1.1.2. Chap. II
Of the Pleasure of mutual Sympathy
But whatever may be the cause of sympathy, or however it may
be excited, nothing pleases us more than to observe in other men
a fellow-feeling with all the emotions of our own breast; nor are
we ever so much shocked as by the appearance of the contrary.
Those who are fond of deducing all our sentiments from certain
refinements of self-love, think themselves at no loss to account,
according to their own principles, both for this pleasure and
this pain. Man, say they, conscious of his own weakness, and of
the need which he has for the assistance of others, rejoices
whenever he observes that they adopt his own passions, because he
is then assured of that assistance; and grieves whenever he
observes the contrary, because he is then assured of their
opposition. But both the pleasure and the pain are always felt so
instantaneously, and often upon such frivolous occasions, that it
seems evident that neither of them can be derived from any such
self-interested consideration. A man is mortified when, after
having endeavoured to divert the company, he looks round and sees
that nobody laughs at his jests but himself. On the contrary, the
mirth of the company is highly agreeable to him, and he regards
this correspondence of their sentiments with his own as the
greatest applause.
Neither does his pleasure seem to arise altogether from the
additional vivacity which his mirth may receive from sympathy
with theirs, nor his pain from the disappointment he meets with
when he misses this pleasure; though both the one and the other,
no doubt, do in some measure. When we have read a book or poem so
often that we can no longer find any amusement in reading it by
ourselves, we can still take pleasure in reading it to a
companion. To him it has all the graces of novelty; we enter into
the surprise and admiration which it naturally excites in him,
but which it is no longer capable of exciting in us; we consider
all the ideas which it presents rather in the light in which they
appear to him, than in that in which they appear to ourselves,
and we are amused by sympathy with his amusement which thus
enlivens our own. On the contrary, we should be vexed if he did
not seem to be entertained with it, and we could no longer take
any pleasure in reading it to him. It is the same case here. The
mirth of the company, no doubt, enlivens our own mirth, and their
silence, no doubt, disappoints us. But though this may contribute
both to the pleasure which we derive from the one, and to the
pain which we feel from the other, it is by no means the sole
cause of either; and this correspondence of the sentiments of
others with our own appears to be a cause of pleasure, and the
want of it a cause of pain, which cannot be accounted for in this
manner. The sympathy, which my friends express with my joy,
might, indeed, give me pleasure by enlivening that joy: but that
which they express with my grief could give me none, if it served
only to enliven that grief. Sympathy, however, enlivens joy and
alleviates grief. It enlivens joy by presenting another source of
satisfaction; and it alleviates grief by insinuating into the
heart almost the only agreeable sensation which it is at that
time capable of receiving.
It is to be observed accordingly, that we are still more
anxious to communicate to our friends our disagreeable than our
agreeable passions, that we derive still more satisfaction from
their sympathy with the former than from that with the latter,
and that we are still more shocked by the want of it.
How are the unfortunate relieved when they have found out a
person to whom they can communicate the cause of their sorrow?
Upon his sympathy they seem to disburthen themselves of a part of
their distress: he is not improperly said to share it with them.
He not only feels a sorrow of the same kind with that which they
feel, but as if he had derived a part of it to himself, what he
feels seems to alleviate the weight of what they feel. Yet by
relating their misfortunes they in some measure renew their
grief. They awaken in their memory the remembrance of those
circumstances which occasioned their affliction. Their tears
accordingly flow faster than before, and they are apt to abandon
themselves to all the weakness of sorrow. They take pleasure,
however, in all this, and, it is evident, are sensibly relieved
by it; because the sweetness of his sympathy more than
compensates the bitterness of that sorrow, which, in order to
excite this sympathy, they had thus enlivened and renewed. The
cruelest insult, on the contrary, which can be offered to the
unfortunate, is to appear to make light of their calamities. To
seem not to be affected with the joy of our companions is but
want of politeness; but not to wear a serious countenance when
they tell us their afflictions, is real and gross inhumanity.
Love is an agreeable; resentment, a disagreeable passion; and
accordingly we are not half so anxious that our friends should
adopt our friendships, as that they should enter into our
resentments. We can forgive them though they seem to be little
affected with the favours which we may have received, but lose
all patience if they seem indifferent about the injuries which
may have been done to us: nor are we half so angry with them for
not entering into our gratitude, as for not sympathizing with our
resentment. They can easily avoid being friends to our friends,
but can hardly avoid being enemies to those with whom we are at
variance. We seldom resent their being at enmity with the first,
though upon that account we may sometimes affect to make an
awkward quarrel with them; but we quarrel with them in good
earnest if they live in friendship with the last. The agreeable
passions of love and joy can satisfy and support the heart
without any auxiliary pleasure. The bitter and painful emotions
of grief and resentment more strongly require the healing
consolation of sympathy.
As the person who is principally interested in any event is
pleased with our sympathy, and hurt by the want of it, so we,
too, seem to be pleased when we are able to sympathize with him,
and to be hurt when we are unable to do so. We run not only to
congratulate the successful, but to condole with the afflicted;
and the pleasure which we find in the conversation of one whom in
all the passions of his heart we can entirely sympathize with,
seems to do more than compensate the painfulness of that sorrow
with which the view of his situation affects us. On the contrary,
it is always disagreeable to feel that we cannot sympathize with
him, and instead of being pleased with this exemption from
sympathetic pain, it hurts us to find that we cannot share his
uneasiness. If we hear a person loudly lamenting his misfortunes,
which, however, upon bringing the case home to ourselves, we
feel, can produce no such violent effect upon us, we are shocked
at his grief; and, because we cannot enter into it, call it
pusillanimity and weakness. It gives us the spleen, on the other
hand, to see another too happy or too much elevated, as we call
it, with any little piece of good fortune. We are disobliged even
with his joy; and, because we cannot go along with it, call it
levity and folly. We are even put out of humour if our companion
laughs louder or longer at a joke than we think it deserves; that
is, than we feel that we ourselves could laugh at it.