1.1.4. Chap. IV
The same subject continued
We may judge of the propriety or impropriety of the
sentiments of another person by their correspondence or
disagreement with our own, upon two different occasions; either,
first, when the objects which excite them are considered without
any peculiar relation, either to ourselves or to the person whose
sentiments we judge of; or, secondly, when they are considered as
peculiarly affecting one or other of us.
1. With regard to those objects which are considered without
any peculiar relation either to ourselves or to the person whose
sentiments we judge of; wherever his sentiments entirely
correspond with our own, we ascribe to him the qualities of taste
and good judgment. The beauty of a plain, the greatness of a
mountain, the ornaments of a building, the expression of a
picture, the composition of a discourse, the conduct of a third
person, the proportions of different quantities and numbers, the
various appearances which the great machine of the universe is
perpetually exhibiting, with the secret wheels and springs which
product them; all the general subjects of science and taste, are
what we and our companion regard as having no peculiar relation
to either of us. We both look at them from the same point of
view, and we have no occasion for sympathy, or for that imaginary
change of situations from which it arises, in order to produce,
with regard to these, the most perfect harmony of sentiments and
affections. If, notwithstanding, we are often differently
affected, it arises either from the different degrees of
attention, which our different habits of life allow us to give
easily to the several parts of those complex objects, or from the
different degrees of natural acuteness in the faculty of the mind
to which they are addressed.
When the sentiments of our companion coincide with our own in
things of this kind, which are obvious and easy, and in which,
perhaps, we never found a single person who differed from us,
though we, no doubt, must approve of them, yet he seems to
deserve no praise or admiration on account of them. But when they
not only coincide with our own, but lead and direct our own; when
in forming them he appears to have attended to many things which
we had overlooked, and to have adjusted them to all the various
circumstances of their objects; we not only approve of them, but
wonder and are surprised at their uncommon and unexpected
acuteness and comprehensiveness, and he appears to deserve a very
high degree of admiration and applause. For approbation
heightened by wonder and surprise, constitutes the sentiment
which is properly called admiration, and of which applause is the
natural expression. The decision of the man who judges that
exquisite beauty is preferable to the grossest deformity, or that
twice two are equal to four, must certainly be approved of by all
the world, but will not, surely, be much admired. It is the acute
and delicate discernment of the man of taste, who distinguishes
the minute, and scarce perceptible differences of beauty and
deformity; it is the comprehensive accuracy of the experienced
mathematician, who unravels, with ease, the most intricate and
perplexed proportions; it is the great leader in science and
taste, the man who directs and conducts our own sentiments, the
extent and superior justness of whose talents astonish us with
wonder and surprise, who excites our admiration, and seems to
deserve our applause: and upon this foundation is grounded the
greater part of the praise which is bestowed upon what are called
the intellectual virtues.
The utility of those qualities, it may be thought, is what
first recommends them to us; and, no doubt, the consideration of
this, when we come to attend to it, gives them a new value.
Originally, however, we approve of another man's judgment, not as
something useful, but as right, as accurate, as agreeable to
truth and reality: and it is evident we attribute those qualities
to it for no other reason but because we find that it agrees with
our own. Taste, in the same manner, is originally approved of,
not as useful, but as just, as delicate, and as precisely suited
to its object. The idea of the utility of all qualities of this
kind, is plainly an after-thought, and not what first recommends
them to our approbation.
2. With regard to those objects, which affect in a particular
manner either ourselves or the person whose sentiments we judge
of, it is at once more difficult to preserve this harmony and
correspondence, and at the same time, vastly more important. My
companion does not naturally look upon the misfortune that has
befallen me, or the injury that has been done me, from the same
point of view in which I consider them. They affect me much more
nearly. We do not view them from the same station, as we do a
picture, or a poem, or a system of philosophy, and are,
therefore, apt to be very differently affected by them. But I can
much more easily overlook the want of this correspondence of
sentiments with regard to such indifferent objects as concern
neither me nor my companion, than with regard to what interests
me so much as the misfortune that has befallen me, or the injury
that has been done me. Though you despise that picture, or that
poem, or even that system of philosophy, which I admire, there is
little danger of our quarrelling upon that account. Neither of us
can reasonably be much interested about them. They ought all of
them to be matters of great indifference to us both; so that,
though our opinions may be opposite, our affections may still be
very nearly the same. But it is quite otherwise with regard to
those objects by which either you or I are particularly affected.
Though your judgments in matters of speculation, though your
sentiments in matters of taste, are quite opposite to mine, I can
easily overlook this opposition; and if I have any degree of
temper, I may still find some entertainment in your conversation,
even upon those very subjects. But if you have either no
fellow-feeling for the misfortunes I have met with, or none that
bears any proportion to the grief which distracts me; or if you
have either no indignation at the injuries I have suffered, or
none that bears any proportion to the resentment which transports
me, we can no longer converse upon these subjects. We become
intolerable to one another. I can neither support your company,
nor you mine. You are confounded at my violence and passion, and
I am enraged at your cold insensibility and want of feeling.
In all such cases, that there may be some correspondence of
sentiments between the spectator and the person principally
concerned, the spectator must, first of all, endeavour, as much
as he can, to put himself in the situation of the other, and to
bring home to himself every little circumstance of distress which
can possibly occur to the sufferer. He must adopt the whole case
of his companion with all its minutest incidents; and strive to
render as perfect as possible, that imaginary change of situation
upon which his sympathy is founded.
After all this, however, the emotions of the spectator will
still be very apt to fall short of the violence of what is felt
by the sufferer. Mankind, though naturally sympathetic, never
conceive, for what has befallen another, that degree of passion
which naturally animates the person principally concerned. That
imaginary change of situation, upon which their sympathy is
founded, is but momentary. The thought of their own safety, the
thought that they themselves are not really the sufferers,
continually intrudes itself upon them; and though it does not
hinder them from conceiving a passion somewhat analogous to what
is felt by the sufferer, hinders them from conceiving any thing
that approaches to the same degree of violence. The person
principally concerned is sensible of this, and at the same time
passionately desires a more complete sympathy. He longs for that
relief which nothing can afford him but the entire concord of the
affections of the spectators with his own. To see the emotions of
their hearts, in every respect, beat time to his own, in the
violent and disagreeable passions, constitutes his sole
consolation. But he can only hope to obtain this by lowering his
passion to that pitch, in which the spectators are capable of
going along with him. He must flatten, if I may be allowed to say
so, the sharpness of its natural tone, in order to reduce it to
harmony and concord with the emotions of those who are about him.
What they feel, will, indeed, always be, in some respects,
different from what he feels, and compassion can never be exactly
the same with original sorrow; because the secret consciousness
that the change of situations, from which the sympathetic
sentiment arises, is but imaginary, not only lowers it in degree,
but, in some measure, varies it in kind, and gives it a quite
different modification. These two sentiments, however, may, it is
evident, have such a correspondence with one another, as is
sufficient for the harmony of society. Though they will never be
unisons, they may be concords, and this is all that is wanted or
required.
In order to produce this concord, as nature teaches the
spectators to assume the circumstances of the person principally
concerned, so she teaches this last in some measure to assume
those of the spectators. As they are continually placing
themselves in his situation, and thence conceiving emotions
similar to what he feels; so he is as constantly placing himself
in theirs, and thence conceiving some degree of that coolness
about his own fortune, with which he is sensible that they will
view it. As they are constantly considering what they themselves
would feel, if they actually were the sufferers, so he is as
constantly led to imagine in what manner he would be affected if
he was only one of the spectators of his own situation. As their
sympathy makes them look at it, in some measure, with his eyes,
so his sympathy makes him look at it, in some measure, with
theirs, especially when in their presence and acting under their
observation: and as the reflected passion, which he thus
conceives, is much weaker than the original one, it necessarily
abates the violence of what he felt before he came into their
presence, before he began to recollect in what manner they would
be affected by it, and to view his situation in this candid and
impartial light.
The mind, therefore, is rarely so disturbed, but that the
company of a friend will restore it to some degree of
tranquillity and sedateness. The breast is, in some measure,
calmed and composed the moment we come into his presence. We are
immediately put in mind of the light in which he will view our
situation, and we begin to view it ourselves in the same light;
for the effect of sympathy is instantaneous. We expect less
sympathy from a common acquaintance than from a friend: we cannot
open to the former all those little circumstances which we can
unfold to the latter: we assume, therefore, more tranquillity
before him, and endeavour to fix our thoughts upon those general
outlines of our situation which he is willing to consider. We
expect still less sympathy from an assembly of strangers, and we
assume, therefore, still more tranquillity before them, and
always endeavour to bring down our passion to that pitch, which
the particular company we are in may be expected to go along
with. Nor is this only an assumed appearance: for if we are at
all masters of ourselves, the presence of a mere acquaintance
will really compose us, still more than that of a friend; and
that of an assembly of strangers still more than that of an
acquaintance.
Society and conversation, therefore, are the most powerful
remedies for restoring the mind to its tranquillity, if, at any
time, it has unfortunately lost it; as well as the best
preservatives of that equal and happy temper, which is so
necessary to self-satisfaction and enjoyment. Men of retirement
and speculation, who are apt to sit brooding at home over either
grief or resentment, though they may often have more humanity,
more generosity, and a nicer sense of honour, yet seldom possess
that equality of temper which is so common among men of the
world.