Section III
Of the Influence of Fortune upon the Sentiments of Mankind, with
regard to the Merit or Demerit of Actions
Introduction
Whatever praise or blame can be due to any action, must
belong either, first, to the intention or affection of the heart,
from which it proceeds; or, secondly, to the external action or
movement of the body, which this affection gives occasion to; or,
lastly, to the good or bad consequences, which actually, and in
fact, proceed from it. These three different things constitute
the whole nature and circumstances of the action, and must be the
foundation of whatever quality can belong to it.
That the two last of these three circumstances cannot be the
foundation of any praise or blame, is abundantly evident; nor has
the contrary ever been asserted by any body. The external action
or movement of the body is often the same in the most innocent
and in the most blameable actions. He who shoots a bird, and he
who shoots a man, both of them perform the same external
movement: each of them draws the trigger of a gun. The
consequences which actually, and in fact, happen to proceed from
any action, are, if possible, still more indifferent either to
praise or blame, than even the external movement of the body. As
they depend, not upon the agent, but upon fortune, they cannot be
the proper foundation for any sentiment, of which his character
and conduct are the objects.
The only consequences for which he can be answerable, or by
which he can deserve either approbation or disapprobation of any
kind, are those which were someway or other intended, or those
which, at least, show some agreeable or disagreeable quality in
the intention of the heart, from which he acted. To the intention
or affection of the heart, therefore, to the propriety or
impropriety, to the beneficence or hurtfulness of the design, all
praise or blame, all approbation or disapprobation, of any kind,
which can justly be bestowed upon any action, must ultimately
belong.
When this maxim is thus proposed, in abstract and general
terms, there is nobody who does not agree to it. Its self-evident
justice is acknowledged by all the world, and there is not a
dissenting voice among all mankind. Every body allows, that how
different soever the accidental, the unintended and unforeseen
consequences of different actions, yet, if the intentions or
affections from which they arose were, on the one hand, equally
proper and equally beneficent, or, on the other, equally improper
and equally malevolent, the merit or demerit of the actions is
still the same, and the agent is equally the suitable object
either of gratitude or of resentment.
But how well soever we may seem to be persuaded of the truth
of this equitable maxim, when we consider it after this manner,
in abstract, yet when we come to particular cases, the actual
consequences which happen to proceed from any action, have a very
great effect upon our sentiments concerning its merit or demerit,
and almost always either enhance or diminish our sense of both.
Scarce, in any one instance, perhaps, will our sentiments be
found, after examination, to be entirely regulated by this rule,
which we all acknowledge ought entirely to regulate them.
This irregularity of sentiment, which every body feels, which
scarce any body is sufficiently aware of, and which nobody is
willing to acknowledge, I proceed now to explain; and I shall
consider, first, the cause which gives occasion to it, or the
mechanism by which nature produces it; secondly, the extent of
its influence; and, last of all, the end which it answers, or the
purpose which the Author of nature seems to have intended by it.
2.3.1. Chap. I
Of the Causes of this Influence of Fortune
The causes of pain and pleasure, whatever they are, or
however they operate, seem to be the objects, which, in all
animals, immediately excite those two passions of gratitude and
resentment. They are excited by inanimated, as well as by
animated objects. We are angry, for a moment, even at the stone
that hurts us. A child beats it, a dog barks at it, a choleric
man is apt to curse it. The least reflection, indeed, corrects
this sentiment, and we soon become sensible, that what has no
feeling is a very improper object of revenge. When the mischief,
however, is very great, the object which caused it becomes
disagreeable to us ever after, and we take pleasure to burn or
destroy it. We should treat, in this manner, the instrument which
had accidentally been the cause of the death of a friend, and we
should often think ourselves guilty of a sort of inhumanity, if
we neglected to vent this absurd sort of vengeance upon it.
We conceive, in the same manner, a sort of gratitude for
those inanimated objects, which have been the causes of great, or
frequent pleasure to us. The sailor, who, as soon as he got
ashore, should mend his fire with the plank upon which he had
just escaped from a shipwreck, would seem to be guilty of an
unnatural action. We should expect that he would rather preserve
it with care and affection, as a monument that was, in some
measure, dear to him. A man grows fond of a snuff-box, of a
pen-knife, of a staff which he has long made use of, and
conceives something like a real love and affection for them. If
he breaks or loses them, he is vexed out of all proportion to the
value of the damage. The house which we have long lived in, the
tree, whose verdure and shade we have long enjoyed, are both
looked upon with a sort of respect that seems due to such
benefactors. The decay of the one, or the ruin of the other,
affects us with a kind of melancholy, though we should sustain no
loss by it. The Dryads and the Lares of the ancients, a sort of
genii of trees and houses, were probably first suggested by this
sort of affection, which the authors of those superstitions felt
for such objects, and which seemed unreasonable, if there was
nothing animated about them.
But, before any thing can be the proper object of gratitude
or resentment, it must not only be the cause of pleasure or pain,
it must likewise be capable of feeling them. Without this other
quality, those passions cannot vent themselves with any sort of
satisfaction upon it. As they are excited by the causes of
pleasure and pain, so their gratification consists in retaliating
those sensations upon what gave occasion to them; which it is to
no purpose to attempt upon what has no sensibility. Animals,
therefore, are less improper objects of gratitude and resentment
than inanimated objects. The dog that bites, the ox that gores,
are both of them punished. If they have been the causes of the
death of any person, neither the public, nor the relations of the
slain, can be satisfied, unless they are put to death in their
turn: nor is this merely for the security of the living, but, in
some measure, to revenge the injury of the dead. Those animals,
on the contrary, that have been remarkably serviceable to their
masters, become the objects of a very lively gratitude. We are
shocked at the brutality of that officer, mentioned in the
Turkish Spy, who stabbed the horse that had carried him across an
arm of the sea, lest that ani mal should afterwards distinguish
some other person by a similar adventure.
But, though animals are not only the causes of pleasure and
pain, but are also capable of feeling those sensations, they are
still far from being complete and perfect objects, either of
gratitude or resentment; and those passions still feel, that
there is something wanting to their entire gratification. What
gratitude chiefly desires, is not only to make the benefactor
feel pleasure in his turn, but to make him conscious that he
meets with this reward on account of his past conduct, to make
him pleased with that conduct, and to satisfy him that the person
upon whom he bestowed his good offices was not unworthy of them.
What most of all charms us in our benefactor, is the concord
between his sentiments and our own, with regard to what interests
us so nearly as the worth of our own character, and the esteem
that is due to us. We are delighted to find a person who values
us as we value ourselves, and distinguishes us from the rest of
mankind, with an attention not unlike that with which we
distinguish ourselves. To maintain in him these agreeable and
flattering sentiments, is one of the chief ends proposed by the
returns we are disposed to make to him. A generous mind often
disdains the interested thought of extorting new favours from its
benefactor, by what may be called the importunities of its
gratitude. But to preserve and to increase his esteem, is an
interest which the greatest mind does not think unworthy of its
attention. And this is the foundation of what I formerly
observed, that when we cannot enter into the motives of our
benefactor, when his conduct and character appear unworthy of our
approbation, let his services have been ever so great, our
gratitude is always sensibly diminished. We are less flattered by
the distinction. and to preserve the esteem of so weak, or so
worthless a patron, seems to be an object which does not deserve
to be pursued for its own sake.
The object, on the contrary, which resentment is chiefly
intent upon, is not so much to make our enemy feel pain in his
turn, as to make him conscious that he feels it upon account of
his past conduct, to make him repent of that conduct, and to make
him sensible, that the person whom he injured did not deserve to
be treated in that manner. What chiefly enrages us against the
man who injures or insults us, is the little account which he
seems to make of us, the unreasonable preference which he gives
to himself above us, and that absurd self-love, by which he seems
to imagine, that other people may be sacrificed at any time, to
his conveniency or his humour. The glaring impropriety of this
conduct, the gross insolence and injustice which it seems to
involve in it, often shock and exasperate us more than all the
mischief which we have suffered. To bring him back to a more just
sense of what is due to other people, to make him sensible of
what he owes us, and of the wrong that he has done to us, is
frequently the principal end proposed in our revenge, which is
always imperfect when it cannot accomplish this. When our enemy
appears to have done us no injury, when we are sensible that he
acted quite properly, that, in his situation, we should have done
the same thing, and that we deserved from him all the mischief we
met with; in that case, if we have the least spark either of
candour or justice, we can entertain no sort of resentment.
Before any thing, therefore, can be the complete and proper
object, either of gratitude or resentment, it must possess three
different qualifications. First, it must be the cause of pleasure
in the one case, and of pain in the other. Secondly, it must be
capable of feeling those sensations. And, thirdly, it must not
only have produced those sensations, but it must in have produced
them from design, and from a design that is approved of the one
case, and disapproved of in the other. It is by the first
qualification, that any object is capable of exciting those
passions: it is by the second, that it is in any respect capable
of gratifying them: the third qualification is not only necessary
for their complete satisfaction, but as it gives a pleasure or
pain that is both exquisite and peculiar, it is likewise an
additional exciting cause of those passions.
As what gives pleasure or pain, either in one way or another,
is the sole exciting cause of gratitude and resentment; 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 he has failed in producing either the good or
the evil which he intended, as one of the exciting causes is
wanting in both cases, less gratitude seems due to him in the
one, and less resentment in the other. And, on the contrary,
though in the intentions of any person, there was either no
laudable degree of benevolence on the one hand, or no blameable
degree of malice on the other; yet, if his actions should produce
either great good or great evil, as one of the exciting causes
takes place upon both these occasions, some gratitude is apt to
arise towards him in the one, and some resentment in the other. A
shadow of merit seems to fall upon him in the first, a shadow of
demerit in the second. And, as the consequences of actions are
altogether under the empire of Fortune, hence arises her
influence upon the sentiments of mankind with regard to merit and
demerit.
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.
2.3.3. Chap. III
Of the final cause of this Irregularity of Sentiments
Such is the effect of the good or bad consequences of actions
upon the sentiments both of the person who performs them, and of
others; and thus, Fortune, which governs the world, has some
influence where we should be least willing to allow her any, and
directs in some measure the sentiments of mankind, with regard to
the character and conduct both of themselves and others. That the
world judges by the event, and not by the design, has been in all
ages the complaint, and is the great discouragement of virtue.
Every body agrees to the general maxim, that as the event does
not depend on the agent, it ought to have no influence upon our
sentiments, with regard to the merit or propriety of his conduct.
But when we come to particulars, we find that our sentiments are
scarce in any one instance exactly conformable to what this
equitable maxim would direct. The happy or unprosperous event of
any action, is not only apt to give us a good or bad opinion of
the prudence with which it was conducted, but almost always too
animates our gratitude or resentment, our sense of the merit or
demerit of the design.
Nature, however, when she implanted the seeds of this
irregularity in the human breast, seems, as upon all other
occasions, to have intended the happiness and perfection of the
species. If the hurtfulness of the design, if the malevolence of
the affection, were alone the causes which excited our
resentment, we should feel all the furies of that passion against
any person in whose breast we suspected or believed such designs
or affections were harboured, though they had never broke out
into any action. Sentiments, thoughts, intentions, would become
the objects of punishment; and if the indignation of mankind run
as high against them as against actions; if the baseness of the
thought which had given birth to no action, seemed in the eyes of
the world as much to call aloud for vengeance as the baseness of
the action, every court of judicature would become a real
inquisition. There would be no safety for the most innocent and
circumspect conduct. Bad wishes, bad views, bad designs, might
still be suspected; and while these excited the same indignation
with bad conduct, while bad intentions were as much resented as
bad actions, they would equally expose the person to punishment
and resentment. Actions, therefore, which either produce actual
evil, or attempt to produce it, and thereby put us in the
immediate fear of it, are by the Author of nature rendered the
only proper and approved objects of human punishment and
resentment. Sentiments, designs, affections, though it is from
these that according to cool reason human actions derive their
whole merit or demerit, are placed by the great Judge of hearts
beyond the limits of every human jurisdiction, and are reserved
for the cognizance of his own unerring tribunal. That necessary
rule of justice, therefore, that men in this life are liable to
punishment for their actions only, not for their designs and
intentions, is founded upon this salutary and useful irregularity
in human sentiments concerning merit or demerit, which at first
sight appears so absurd and unaccountable. But every part of
nature, when attentively surveyed, equally demonstrates the
providential care of its Author, and we may admire the wisdom and
goodness of God even in the weakness and folly of man.
Nor is that irregularity of sentiments altogether without its
utility, by which the merit of an unsuccessful attempt to serve,
and much more that of mere good inclinations and kind wishes,
appears to be imperfect. Man was made for action, and to promote
by the exertion of his faculties such changes in the external
circumstances both of himself and others, as may seem most
favourable to the happiness of all. He must not be satisfied with
indolent benevolence, nor fancy himself the friend of mankind,
because in his heart he wishes well to the prosperity of the
world. That he may call forth the whole vigour of his soul, and
strain every nerve, in order to produce those ends which it is
the purpose of his being to advance, Nature has taught him, that
neither himself nor mankind can be fully satisfied with his
conduct, nor bestow upon it the full measure of applause, unless
he has actually produced them. He is made to know, that the
praise of good intentions, without the merit of good offices,
will be but of little avail to excite either the loudest
acclamations of the world, or even the highest degree of
self-applause. The man who has performed no single action of
importance, but whose whole conversation and deportment express
the justest, the noblest, and most generous sentiments, can be
entitled to demand no very high reward, even though his inutility
should be owing to nothing but the want of an opportunity to
serve. We can still refuse it him without blame. We can still ask
him, What have you done? What actual service can you produce, to
entitle you to so great a recompense? We esteem you, and love
you; but we owe you nothing. To reward indeed that latent virtue
which has been useless only for want of an opportunity to serve,
to bestow upon it those honours and preferments, which, though in
some measure it may be said to deserve them, it could not with
propriety have insisted upon, is the effect of the most divine
benevolence. To punish, on the contrary, for the affections of
the heart only, where no crime has been committed, is the most
insolent and barbarous tyranny. The benevolent affections seem to
deserve most praise, when they do not wait till it becomes almost
a crime for them not to exert themselves. The malevolent, on the
contrary, can scarce be too tardy, too slow, or deliberate.
It is even of considerable importance, that the evil which is
done without design should be regarded as a misfortune to the
doer as well as to the sufferer. Man is thereby taught to
reverence the happiness of his brethren, to tremble lest he
should, even unknowingly, do any thing that can hurt them, and to
dread that animal resentment which, he feels, is ready to burst
out against him, if he should, without design, be the unhappy
instrument of their calamity. As, in the ancient heathen
religion, that holy ground which had been consecrated to some
god, was not to be trod upon but upon solemn and necessary
occasions, and the man who had even ignorantly violated it,
became piacular from that moment, and, until proper atonement
should be made, incurred the vengeance of that powerful and
invisible being to whom it had been set apart; so, by the wisdom
of Nature, the happiness of every innocent man is, in the same
manner, rendered holy, consecrated, and hedged round against the
approach of every other man; not to be wantonly trod upon, not
even to be, in any respect, ignorantly and involuntarily
violated, without requiring some expiation, some atonement in
proportion to the greatness of such undesigned violation. A man
of humanity, who accidentally, and without the smallest degree of
blamable negligence, has been the cause of the death of another
man, feels himself piacular, though not guilty. During his whole
life he considers this accident as one of the greatest
misfortunes that could have befallen him. If the family of the
slain is poor, and he himself in tolerable circumstances, he
immediately takes them under his protection, and, without any
other merit, thinks them entitled to every degree of favour and
kindness. If they are in better circumstances, he endeavours by
every submission, by every expression of sorrow, by rendering
them every good office which he can devise or they accept of, to
atone for what has happened, and to propitiate, as much as
possible, their, perhaps natural, though no doubt most unjust
resentment, for the great, though involuntary, offence which he
has given them.
The distress which an innocent person feels, who, by some
accident, has been led to do something which, if it had been done
with knowledge and design, would have justly exposed him to the
deepest reproach, has given occasion to some of the finest and
most interesting scenes both of the ancient and of the modern
drama. It is this fallacious sense of guilt, if I may call it so,
which constitutes the whole distress of Oedipus and Jocasta upon
the Greek, of Monimia and Isabella upon the English, theatre.
They are all of them in the highest degree piacular, though not
one of them is in the smallest degree guilty.
Notwithstanding, however, all these seeming irregularities of
sentiment, if man should unfortunately either give occasion to
those evils which he did not intend, or fail in producing that
good which he intended, Nature has not left his innocence
altogether without consolation, nor his virtue altogether without
reward. He then calls to his assistance that just and equitable
maxim, That those events which did not depend upon our conduct,
ought not to diminish the esteem that is due to us. He summons up
his whole magnanimity and firmness of soul, and strives to regard
himself, not in the light in which he at present appears, but in
that in which he ought to appear, in which he would have appeared
had his generous designs been crowned with success, and in which
he would still appear, notwithstanding their miscarriage, if the
sentiments of mankind were either altogether candid and
equitable, or even perfectly consistent with themselves. The more
candid and humane part of mankind entirely go along with the
effort which he thus makes to support himself in his own opinion.
They exert their whole generosity and greatness of mind, to
correct in themselves this irregularity of human nature, and
endeavour to regard his unfortunate magnanimity in the same light
in which, had it been successful, they would, without any such
generous exertion, have naturally been disposed to consider it.