplineCards":2,"Links":11,"Sections":23,"Styles":3,"Scripts":1}}