2.3.2. Chap. II
Of the extent of this Influence of Fortune
The effect of this influence of fortune is, first, to
diminish our sense of the merit or demerit of those actions which
arose from the most laudable or blamable intentions, when they
fail of producing their proposed effects: and, secondly, to
increase our sense of the merit or demerit of actions, beyond
what is due to the motives or affections from which they proceed,
when they accidentally give occasion either to extraordinary
pleasure or pain.
1. First, I say, though the intentions of any person should
be ever so proper and beneficent, on the one hand, or ever so
improper and malevolent, on the other, yet, if they fail in
producing their effects, his merit seems imperfect in the one
case, and his demerit incomplete in the other. Nor is this
irregularity of sentiment felt only by those who are immediately
affected by the consequences of any action. It is felt, in some
measure, even by the impartial spectator. The man who solicits an
office for another, without obtaining it, is regarded as his
friend, and seems to deserve his love and affection. But the man
who not only solicits, but procures it, is more peculiarly
considered as his patron and benefactor, and is entitled to his
respect and gratitude. The person obliged, we are apt to think,
may, with some justice, imagine himself on a level with the
first: but we cannot enter into his sentiments, if he does not
feel himself inferior to the second. It is common indeed to say,
that we are equally obliged to the man who has endeavoured to
serve us, as to him who actually did so. It is the speech which
we constantly make upon every unsuccessful attempt of this kind;
but which, like all other fine speeches, must be understood with
a grain of allowance. The sentiments which a man of generosity
entertains for the friend who fails, may often indeed be nearly
the same with those which he conceives for him who succeeds: and
the more generous he is, the more nearly will those sentiments
approach to an exact level. With the truly generous, to be
beloved, to be esteemed by those whom they themselves think
worthy of esteem, gives more pleasure, and thereby excites more
gratitude, than all the advantages which they can ever expect
from those sentiments. When they lose those advantages therefore,
they seem to lose but a trifle, which is scarce worth regarding.
They still however lose something. Their pleasure therefore, and
consequently their gratitude, is not perfectly complete: and
accordingly if, between the friend who fails and the friend who
succeeds, all other circumstances are equal, there will, even in
the noblest and the best mind, be some little difference of
affection in favour of him who succeeds. Nay, so unjust are
mankind in this respect, that though the intended benefit should
be procured, yet if it is not procured by the means of a
particular benefactor, they are apt to think that less gratitude
is due to the man, who with the best intentions in the world
could do no more than help it a little forward. As their
gratitude is in this case divided among the different persons who
contributed to their pleasure, a smaller share of it seems due to
any one. Such a person, we hear men commonly say, intended no
doubt to serve us; and we really believe exerted himself to the
utmost of his abilities for that purpose. We are not, however,
obliged to him for this benefit; since, had it not been for the
concurrence of others, all that he could have done would never
have brought it about. This consideration, they imagine, should,
even in the eyes of the impartial spectator, diminish the debt
which they owe to him. The person himself who has unsuccessfully
endeavoured to confer a benefit, has by no means the same
dependency upon the gratitude of the man whom he meant to oblige,
nor the same sense of his own merit towards him, which he would
have had in the case of success.
Even the merit of talents and abilities which some accident
has hindered from producing their effects, seems in some measure
imperfect, even to those who are fully convinced of their
capacity to produce them. The general who has been hindered by
the envy of ministers from gaining some great advantage over the
enemies of his country, regrets the loss of the opportunity for
ever after. Nor is it only upon account of the public that he
regrets it. He laments that he was hindered from performing an
action which would have added a new lustre to his character in
his own eyes, as well as in those of every other person. It
satisfies neither himself nor others to reflect that the plan or
design was all that depended on him, that no greater capacity was
required to execute it than what was necessary to concert it:
that he was allowed to be every way capable of executing it, and
that had he been permitted to go on, success was infallible. He
still did not execute it; and though he might deserve all the
approbation which is due to a magnanimous and great design, he
still wanted the actual merit of having performed a great action.
To take the management of any affair of public concern from the
man who has almost brought it to a conclusion, is regarded as the
most invidious injustice. As he had done so much, he should, we
think, have been allowed to acquire the complete merit of putting
an end to it. It was objected to Pompey, that he came in upon the
victories of Lucullus, and gathered those laurels which were due
to the fortune and valour of another. The glory of Lucullus, it
seems, was less complete even in the opinion of his own friends,
when he was not permitted to finish that conquest which his
conduct and courage had put in the power of almost any man to
finish. It mortifies an architect when his plans are either not
executed at all, or when they are so far altered as to spoil the
effect of the building. The plan, however, is all that depends
upon the architect. The whole of his genius is, to good judges,
as completely discovered in that as in the actual execution. But
a plan does not, even to the most intelligent, give the same
pleasure as a noble and magnificent building. They may discover
as much both of taste and genius in the one as in the other. But
their effects are still vastly different, and the amusement
derived from the first, never approaches to the wonder and
admiration which are sometimes excited by the second. We may
believe of many men, that their talents are superior to those of
Caesar and Alexander; and that in the same situations they would
perform still greater actions. In the mean time, however, we do
not behold them with that astonishment and admiration with which
those two heroes have been regarded in all ages and nations. The
calm judgments of the mind may approve of them more, but they
want the splendour of great actions to dazzle and transport it.
The superiority of virtues and talents has not, even upon those
who acknowledge that superiority, the same effect with the
superiority of atchievements.
As the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to do good seems
thus, in the eyes of ungrateful mankind, to be diminished by the
miscarriage, so does likewise the demerit of an unsuccessful
attempt to do evil. The design to commit a crime, how clearly
soever it may be proved, is scarce ever punished with the same
severity as the actual commission of it. The case of treason is
perhaps the only exception. That crime immediately affecting the
being of the government itself, the government is naturally more
jealous of it than of any other. In the punishment of treason,
the sovereign resents the injuries which are immediately done to
himself: in the punishment of other crimes, he resents those
which are done to other men. It is his own resentment which he
indulges in the one case: it is that of his subjects which by
sympathy he enters into in the other. In the first case,
therefore, as he judges in his own cause, he is very apt to be
more violent and sanguinary in his punishments than the impartial
spectator can approve of. His resentment too rises here upon
smaller occasions, and does not always, as in other cases, wait
for the perpetration of the crime, or even for the attempt to
commit it. A treasonable concert, though nothing has been done,
or even attempted in consequence of it, nay, a treasonable
conversation, is in many countries punished in the same manner as
the actual commission of treason. With regard to all other
crimes, the mere design, upon which no attempt has followed, is
seldom punished at all, and is never punished severely. A
criminal design, and a criminal action, it may be said indeed, do
not necessarily suppose the same degree of depravity, and ought
not therefore to be subjected to the same punishment. We are
capable, it may be said, of resolving, and even of taking
measures to execute, many things which, when it comes to the
point, we feel ourselves altogether incapable of executing. But
this reason can have no place when the design has been carried
the length of the last attempt. The man, however, who fires a
pistol at his enemy but misses him, is punished with death by the
laws of scarce any country. By the old law of Scotland, though he
should wound him, yet, unless death ensues within a certain time,
the assassin is not liable to the last punishment. The resentment
of mankind, however, runs so high against this crime, their
terror for the man who shows himself capable of committing it, is
so great, that the mere attempt to commit it ought in all
countries to be capital. The attempt to commit smaller crimes is
almost always punished very lightly, and sometimes is not
punished at all. The thief, whose hand has been caught in his
neighbour's pocket before he had taken any thing out of it, is
punished with ignominy only. If he had got time to take away an
handkerchief, he would have been put to death. The house-breaker,
who has been found setting a ladder to his neighbour's window,
but had not got into it, is not exposed to the capital
punishment. The attempt to ravish is not punished as a rape. The
attempt to seduce a married woman is not punished at all, though
seduction is punished severely. Our resentment against the person
who only attempted to do a mischief, is seldom so strong as to
bear us out in inflicting the same punishment upon him, which we
should have thought due if he had actually done it. In the one
case, the joy of our deliverance alleviates our sense of the
atrocity of his conduct; in the other, the grief of our
misfortune increases it. His real demerit, however, is
undoubtedly the same in both cases, since his intentions were
equally criminal; and there is in this respect, therefore, an
irregularity in the sentiments of all men, and a consequent
relaxation of discipline in the laws of, I believe, all nations,
of the most civilized, as well as of the most barbarous. The
humanity of a civilized people disposes them either to dispense
with, or to mitigate punishments wherever their natural
indignation is not goaded on by the consequences of the crime.
Barbarians, on the other hand, when no actual consequence has
happened from any action, are not apt to be very delicate or
inquisitive about the motives.
The person himself who either from passion, or from the
influence of bad company, has resolved, and perhaps taken
measures to perpetrate some crime, but who has fortunately been
prevented by an accident which put it out of his power, is sure,
if he has any remains of conscience, to regard this event all his
life after as a great and signal deliverance. He can never think
of it without returning thanks to Heaven for having been thus
graciously pleased to save him from the guilt in which he was
just ready to plunge himself, and to hinder him from rendering
all the rest of his life a scene of horror, remorse, and
repentance. But though his hands are innocent, he is conscious
that his heart is equally guilty as if he had actually executed
what he was so fully resolved upon. It gives great ease to his
conscience, however, to consider that the crime was not executed,
though he knows that the failure arose from no virtue in him. He
still considers himself as less deserving of punishment and
resentment; and this good fortune either diminishes, or takes
away altogether, all sense of guilt. To remember how much he was
resolved upon it, has no other effect than to make him regard his
escape as the greater and more miraculous: for he still fancies
that he has escaped, and he looks back upon the danger to which
his peace of mind was exposed, with that terror, with which one
who is in safety may sometimes remember the hazard he was in of
falling over a precipice, and shudder with horror at the thought.
2. The second effect of this influence of fortune, is to
increase our sense of the merit or demerit of actions beyond what
is due to the motives or affection from which they proceed, when
they happen to give occasion to extraordinary pleasure or pain.
The agreeable or disagreeable effects of the action often throw a
shadow of merit or demerit upon the agent, though in his
intention there was nothing that deserved either praise or blame,
or at least that deserved them in the degree in which we are apt
to bestow them. Thus, even the messenger of bad news is
disagreeable to us, and, on the contrary, we feel a sort of
gratitude for the man who brings us good tidings. For a moment we
look upon them both as the authors, the one of our good, the
other of our bad fortune, and regard them in some measure as if
they had really brought about the events which they only give an
account of. The first author of our joy is naturally the object
of a transitory gratitude: we embrace him with warmth and
affection, and should be glad, during the instant of our
prosperity, to reward him as for some signal service. By the
custom of all courts, the officer, who brings the news of a
victory, is entitled to considerable preferments, and the general
always chuses one of his principal favourites to go upon so
agreeable an errand. The first author of our sorrow is, on the
contrary, just as naturally the object of a transitory
resentment. We can scarce avoid looking upon him with chagrin and
uneasiness; and the rude and brutal are apt to vent upon him that
spleen which his intelligence gives occasion to. Tigranes, king
of Armenia, struck off the head of the man who brought him the
first account of the approach of a formidable enemy. To punish in
this manner the author of bad tidings, seems barbarous and
inhuman: yet, to reward the messenger of good news, is not
disagreeable to us; we think it suitable to the bounty of kings.
But why do we make this difference, since, if there is no fault
in the one, neither is there any merit in the other? It is
because any sort of reason seems sufficient to authorize the
exertion of the social and benevolent affections. but it requires
the most solid and substantial to make us enter into that of the
unsocial and malevolent.
But though in general we are averse to enter into the
unsocial and malevolent affections, though we lay it down for a
rule that we ought never to approve of their gratification,
unless so far as the malicious and unjust intention of the
person, against whom they are directed, renders him their proper
object; yet, upon some occasions, we relax of this severity. When
the negligence of one man has occasioned some unintended damage
to another, we generally enter so far into the resentment of the
sufferer, as to approve of his inflicting a punishment upon the
offender much beyond what the offence would have appeared to
deserve, had no such unlucky consequence followed from it.
There is a degree of negligence, which would appear to
deserve some chastisement though it should occasion no damage to
any body. Thus, if a person should throw a large stone over a
wall into a public street without giving warning to those who
might be passing by, and without regarding where it was likely to
fall, he would undoubtedly deserve some chastisement. A very
accurate police would punish so absurd an action, even though it
had done no mischief. The person who has been guilty of it, shows
an insolent contempt of the happiness and safety of others. There
is real injustice in his conduct. He wantonly exposes his
neighbour to what no man in his senses would chuse to expose
himself, and evidently wants that sense of what is due to his
fellow-creatures which is the basis of justice and of society.
Gross negligence therefore is, in the law, said to be almost
equal to malicious design.[2] When any unlucky consequences
happen from such carelessness, the person who has been guilty of
it is often punished as if he had really intended those
consequences; and his conduct, which was only thoughtless and
insolent, and what deserved some chastisement, is considered as
atrocious, and as liable to the severest punishment. Thus if, by
the imprudent action above-mentioned, he should accidentally kill
a man, he is, by the laws of many countries, particularly by the
old law of Scotland, liable to the last punishment. And though
this is no doubt excessively severe, it is not altogether
inconsistent with our natural sentiments. Our just indignation
against the folly and inhumanity of his conduct is exasperated by
our sympathy with the unfortunate sufferer. Nothing, however,
would appear more shocking to our natural sense of equity, than
to bring a man to the scaffold merely for having thrown a stone
carelessly into the street without hurting any body. The folly
and inhumanity of his conduct, however, would in this case be the
same; but still our sentiments would be very different. The
consideration of this difference may satisfy us how much the
indignation, even of the spectator, is apt to be animated by the
actual consequences of the action. In cases of this kind there
will, if I am not mistaken, be found a great degree of severity
in the laws of almost all nations; as I have already observed
that in those of an opposite kind there was a very general
relaxation of discipline.
There is another degree of negligence which does not involve
in it any sort of injustice. The person who is guilty of it
treats his neighbours as he treats himself, means no harm to any
body, and is far from entertaining any insolent contempt for the
safety and happiness of others. He is not, however, so careful
and circumspect in his conduct as he ought to be, and deserves
upon this account some degree of blame and censure, but no sort
of punishment. Yet if by a negligence[3] of this kind he should
occasion some damage to another person, he is by the laws of, I
believe, all countries, obliged to compensate it. And though this
is no doubt a real punishment, and what no mortal would have
thought of inflicting upon him, had it not been for the unlucky
accident which his conduct gave occasion to; yet this decision of
the law is approved of by the natural sentiments of all mankind.
Nothing, we think, can be more just than that one man should not
suffer by the carelessness of another; and that the damage
occasioned by blamable negligence, should be made up by the
person who was guilty of it.
There is another species of negligence,[4] which consists
merely in a want of the most anxious timidity and circumspection,
with regard to all the possible consequences of our actions. The
want of this painful attention, when no bad consequences follow
from it, is so far from being regarded as blamable, that the
contrary quality is rather considered as such. That timid
circumspection which is afraid of every thing, is never regarded
as a virtue, but as a quality which more than any other
incapacitates for action and business. Yet when, from a want of
this excessive care, a person happens to occasion some damage to
another, he is often by the law obliged to compensate it. Thus,
by the Aquilian law, the man, who not being able to manage a
horse that had accidentally taken fright, should happen to ride
down his neighbour' s slave, is obliged to compensate the damage.
When an accident of this kind happens, we are apt to think that
he ought not to have rode such a horse, and to regard his
attempting it as an unpardonable levity; though without this
accident we should not only have made no such reflection, but
should have regarded his refusing it as the effect of timid
weakness, and of an anxiety about merely possible events, which
it is to no purpose to be aware of. The person himself, who by an
accident even of this kind has involuntarily hurt another, seems
to have some sense of his own ill desert, with regard to him. He
naturally runs up to the sufferer to express his concern for what
has happened, and to make every acknowledgment in his power. If
he has any sensibility, he necessarily desires to compensate the
damage, and to do every thing he can to appease that animal
resentment, which he is sensible will be apt to arise in the
breast of the sufferer. To make no apology, to offer no
atonement, is regarded as the highest brutality. Yet why should
he make an apology more than any other person? Why should he,
since he was equally innocent with any other bystander, be thus
singled out from among all mankind, to make up for the bad
fortune of another? This task would surely never be imposed upon
him, did not even the impartial spectator feel some indulgence
for what may be regarded as the unjust resentment of that other.
[2.]
Lata culpa prope dolum est.